#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

[gloomwitchwrites]

okay okay okay here we go,

The reader who has a very sensitive neck. even a breath hitting her neck affects her. (They can be in a relationship or not, however you like)

Thank you🩵

I won't lie to you...I made this one a little spicy. Not full on mind you, but there's some heat below the break. I couldn't help myself. I really couldn't. You said "sensitive neck" and my brain said "write something thirsty because you deserve it." And here we are!

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

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, dirty thoughts, kissing, possessive behavior, mild sexual content, mention of alcohol

Word Count: 1,200

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

John Price

“Excuse me?”

The pint pauses just shy of John’s lips. He turns toward the unfamiliar voice, finding a stranger standing next to him. Your voice is laced with desperation, and you keep turning your head with a nervousness that instantly puts John on alert.

Someone is harassing you—bothering you. Making you feel uncomfortable. Doesn’t matter that you’re a stranger, no woman should feel backed into a corner.

You lean into him a bit, lowering your voice. “Can you pretend like we’re together?”

John won’t make you ask twice.

Sliding his arm around your waist in an intimate embrace, John tucks you into his side, using his body to create a shield from the rest of the bar. With your back to the room, your gaze is on him, and anyone looking would only find a couple in a relaxed hug.

John dips his head forward, closing the space until it appears as if the two of you are heading for a kiss. You fluster slightly, smile softly, turn away as if embarrassed. Inwardly, John is grinning. You’ve been in his arms for all of five seconds but you fit so perfectly.

“Who is it, love?” he asks, breath ghosting across your skin at your exposed throat.

You shiver—whimper. Not in distress, but with pleasure. It’s probably the alcohol in his blood that makes him bold—that makes him push a boundary.

“Who?” he asks again, this time tracing down your neck to the hollow of your throat.

It happens again, but instead of pulling away, you snuggle closer to him. John suddenly doesn’t care who it is that’s been bothering you unless they show their face. You’re an interesting creature. Sweet. He can see you fitting into his life.

What does he need to do to possess you?

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“You’ve been a bloody tease.”

A rising wave of possession wells within Simon, threatening to drown him. When he wants something, he puts every effort into obtaining it. Right now, that something is a someone. And that someone is you.

You glance over your shoulder and scowl. That pouty lip sends blood straight to Simon’s dick. That mouth would look so perfect suctioned around his cock, licking over his skin, opening wide to show him how good you are before you swallow. Simon fucking dreams about it. It’s an obsession.

“Hardly,” you scoff. “Think you can’t take a hint.”

“Funny,” mutters Simon, leaning in until the two of you are close enough to tease a kiss. “You were the one in my bunk, playing with yourself when I walked in.”

“I told you,” you growl. “I thought I was in mine.” You glance away, clearly too flustered to look him in the eye. “Thought I was alone.”

“Sure, love.”

“I got confused in the dark!” you protest, attempting to move away from Simon.

Simon steps in front of you, forcing you to stay pinned against the wall. There was no mistake. The hallway is lit up enough that any numpty could navigate.

“You meant to be there,” he croons.

You fluster further, and Simon grasps the side of your face, tilting your head back. His thumb brushes against your neck, and you shiver. It’s not a slight thing, but a tremble. You’re sensitive here. Simon notes this. Saves it for later for when he gets you under him.

You lick your lips, pausing a moment before answering. “Maybe.”

Simon smiles, knowing he’s victorious. He gives that gorgeous throat of yours another light brush of his finger. This shiver is stronger. Simon nearly groans.

Blood rushes downward, and a plan forms.

John "Soap" MacTavish

It’s a quick tug. A dark corner.

Johnny pushes you against the brick wall at the mouth of the alley, caging you in from the eyes of the nearby street. There’s a buzz beneath your skin from the alcohol you consumed at the pub, and Johnny’s nearness only quickens the sensation. Just as his hands are on your hips, your hands are on his shoulders, pulling him in as close as physically possible. The smile on Johnny’s face is electric and it only fuels your own joy. This date is amazing. A firecracker of an evening.

Lips brush over yours, featherlight. You arch into him, wanting more—needing more. It’s an inherent reaction. Primal. Dirty. There is nothing you want more than for Johnny to push up your skirt and have his way with you in the dark alley.

With a squeeze of his hand, Johnny closes the distance, sealing your mouths together in a passionate desperation. The two of you have kissed before, but it’s always been at the end of your dates. Chaste and cute and nothing this wanton.

Another kiss. Another. A nip at your bottom lip. A suckle.

You whimper, and Johnny groans, nuzzling the side of your neck. His warm breath dances over your exposed throat, and you moan, body shaking with pleasure.

“You sensitive here?” chuckles Johnny. He runs his tongue along your neck. You let out another little gasp. “You are,” he breathes, like the idea excites him.

Johnny teases your throat, bites lightly, pulling forth a mewl. You’re incredibly wet between your legs, aching with a dreadful need.

“I need,” you gasp. “I need—”

“Me?” he croons, and you nod eagerly, fingers digging into his shoulders.

Johnny’s Scottish lilt becomes gravely. “Then turn around,” he growls. “And lift that fucking skirt.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Shit,” you mutter, tugging on the harness buckle.

The thing is stuck, and if you don’t have yourself strapped in before the helicopter takes off, you’re prone to flying headfirst into the floor. These things are fickle. At least they are when you’re attempting to strap yourself in.

You tug on it again, but it hardly budges.

“Why does this always happen to me?”

“Struggling again?” comes a familiar voice.

Kyle steps up into the helicopter, grinning as you continue to tug on the buckle like that will magically fix everything.

“Well this is embarrassing,” you groan, dropping the damn thing.

Kyle laughs, bending forward to keep his head from smashing into the ceiling. He shifts over a step so that he’s in front of you. Even though he’s wearing sunglasses, you feel his gaze roaming over you and then the harness setup.

“Sit back for me,” he says, kneeling in front of you like a man proposing.

You obediently do, allowing Kyle to fuss about, tugging on the straps. His lips purse slightly as he snags the one giving you trouble. He pushes up. Leans forward. You’re momentarily startled as Kyle cages you against the seat, his arms behind you.

“Lean forward a bit,” he says.

It means your forehead rests against his shoulder, but you do as he instructs. With head still bent, Kyle messes with something just out of sight. You lean to the right to allow him a bit more clearance, and that’s when his breath ghosts over your exposed throat.

It’s a tender caress, making you visibly shiver.

“You good, love?” asks Kyle, and again, his breath brushes against your skin.

You have to force down a moan.

I’m trying hard to ignore how horny I am, sergeant. Thanks for asking.

“I’m fine,” you reply.

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

[stargirlstabber]

imagine the task force 141 falsely accusing you of being a traitor to the team. knowing your biggest fear, they use it against you. water. water, where your feet can't touch the ground. water you can't see through. at first it started with waterboarding. then slowly but surely they threatened to drop you into the pool. into the dark, deep pool. even john, who was like a father to you before, didn't help you. no. not at all. actually, he was the one who stepped into the water fully clothed, dragging your crying and squirming form with him into the bloodcurling liquid. your tears blended in with it while you we're screaming, practically begging that you were the wrong one. that you'd never do something like that. but they just stood at the edge of the pool, watching their captain almost drowning your terrified self. how would they react, when they get the information that you really weren't the one...?

[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 🤣

[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

[scoobywrites690]

Soap is a disgusting man when it comes to sex and nobody can change my mind

18+ Filthy fucking food for thought:

Soap’s a depraved little thing with a tongue made for sin.

He's buried between his dove’s thighs, tongue-fucking her until she’s crying out his name, giggling, twitching, begging for mercy she’ll never get.

But his fixation doesn’t stop with her. He’s got a mouth made for service, and his Captain, his Lieutenant, his fellow Sergeant? They know it. They let him. They use it.

So when he's on his knees (mouth pulling off of Price's cock) and asks—so sweet it’s disgusting—for them to fuck his girl full of their cum, to wreck her cunt one after the other until she’s slurring her words and dripping down her thighs, they don’t hesitate.

Soap's drooling before they’re even done. Crawling between her shaking legs like a dog in heat. Tongue out. Eyes wild. Eating her sloppy, used cunt like it’s his fucking religion—lapping up every drop they’ve spilled in her, moaning like a whore because he needs it.

He needs to taste all of them. In her. From her.

He doesn't stop until he’s breathless and soaked and fucking shaking.

[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

[vozart]

happy holidays

[nerdygirlramblings]

It has been three weeks since the gods departed, and a full moon rises over the village. There had never been any conversation about what occurred the night you made your first sacrifice. All your people knew was you secluded yourself in your home and two days later the rains came. The gods' intercession was tangible. Now you need to convince the Elders you've received some kind of message they will have to take on faith. You aren't sure if it will work, but you know you must try.

The morning after the full moon, you dress in the most elaborate garments you own, looking every bit the seer you've been dubbed, and walk calmly in to the main building. The Elders meet each morning, though there is usually little to discuss. Your people are welcome to bring any grievance or concern to the Elders any day, but since your sacrifice, few have felt the need to approach the Elders, most of their burdens eased when the rains came and the fighting stopped.

It is know how you spend your mornings, so your appearance at the Elder's meeting, dressed in much more finery than is typical, is impossible to ignore. Elder Stigr banks his glare but only because there are others present. Elder Hrafn looks you over and says, "Seer, what a surprise. This is a change from your morning routine. Has something happened?"

Before you can respond, Elder Agnar, who has been watching you carefully, asks, "Have you heard from them?" There is no need to ask which them he speaks of. There really should be only one reason why you are dressed ritualistically and encroaching on their space as though you are the one in charge. You smirk to yourself knowing where you stand with the gods, knowing who they would say is the leader here.

Instead of voicing this, you dip into a small curtsy and smile as you rise. "I dreamed of our gods last night." It wasn't a lie at all; you see them every night, and last night Gaz told you what to say to make the Elders believe new altars are their idea. "They are pleased with how well we honor them." You let the words settle, allow the Elders to bask in their own pride at making the gods happy.

"Their pleasure cannot be the only reason you came," Elder Agnar says. "Do they need something from us to continue blessing our people?" The others' gazes sharpen, concerned.

"Perhaps," you answer slowly. "They mentioned another god, Fra, whose worship has been forgotten."

Elder Stigr leans forward, accusations in his gaze. "Would Fra also bless our people?" he asks.

You look down and bite back another smile. If Elder Stigr believes, when he is now so suspicious of you, the others will fall in line. "It seemed so from what the others said: Fra was a protector of home and hearth."

You let them make whatever assumptions about blessings they want. All you care about is their permission to build Fra's altar with the others. After a few moments of fiercely whispered conversations, you are given permission to build whatever Fra needs.

You leave the main building and find Gunnarr and Njall working their craft. You tell them what you need - wood made stronger for being burned - and why. Unlike the Elders, most of your people take the gods' blessings on faith. The men promise to have you the wood you need in two days' time.

Two days later you are in the space with the other altars when Gunnarr and Njall come over carrying bundles of blackened wood in various sizes. Gunnarr must see your unease as he points out how parts of the branches are more flexible, thus less likely to crack and break. The men help you build Fra's altar, and when you finish, Njall's wife Astridr comes over with a small loaf of freshly baked bread, perfectly sized for the new altar. She looks to you for permission, and you nod. Astridr reverently places the bread down and thanks Fra for protecting her son, Bui.

That night you do not dream of your men gods at all. Instead, you dream of a woman built as you are but covered almost entirely in cloth. All that is visible is her piercing gaze. She tells you to have Bui search in the forest just beyond the river's bend. When morning comes, you set off for Njall's home before your usual visits. Luckily you catch Bui before he sets off for the day's work and pass on the message Fra gave you in your dream. The boy's eyes widen in fear and awe, but he takes off for the section of forest Fra indicated.

That evening, Bui comes triumphantly into the village, carrying a plant whose medicinal properties are known but which hasn't been seen in over a generation. Its uses will help many in the village with a variety of ailments. When Bui attributes his miracle to Fra, your people's esteem for you and the ancient gods is solidified. You know they will help restore the others to glory regardless of what the Elders may say in the future.

more

series masterlist | main masterlist

~~

taglist: @hidden-treasures21

[tiredkatzz]

Well I did not expect more than 10 people to see my cod art-

Hey! Ty for the support!! Here's a sketch page I did tonight :)

Feel free to ask me stuff or leave suggestions cause I'm still not entirely happy with how I draw them, so I need practice!

I'm very torn rn cause I mostly make OC art and commissions so every time I start posting somewhere I want to immediately info dump about my MANY ocs... but I'll hold back on that for now. (If u are curious for more art then go to my insta lol)

I really just want to interact with the cod community rn. I've been with a foot in this fandom since 2023 but I held off for a few reasons... but now I finally decided to dive in. INTERACT WITH ME PLS none of my friends are into this 🙏

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hello gorgeous!!!! I was thinking… what about a reader who doesn’t shave, like at all…what would they say/so, do they care. Or have preferences…are we there yet. I’m stressing here…

I've already touched on this topic a little bit. You can find my hcs around shaving and the 141 HERE and HERE. But since this is specific, but also open for interpretation, I'm happy to expand my thoughts on this.

written w/ f!reader

MDNI

Price considers himself a man, and hair on his woman doesn’t bother him a bit. Hair is natural. Hair is normal. And why would he care when he’s covered in fur himself? You could never shave or be completely hairless. He’d worship you either way.

Soap loves a full bush because he can use it as a pillow. He also doesn’t mind unshaved armpits, but he does enjoy silky smooth legs. Nothing makes him happier than after shaving your legs, you stick them in his face to show them off. That man wants to touch that smoothness.

Gaz is more traditional in that he doesn’t mind body hair but he firmly believes in keeping everything cleaned and trimmed. He goes out of his way to keep himself groomed, and he wants his partner to do it too. That doesn’t mean he wants you hairless. In fact, if you want a bush, grow the bush, but trim it up and shave that bikini line.

Ghost doesn’t care if you shave. It doesn’t matter if it’s laziness on your part, or that you simply don’t want to. He’ll shave your body for you. You don’t need to lift a finger. Don’t shave your legs? Babe, he could care less. Lay out on the sofa for him and Ghost will grab the razor and shaving oil. He’ll do it for you.

main masterlist

[darkjedipoptarts]

O. M. G.... my heart is melting....

I’m switching it up here!

Would I be able to pretty please ask for Simon with wife! Reader and baby meeting the 141 for the first time???

His Little Shadow

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Wife!Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical injury mention, emotional hurt/comfort, softness, family fluff, mentions of trauma and recovery

Author's Note: I love this so much, I hope you enjoy this cute little story-

Summary: No one expected Ghost to have a family. Especially not one that looked just like him.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Simon Riley was many things. But no one expected him to be a father.

The ballroom buzzed with quiet tension—stiff uniforms, gleaming medals, officers with unreadable expressions and heels clicked sharp against marble. A rare ceremony. A rare kind of recognition.

Simon “Ghost” Riley was being honored with the highest distinction their division could offer—akin to a Purple Heart. Not just for surviving an ambush, but for shielding an entire unit when the firefight turned into a trap.

He’d taken a bullet through the shoulder—clean through the muscle—and had shrapnel embedded in his thigh from the IED blast that followed. He’d been barely conscious by the time evac arrived, soaked in his own blood. The only thing that had kept him awake was the thought of never seeing his son again.

Today, though… he wasn’t alone.

None of the team expected what came next.

“Lieutenant Riley has requested his family be in attendance,” the announcer said. “Please welcome his wife and son.”

Soap, champagne halfway to his mouth, nearly choked. “His what now?”

Price’s eyebrows rose. “...Well, that’s new.”

Gaz slowly turned his head. “You're telling me Ghost has a family?”

The doors creaked open.

And in stepped you—a vision in soft blue, with kind eyes and a smile that warmed the room instantly. On your hip, a tiny boy clung to your shoulder, dressed in a miniature toddler suit. Curly blonde hair. Wide, shy brown eyes. Dimples. Freckles.

And in one chubby hand? A little stuffed ghost.

He squirmed in your arms the second he spotted Simon.

“Daddy!!”

Before anyone could react, he launched from your grasp with surprising speed. His little dress shoes tapped wildly across the floor as he sprinted toward his father.

Simon’s injured arm was braced in a sling, his leg stiff with a hidden brace, but he moved—kneeling just in time to scoop Tommy up in his good arm, holding him close like he was air.

“Hey, there’s my little lad,” Simon murmured into his son’s curls. His voice broke, just a little. “Missed you so much, Tommy.”

Tommy clung to him like he’d never let go again.

The room had gone dead quiet—a few camera flashes popped, but no one dared speak.

Soap’s jaw was on the floor. “He looks exactly like him.”

Gaz’s voice was a whisper. “Why is he so small? Why is he holding a Ghost plushie?”

Tommy peeked up from Simon’s shoulder, narrowed his eyes at the unfamiliar faces. A perfect mirror of his father.

“...Who’re they.”

His voice was barely a whisper.

You caught up, still smiling brightly despite the attention. “Friends, love.”

Price stared, flabbergasted. “You’re married.”

“For years,” Simon muttered, rubbing his son’s back. “Didn’t think it was important.”

“Didn’t think it was important?!” Soap looked personally betrayed. “You’ve got a wife and a baby Ghost—you’ve been holding out on us, mate!”

Tommy, utterly unimpressed, tucked his face back into Simon’s neck, clutching tighter.

And Simon? He just held him tighter, grinning behind the mask. “Doesn’t matter who knows now. Just glad they’re here.”

You rested a hand gently on Simon’s shoulder, smiling up at him with stars in your eyes. “He’s the strong one. Tommy and I just keep him grounded.”

Tommy peeked out again, holding the Ghost plushie up toward Soap in a silent offering.

Just for a second. A test.

Soap’s entire soul melted.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m gonna cry.”

——

Later That Evening

Once the photos were taken, the speeches given, and the handshakes done, the team pulled Ghost aside—into a quieter lounge at the back of the venue.

Tommy was asleep on your chest now, soft and squishy in his tiny suit, still clutching the ghost plushie. Simon sat beside you, exhausted but settled—his bandaged shoulder stiff, his leg stretched out.

Soap paced like he didn’t know where to begin.

“You nearly died, and didn’t think to tell us there was a baby Ghost back home?!”

Simon arched a brow. “Didn’t see the point.”

Gaz gawked. “A baby Ghost! With your face!”

You laughed quietly, adjusting Tommy’s weight on your lap. “He does the stare too. Exactly like his dad.”

“He judged me,” Gaz said, dead serious. “He judged me in his sleep.”

Simon chuckled, leaning back against the sofa with his good arm over your shoulders.

Price looked at him with something like admiration. “You did good, Simon. You protected your men, and you built something for yourself. That’s rare.”

Simon glanced down at his son, then at you.

“I’d go through it all again,” he said quietly. “Just to get back to them.”

And he meant it.

You smiled and kissed his cheek, and the team politely pretended not to notice the rare display of affection from their masked lieutenant.

——

That Night

The hotel room was quiet.

Not the stiff, formal silence of the ballroom—but the heavy, comforting kind that only came after a long day. The weight of everything peeled away the moment Simon locked the door behind him. The suit jacket came off first, dropped onto the armchair. The medal still pinned to his chest glinted in the low light.

You were already barefoot, sitting on the edge of the bed with sleepy little Tommy leaning into your chest, ghost plushie tucked under one arm, thumb near his mouth.

His curls were mussed from being passed between strangers and teammates who all took turns marveling at Ghost’s mini-me. He’d tolerated them quietly. Watched them with that wide-eyed intensity he inherited from his father. Now he was worn out.

Simon crossed the room, slower than usual with the brace on his leg, the sling tugging his shoulder. But his eyes never left Tommy’s face. His breathing eased the closer he got.

He sat beside you with a quiet grunt, toeing off his shoes.

Tommy reached for him instantly.

“C’mere, little lad.”

The boy didn’t speak—just crawled into Simon’s lap, curled up tight, and pressed his face into his father’s chest with a contented sigh.

Simon leaned back against the headboard, good arm around Tommy, the plushie smushed between them. You curled in on his other side, laying your head on his shoulder, your hand gently tracing circles on his chest.

No one spoke.

There was no need to.

Eventually, Simon broke the silence, voice low and raw. “Thought I’d never see this again.”

“You’re here,” you whispered.

“I kept picturing it. When things got bad.” His thumb stroked Tommy’s back. “Not the ceremony. Not the medal. Just this. You. Him. A quiet room.”

You smiled softly. “Then let this be the first of many.”

Simon nodded. “I don’t want to keep it quiet anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” you said gently. “You never did.”

He looked down at Tommy, who had dozed off again, face relaxed and safe.

“I missed so much,” Simon said quietly.

You kissed his shoulder. “You’re here now. He knows you love him.”

Simon rested his cheek on the top of your head, breathing deep. “He’s the bravest little thing I’ve ever seen.”

“He gets it from his dad.”

“Nah,” Simon said, with a tired little smile. “Gets it from his mum.”

You laughed under your breath.

And in that room—just the three of you, wrapped in each other—Simon Riley finally let himself breathe.

Let himself believe.

Because his little shadow had waited for him.

And he’d made it home.

——

The Next Morning

The hotel breakfast lounge was warm with clinks of silverware and quiet voices. The team had gathered at a long table by the windows, plates half-full, coffee steaming in hand.

Then the doors opened.

Simon walked in, dressed down in joggers and a hoodie—sling still snug across his shoulder, brace hidden beneath loose fabric. And trailing behind him like a duckling?

Tommy.

Tiny pajama pants with cartoon ghosts. One sock inside out. A determined little frown. Juice box clutched in both hands.

He mimicked every step his father took. When Simon slowed, Tommy slowed. When Simon stopped to scan the room, Tommy froze beside him. A flawless copy.

The team collectively melted.

Soap whimpered. “He’s still following him.”

Gaz looked close to tears. “I swear he’s even got the pace down.”

Tommy spotted the table and leaned forward slightly like he was ready to sprint—but Simon held out a hand. “Walk, lad.”

Tommy adjusted instantly, tiny legs pumping just a bit slower.

The second they reached the table, Tommy pointed up at the seat beside Simon. “Up.”

Simon picked him up without a word, easing him into the chair and sliding over a plate of toast he’d grabbed from the buffet. Tommy nodded once, solemn, and took a bite like it was his mission for the day.

The Ghost plushie sat beside him, propped up like a teammate.

You arrived moments later, hair damp, carrying your own plate and smiling like you’d won the universe.

“Sorry—we had a toothbrush standoff. He won.”

Simon nodded. “Saluted me with it.”

Soap practically keeled over. “Stop. STOP. I can’t—he saluted?”

Price just smiled into his tea. “Loyal, that one.”

Tommy reached out mid-bite and rested one sticky hand on Simon’s wrist. No words. Just… connection.

And Simon? He let it happen like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because it was.

Because his little shadow was exactly where he belonged.

——

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

[infiiniteazure]

・ ⭑ ╭ ︰captain john price gallery⁀ ⊹ ₊ “

Price's phone? Probably full of pictures of his dog, and his wallpaper is a picture of the boys, definitely dad material.

𖹭 previous post new requests‧₊˚ ⋅

[beloveds-embrace]

Would you be willing to write Tf141 with a POC Jazz Singer? They find a bar and as they settle in their drinks, the sweet sound of a southern accent fills their ears like siren song. It’s as if the world has faded aside from her. The siren like eyes, full lips, and the voice of an angel. To them, it’s as if she’s pumped the life and joy back into their lungs. But when she actually talks to them, she’s actually got the personality of a skittish kitten. She’s easily nervous and gets embarrassed easy, a far cry from the confidence she shows on her stage.

Thank you @miss-vanta-likes-to-write for helping me with this <33

The place is dim, the kind of bar that looks unassuming from the outside but unfolds like a secret the moment you step inside. Wood-paneled walls soak up the golden glow from antique lamps, and cigarette smoke dances lazy swirls in the air. You know this place. It’s old, but it breathes- alive with ghosts of stories whispered into tumblers and between the notes of the house piano. You’d been singing here for nearly a year now, tucked into the city’s quieter corners where the world still made space for jazz and soul.

Tonight, like always, you glide onto the stage with a practiced calm, heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor, the microphone standing like an old friend in the middle of it all. Your curls are pinned back just enough to show off the gold earrings brushing your skin. Your skin catches the spotlight- a warm, rich brown that glows under the low lighting, deep and radiant, the shimmery oil you use glittering like constellations and stars under the light. You’ve got on your favorite silk slip dress, the one that shimmers bronze like your grandma’s sweet tea in the sun, hugging curves you used to shy away from but now wear like armor. Your lips are painted a deep wine red, and your nails- long, almond-shaped- are the same color. It’s your ritual. Your way of saying I’m here. I’m proud. Watch me shine.

A hush falls over the place as the lights dim around the room and center on you. And with the first hum of your voice, that hush turns almost reverent, a church for those who worship singing angels.

The music takes you.

Every note, every slow, honeyed syllable- sweet drawls and soft vowels dripping like molasses, blues stitched into every lyric. You don’t just sing. You spill. You pour your heart into that mic with the kind of soulful ache that makes even the most jaded patron set down their drink to listen, and every regular knows better than to interrupt your performance. Your voice slips into the room like smoke- low, velvety, dipped in honey and gospel. It carries that Southern cadence, a melody shaped by summers in Georgia, Sunday mornings in church choirs, and humming with your aunties. You aren’t just singing. You’re testifying. And when you close your eyes, the room disappears. It’s just you and the melody- until they walk in.

The bar quiets. You’ve seen it happen a hundred times, but it still gives you that little thrill- that hush, that moment when people stop mid-sip and realize something real is happening. The world slows down to listen. And that’s when you see them.

A group slips into the back booth like they own the place without meaning to. There’s a weight to them- a presence. Shoulders broad, posture alert, eyes that don’t miss a damn thing. Soldiers, you can tell. You’ve got cousins like that- men and women who smile with their mouths but carry ghosts behind their eyes.

You chance a glance between verses.

One of them- tall, masked, all sharp shadows and piercing eyes- tilts his head as he listens. Another, shorter yet stocky with a mischievous grin a mohawk that reminds you of roosters and coyotes, leans over to say something, clearly impressed. One is more relaxed, beautiful beyond words, throws his arm over the back of the booth and lets your voice wash over him like a balm. And the last watches you with a quiet reverence that makes your breath catch.

It is their first time here, and yet they subconsciously know not to whisper more than necessary while you sing. They just listen- like the world’s gone silent except for you.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the mic. You’re used to attention; you've earned it. But there’s something about the way they look at you- like you’re more than just a song. Like you’re a miracle- and that does something sweetly unfamiliar in your chest. You finish your set and offer a soft “thank y’all” that rolls gently off your tongue. The applause is warm, respectful, but your eyes flick once more to the group in the back. Still watching.

Heart thudding, you slip off stage, nerves replacing the calm that had carried you through the music. It’s always like this. Up there, you’re a storm in silk. But offstage? Offstage you’re still that shy little Southern girl who used to sing into hairbrushes in her mama’s living room and hide when guests clapped too hard.

You drift toward the bar to collect your drink and try to ground yourself, hands still trembling slightly. You don’t even realize how close they are until a voice says: "That voice of yers? You just poured heaven straight into my chest, darlin'."

The scottish accent curls around your ears, playful and disarming, and catching you off guard for a few seconds. You nearly spill your drink.

“Oh! Um… thank you.” You blink up at him, suddenly hyper-aware of the whole team nearby. “I, uh- thanks. I’m… not used to compliments.” Despite how many you often get, the feeling of shyness never truly washes away.

He grins wider. “You’re not used tae compliments?” he echoes with mock offense. “Then this place must be full of fools, aye?”

You try to laugh but it comes out awkward, soft. “People usually talk to the voice. Not the… um. Not the girl behind it. I- I don't always know what to say when folks talk to me like that."

“You don’t gotta say a thing, sweetheart,” comes another voice- this one smoother, a british accent. The pretty one with the cap smiles kindly at you. “You said it all up there.”

You duck your head, cheeks burning. “Y’all are real sweet. I just… ain't great with people. Off-stage, I mean.”

While the masked guy remains silent, the one with the beard- another Brit- chuckles, his voice warm like the whsikey he is nursing. “Sit with us a while. If you’d like.”

Your heart damn near skips.

You hesitate, biting your bottom lip, fingers twisting around the edge of your glass. “I… might be a little awkward,” you admit with a sheepish look, voice feather-light. “I’m kinda like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

the Scot hums. “We like cats. Don’t we, Ghost?”

The masked man- Ghost, definitely not an eerie name- shrugs and speaks at last. “So long as they sing like that.”

They laugh softly, and it’s warm. Not mocking and not amused at your expense. It’s the kind of laugh that lets you breathe a little easier.

You slip into the booth, and they make room like they’d been saving a spot just for you.

[scoobywrites690]

Don’t know what to title this. Simon acting all caveman on your pussy ig🤷‍♀️

cw: pussy eating, restraints, light slapping

“fuckin’ love this cunny.” Simon groans from between your legs, his head buried as deep as he can between the soft plush skin of your thighs, as they rest on his shoulders. His chin drips with your juices as he licks and sucks at your sopping core.

“ah-uhmm, Si.” You gasp, your throat sore and scratchy from all the screams Simon has managed to rip from your throat.

“Shush.” Simon growls, landing a harsh slap to the side of your thigh that has your body jolting on the bed. With his gaze locked on your Simon goes back to lapping at you sweet pussy, sucking your clit into his mouth as he watches your face contort into one of pleasure.

Your chest heaves as you pant, desperate to catch your breath. But Simon pulls orgasm after orgasm for you, leaving it impossible for you to recover before you’re rapidly approaching the edge again. Your legs shake as your back arches off the bed beneath you, the fabric damp with sweat as it sticks to your skin. 

Your poor pussy is screaming with sensitivity but Simon doesn’t let up, he keeps sucking and flicking, not paying any mind to your body trying to escape his tightening grip. 

“Stay fuckin’ still.” He demands, his body rising from between your thighs, his chin drips with your cum as he grabs a hold of your wrists in one hand whilst he uses the other to unbuckle the belt from around his waist. The sound of the metal buckle clinks as he pulls the leather strip free from the belt loops of his jeans. The cold leather soon wraps around your wrists binding them together as he pulls the belt tight, leaving you unable to escape. 

Resuming his position in between your legs he keeps an arm slung over your waist, his fingers gripping into the fat of your hips and a firm grip on the belt that now binds your wrists, keeping you body locked in place as he goes back to torturing your poor pussy. 

“If you’d have just fuckin’ listened in the first place, aye.”

[hatsbuckets]

Imagine Ghost accidentally conditioning the 141...

Ghost is busy. Always. Too much paperwork, too many reports, too many logistics to handle before training. It’s 1400 before he realizes he’s skipped lunch. Again.

Not a big deal. Not the first time. Won’t be the last.

But he is hungry.

His eyes land on the bright pink bag of Valentine’s Day mini Snickers that’s been sitting, untouched, on his desk for a week. They were part of a bulk shipment to the base; some gift or something.

Not exactly lunch. But it’ll do.

He grabs the bag and heads for the training field. He’s two minutes late, not that it matters much because Soap and Gaz already have the unit ready.

"Where’s Price?" he asks, tearing open the bag as he walks up.

"Got pulled away. You’ve got this one, Sir," Gaz replies, raising a brow as Ghost lifts his mask just enough to pop a Snickers into his mouth.

Ghost doesn’t react, just grunts.

Today’s drill is a simple infiltration exercise. Hell, it's something Ghost or Price hardly have to be here for. Their presence would be more of a formality. Gaz leads the attackers. Soap leads the defenders. The teams get ten minutes to plan, to prep.

And then Ghost sounds the time up, and the groups move.

Ghost watches, leaning against a crate, chewing another Snickers, barely paying attention to one of the new guys—until the kid steps right into a trap. Ghost sees it before he does.

Blue powder erupts into his face.

Soap’s defenders descend, but the kid doesn’t go down easily. Blind, but still fighting back, holding his own until his team pulls him out.

Soap's team wins. Barely.

When it’s over, the teams regroup. Ghost is still eating Snickers.

He turns to the recruit, still dusted blue.

"What 'appened?"

"Didn’t see the wire." The kid shifts uncomfortably.

Ghost turns to the unit. "Who set it?"

One of the defenders raises a hand. Ghost considers him for a moment before reaching into the bag.

He tosses a mini-Snickers at the soldier.

The guy catches it. Looks at it. Looks at Ghost. Eats it.

Ghost turns back to the newbie. "Held your own. Tha' matters. Surprises happen. Don’t let ‘em get you again."

And that’s it. Training’s dismissed. Ghost pockets the rest of the Snickers and moves on.

...

The next day, Price is still gone. Ghost doesn’t skip lunch this time, but he still brings the Snickers bag.

They run the same drill.

Same recruit. Same route. But this time, he checks everything. Quick. Efficient. Finds the wire. Disarms it.

No blue powder today.

Gaz’s team wins.

Ghost eyes the recruit and flicks a Snickers at him. The kid catches it mid-air.

...

By the end of the week, Price is still gone. Ghost keeps the pink bag of Snickers on him during training. Like it's just another part of his kit.

One or two mini snickers get handed out every session. And nobody really notices at first. But the team starts moving differently.

They work harder. Smarter. More ruthless. More efficient. No one wants to be the guy who doesn’t get a Snickers.

Even the veterans sharpen their tactics. Gaz and Soap notice. But no one says a damn thing. If Ghost is going to give them snickers, then shut the gel up and let him give them snickers.

...

They're sent on a mission. High stakes.

They don't lose a single man. Not a single injury.

At the end of it, back on their transport home, Ghost pulls the pink danm bag from some unassuming pocket and hands out the snickers.

The men take them without question. They earned it.

But Ghost is running low. The bag nearly empty.

...

At the next training, Ghost doesn't hand out a single snickers. Not on purpose, but the bag is empty, so there's nothing left to do.

But the others notice. Gaz squints. Soap looks like a confused dog. Head tilt and all. The newbies glance at each other, shifting.

...

Two days later, Ghost swings his door open at 0600 sharp—and pauses.

Sitting just outside his door, neat as you please, is a bag of mini Snickers. Not the Valentine’s ones anymore. Just regular.

Ghost blinks. Hums. Pleasantly surprised, he picks up the bag, inspecting it briefly before stuffing it into his tac vest like it’s just another piece of gear.

He doesn’t think much of it. It’s a good snack.

At training, he does as he always does. Watches. Observes. Evaluates.

And then, without thinking, he tosses a Snickers at a recruit who clears a building faster than expected.

He snaps to attention as he catches it, eyes shining. Ghost does not question it.

The pattern continues.

And when he starts running low, Ghost finds a fresh bag of Snickers waiting for him.

Somebody—somewhere—has decided that the Snickers will not run out.

...

At training, at drills, in the field, there is a silent expectation. A new, unspoken rule. Do something exceptional? Get a Snickers.

The machine of the 141—the deadliest operators in the world—now snaps to attention at the crinkle of plastic.

They move with a ruthless kind of precision, bodies coiled, eyes sharp—waiting, anticipating.

Even Gaz and Soap are part of it now—though everyone refuses to acknowledge it outright.

But the moment Ghost hands one of his men a Snickers, he takes it.

Silently. Gratefully. Like a goddamn reward.

Ghost does not acknowledge this. Not out loud. But he keeps handing them out.

And they keep earning them.

They'd quite literally kill for a Snickers. (imagine what they'd do for an expensive piece of chocolate)

...

And then Price comes back three weeks later. He walks into the training area and pauses.

Something is off.

The unit is too sharp. Too focused. The newbies stand stock still in their group, as if waiting for something.

Gaz and Soap exchange a look. Soap refuses to meet Price’s eyes.

But he doesn't acknowledge it, until he begins unwrapping a plastic sleeve holding a new pen. The plastic is thick and loud. And half of their fucking head snaps his way. The hungry eyes of three dozen of soldiers latching on him.

Ghost, standing at the edge of the group, tears open a fresh bag of Snickers.

And now the entire fucking unit reacts. Subtle shifts in stance. Focused attention. Expectant silence.

Price squints. Frowns.

Ghost flicks a Snickers at a recruit. He earned it today.

The recruit catches it like it’s a holy offering and eats it immediately.

Price’s frown deepens. Slowly, carefully, he turns to Ghost. “The fuck did I miss?”