#TF 141

[beloveds-embrace]

(more of designationless!reader)

Soap found the box by accident. You never meant for it to follow you, never meant for it to be seen by anyone but yourself. It was a relic from a past you thought you’d buried, stuffed away in a dark corner of the storage room, forgotten like so many other things, brought by mistake when you changed between units again and again.

But Soap found it.

The box was old, its cardboard edges soft and sagging, your name scrawled on the side in faded, uneven marker. He wasn’t trying to pry- it was just there when he searched for a field manual in the storage room, and something about it drew him in. He brought it back to the common area where the others were gathered, setting it down on the table with a curious tilt of his head.

“Lassie never mentioned this, aye?” he asked, more to himself than to anyone else, and opened it; too curious, but also aware that if you truly did not want anyone to look through this, you would not have placed it in the storage room.

The scent of aged paper and something faintly bitter wafted out, and the pack stilled. Not because it smelled bad- it didn’t- but because something about the box immediately felt wrong; like a wound forced open.

Price was the first to step forward, instincts prickling at the edges of his senses. Ghost and Gaz followed, hovering close as Soap pulled out the first item.

At first, it was harmless. A broken doll with tangled hair, a few faded toys with their colors leeched by time, certificates bearing hollow phrases like “good effort.” Price’s eyes softened, his brow furrowing as he turned a small, threadbare ribbon over in his hand. None of it spoke of joy or pride. Instead, the items lay heavy in the box, the remnants of a childhood where love had been scarce. It wasn’t a treasure trove of cherished memories.

But then, Soap pulled out the sketchbook.

It was fragile, the cover warped and frayed, its edges curling inward as if trying to protect what lay inside. Price’s hand shot out, steadying Soap’s wrist, and he took it into his own hands. “Careful,” he warned. “Looks quite old.”

The room held its breath as Price opened it.

The first drawing made something deep in his chest rumble- a low, warning growl of distress that made the others tense.

You, as a child, stood apart from a group of faceless figures. They huddled together, faceless and warm in orange and yellow crayons, while you stood small and distant, alone in the cold blue. The faint, childish scrawl beneath it read:

“I think this is what love looks like.”

Price’s hand tightened on the book, the paper crinkling slightly under his grip. Ghost’s shoulders stiffened, and Soap let out a soft, chuffing exhale, his fingers twitching like he wanted to grab something, someone, and shake them. Like he wanted to grab you, and draw you into his arms.

The next drawing was no easier.

A child stood under black clouds, the page marked with teardrops, their hands pressed to a glowing window where a family sat warm and dry inside, nestled together. You’d drawn yourself outside, drenched and shivering, a frown on your face.

“When? If I’m good, will they let me in?”

Gaz made a sound low in his throat, a soft, mournful keening that was almost drowned out by Ghost’s steady, quiet growl, while Soap hisses, his pacing steps breaking the stillness.

And then, there were the drawings of your family- your siblings, your parents- but their faces were always blank, their hands never reaching for yours. Sometimes, you drew yourself trying to smile, trying to be part of the picture, but it was always wrong. You were always smaller, always separated.

Page after page followed, each one another gut-wrenching blow. Each one a testament to your loneliness.

A little girl sat at the edge of a family dinner table, her chair slightly too far away, the space between her and the others gaping like an abyss. In another, she stood in the background of a family photo, smaller and faded, as though she didn’t belong.

“I think I’m broken.”

“They don’t want me.”

“I wish I wasn’t me.”

“Mama and papa say I will ruin the nest.”

The drawings became messier, the lines shakier, as if your younger self had pressed harder into the paper with each word, each scene, trying to make the feelings go away by burying them in the lines of graphite and crayons.

The pack’s scents filled the room, heavy and overwhelming- John’s cedarwood sharp with anger, Ghost’s smoky musk thick and oppressive, Soap’s bright citrus tinged with distress, and Gaz’s soft vanilla almost bitter with grief.

But then, at the back of the sketchbook, they found something worse than the drawings.

At the back of the book, a final drawing waited- a page filled with one stick figure: just you. Moldy green, sickly yellow and bruise-blue.

At the bottom, scrawled so faintly it was almost invisible, the words read:

“Why wasn’t I enough?”

Gaz turned away, his hand pressed against his mouth as his shoulders shook. Soap’s fists clenched, his growl low and guttural, unable to contain his restlessness. Ghost’s fingers curled into tight fists, his knuckles pale as his eyes burned with something fierce and protective.

And Price… Price’s throat bobbed as he stared at the page, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap.

How could they?

At the bottom of the box, folded and tucked away like a secret, was a letter.

It was written in a child’s handwriting, shaky and full of misspellings, far younger than the last few drawings.

“Dear family, I’m sorry I’m not good. I’ll try harder. I’ll fix myself. Please love me. Please don’t leave me out. I’ll be good I promise. Love you even if you don’t love me back.”

It was dated years ago. The creases in the paper showed it had been folded and unfolded countless times, carried like a wish you couldn’t bear to let go of.

They didn’t need to ask. They knew the letter was never sent. And the silence that followed was suffocating.

When you came back that evening, you were left utterly confused by the strange atmosphere. The pack stood there, their only company a tense, heavy silence you had no idea where it came from.

Price stepped forward first, his arms wrapping around you in a hold that was both firm and trembling, and you huffed in surprise… but you didn’t pull away. His voice rumbled low and deep, a steady, grounding purr that vibrated against your chest. He didn’t say anything; he picked you up and just like that, began carrying you to the nest that you were becoming more and more familiar with everyday per their insistence.

Soap was next, once you were in the nest, his hands cupping your face as he pressed his forehead to yours, wrapping himself around you like sunshine. “Relax, bonnie lass.”

“So why-“

Gaz hugged you from behind, his soft, soothing purr blending with Price’s as he buried his face in your hair, his words drowing out your question. “You belong here. With us. Always.”

And Ghost… Ghost didn’t speak. He simply knelt in front of you, his large hands resting on your hips as he pressed his forehead to your stomach. His growl was low, protective, vibrating through you like a shield against the world. And with Price joining as well, you were effectively surrounded in the nest.

That night, they pulled you into their arms and didn’t let you go. They surrounded you with their warmth, their scents, their steady, comforting presence. They rubbed their faces against your neck, your wrists, your shoulders, marking you thoroughly, their purrs and low chuffs filling the space until you couldn’t think of anything else.

Though you still wondered what brought this on. Weird pack instincts you probably wouldn’t understand, perhaps.

[docdudo]

Hybrid 141 As Parents - Foster Human Child!Reader (Part 12)

You woke up feeling uncomfortably warm. Not that it bothered you too much—it was the kind of warmth that made you feel too comfortable to move. Wrapped tightly in a cocoon of blankets, you realized you were stuck in someone’s arms.

And when you blinked your eyes open, all you saw was darkness.

The darkness of someone’s shirt.

You shifted slightly, trying to free yourself a little, but the grip was way too strong. You literally couldn't move, the blankets wrapped too tightly around your body. It made you squirm a bit to try and get free, but still, nothing. "Mhm..."

"Kyle, Johnny, let her go." Simon's low voice sounded muffled somewhere behind you, his heavy hand patting your covered body lightly. "I don't think humans enjoy nesting immobile like this."

Which, yeah, had some truth to it, considering you were still squirming a little, unconfortable with being stuck in place so firmly.

"It's for protection..." Johnny whined���mostly playfully—as he gave you one last squeeze before loosening his hold, pulling you up slightly so you could now see the rest of the room. The blanket that was wrapped around you not so constricting anymore. "Well, good morning, pup! Slept well?"

You blinked slowly, still feeling too sluggish to answer properly. Instead, you rubbed your eyes and face slowly with both hands, trying to wake up a bit. That didn’t stop Johnny, though, who immediately reached out to feel your forehead, checking your temperature. "Ah think it went down..." The Werewolf muttered, his brow furrowing slightly in concentration. It was harder for him to gauge your temperature when he ran much hotter than humans.

"Let me."

Gaz stepped in, leaning closer to feel your forehead, his feathers twitching slightly even when his body was otherwise totally still.

"You feel much better, fledgling." He announced, a small, gentle smile on his face.

"Great! This means we can play, right, pup?"

You glanced up at Johnny’s face nervously. He looked so eager, but you weren’t quite sure if you were ready to play yet... he was still way too big and scary to consider fighting with him.

“Johnny.” Simon reprimanded in his low voice as he stood from the nest. “What did we talk about before?”

"And ya think ah'll hurt her or somethin'? Ya don't knae human limits either, do ya?" Johnny didn’t yell, but his naturally loud tone rose slightly, and your body tensed instinctively between the soft blankets.

Were they fighting? Were they going to argue because of you?

"Humans are more delicate." Gaz chimed in with a neutral tone, stretching his wings as he stood up from the nest, still addressing Johnny. "Especially her, weak as she is after the flu...."

"I knaw ya worried, Ky. I knae, but I'm very careful. Ya knae that." Johnny replied, his voice softening as he moved up to hug Gaz's side gently, one hand smoothing down the feathers on his wing. "Besides, ya have to help me convince Ghostie—he’s such a hardass."

"Har har." Simon deadpanned, rolling his eyes as he bent down to lift you out of the nest. His heavy hands patted your pajamas gently to both fix your clothes and wake you up a bit.

Johnny grinned smugly, amused by Simon’s reaction, his wolf ears pressing down as he let go of Kyle to approach you.

"Ay, pup, do ya wanna see how hybrids spar?" Johnny asked with a mischievous grin as he looked down at you, stepping closer to Simon.

"Huh...?" You murmured, blinking up at him, caught off guard.

"Johnny—" Simon hissed, the raspy, airy sound of a Wraith’s warning making you jump back in surprise.

Only to be interrupted by Johnny tackling him down back into the nest, the Werewolf growling back as they tumbled on top of the blankets and pillows.

You gasped weakly in surprise, eyes wide as you watched them both fall to their knees, Johnny's bicep trying to get a hold of Simon's neck as he tried to push the bigger man down. Simon was clearly stronger though, as he held back the Werewolf's arm and pulled it off of him.

Gaz chuckled sharpily at his two mates' antics, shaking his head softly as he walked past you to go to the bathroom. The soft feathers of his wing brushed against your back reassuringly as he went.

You noticed Simon’s sclera starting to darken, and he let out a low hiss before tackling Johnny's side roughly, pinning him to the nest this time. Johnny growled back, his nails digging into Simon’s arms, in his compression shirt, which somehow resisted tearing under the sharp claws.

You could see both of their muscles bulging with how much strengh they were fighting eachother with.

“You two muppets, stop that.” Price’s voice came from the doorway. He entered the room, shaking his head in mild amusement at the scene. “You’re scaring the kid.”

Johnny took advantage of Simon’s brief distraction to push him off, immediately crawling over to you with a panting grin.

"See? Isnae it fun??" He asked, leaning on the edge of the nest with his arms crossed and his head resting on them. "Course ah'd go easy on ya, pup. Let you mess me up, aye?"

"Who called, Price?" Simon asked, straightening up and casually scratching his arm where Soap had sinked his nails in.

"Nikolai. He was with Kate and Rya." Price replied with a small, affectionate smile, a tinge of affection on his gruffy voice.

"Are they...?" Simon started to ask, glancing at you briefly before looking back at Price, trying to be subtle to avoid worring you in case he was wrong.

"Yes, they are paying us a visit soon." Price confirmed, his tone careful as he gauged your reaction.

"Who...?" You asked quietly, already feeling anxiety creep in at the mention of three new people.

"Bonnie lassie, it's okay, aye? It's just our pack!" Johnny said quickly, trying to reassure you as he got up to his knees to manage to look you better in the eye. "Our pack is very nice, aye? Nice people, very gentle! Ya'll love them!"

"Well, Rya, sure, but Nik and Kate...." Gaz emerged from the bathroom, looking refreshed and wearing a small, amused smile.

"Gaz."

"Kyle."

Both Ghost and Price immediatly scolded the Harpy in unison, their tones sharp but familiar. Gaz just laughed it off, shaking his head lightly.

"Kidding, kidding~"

"They are very nice people, I swear it, doll." John said quickly, his small smile softened by the warmth in his voice, though partially hidden by his beard. "I'll show you pictures after, okay?"

You hesitated, still feeling uncertain. Nervousness tightened your chest, but you nodded slowly. It wasn’t like refusing was an actual option. This wasn’t truly your house. Maybe the best you could do was what you'd done in some foster homes before that had frequent visitors: hide away from sight until they were gone.

Like a cat.

"Let's have breakfast, hun. And you need to take one more dose of medicine. Maybe some warm tea too, hm?" Kyle smiled, his wing brushing your back gently to nudge you toward the door.

You were still getting used to the mornings in their house. They were clearly early risers, with none of them showing the slightest hesitation about starting the day even if they just woke up. The ease with which they interacted, did chores, and moved around impressed you. It was a stark contrast to your usual sluggish mornings.

Not that you were grumpy in the mornings—just… slow. Sluggish. You often zoned out while sitting at the table, barely able to keep up with the energetic chatter and movement around you. They talked continuously, laughing loudly, getting up and sitting back down, picking up dishes, and cleaning as they went.

Truly impressive. You could never.

After taking a warm shower, brushing your teeth, and getting dressed in warm clothes, you found a new problem, though. Johnny was trailing you like a persistent puppy. His wide grin practically begged you to join him in whatever he had in mind.

"If you're going to play with her, take her downstairs to the gym." Simon suggested, clearly offering no help in discouraging Johnny's enthusiasm.

The small, betrayed look you shot Simon only made him chuckle softly as Johnny gently took your hand, leading you toward their indoor gym.

The gym was much bigger than you'd expected, equipped with far more gear than some gyms you'd seen before. The bright white lighting and clean concrete floors created a spacious and organized feel. Each piece of heavy equipment was well-spaced, making it seem as though every detail had been carefully planned.

You scanned the area, taking it all in, until Johnny tugged you toward a section lined with thick, black padded mats on the ground.

"I... don't know how to... fight...." You murmured, your brows knitting together in confusion as you looked up at Soap. It was almost a silent plea for clarification.

"I knae, lassie, don't ya worry! We're just playing!" He beamed at you, guiding you to the edge of the mats. "Here, take off your shoes, bonnie."

Both of you stepped onto the mats. You wore the new socks John had gotten for you—purple with white stars—that carefully protected your small feet, while Johnny went barefoot. His feet were large, with sharp toenails and thick fur along the tops, really what you would expect from a Werewolf.

"What... do you wanna play...?" You asked hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper in the otherwise quiet gym. "Play fight...?"

"Ah like some wressling like anybody, mah kids also love it too! Ah'm sure we'll have some fun, wee lass!"

He smiled confidently, dropping to his knees. He had an eager and wolfish grin on his face, energy pratically radiating from him.

"Let's see what ya got!"

Part 11 /

[parkersbliss]

Snow Days with the COD Men

pairing: ghost, gaz, price, soap AND KEEGAN! x reader

synopsis: Some cute snow days with your favs!

warnings: sexual innuendo for soap, pregnancy with price

a/n: inspired by the actual snowstorm that's kept me inside for two days now lol

Masterlist | Taglist | Prompt List

requests open for call of duty

—

Ghost:

“Hey,” You said softly, opening the door to your porch. 

Simon doesn’t bat an eye, continuing to sit on your couch and stare at the pine trees in front of you. “Hi, love.”

“What are you doing?” You ask, coming to take a seat next to him. The hot chocolate is warm in your hands, and you take a small sip. Your eyes remain trained on your husband, his cup in hand, as he watches the glittering snowflakes.

“Just watching,” He hums. 

You set your cup on the table, leaning your head on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around you. You’re not sure how long he’s been sitting outside, but it’s impossible to tell because he’s as warm as ever. You can feel the heat on him through your puffer jacket as you turn to watch the snowfall. Already, a few inches have covered the grass and your driveway. The snow comes down in big plumps, twirling in the wind as they make landfall.

His hand squeezes your shoulder, rubbing soothing circles as he sips at his drink. “Think we should get married in the winter.” 

 “Yeah?” You said, glancing at the ring on your finger. You hold up for both of you to admire against the snowy backdrop. 

Simon smiles at it, the diamond glinting in the snow. “Yeah. A couple of pine trees, string lights, and plush snow.” 

 “Sounds cold.” 

 Your fiancee wraps your hand in his, pressing a kiss to the back. “Sounds bloody perfect,” he corrects. “A nice cabin trip for our honeymoon. Far off in the mountains, away from everyone.” 

You can’t deny the temptation of that. Your mind wanders to the idea of you in a white dress, in an even whiter background—bridesmaids in a dark green dress and pinecones as decor. 

“As long as there’s a hot tub,” You said. 

“I’d make one for you.” A piece of snow lands on your nose, and Simon’s hand comes up to brush it away. His touch was gentle as always like you were made of porcelain. He cups your cheek, pressing a tender kiss to your nose. “I love you.” 

The snow falls harder, the wind picking up and blowing it in your direction. But you feel warm inside at his words. “I love you too.” 

Gaz:

Your cheeks sting from the cold, little needles pressing their way into the fragile parts of your face. It doesn’t matter though, your determination keeps you hot. You cup your hands tightly, pressing the snow together as you scan your backyard for your opponent. 

A plight of snow hits you in the back, making you spin around. You chuck your snowball at your boyfriend, who laughs as he ducks. 

Kyle is already scooping up more snow as you huff and waddle through the snow towards him. You scoop up another ball on your way, hiking your feet in and out of the 2 feet of snow. 

“Get back here!” You shout at him, tossing the ball at his arm. It explodes in a flurry of white, and he chucks one back at you. 

You drop to the snow, already forming more artillery. Meanwhile, Kyle is scooping up huge amounts of snow with his hands and making a wall. You keep scooping up more snow, trudging towards him. You can see his blue puffer in the waves of white, slightly peeking over the fortress he’s built for himself. 

Another snowball is hurled at you, leaving flecks of snow in your eyelashes. “Kyle!”

He laughs, hearing the sharp pitching of your voice. “What, babe?” 

 You push yourself faster through the snow, gripping your snowball until you get the perfect angle and nail him in the back of his head. He gasps, rubbing the ice off of him and spinning to face you. 

You give him a friendly wave, holding another snowball in your hand. 

“We can talk about this,” He said, holding up both of his hands. 

“Really? Should’ve thought about that an hour ago.” 

 Kyle tilts his head. “Yeah, probably. But—” 

He rushes at you through the snow, tackling you into it with a soft “poof” as you sink into it. 

You shriek, snow falling into your face as Kyle wraps his hands around your waist. He smiles down at you, lips widening at the scowl on your face. Before you can scorn him again, his lips find yours. They’re ice against yours, but you can’t deny the way you melt into it anyway. 

“I’ll make it up to you, babe,” he said, standing up and offering you a hand. He pulls you into his chest, hands flying to your waist. “How does a warm bath sound?” 

You shake your head. “It sounds like a good start to an apology.” 

Soap: 

You watch your boyfriend dart around the yard, shoveling more snow into his ever-growing dome-shaped monstrosity. Johnny’s cheeks are tinted red from the cold, frost nipping at his nose, but he doesn’t care. He’s smoothing out the edges of his soon-to-be igloo, piling more snow on and pressing in. 

You’re carrying over the pre-made snow bricks like some animal crossing task as he stacks them on one another. As soon as you’d woken up, Johnny was shoving himself into a snowsuit and rushing for the door. You had gotten a good foot of snow, and he was determined to make a creation. 

You suggested a simple snowman, but he denied it. 

He pats them down, using nimble fingers to carve out the caking between each brick. 

“’s gonna be a real beauty,” He said, standing back to admire his work. “Gonna have tea parties in here, aye?”

You tilt your head. “I don’t know about that. Think it’ll freeze.” 

 Johnny’s nods. “You’re right. Well, then we can have… a snow cone party.” 

 You snort, handing him another brick. “What flavor?” 

 Your boyfriend gives you a devilish grin, once you’ve gotten used to that translates to no good. “Yellow, my favorite.”

“You’re gross,” You scoff, coming to stand next to him as he carves more patterns into your backyard igloo. 

Johnny tosses an arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to let you rest on him. “That’s not what you said last night when I—” 

 “Okay!” You said loudly, glaring at him. “That’s different.”

“I suppose.” He reaches a hand forward to tweak one of the snow bricks. “Think we should live in the Arctic.” 

 “Think you’re fucking crazy,” You quip back. “You’re almost frozen solid, babe.” You place a hand on his cheek, rubbing it to try and warm him up. Despite the snow gloves, you could feel the biting sting of the cold on him. Johnny was invincible, as ever, and didn’t seem to notice. Or care. 

“This igloo won’t build itself.”

 You cup his face, making him face you. “It won’t be built period, if you die of hypothermia.” 

“May I remind you, lassie, I’ve been swimming in the Arctic before?” 

 You roll your eyes. “The igloo will still be here tomorrow. Besides.” You drop your hands to his arms, tracing them up and down. “Got a few ways we could warm up.” 

 Johnny’s eyes light up. Within seconds, he hauls you over his shoulder, trudging back to the house. “Forget the igloo. I like the sounds of that much more.” 

Price:

“Are you sure you don’t want any help?” You ask as your husband clears another line of snow out of your driveway.

John grunts in response, stopping to rest on the handle of his shovel. “Honey, you shouldn’t even be out here in the first place.” 

 You pout. “But I feel horrible leaving out to shovel our whole driveway.”

 John sighs, picking up his shovel and scooping another line. “Don’t. It’s the least I can do after everything you do for me.” 

“But it’s cold,” You continue to protest. “And I can help. Then it would get done faster and—” 

 Your husband gives you a stern look. “No. Call me traditional, but I’d rather you stay warm inside cooking a nice meal than freezing your ass off and the little one.”

 Your hand comes to rest at the bulge of your stomach. “I already have cookies in the oven, and we’re fine.” 

 He gives you that smile with his lips pressed together. “Then I don’t need anything else.” 

The snow begins to pick up again, flurries dancing and twirling in the air in huge fluffs. You watch as they stick to the driveway, and make a home in your husband's beard. Your mind drifts to next winter when you’ll have a little girl wrapped in bundles of jackets, marching through the snow. 

Your heart clenches at the thought of your husband helping her make snow angels rather than shoveling the driveway. The snow begins to pick up, and you step further into the garage, feeling the familiar twinge of frost on your nose.

You frown as your husband continues to shovel. “My love?” You call out to him. 

He stops, turning to face you. Plumes of snowfall in front of your face as you look out to him, lip jutted outward and hand rubbing your growing belly. Well, fuck him. He grabs his shovel, dragging it back to the garage as you smile and press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Thank you.”

 “I’m going back out there in the morning.” John’s hand falls to your back, a warmth you’ve come to know carrying his kid as he leads you inside. 

“And leave me and the bugger all alone in bed?” 

 John huffs a laugh, closing the door behind the two of you. He wraps both his arms around you, resting them on your stomach and placing his chin on your shoulder. He receives a little kick in response and sighs. “The snow can wait, I suppose.”

Keegan:

Keegan tugs on his mask, tilting his head from side to side. He leaves his snow gloves attached to his hip. “Need any help, baby?”

You huff, fumbling to turn and face him. His eyes crinkle at the sight of you all bundled up in layers of warmth. “I can’t get the zipper.” 

He strides forward, tugging the zipper up to its proper place just below your chin. He leans forward to press a chaste kiss through his mask on your lips. He pulls back and grabs your hand, leading you out the door and fastening his gloves on. He yanks the string of your sled, dragging it behind him. A few kids run towards the hill at the edge of your neighborhood, sleds, toboggans, and snowboards with them. They shout excitedly to their friends, waving hands frantically. 

“What if we take out a kid?” You asked, feet crunching in the snow. 

Keegan shrugs. “They should’ve kept an eye out.” 

 You swat him on the arm, but neither of you feels a thing beneath all the layers. 

He just laughs as you approach the hill. “C’mon. You doubt my steering skills?”

 “I doubt your driving skills, in general,” You reply as he secures the sled in place, using a foot to keep it in place. 

“In you go.” He holds out a hand, letting you grab it as you sit down in the sled. You place both your feet outside it to let Keegan slide into the space in front of you. He grabs the string, making a slapping motion like he’s Santa with the reindeer, and you roll your eyes. You slip your arms around his middle, leaning your head on his back as you push off the hill.

He cheers like a little kid as you both go flying down the hill, snow caressing your cheeks and splaying everywhere. 

 “Hold on!” He shouts, suddenly pulling right. 

“What?” You shriek.

You jerk to the right suddenly, and the sled topples over, and you both land in the plush snow. The cold envelops you for a second, nudging part of your epidermis and deep into your veins before you push yourself into a sitting position. 

Keegan is sitting in front of you, brushing snow off his jacket, and you can see the faint outline of a cheeky grin under his mask. “Whoops. You okay?” 

 “I’m fine,” you assure him as he helps you up and grabs the sled. He turns to face you, raising his gloved thumb to brush some snow from your face. 

“Wanna go again?”

 You sigh, lips quirking upward, unable to deny your boyfriend. “Always.” 

– END –

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[maelstrom007]

@ghouljams the worms are worming. . . I was listening to Depeche Mode today and Personal Jesus reminded me of your cult leader Price AU and it just has a death grip in my brain. . . All I could think of the whole song was Price manspreading in a chair with Ghost, Soap, and Gaz posed around him in dramatic backlighting, doing his biding to keep his cult in check.

Price is obviously cult leader, we get it, we know it, he's so charismatic and clever and manipulative and influential we know we know we know.

Thinking of what the other boys roles would be in this whole thing though. . .

Gaz is definitely the person on the outside clocking discontented people and setting in hooks. Absolutely gorgeous man, charismatic as fuck, endearing and non-threatening (at first glance), such blinding loyalty that he is able to see and interact with the outside world and not be tempted to leave. This simultaneously makes him adjusted enough to 'normal' life that he gives off very little red flags when inviting people in. He's also the person who befriends the new follower and makes sure that they're only seeing what they're supposed to, and vetting if they'd be impressionable enough to add to the flock. Testing their resistance to peer pressure, vetting them and making sure they're impressionable enough.

Soap is the listening ear on the inside. His job is to ingratiate himself amongst the followers and report any findings to Price, both good and bad. So not only is he keeping an eye out for disloyalty, plans to leave, discontent, etc. but he's also looking out for personal things like lost personal possessions, low stakes concerns, anything that Price can use to give individuals 'personal' time with him that makes him seem attentive or even slightly omniscient to the more spiritual followers.

Ghost's job is really to be that of a smoke screen. He is very visibly Price's 'right hand man', outwardly intimidating and such a hard ass on rule following that he acts as a force pushing followers to the sphere of Gaz and Soap. Because they couldn't be that close to Price, right? No one but Ghost is. So surely they're safe talking about their doubts and confusion, as long as Ghost is out of earshot. I feel like he also makes Price more valuable by making him more unobtainable. Unless Price comes to you, you need to seek an audience with him through Ghost. And 99% of the time even if you do get to see Price, Ghost will be there. At least that's what people say anyway. Price definitely isn't telling everyone that he's 'made an exception just for them' and that 'this'll be a secret between the two of them'. Definitely not.

I have this notion that it would be one of those self sufficiency communes that has their own internal ecosystem, growing their own food, making their own clothes, etc etc. They would send the well behaved followers to set up a stall at the nearby towns farmers market to keep up appearances and make sure that nobody in the town really bothers them. Who gives a shit what the group of farmers in the middle of nowhere are doing when their produce costs next to nothing and tastes divine? Maybe they should go out there some time and see what it's like. . .maybe learn how to take care of a plant or two of their own? And you've always wanted to learn how to do pottery, the cute guy on the corner says they're hosting a class this weekend. . . . . . . . . .

[autumnheartsprice]

reader who likes to text a lot, randomly during the day

<no warnings really, suggestive, mentions of spanking. mentions of sex happening under cut but no specific scene tbh>

It became a habit over time once you and Price started dating, random texts during the day when you got bored or had no one you express your thoughts to.

You ever wonder what it's like to be a turtle?

Like what do they think?

In pictures? Sounds? Obviously no words??

Do you always think like this or did you drink something you weren't supposed to?

What would I have to drink that I'm not supposed to?

You think I didn't find your secret stash of alcohol?

.. besides the point & you didn't answer my question. no i didn't drink anything though🙄

kinda wishin i did now

meow

???

why does nobody think how i think

That's why I love that little brain of yours. Just doing some paperwork in my office, wanna come and brain-dump all your thoughts?

are you calling my brain "little"?😓

Just get your arse in here. Miss your voice.

apparently trees have memories or something like that. you think it's from like the bark or leaves or something? how tf do trees have memories

does that mean all plants do, or just trees?

do you think that tree on our morning walk remembers me calling it ugly and thinks im a horrible person every time we walk by?

or maybe it's judging my juicy ass

or maybe how your ass is juicer than mine.

Baby. I just stepped out of a meeting to read these. Out of all things. How would a tree be able to see our arses. Maybe you should be nicer to it if it remembers you calling it ugly, might grow a nice lemon for us.

Anything else before I step back in? You better behave or else you're getting bent over my lap tonight.

is that a threat or a promise?👀

Threat, about to turn into a promise. Behave.

*Picture unavailable at this time*

The hell you trying to send me now?

Why won't it load? It says unavailable.

I hate this technology

Baby, I'm sorry, what's the picture?

Oh well. just wanted to show you the new lingerie i bought but i guess it'll have to wait until you get back. still staying late?

My office. Now.

Better be wearing that damn lingerie.

"Is it a bad time to mention that there was no picture and it's just a TikTok trend I saw where you fake sending a picture?" you mumble as you're bent over his desk. Cum dripping down your thighs as sweat sticks to your forehead.

[porcelian]

PEACH BLACK DESCENT | s. riley/f!reader | 8.4k

SYNOPSIS: Simon thinks you're a bird with a broken wing. You squirm in the hole of the hunters trap. The other wing flapping, air around you contorting as it picks you up and you escape from the jaws of the trap. He sits next to you now in his truck and wonders how he's going to clip your wings.

Tucked away in a far away town surrounded by woods a highway predator—Simon—goes hunting and digs his teeth into you.

WARNINGS/TAGS: Mature Themes, Extremely Dubious consent, Rape/Non-con Elements, Objectification, Size Kink, Size Difference, Marking, Kidnapping, Threats of Violence, Dacryphilia, Unsafe Sex, Manipulation, Butcher AU.

MASTERLIST & NAVIGATION.

You feel as if you were born in a galaxy slowly being ripped apart at the seams. Stars colliding, crashing; kaleidoscopic colors mix into together as they lose their golden ichor of life and dim into nothingness. A black hole drinks it's ichor. The unforgiving crooked teeth bites in the stars and they give into the hold.

A dying nebula. Hot and scorching as it brands your skin because of your sins. Engraved into your soul. It is dirt under your finger nails. Forever stained.

Stained—you think—you'll have to figure out how to clean up the sign perched near the motel wall—Highway Inn. A ironic and obvious name, considering it's situated right next to a highway. The road turns and twists, contorting into something akin to a labyrinth only a few unlucky ones can pass through and make it to this brick fortress.

(Unlucky, pitiful and poor souls,

Never seen again as the road takes them too.)

The bright and blinding fluorescent light of the motel cuts into your eyes like razors. The cold air bites your cheeks and fingers. Your breath chokes out of your mouth and it spreads in the air, swirling and contorting. The soft gray of it stand out against the dim rust-colored and cracking bricks.

You sit behind the dark oak front desk—the surface littered with blooming circles of lighter brown. A dusty bell of dimmed gold hangs above the heavy wooden front door.

You bring your hands to your mouth, huffing your hot breath into them. A futile wish for some warmth to engulf you. The soft murmurs of the few workers echo in one ear and leave through the other. It's an empty and eerie quiet tonight. The roads stay dark and life seems to be ripped away from it.

But, you swear you see light seep through the cracks formed by the curtain by the windows. Your eyes trail up and lock onto the road you can see outside.

A white truck passes. It always does. Like clockwork. A routine akin to a ritual. A never ending cycle the labyrinth road and motel seem to welcome and accept. Although, hesitantly. Your manager never looked pleased to see the truck drive the road in front of the motel.

You don't know why.

But, you think it has to do with the way it seems to slow down when it's near the brick building. The way it simmers to a stop. The way the front seat windows are a little bit cleaner and easier to see through from the inside than the others so you can feel someone stare at you. Their gaze heavy and intense, like tendrils around your neck. They squeeze around the sides. Bruises forming and blooming—a mark—curiosity killed the cat. But, you can't help to watch. You meekly welcome the gaze of the one behind the window. The glass slightly glimmers under the crescent moon.

(You think the person inside is satisfied with the effect they have on you.)

The white surface of the truck is faded white with wheels brown-black, the dirt seeping through the engraved rubbery surface. The windows are obsidian dark and you can't see through them. Only one remains open—the drivers seat. An arm drapes across it. The milky white skin littered with scars that dance alongside with ink-black tattoos. It snakes around the man's heavy arm like a serpent, trailing up to the shirt that hugs his skin so delicately and smoothly—a stark contrast between the tough and rough surface of his skin. His wrist flicks. Calloused hands follow. They move and curl.

(You wonder how'd they feel.)

You still think of the softness of it, them—him—the fuzz of his arm akin to a valley, an Eden you're not supposed to enter, a peach you're not supposed to bite, its ambrosia you're not allowed to drink and let it seep down your chin and chest.

Would his fingertips dance across the plush flesh of yours? Would his nails apply pressure and dig into your skin? You already can imagine the faint red and purples appearing under his hold, the crescent moons he'd leave under his unforgiving and damning touch.

(Like a black hole, alongside the stars it devours.)

Your manager—Roderick, a old and angry man grumbles as his dim and misty eyes settle on the white truck. He tuts. His hands grip the side of his belt, an indent you're familiar with makes itself known. He'd always been unsatisfied and upset whenever the man with the white truck appeared.

It's reached a new high today. The tension in Roderick's forehead is obvious. His brows furrow as he calls out to you, his rough and hoarse voice breaks the previous silence you'd taken sanctuary inside the motel.

"Stay inside," he orders, finger gauged at you, "I mean it. Keep your eyes to yourself, girl. Watch the keys and make sure you have the rooms cleaned," his eyes settle on the truck driver door opening, "we'll have visitors soon."

You stand wide eyed behind the front desk. Caught off guard by his words, your mouth hangs slightly open to question him, but you settle on just keeping any inquiries to yourself.

Roderick doesn't like questions. He never did. Especially about the missing people posters hang up near the motel. Especially about the news echoing information and words about missing people. Blurred faces and names. They simmer in your mind. You've met them here before. They checked in. Some greet you with bright and slightly strained smiles. Some thin their lips and their eyes dart away from you.

It doesn't matter.

They never leave the roads they entered to reach the motel. They get lost in the labyrinth and never leave.

(The black hole has taken another star.)

You'd heard about so called highway serial murderers. The media treats them like their ghosts. They appear to lock their jaws onto their prey, their crooked teeth digs in and the food hangs limp, succumbed to the bloody hold. Their eyes go hazy and dim, the life ichor drips out of them slowly as the predator has its fill, belly satisfied and sickeningly happy. After that they're gone, disappearing on the road again, their trucks their castles.

The opened truck door reveals the man inside. Your eyes lock onto him.

His heavy brown leather boots step on the concrete surface. You notice the scruff marks along the fabric, the lighter color like lighting dancing on the surface. His cargo pants are dirtied at the seams, as if he'd been in the rain soaked woods, moving as the wet dirt coats and sticks to him.

His upper body is akin to a behemoth—a mountain of a man with shoulders like steel, hard and unmoving. His fingers stretch every once in a while. The fuzz on the surface a stark difference to the milky-white surface. The dirt seeps under his fingernails, hammering the nail and making their forever home.

A stark black balaclava hides his face. The fabric old tearing at the seams. His eyes contrast and stand out against the visible alabaster skin—akin to earth brown like the woods and ground that surrounds you. There's a strange look in them. A feeling you can't quite make out as they settle on you through the opened door.

The bell chimes. The sound echoing through the front room. His feet scruff against the welcome mat. His eyes lock onto your figure. Black irises under lidded light blond eyelashes grow in size, almost seeping into the brown pooling around it. There's a glint in them— a subtle excitement and hunger.

(Like a predators gaze upon its prey,

Akin to a black hole and the nebula right next to it about to burst.)

He nods his head at you. For a moment you lose the sight of his eyes, but you can still feel the tendrils of them wrap around your neck. Though, this time they move further. Your cheeks feel blistered by heat. Your thighs ache as the surface of your uniform rubs together.

Your eyes catch his again. You can see the fabric move slightly where his mouth is supposed to be. He's smiling. Bearing his teeth to you. Crooked fangs glistening in the florescent lights as the smile reaches to high. The crows-feet next go his eyes crease.

He moves closer to the front desk. His frame covers yours completely. It engulfs you behind it and you settle into his shadow. Tendrils seep into the dark surface as it hugs your body. The balaclava fabric slightly moves again. The mans hoarse voice rumbles out of him, it starts near his stomach, belly covered by a hoodie, trails to his cords as it spreads a deep and infectious melody out of his mouth.

"I'll need a room. One bed. More on the bigger side. I'll take 13."

"Of course." You squeeze the breath out of your throat and force your body to move near the keys on the wall.

"Thank you, Lamb."

You can still feel his eyes trail your body. Irises dig into your flesh like razors, cutting into it until it reaches your spine, a soft touch akin to his fingertips dances across the skin and moves down, settling on the back of your waist—you'd call it a lovers protective touch, but you feel it's a bit different than that.

It's almost as if he's testing you, pushing your buttons, his fingers curling around your nerves and tugging, wondering what you'll do if he applies pressure, what noise you'll let escape your pouted lips, what words you'll echo in his ears, how'd you'd grip his skin and what kind of scars you'd add and decorate him with alongside the rest.

(Like a predator playing with it's prey,

An appetizer before it's meal.)

Your hands tug on the key to room 402. You turn on your heel, facing him again. You hesitate for a moment, breath catching in your throat. He tilts his head before raising his hands for you. An invite rests in the tense air, alongside it is a tempting ambrosia, a siren's saccharine call, beckoning you to take a bite, let it seep into your throat and burn inside your chest and untangle the threads in your belly.

You take a bite.

Your fingers graze his. The keys settle on the heart of his palm. The creases in his skin run like rivers and your fingertips linger for a single second to swim in and trace them.

The ambrosia calls to you again in the form of his eyes locking onto the connection between his and yours. His fingers curl again, grazing yours. Nails settle moon crescents into your velvety skin. They glide across the surface, taking in the slight warmth and feel of your skin before breaking contact.

The tangled and aching mess in your belly returns again. Your eyes dart back up to his again and your breath gets caught in your throat again as you see how dark they've become, ink seeking into the brown you saw a few moments ago. They dig into you, just like before—razors cutting, teeth mauling, tongue licking the blood dripping down your skin. He opens his mouth to drink his fill.

"It's Simon."

You swallow down the breath you didn't know you were holding captive in your throat and return his gesture with your own name. It seems like a deal brokered with an entity you shouldn't even look at—a faerie claiming your name alongside your body, a devil clutching your soul and future.

"O-okay, Simon. If you need anything, just see me at the front desk."

You take a bite and taste his name on your tongue. It spreads its blood into you, the metallic taste akin to a bubbling infection you can't and don't want to shake off. You swear you notice the same smile underneath his balaclava, curling and showing you his teeth.

"Oh, I think I will."

He murmurs your name alongside that, finishing his words like a promise to an altar. You like the way your name gets trapped behind his teeth, thrown to his tongue and chained to it, settling on it and spreading the same infection as his own name did to you.

Simon turns his back to you. He trails up the creaky wooden stairs and his steps echo in the room as they do in your mind. His smells sifts through the air—nitroglycerin and charred wood, bleach alongside the ridges of burnt wood. It fills your lungs with black smoke, seeping through the veins and clinging on—branding you like heated metal.

You don't see him again that day again.

A couple check in. A man and a woman. They feel as sickeningly normal as the 60's posters littered across the motel walls—aged with skin swirling on their faces, clothes sewn meticulously clinging onto their still strong clothes. They smile. The light glints on their dull and soft teeth.

(Like prey.)

They ask for room 12, as they booked. You hand them the keys and murmur sweet words—enjoy your stay, call me if you need anything. A verse engraved in your mind, leaving your mouth like you're a broken record.

The night creeps in. Tendrils of dark sift through the motel windows. The rooms are quiet. Only the soft echos of your shuffling feet and the periodic thumps can be heard around the building, for those you don't have an explanation for.

The next day you don't see the couple check out. You don't see them walk the hallways. Roderick shushes your questions about them. The curiosity blooms in your chest. It carves a home in your heart. A hole grows alongside with it.

In the early hours Simon checks out. Thank you, Lamb—he tells you, sweet words about you and his stay—I'll see you soon—you squirm and mumble a meek thank you's and see you soon. His words light fireworks along your skin, the flame dancing on the surface. You feel like a wire caught alight. Electricity sifting through the air between you two.

Your eyes drift to his hands, just like they've done multiple times. You squint, focusing on his short ivory nails.

There's a strange dark crimson stain underneath the nails—a stark contrast. Your eyes lock onto them and Simon notices your stare.

His balaclava shifts again as he smiles at you. His feet carry him to the front door. The bell rings as his hold makes the door creak open. He disappears just as quickly as he showed up.

You still smell the bleach and charred wood where he stood.

The day passes the way you expect it too. Endless cycle akin to a ouroboros swirling and consuming itself—pointless and unsatisfactory.

Your feet carry you through the front room. The bell ringing above you as you step outside. The cold air bites at your cheeks, trying to escape into your heavy coat. You bring the fabric closer and cover yourself even more to escape the unforgiving weather.

Your hands tremble as they dig into your pockets. Nails nick at exposed skin. The anxiety and paranoia grasps at you. Your mind keeps replaying back to your goodbye with Simon. He's a man you barely know, but feel a curiosity towards him that you shouldn't. A pull that seems to wrap around you and bring you to your doom. It is laced with a fear that spreads lightning up your spine.

You tither on that feeling as your feet take you down the labyrinth roads, a black river that is never-ending. The roads are seemingly quiet until a sound rings out in the air.

A truck drives closer to your side of the road. Your shoulder tense and feet quicken. You tilt your head in its direction. The familiar stark white color of the truck flicks a lever in your mind and suddenly you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

It's Simon. It's Simon as you move closer to the truck, now parked next to you. You raise your head, eyes wide as you peek through the darkened windows. It pulls down as you see the all too familiar balaclava stare right back at you alongside the earth-brown eyes with a tinge of an alive amber.

He leans back into his seat, legs spread—need a ride?—he asks, voice louder and reaching out to you. You thin your lips. The steps of the passenger seat beckon you closer—only a step is what you need to take.

You nod—yes, I appreciate it, thank you—you hum, voice soft and mellow. You watch him through lidded eyes, catching note of how he takes unnecessary turns and drives down longer roads.

You face him. A question burns on top of your tongue. You want to and do ask him—where are we going? Where are you taking me?—but, the gaze in which he gives you, alive and high on adrenaline is all he answers you with.

The blood underneath his fingernails are still there. You think you'll add to his collection.

Simon thinks you're a bird with a broken wing. You squirm in the hole of the hunters trap. The other wing flapping, air around you contorting as it picks you up and you escape from the jaws of the trap.

He sits next to you now in his truck and wonders how he's going to clip your wings.

You'd been so sweet to him. Opening your rib cage, moving the white bones and placing your heat on a plate for him. Your saccharine words echo in his mind. He'd never tasted something like it before. You make his teeth ache and belly hot. He craves another bite of the honeyed elixir that coats your body as sweat as your face contorts in something akin to fear and uncertainty.

"You should' have go' in the truck with me, Lamb." His words are like a final prayer, a nail in the coffin as his free hand moves towards you.

The truck stops at a dark part of town. Murky streets tangle into each other. A butcher's shop rests tucked away in the corner. The yellow and blue windows stand out against the dim muted colors of the rest of the street. An almost broken down and colorful sign of a butcher shop hangs perched above the building.

Simon finds your furrowed brows and thinned lips adoringly amusing. His calloused fingertip rests against your bottom lip. He bites back a groan as he tugs it down slightly. You follow his lead almost instinctively. His thumb digs in. Salty surface laid upon your soft tongue. The taste melts into your mouth. Your tongue raises and hugs his thumb to your teeth. Sharp surface digs into his skin. The metallic liquid coats your pearlescent canines.

He smiles—"Lamb has claws, good. It'll be even more satisfying 'o see how much you can do with them." —he presses deeper.

You try and shuffle towards the passenger door, hoping the lock hasn't been closed and you still have an option to escape whatever spider web you've gotten yourself wrapped in.

“I ‘pected you t’run.”

The hoped dies out in your mouth as you hear the lock fasten. You whine and he laughs at you. You can make out a crooked grin underneath the black balaclava.

“Wouldn't do tha’ if I were you.”

Simon's other hand leaves the steering wheel. It grazes the plush surface of your clothed belly and you startle back like an animal protecting it's weak spots. He's eerie quiet now. His hand trails up to your neck, touching the soft and delicate skin. You instinctively shift your head.

"I-I can pay you." You stammer. This is the first time you've been so close up to him. You can see burns and scars across the exposed skin. You shudder at the sight.

"Pay me?" He mimics back to you.

You nod frantically. His hand is still on your neck. You're afraid he's going to sense your pulse and figure out how you're fucking terrified.

Like—

Maybe, at the start you entertained this, but now you are actually a bird underneath a hawk, or more like a flesh eating vulture. It's claws digging and getting ready to bite and feast and Simon looks like a man that doesn't let any bite go to waste.

His eyes dig into you again like razors. He prompts you, asks you and beckons you to answer—will ya try t'run again?

You gulp. For a moment you stay frozen in his hold unable to answer but, his hold becomes stronger, pushing and adding pressure at the sides of your neck. You whimper—where would I go?

"Good girl."

His hand around your throat digs in. You gasp. He closes on the sides of your airway, careful not to push on the front where you gulp and swallow your fear and words. His eyes trail up to yours, watching as your own move and shake. Your hands crawl up to his arms. Your nails dig into his visible marred skin, leaving moon crescents in your wake. He huffs. His breath seeping through the fabric of his balaclava and hitting your face. You take in his smell again— nitroglycerin, bleach and charred wood, fire burning alive at the tips of it.

"Too late for that, Lamb." He croaks out. The words echo through your ears like church bells and a higher power giving you your sentence.

"But I think we can work something else out."

Something else turns out to be his hands gripping you too hard, making blue and purple marks bloom in his wake.

Your feet struggle to take big steps to follow alongside him. You could try and scream bloody murder, alert someone, run for your life, cross and jump fences and escape. Who would help you? Would they hear your pleas—help, this behemoth of a man is keeping me as his little toy.

You grimace at the thought.

He turns his head to face you. His eyes akin to a all too hungry boar ready to pounce.

"Don't get any funny ideas runnin' aroun' in t'head o'yours, Lamb."

"Funny?" You quip, letting it hang in the air as you add, "like getting into your truck and following you to some sketchy butcher shop that looks like a 00's old disco?"

"Cheeky little think ain't ya?"

"This isn't fair—"

"Fair? Life ain't fair, Lamb."

He tugs you closer. A strange look appears in his eye. The white of it akin to sea foam. He hums, taking in your fear and uncertainty. It simmers on his tongue and he swallows it down. There's a hunger in them. A familiar hunger you've always felt and now you see it mirrored in his own.

He moves you to the butcher shop by the scruff of your neck. The heavy door closes with a sharp crash. There's a stark smell of bleach hanging in the air suffocating your lungs. There's the tinge of sweat around the room too. The suspicious light brown colored stains lays across the floor. There is a smaller room tucked away he leads you to. A mattress laid across the dirtied floor. You swear you make out chains hung across the room. You wonder if he'll hang you from them.

(There's no escape.)

You remember the crimson underneath his nails. The couple from 12 and Simon— the man in 13. Ironic the number he settles with was 13. It suits him, you think.

"Did you kill them?"

Simon gazes back at you. His hands crawl up to his balaclava and grips the fabric. Your breath clings to your throat. The noises die out as your eyes lock onto him and his appearing face.

He's not—

Not how they describe them in the books.

Not handsome.

More ugly. Disturbing in a way that's obscene. He's more skin stitched together than man. More flesh looking too wrong than human.

You see his Glasgow smile first. The dip in skin alongside the corners of his mouth form a Cheshire grin. His lips look chapped and rough, a cut runs vertically along it, separating skin and showing his crooked almost sharp canine teeth. The dark brown hair stick together and clings to his forehead. It's damp and just about long enough for you to grip it in your hands. Suddenly the calloused hands make sense when you compare it to the face in front of you. Dirtied nails and sweat engraved into his skin.

"Questionin' and questionin'." He tuts, like reprimanding a child. You feel like one right now. His frame eats you whole, engulfed in one single bite. The rumble in his voice goes straight to your belly and lights up that ache in your abdomen.

"What do ya think Lamb? Bette' yet, stand straight." He reckons you to the middle of the room and you follow his words. You stand shaken.

He takes notice.

"Go on now. Strip for me."

Every piece of clothing you slowly let fall down your body you offer him, an exchange—I show you what I hide under layers and peel them off and make myself completely bare for you only standing in panties. He indulges in you.

Riley—you catch his name as he lets it escape his teeth. You ask what he thinks he'll get out of this and what he wants—I already 'ave ya, Lamb, I didn' ask for much more.

His lackluster answers are made worst as he trails closer to you. His eyes rake over your naked body, taking in every inch. You can feel the way his mouth waters because of the way he gulps. He groans and it reaches you down to your abdomen. The silent request he sends your way when he gestures to the mattress laid in the corner. Your shoulders stiff at the sight. Your feet glue to the floor beneath you.

He gives you that annoyed and impatient tut again. His hands clench and veins become more prominent. He shuffles closer to you.

"Do I 'ave 'o do everythin' by myself, huh?"

His hands move to your body. They settle on your waist, slowly trailing down. You whine at first, which he shushes you with a quick and soft—sh—next to your ear.

His teeth graze your earlobe. His fingers play with the waistband of your panties, the only fabric you have that conceals you with modesty. You dig your face into his shoulder as he tugs rips it off. The fabric burns into your skin, too harsh of a pull putting pressure on your skin. It leaves red marks on your plush skin as it comes apart at the seams.

He tilts his head towards yours. His stubble soft and delicate while it scratches on your cheek—a surprisingly saccharine touch.

His fingers trace across the red mark left on your skin. His scarred skin scruffs against your own plush flesh and you shake in his hold. In response his grip on you becomes stronger. It's a precursor to what's about to come—rain before a storm.

They trace bellow your pelvis and abdomen, grazing the surface of the fire that burns and aches inside. You bite down on your tongue strong enough to draw blood as you feel his fingers trace your slick soaked lips.

He hums as he takes in your shaking form. Body spasms and your little gaps ring out in his ears like a melody of a golden music box. Your slick drips down his fingers and spreads to his hand and your thighs like ichor and he swears he can taste your ambrosia on the tip of his tongue.

"You are enjoyin' this, ain't you?"

You hate how cocky and satisfied he sounds. As if you're some experiment to him, bending at his will, but he's right.

You took his form in during your meeting at the motel, shamelessly trailing your eyes hungrily over him, wishing for a bite. You entered his truck, sat near him like the good girl he wanted you to be. You nodded your head when he made it clear there was no escape.

You're getting touched so delicately by a murderer and your body responds for you. It screams out for his touch. Soaked so much it glides down and makes your thighs stick to each other uncomfortably. You step towards his touch, trying to get more friction with his fingers.

Simon sees it all. His eyes follow how you present yourself to him just like the many times before. He curls his fingers and spreads your puffy lips again. His rough fingers scruff against the soft flesh and you whine into his neck. His other free hand trails down your spine, touching the ridges of the bone and settling on the plush skin of your rear. He grips and you're sure he'll leave a mark shaped like his hand.

The sensation makes you almost throw yourself even closer to him. You surround yourself in his smell, the nitroglycerin spreads through your body like a high you subconsciously don't want to fall down from.

His finger teases the entrance of your cunt. Your walls quiver and squeeze around nothing. He feels the muscles tense and move under his touch and you feel against your body how he takes a hoarse breath, drinking in the sight of you.

You keep your faced tucked and hidden away from him. It's the one and only kindness he grants you. It's the sheer burning shame of it all. You paw like a distressed animal on his chest, fingers clutch onto his clothes and nails dig into his skin.

You muffle a loud moan that he rips out of your throat as in his shoulder as he forces one finger inside your cunt. It's rough and it scorches your walls like they're on fire. His finger digs in until the knuckle is almost gone into the hug of your puffy lips. Your pussy feels raw and it aches, skin aflame and red.

And, fuck does it hurt.

It makes you bend and arch into him even more.

Your mouth hangs open and your tongue rest on the fabric of his shoulder. You're sure you've made the surface wet, but Simon seems like a man that likes it messy and dirty.

What he's doing right now proves it all.

Finger with dirt and blood under it curls and moves inside of you like a hot metal rod, branding your insides. His free hand, sweaty and dewy leaves no corner of your body untouched.

He grazes your breasts. No means are they that small, but he still manages to cup one I'm his hand. He pinches the rosy bud in his hand and pulls. You gasp and mewl into him—no more's and mindless calls for god ring out in the room.

He tugs you closer. His mouth opens wide like a predator opening his jaws. Crooked and sharp canines make way for his tongue to trail across your chest. He leaves his spit on your collarbone, tits and buds as he sucks and bites into the soft flesh. You whine and raise your head to stare at the ceiling.

Your moans turn into screams when he adds a second finger.

"Wait—" He doesn't.

You don't like it. It's too much. Your moans become even louder in his ears when his mouth latches on the side of your neck and bites. Teeth dig into the delicate skin and bruises bloom. Marks settle on your skin as he continues his assault. Teeth shaped rings and circles litter your neck and spread to your chest.

He's branding you in every way possible. Outside, his marks form in bites and grips turning into bruises, inside— his fingers work you apart and dismantle your walls, stretching you out with every thrust and curl of them.

He groans as his thumb dances across your clit and for a moment you chase that high, raise one of your legs, bending at the thigh and grazing the side of his hips.

He tuts and pulls his fingers out.

You whine at the empty feeling settling back into your abdomen. The tangled bunch of nerves you subconsciously wished to untie with his touch turn into a mess again. Your body instinctively chase his touch, moving towards him.

He grips your waist, palms on both sides. The touch puts pressure on you and you're sure it'll leave more marks in the shape of his hands, just like the one adorning your bottom cheek. Your eyes slowly meets his. The glint in Simon's eyes have made the brown morph into a burning amber.

"Needy thing, ain't ya? Deserve it, you think? Made me work o'it. You were squeezin' my fingers, ain't that enough?"

He brings the fingers coated with your slick in front of you. They glisten underneath the ceiling's dim light, the milky white skin glowing in the dark room. He brings them even closer to your face.

"Clean 'em, Lamb. Go on."

He beckons you, his fingers lay on top of your lips, tearing them apart. You follow suit. Your tongue sticks out slightly. He takes it as a yes—not like he was ever looking for permission in the first place.

The wet fingers rest on your tongue and he pushes down. You gag and clutch his wrist, but make no attempt to push him away. He digs even further. His fingers swirl and curl on your tongue and the taste of your own slick melts like salt of the sea on your taste buds.

"Bite."

"W-wha?" You croak out, voice muffled by the fingers currently occupying your mouth.

"I said bite, Lamb. Show me wha' you can do."

Your eyes lock onto him for a moment. If you can taste his blood again, make him wince again just even for a moment, you'll take it. Your teeth dig into his fingers. A red ring appears on his skin as indents. You finally break the surface of his skin and the crimson blood seeps into your mouth.

(A taste you're getting used to,

A fact he's delighted to bask in,

He gets to keep you.)

"Good girl."

He removes his fingers from your mouth. You thin your lips, trapping the blood and the sweat of him behind your mouth.

He shuffles near the dirtied mattress near the corner of the room. His hands grip you hard again and lead you to it. You can feel what's to come in the pits of your abdomen. Your body screams at you. Nerves are fried and your mind is hazy from pleasure and pain being mixed into one.

"I go'a do everythin' by myself, Lamb?" He hums as he drops you on the mattress.

Survival. One word rings and echos through your mind over and over again. You promise yourself that is the only reason this is happening. The only reason your knees almost pull away from each other. The only reason your cunt screams at you to present yourself to him, bare and sweet for him to skin himself into.

Your knees shake. He takes notice.

"Fuckin' needy. You love this, don't ya?"

"No." —you whine,— "no I fucking don't."

Tears gather on the waterline of your eyes and they drip down your cheeks before disappearing in your hairline. He brings and fucking licks the salty liquid off your sweaty skin. You swear his tongue lingers and presses in deeper. Your thighs clutch together.

(He wants a bite.)

"Is tha' why you rubbing your thighs, tryna get off?"

You whine and turn your eyes trained bellow, gaze stuck on his waist—anywhere but his face. Anywhere but the asymmetrical flesh of his face where skin and flesh dips and scars dance across it.

(You wonder if he'd let you trace them.)

"You're starin'. Ain't nice. Haven't even taken it out yet, Lamb."

Your mouth waters.

This fucking bastard.

You lay unmoving and trapped beneath him as his thighs frame your rear and upper legs, completely shadowing them. You gulp and try and ignore way your cunt flutters at the sight of Simon's arms gather at the hem of his shirt, at the sight of him removing said shirt and tossing it to some forgotten corner of the room. And, fuck you try your best to ignore how your pussy clenches around nothing as his bare chest is revealed to you.

Burn marks akin to cigarette burns litter his milky white skin. A plush tummy rests softly covered by light blond fuzz that travels down to his pants and turns into a forest of a happy trail. Something tenses under that happy trail, prisoner to the pants that tighten every second your desperate and debauched mewls and moans echo in the room and in his ears.

He smells like war, burnt wood and smoke. His hold freezes you to the spot underneath him, caged like an animal, just like the Lamb he loves to call you. You're forced to inhale his smell. The heavy smoke enters your lungs and heavies your body so you can never leave.

(Ruining you for anyone else.)

"Let's see if y'worth the trouble you put me through, Lamb."

His hands move to your hugged knees. You think,—he's pushing them open, oh my god—but he settles with connecting your legs, pushing them closer to your chest. Your soft thighs and pussy are on display for him. You don't want to admit the fact you can feel your pussy pulse with the thought he has you presented on a plate. Your cunt aches for his fucking touch again.

His crooked grin returns. It looks too wrong. His sly hands move to his pants and you swear you bear a zipper be brought down. You don't know what compelled you, but you tilt your head to the side and glance at what he'd just set free.

You see the faint pinkish-red tip first. It's angry uncut surface glistens with precum and you whine at the sight. The pinkish hue slowly turns into pale cream and the bluish veins dance across the surface of his cock like rivers. You gulp. He laughs.

"You should see how ya clench aroun' nothin' Lamb. You wan' it that bad?"

Something big pokes you where your thighs meet. He's going to fuck you, but first he'll use your thighs and brand himself into that piece of you too.

Your tears pool again. He won't even fuck you yet—

He coos, satisfied with your reaction.

"Don't worry, Lamb, you'll get my cock. Trust me, when I'm in your pretty cunt nothing will tear me out o'it."

You almost black out. Your mind turns putty. You go limp and drip into a puddle on the mattress.

His hips move and his cock pierces the plush flesh of your thighs. You see the head of his dick. He's fucking big. You feel the veins of him along your skin. He groans and first, he throws his head back to stare at the ceiling with a choked groan, next—he moans and falls down back to you. Hands cage you, settling on both side's of your face.

"You're fucking soft, Lamb. Fucking hell, squeezing me like your cunt did the same with my fingers."

You moan like a broken record. The underside of his cock grazes your clit. The hood of the sensitive bundle of nerves is pulled up, brought down with every thrust of his hips.

Your hands grip his arms, hanging onto him. You move closer without been noticing, seeking his clothed thighs to touch your cunt.

He lets our a breathless laugh again. Taking notice of the slick coating your cunt and the buttom of your rear. He catches the way you shuffle closer to him, wanting more and wanting more.

(You call it a bodily reaction,

It has to be.

To him it's you sharing the same hunger he has.)

"Gonna be good f'me?"

He removes his cock from the warm and soft hold of your thighs. He lets out a hiss at the movement before cupping your cunt, his palm dwarfs it it's entirety. You grind against him, seeking any release you can get.

"I expect an answer outta ya, Lamb."

He drifts above and pushes down onto your clit. Three hands rubbing circles onto the sensitive bud. You arch your back into him and your chests almost touch.

"Fuck, yes—" You rip the answer out of your throat. You take in every burst of pleasure he gives you. You swear you see starts behind your eyelids.

(Is the black hole going to take them as it plans on taking you?)

"Good girl."

His calloused hands still dance across your clit. The harsh skin burns yours. It feels as if he's burning you like the charred wood he smells like. It hurts. It aches. You can't take it. It hurts too much.

He moves with intent. His cock comes closer to the bare entrance of your cunt. You panic. Hoarse voice escapes you as you shift away from him.

"Wait—fuck—wait, no condom?"

He stares at you for a moment, a brow raises at you like you're a child asking him a stupid question. His hand grips the sides of your face. You let out a choked poor excuse of a scream. He brings you closer to his face.

"Never fucked raw, Lamb?"

"I-I've never tried this."

You croak out, like you even had the choice to try this.

"You don't know how it feels when a cock comes inside you?"

You let your mouth hang open. Words dry on your tongue. How do you even answer that?

His eyes settle on your lips. His fingers trace along it. Moving closer in your proximity, his own ripped lips touch yours. For some reason you don't push him, you don't scream at him. You stay frozen. You lie to yourself when you try and convince your mind it's all because of the fear.

The moment only lasts for a few second before he smiles again—The sickly Glasgow smile spreads even more. You shudder in his hold. Of course, all because of fear.

"You'll take my cock—"

"Fuck—no, it's too big— it won't fit."

He pushes harder on your cheeks. Your lips contort as you look up at him.

"We'll make it fit, Lamb."

Your mind turns even more hazy at his words. They light a spark down your abdomen. Your toes curl, knees bend and hug at his sides, bringing him in even closer. Simon groans. His head tilts and positions himself and his cock right at the entrance of your aching cunt.

The tip of his cock slowly pushes past your raw lips of your pussy. You move and writhe in his hold under him. Simon is unforgiving in the way he pushes himself into you. You swear he's trying to split you in half. You're sure you'll feel him in your belly, chest and throat by the time he's in.

You mewl and your hands grasp at his chest. Your nails rake down his skin. They move to grasp his shoulders and you bring him even closer, beckoning him to you.

"Simon—"

"Fuck. I know, Lamb. You're squeezing me—"

Simon gasps. His hands grasp the soft flesh around your waist. His hazy eyes take your entire body in. You notice them as they do. You catch the hunger in his eye. Your walls flutter again when you see the possessive glint curling in the burning amber of his eyes.

There's a certain high that spreads through your veins when you see how much he's affected too. He's slowly pushing his cock into you and the moans and groans leave him like hoarse and broken notes. You figure out what the high is that you're currently feeling.

A man like him. A man of his size and cruelty. A man bathed in blood with the crimson stuck underneath his nails no matter how much he tries to wash it off. That man is on his knees for you, bottoming out in you, getting drunk on the feeling of your cunt's walls beckoning him in and fluttering around him. You did that.

Or, your cunt did. Though, with the way his eyes glint when they reach your face.

Yea, you did that.

You're dragged out of your reverie when you feel Simon's cock dig in deeper. You curl into his hold. He moves even deeper into you. He makes a home inside of you, his veins engrave themselves on your fluttering walls.

The room smells of sex. The moans and gasps of both of you echo through out the room. The nitroglycerin sifts through the air. His sweat rolls down onto you and joins your own.

The way his hold keeps you steady and your plush thighs keep him close and cunt keeps him warm is a stark contrast to how he had handled you, how he'd trapped you in his jaws and dug his teeth in you. It is a dichotomy you take like a high and let it spread lightning through your body.

His hips don't give up their assault. They thrust deep inside you and you can see how his cock disappears in your cunt. His unforgiving thrusts carve into you. He moves out and back in—ouroboros of an endless cycle.

He grins and pushes deeper.

Maybe you've gone crazy. You've lost it truly. His length soothes some aching and raw feeling inside you. Untangles your nerves and you let moans ring out like a melody as an answer to the hazy bliss.

You settle your hand on your lower belly where the hotness and the scorching feeling act as a balm and calming oil for you. Your fingers feel the way your stomach bulges from Simon's cock, the way he meticulously moves his length along your clenching walls. You push down on him.

He rolls his hips and groans. A sickeningly saccharine smile grows on his face.

"'m too big for you, huh?"

You can feel him twitch inside you. Result of some masculine high he's on right now. He hangs on his words, but doesn't wait for an answer and digs himself into you again and again and—

You think he likes it — the fact it hurts you and you mewl and struggle to fully take him. It feels his chest with some debauched pride. The fact he's the one working you open on his cock, that he's the one that you're perched and split half upon.

"c'mon, Lamb. Cum on my cock, the one who's makin' you whine and moan f'me."

"I can't—"

"Greedy little thing, ain't ya?"

He removes one hand on the waist he's been using to hold you as he bullies his cock into you and moves it to your puffy clit. He drags shaky circles and you arch into his hold. You whine and mewl. He answers with hoarse groans and gasps of his own.

Your body goes limp in his hold. You raise your hips in a last offering to him. Make me cum, make me—

"Little fucking minx."

Your breath is knocked out of your chest as his thrust becomes sloppy and fast. His voice cracks and he lets his head fall onto your shoulder. His cock deep in you, embedded, full balls slapping at your ass, fingers working your sensitive and raw clit as your pushed to the edge.

Your mind's so hazy you can't count how many times he untangles you with his cock and fingers. Your mind can only focus on the way he pulls you apart with his length, spearing you in half.

His hand leaves your clit. It returns back to your waist and he drags your whole body even closer. His thrust become final. They reach so deep you see galaxy's and nebula's behind your lidded eyelids. He groans and rolls his hips one last time before—a warm and heavy liquid spreads through—he comes, inside you and deep. He settles down onto you, muscles shifting and laying soft by your sides.

Your things once wrapped around him and keeping him warm now rest laid on the mattress. You feel your body tense and the soreness bites at you.

He moves away, pulls out in a agonizingly slow way, just to see your face break out in shame and pleasure one more time.

He shuffles to the other side of the room. You stand as well. Shaky legs move you to your discarded clothes. It earns you strange look from Simon.

"Wha' are you doin'?"

"I'm just—"

"Wait, you don't think you're leavin', right?"

"I thought this was—"

"—a one time thing?" He finishes for you before continuing. "Lamb, you ain't goin' nowhere."

"But—"

"Sleep."

Simon wakes up countless of times. Cock still hard and leaking with cum. The same cum you had stuffed deep and safe in your fluttering cunt. The cunt which you presented him with during the night. You were awake, half asleep, or even blacked out, but still mewling on his cock.

You took everything he gave you like his good girl. You are so good to him.

He'd knew you be. Knew from the moment he saw you first through the window of his truck walking to work in that sad excuse of a motel. Knew from the moment when you'd eye him passing by. Knew when you first met him. Your plum lips and flushed cheeks are engraved in his mind. Knew you'd take his fingers and cock well from the moment you let your sweet words beckon him closer.

He got his answer when you laid naked and bare in front of him. Your arched spine and trembling hands digging and clutching his clothes as he pumped his fingers in and out of your puffy pussy. Your mewls as he fucked your thighs slick with your arousal you tried so hard to deny.

In the end his bites and bruises adorn your skin. It's his cum in your cunt keeping you warm, dripping down onto your thighs.

You're his now. He has branded you. There's a rough similarity to the way he marked you and the way butchers mark the good meat and flesh.

He's not supposed to target locals. Too noisy. People ask and turn their heads, wondering where one of their own is.

Price had made it sure Simon knew this.

But, he deserves you, doesn't he?

Your soft skin around him and his rough arms morphing you so he can carve a place in your rib cage to be the one and only to sit there warmed by your blood.

© PORCELIAN ﹕ I do not give consent for my writing to be posted or used on any other platforms without my permission and proper credit.

[daydreamsareallineed]

S(C)REAMING-

God when is it my turn 😭

Hear me out...

141 getting back from deployment and you pick them up in Price's old pickup.

You pull up to personnel quarters, barely putting her in park before leaping out of the vehicle. The boys are waiting outside with a small ruck each, covered in bruises and bandages from their latest op.

Johnny gets to you first. Picking you up and spinning you around, smiling and laughing and full of grateful kisses. "Missed you so much bonnie," he says with a cheese grin.

You turn your head to look at Gaz and Price, pulling out of the Scot's squeeze to embrace the other two men. You feel a pair of eyes on you as your shirt rides up while in their arms.

Simon had taken the bags and stuffed them into the bed before waiting patiently (as a lethal sniper does) for his turn to get his hands on you.

Except, he takes one look at Price and the older man already knows what's about to take place in the back of his truck. He sneaks the keys from your grip, too distracted by your other boys to notice.

Except you very much notice when you're hauled into the small rear seats. Simon and Johnny crawling in after you. Price takes up the driver seat and Kyle sits to his right in the passenger.

It's a tight squeeze with the two massive men on either side of you. Simon remedies that by having you straddling his lap, speared on his thick cock; Johnny already has his fatigues loose around his hips, palming himself through his briefs.

"S'alright birdie, we're here now. Gonna take such good care a ya." Scarred hands grip your bare ass and squeeze hard enough to leave red marks and nail indents.

Johnny takes your right hand and places it on his crotch, rutting up into your touch like a desperate horn dog. "Cannae wait to get ya home, lass. Gonna make ye feel so good."

He takes you by the back of the neck, a bit of hair in his grip, and gently leans you back so your shoulders rest on their legs pressed together beneath you, and your head sits perched on the console in the middle of the two men up front. Price throws his arm around your face, elbow securing your head so it doesn't move. The smell of sweat and deodorant and something that's just Price fills your nose, and makes you clench your cunt harder around Ghost's cock.

As your back is forced into a deep arch, you do your best to bounce on the veiny cock stuffing your tight little cunt, but between Johnny's fingers rubbing light circles on your clit, the smell of Price and his sweat, and Simon jamming into that gooey spot inside do you in quick.

You swear you throw your back out with how hard you come, seeing stars and biting into the meaty arm caging your head in.

Johnny's the first to follow after you, groaning desperately with a skeleton clad hand wrapped around his throbbing length, and then it's Simon, not bothering to pull out so you get flooded with his hot, creamy seed.

Price lets up on his arm wrapped around you, and instantly you're pulled forward into strong arms. You couldn't really tell whose hands belonged to who, deep voices cooing into your ears and lips kissing all over your neck and face and shoulders.

"Don't think we're finished with you yet, dove. Once we get home, you're not leaving that bed til we say so." Price's voice comes from up front, strained and a bit breathless if Kyle's hand reaching over into his pants says anything at all.

Oh yeah. You're in for a long, strenuous, very much so worth it reunion. The massages and kisses and warm tea after will make up for it, you're sure.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

In Sickness and in Health

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, Sick Reader, Caretaking

Author’s Note: Hope you enjoy! I wrote this because I’m still sick right now sooooooo enjoy :)

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Winter had settled over the city, its icy grip rattling the windows and sending cold drafts through the cracks of the old flat you and Simon shared. Inside, the warmth of home was dampened by the harsh reality of your illness. You were wrapped in layers of blankets on the couch, shivering despite the heat Simon had cranked up earlier.

Simon “Ghost” Riley stood in the kitchen, preparing a tray with tea and your favorite biscuits. He moved quietly, his bulky frame somehow graceful as he focused on the task. Even when he was home, he carried himself like he was on a mission—steady, deliberate, and meticulous.

When he returned to the living room and saw you curled up, pale and trembling, his heart clenched. The dark circles under your eyes and the flushed hue of your cheeks told him everything he needed to know: you were miserable.

He placed the tray down carefully on the coffee table and crouched beside you. His gloved hand—a habit he never quite broke, even in the safety of home—brushed damp strands of hair off your forehead.

“Hey, love,” he murmured, his deep voice soft with concern. “Brought you some tea. Think you can manage a sip?”

You opened your eyes, squinting against the dim light. “I don’t think so,” you rasped, your voice raw from nausea and dehydration. “I’ll just throw it up.”

Simon frowned, his sharp blue eyes scanning your face. He didn’t push, instead gently cupping your cheek with his warm hand. The gold band on his ring finger gleamed in the low light, a subtle reminder of the vows you’d shared.

“Alright,” he murmured. “We’ll try something else, yeah? But you need to get something in you, Mrs. Riley. Can’t have my wife wasting away on me.”

Your lips twitched faintly at his teasing tone, but the moment was cut short as another wave of nausea overtook you. Your eyes squeezed shut, and you instinctively grabbed Simon’s wrist as if he could anchor you through the storm.

“Easy,” Simon soothed, shifting closer. He slipped an arm around your back, his hand rubbing slow, steady circles. “Breathe, love. In and out. That’s it. I’ve got you.”

The warmth of his presence and the sound of his voice grounded you. Slowly, the nausea ebbed, leaving you exhausted and shaking.

“I feel like I got hit by a truck,” you muttered, your voice barely audible.

Simon’s lips quirked in a faint smile. “If a truck even thought about hitting you, I’d teach it a lesson.”

A weak laugh escaped you, but it quickly turned into a groan as the motion made your head throb. Simon adjusted the blankets around you, tucking them securely under your chin.

“Stay put,” he said gently but firmly. “I’m getting you something for that headache. Don’t argue.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” you murmured, too tired to do anything else.

Simon disappeared for a moment, returning with a cool washcloth, a glass of water, and your migraine medication. He knelt beside you again, his hand brushing over your cheek.

“Let’s start slow,” he said, holding up a sleeve of crackers. “Think you can manage one of these?”

“Only because it’s you,” you whispered, taking the cracker gingerly.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, watching intently as you nibbled at the cracker. When you’d managed a few bites, he held the glass of water to your lips.

“Just a sip,” he encouraged. “That’s it. You’re doing so well.”

His praise brought a faint smile to your lips, even as exhaustion weighed heavily on you. You took the migraine pills under his watchful gaze, and Simon set the glass down before carefully placing the cool washcloth on your forehead.

Without a word, he scooped you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest as he sat down on the couch.

“Too bright?” he asked, nodding toward the lamps.

“Yeah,” you murmured, burying your face in his chest.

“Alright, love. Hold on.”

With one arm securely around you, Simon leaned over and turned off the lamps, plunging the room into soft shadows. He wrapped the blankets tighter around you and settled back, his arms a protective cocoon.

“You don’t have to stay,” you mumbled, though you made no effort to move away from him.

Simon pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering. “Where else would I be?” he murmured. “You’re my wife, love. I’ll always be here.”

The weight of his words wrapped around you like another layer of warmth. Despite the throbbing in your head and the lingering nausea, Simon’s steady presence made everything a little more bearable.

“Thanks, Si,” you whispered, your voice thick with sleep.

“Don’t mention it, Mrs. Riley,” he said softly, resting his chin on the top of your head. “Now get some rest. I’ll be right here.”

Safe in his arms, the discomfort faded into the background. His heartbeat was a soothing rhythm, and the warmth of his embrace lulled you into a deep, dreamless sleep, knowing you were loved and cared for.

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

[beloveds-embrace]

hey this worm in my brain just told me a crazy scenario where duchess reader is reading a book in the bedroom with gaz feeding her grapes one by one and while he's feeding her she's at the part of the book where there's a scene of a character inserting their fingers to another character's mouth sensually, and bad good news is that she's ovulating and she (not so) accidentally dragged her lips a bit longer on gaz's fingers when he fed her a grape and-

i think this worm is saying some important info and i think u need to know about this

smooching that worm and its host <33

The gentle rustle of pages filled the warm, golden glow of the your chambers, the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air. You sat nestled in a mountain of pillows, a novel open in your lap, the silk of your nightgown brushing your legs. Your beloved Kyle sat beside you on the bed, feeding you grapes one by one, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as they pressed the sweet fruit to your lips.

You had grown so used to the comfortable intimacy of their presence that it never occurred to you how the simplest gestures could spiral into something far, far more tantalizing.

Kyle’s eyes followed the slow movement of your lips, mesmerized as they closed around the grape, your tongue brushing the pad of his finger in a way that made him inhale sharply. You didn’t notice his reaction- not at first. You were too engrossed in the book, your cheeks warm as the current scene unfolded: a stolen moment between lovers, where one character sensually slid their fingers into another’s mouth, the intimate act charged with forbidden tension, unable to tear their gazes away from one another even as drool trickling down the receiver’s chin, down and down to the valley of their throat.

The description sent warmth spreading through your belly, and without realizing it, your lips lingered on Kyle’s finger a beat too long when he fed you the next grape. His breath hitched audibly this time, and you froze, eyes widening as they flicked up to meet his. Realization came to you equally slow and fast.

“Duchess…” Kyle murmured, his voice low, rough around the edges, like gravel softened by rain. His eyes darkened, gaze heavy with something that made your pulse quicken. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

Your lips parted, and you stammered, “I-I’m not- ” But the denial died on your tongue as Kyle’s hand lingered near your face, his thumb grazing your lower lip. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a shiver racing down your spine, pooling heat low in your abdomen.

The book slipped from your hands, forgotten.

Kyle tilted his head, his mouth curving into a slow, mischievous smile as he leaned closer. His scent- clean, woodsy, and undeniably masculine- filled your senses, and you instinctively leaned back into the pillows, though you didn’t shy away.

“You’ve been distracted all evening,” he murmured, a velvet murmur the caressed your body. “The content of that book has left you quite flustered. That’s unlike you, my Duchess.”

Your breath hitched as his hand, warm and steady, cupped your cheek. He brushed a stray lock of hair away, his fingers tracing your jawline before skimming down your throat. The touch left a trail of fire in its wake- and it coalesced in your belly, warm and demanding.

“I-I was just reading- ”

“Mm.” Kyle hummed, clearly unconvinced, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip again. “Reading something interesting, I’m guessing. Care to share?”

His voice was teasing, but his eyes were locked on yours, dark and unyielding. Your skin burned under his scrutiny, and your mouth moved without thinking.

“It… It was about… a man… and his fingers…”

Your voice trailed off, your face as warm as a furnace. Kyle’s smile turned wolfish, and his thumb pressed just slightly into your mouth, grazing your teeth with no opposition.

“His fingers, hm?” His voice dropped lower, the rasp sending a shiver through you. “And what was he doing with them, Duchess?”

You couldn’t answer. Words failed you as Kyle slowly, forcefully, pushed his thumb past your lips, testing the waters. Your tongue brushed against it instinctively, and the low groan that rumbled from his chest made your thighs clench. And then it was your turn to moan softly when he pinned your tongue down, the rest of his fingers cupping your jaw.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, smug. “You’ve been craving, haven’t you, wife?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, leaning in closer until his lips were a breath away from yours. His hand slipped lower, trailing down your neck, his thumb retreating only to be replaced by his mouth capturing yours in a searing kiss. You gasped against his lips, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that left you dizzy and breathless, and yet chasing the feeling again.

Kyle’s hands didn’t stay idle. One slid to your waist, pulling you closer, while the other found its way to your thigh, pushing the silk of your nightgown higher as his fingers caressed the bare skin beneath.

“You’ve been driving me mad,” he confessed against your lips, rough with restraint. “Every look, every smile, every touch… And now, this.”

His fingers gripped your thigh firmly, tugging you closer until you were straddling him, the novel long forgotten on the bed. His hands roamed your body with a possessiveness that left no doubt of his intentions, and the warmth between your legs grew unbearable.

“Kyle.” you whispered, your voice trembling but laced with want.

“Yes, my Duchess?” His lips trailed down your neck, sucking and biting gently at the sensitive skin, leaving behind little marks he knows he will obsess over later.

“I… I need you.”

The admission was all he needed. His hands slid to your hips, lifting you effortlessly as he guided you into his lap. The hardness pressing against you made you gasp, and he chuckled darkly, his lips brushing your ear.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised, molten honey and soft silks. “I’ll give you everything you need, and then some.”

You didn’t doubt him for a second.

[oaksgrove]

The Captain and the Captain; OPERATION: MATCHMAKER

pairing: John Price x female!reader

synopsis: When the legendary Captain Price and Captain [Y/N] of Task Force Echo are brought together for a joint mission, sparks fly—but they’re both too stubborn and professional to act on it. Enter the 141 team, who take it upon themselves to play matchmaker. With tactical breakfasts, strategic coffee mishaps, and one very persistent cat, the team pulls out all the stops to push their captains toward the romance everyone but them can see.

word count: 2230

warnings: meddling teammates, and some secondhand embarrassment.

part 1 here!

OPERATION: MATCHMAKER Objective: Unite Capt. [Y/N] (TF “Echo”) and Capt. Price (TF 141). Mission Status: Ongoing

PHASE 1: Observation

Task Force Echo’s arrival on base brought a distinct energy to the joint mission. They moved with precision and confidence, their camaraderie evident in every exchange. For the 141, watching Echo work was a blend of admiration and intrigue—especially for Captain Price.

“Captain Price,” you said, extending a hand as the two teams assembled for the initial briefing. Your voice carried the perfect balance of professionalism and warmth.

He clasped your hand firmly, his blue eyes meeting yours for a beat too long. “Captain [Y/N]. Pleasure working with you.”

Over the weeks, subtle shifts in his behavior didn’t go unnoticed—especially by Soap and Gaz.

“He’s got it bad,” Soap muttered to Gaz during a training exercise.

Gaz smirked, watching Price linger in conversation with you over coffee. “So does she. Did you see the way she smiled at him?”

From Echo’s side, Lieutenant Hayes caught on just as quickly. “I think the Captain’s got a soft spot for Price,” she said to Sergeant Holt.

Holt glanced over, watching you and Price debate over a map with mutual intensity. “And here I thought Price was unshakable,” she said with a sly grin. “Looks like [Y/N] might’ve cracked the code.”

With Echo and 141 in agreement, an unspoken alliance was formed: Operation Matchmaker was officially underway.

PHASE 2: Team Breakfast - "The Isolation Maneuver"

Soap orchestrated the first move, rallying both teams for a “joint breakfast.” However, when you arrived at the mess hall, the only person waiting was Price, a steaming cup of tea in hand.

“Morning, Captain,” you said, setting your tray across from him.

Price raised a brow. “Thought the rest of the team would be here.”

“So did I,” you replied, trying not to notice the way his gaze lingered on you a moment too long.

Meanwhile, behind a pillar, Soap and Gaz observed their “targets.”

“Target seated,” Soap whispered. “We need a catalyst.”

Ghost, silently holding a tray of coffee, raised a brow before striding past your table. With a calculated nudge, he “accidentally” spilled coffee near you.

“Oh, for—” Price started, his voice sharp as he glared at Ghost. “Watch it, Simon.”

“Apologies,” Ghost said flatly, though the glint in his eye betrayed him.

You chuckled, dabbing your sleeve with a napkin. “Didn’t know you had such a protective streak, Captain.”

Price cleared his throat, his ears tinged red. “Just don’t like carelessness.”

From their hiding spot, Soap and Gaz fist-bumped, while Hayes and Holt exchanged knowing smirks from a nearby table.

PHASE 3: Coffee Confusion

The following morning, Hayes joined the matchmaking effort, coordinating with Soap to engineer a “coffee mix-up.”

You found Price at his usual corner table, his hat tilted low as he read over mission reports. “Morning, Captain,” you said, setting a cup of coffee in front of him.

Price glanced up, his brow furrowing. “Didn’t order this.”

“Gaz said it was yours,” you replied with a shrug. “Guess I’m stuck with your black coffee.”

He chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on you. “Guess I owe you one.”

From across the room, Hayes elbowed Holt, grinning. “Did you hear that? He’s smiling. That’s progress.”

PHASE 4: Feline Assistance

Holt and Miller, Echo’s animal lovers, decided to introduce a new tactic: a stray cat they’d been feeding near the barracks.

The cat padded into the common area as you and Price reviewed mission plans. It rubbed against your leg, earning an immediate coo.

“Well, aren’t you adorable,” you said, scratching behind its ears.

Price glanced up, his expression softening. “Didn’t know you were a cat person.”

“I’m an anything-with-paws person,” you replied.

As if sensing its role in Operation Matchmaker, the cat leapt onto Price’s lap. His initial hesitation melted as he scratched its head, his large hand gentle.

“Look at that,” you teased. “The cat approves of you.”

“Reckon that’s a first,” he murmured, his lips curving into a rare smile.

Behind the door, Hayes whispered into her comms, “We’re geniuses.”

PHASE 5: Operation Movie Night

That evening, Hayes stood in front of the common room’s TV, holding up a DVD of The Notebook like it was an Oscar-worthy masterpiece.

“It’s scientifically proven to work,” she declared.

Soap rolled his eyes but nodded approvingly. “Price’ll be blubberin’ like a baby in nae time.”

The rec room hummed with chatter as the team settled into their seats. The movie started, and you found yourself shoulder-to-shoulder with Price on the slightly cramped couch.

Miller leaned toward Gaz, whispering, “Perfect placement. Look at them.”

Gaz smirked. “Now, we just sit back and let the romance work its magic.”

As the film unfolded, you couldn’t help but get drawn into the emotional story. It wasn’t until the climactic scene—where the couple confesses their love in the pouring rain—that you felt the sting of tears welling up in your eyes.

You sniffled quietly, trying not to draw attention, but Price noticed.

Without a word, he reached for the tissue box on the table in front of him and handed one to you. His hand brushed yours, the gesture simple but surprisingly intimate.

“Thanks,” you murmured, dabbing at your eyes.

Hayes, seated beside Soap, nudged him with a knowing smirk. “Told you.”

From the other end of the room, Soap stage-whispered, “That’s it, lads. She’s a goner.”

Price shot him a glare. “Shut it, MacTavish.”

Soap grinned unabashedly. “Just sayin’, Cap.”

Beside you, Price shook his head, but the corner of his mouth quirked up in a small smile. “They’re relentless.”

“Relentless, but not wrong,” you teased lightly, your voice soft enough that only he could hear.

Price’s eyes flicked to yours, his expression caught somewhere between amused and something deeper. The moment lingered, unspoken feelings hanging in the air, but he didn’t pull away.

Miller and Hayes whispered behind their popcorn:

“Do you see that? He’s leaning closer!” Hayes nudged Miller’s side, making her twitch “I swear, if they don’t kiss by the credits, I’m taking matters into my own hands.”

Meanwhile, Holt exchanged a meaningful glance with Ghost from her quiet corner, her faint smile betraying her satisfaction.

PHASE 6: The Note Incident

Soap took a bolder approach, leaving a forged note in your locker:

Meet me at the motor pool at 1800. –JP

When you arrived at the motor pool, Price was leaning against a jeep, his expression equal parts confusion and amusement.

“Evening, Captain,” you said, holding up the note. “I got your message?”

Price frowned, taking the note. “Didn’t write this.”

From their hiding spot, Soap whispered, “Abort mission.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Let me guess—Soap and Gaz?”

Price chuckled, his shoulders relaxing. “Wouldn’t put it past them.”

“Well,” you said with a smirk, “since we’re here, might as well make the most of it.”

The two of you ended up talking for over an hour, laughter echoing through the motor pool while the matchmakers congratulated themselves on their “accidental success.”

PHASE 7: The Confession

It was a quiet evening when the walls finally came down. You found Price sitting alone outside the barracks, a cigar in hand.

“Mind if I join you?” you asked, holding up two cups of tea.

He gestured to the seat beside him. “Be my guest.”

For a while, you sat in comfortable silence, the crisp night air wrapping around you. Then, he spoke.

“You’re remarkable, you know that?” he said, his voice soft.

The words caught you off guard. You turned to him, meeting his steady gaze. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a high compliment.”

He hesitated, his hand brushing yours. “I don’t think I deserve you.”

You leaned closer, your voice barely a whisper. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve, John.”

For a moment, the world fell away, leaving only the quiet hum of shared understanding between you.

MISSION STATUS: SUCCESS

The next morning, when the team saw you and Price laughing together, standing a little too close in the briefing room, Soap grinned.

“Took ‘em long enough,” he said to Gaz.

Ghost, observing from the corner, simply muttered, “Finally.”

Price caught their looks and shook his head with a sigh, but the smile on his face betrayed him.

Later, he approached Ghost in the mess hall. “Reckon I owe you for not letting this turn into complete chaos.”

Ghost shrugged. “Someone had to keep those two idiots in line.”

As Price walked away, Ghost allowed himself a rare smirk.

Echo wasn’t far behind in their observations. Hayes leaned toward Holt, whispering, “Guess Price isn’t as unreadable as he thought.”

Holt smirked. “Now we just wait for the wedding invite.”

Across the room, you caught Price’s eye, his expression softening as your gazes met. Whatever lay ahead, you both knew one thing: neither of you was facing it alone.

Report: Post-Mission Analysis

Subject A’s Reaction to Team Involvement:

Initially irritated.

Later expressed quiet gratitude to team member

Subject B’s Perspective:

Surprise but ultimate relief.

Mission Status: Success.

Next Steps: Monitor continued dynamics between Captains. Prepare for further teasing and team-wide morale boost.

-

Location: Capt. Price’s Office, 141 HQ Time: Late afternoon, after the mission debrief

Soap and Gaz exchanged a knowing glance as they stood outside Price’s office. The door was slightly ajar, and through the crack, they could see Price leaning over a stack of paperwork, the usual furrow in his brow as he tried to get through the mountain of reports.

“Right, here we go,” Soap whispered, straightening his shirt. “Operation: Captain, it’s time.”

Gaz, still smirking, nodded. “Ready when you are.”

With a deep breath, Soap knocked twice on the door, his voice smooth and casual. “Oi, Cap. Got something for you.”

Price looked up, his face momentarily lighting up with the briefest of smiles before he masked it with his usual stoic expression. “What’s this then?” he grumbled, gesturing to the stack of papers in front of him. “I’m a little busy.”

Gaz couldn’t hold back a chuckle as he slid into the room with Soap. “Well, Cap, we’ve compiled something for your reading pleasure,” he said, his tone playful. “A report. From the lads. Full of... observations.”

Price arched an eyebrow as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze flicking between the two of them. “Observations?” he asked, his voice skeptical but curious. “From you two? This I’ve got to see.”

Soap and Gaz exchanged a look, both trying—and failing—to hide their grins. “Just something we thought might help,” Soap said, casually laying the neatly folded report on Price’s desk. “Can’t hurt to take a look, eh?”

Price took the paper with a raised eyebrow, flipping it open to the first page. He immediately noticed the title: Operation: Matchmaker.

“Is this… what I think it is?” Price asked, his voice a mix of surprise and suspicion.

“Definitely,” Gaz replied with a grin. “We’ve been keeping an eye on you and Captain [Y/N]. It’s all right there. The clues. The tension. It’s practically a love story in the making.”

Price glanced at the two of them, a hint of amusement behind his usually serious demeanor. “You two… I swear,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just trying to do my job. And now you’re making me the subject of your bloody matchmaking, eh?”

Soap slapped Price’s back lightly, chuckling. “Come on, Cap. It’s obvious. We thought you two might need a little nudge.”

Gaz, leaning casually against the desk, nodded. “Don’t worry. We’ve got your back. You’ll be great at this.”

Price let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. “I don’t need your help, but I’ll read it, alright?” He flipped through the pages, his eyes flicking over the bullet points, the observations about his every glance at you, the way his interactions with you were dissected with painful precision. His face flushed with embarrassment at some of the details.

Soap leaned over and whispered, “It’s all true though, isn’t it, Cap?”

Price didn’t look up from the report. “I don’t know what you mean,” he muttered, his voice gruff.

Gaz snickered. “Sure, you don’t.” He was having too much fun with this. “You’re welcome, by the way. The report was a team effort.”

Price slammed the paper down on the desk, his face a deep shade of red now. “You two are insufferable. I swear, I’m not dealing with this.”

Soap grinned. “Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to. And we expect some results.”

Gaz added, “At least invite us to the wedding. I want the first dance.”

Price groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You two… I’ll never hear the end of this, will I?”

Soap’s smile softened a little. “Don’t worry, Cap. You deserve it. And maybe you’re exactly what she needs. But, uh, no pressure.”

Price looked up at them, his shoulders slumping as if he were giving in. He grabbed the report and stood, walking over to the window. “I’ll handle it. But you two,” he said with a pointed look over his shoulder, “are bloody impossible.”

Soap and Gaz shared another look, exchanging a quiet fist bump before they slipped out of the office, leaving Price to contemplate their “helpful” report.

taglist:

@honestlymassivetrash

[hatsbuckets]

TF 141 x Reader - Shower Hide Out

Short Version: You're a member of 141. Mission's over. The boys come hide while you're taking a shower. (Hide? Hide from what?)

WC: ~1300

Pairings: (implied) TF141 x (afab) reader | teensy weensy Ghost x Soap

Warnings: none? (nudity ig, but nobody does or sees anything,) extremely brief mention of drowning. (lmk if I need to add)

A/N: my first little cod fic I'm posting! teehee. Just something cute and domestic and simple that I thought of while showering. LMAO I did this instead of writing my thesis today so plz enjoy. More like this maybe to come?

It was late and a shower was long overdue.

You were grateful to finally be at a place where you could shower. It'd been days out on a mission and the sight of the little house was like heaven on Earth. Laswell had gotten it together, and you all met her there with little ceremony, but plenty of thanks. You each made sure each of you were good and not dying before sitting in with Kate.

You always got a little protective over the boys after the high stress, near-death-experiences you go through together. And they were the same with you, and each other, in their own little ways. Sometimes you weren't sure why, but you rolled with it. Soap always made a point to talk with you, helping you and himself destress. Ghost made sure you weren’t hurt, you would do the same, then he’d say something about getting better. You and Gaz liked to eat together, making sure you were both fed. Price was quiet, bringing you tea or coffee in the later hours, but never quiet enough to avoid a bit of banter. Sometimes it was a hearty combination of them all at the same time, and sometimes it was just one or two. Whatever it was, you were grateful. 

This current mission had resulted in you and Johnny both nearly drowning to death, but you were okay, and so was he. Naturally, it left all parties a little on edge. Soap didn’t shut up the whole drive to safety, keeping spirits light while Ghost and Gaz tried to keep the two of you from freezing to death. Laswell was worried too. She insisted, in her stoic way, on getting you all safe and rested for a bit before moving forward.

This wasn't the first time you'd all holed up in a small house, and it wouldn't be the last, but it was definitely one of the quieter nights of the five of you together. Laswell and Price wasted little time before discussing and debriefing. The rest of you were hardly as interested, tired mostly, but pulled in all the same.

Finally, they let you head up to the shower first, even though Johnny was shaking from the chill of still being in damp clothes.

"Go on, lass," he had chattered. "I'll b-be just fine."

Ghost had to force another towel around him before you were satisfied.

Upstairs, you twisted the shower on, letting the heat steam as you undressed. You peeled away a still damp uniform and even damper socks. Ew.

You'd need a full body scrub down to feel better.

You stepped in, pulling the curtain closed and letting the hot water soak through your hair and warm you to the bone. It hurt a little at your toes, the way warm water does as blood rushes around you again. You started with shampoo, lathering your hair intentionally, but not in a hurry.

As you rinsed you swore you heard the door creak. Then a relaxed sigh confirmed your suspicion.

"Soap?" You guessed quietly.

The Scot hummed in response.

You didn't mind. It wouldn't be the first time he'd stood by while you showered. Though normally it was because neither of you wanted whatever intriguing discussion you were having to be interrupted. Another of those weird little, post-mission comforts. This was just him, sitting quietly, enjoying the warmth of the steamed washroom.

You heard him kick his boots off as you put conditioner in your hair. Then another sound of the door hinges. At first you thought he'd left-weirdo, just drop your boots and leave- but then you realized from a mumbling grunt that he had not left.

You heard the shuffling of movement and the quietest unidentifiable remark from Soap, and then just the sound of the water again.

"Soap?" You asked, confirming if the man was still there.

He hummed again. "Still 'ere. Got some company too."

If you had to guess, it was probably Ghost. You could imagine him plopped down on the floor at Soap's feet, leaning against the man's legs. Again, it didn't bother you as you rinsed the product from your hair. Ghost had seen you roughed up, helped patch you up enough that his presence couldn't bother you. You'd done a bit of the same for him. Those weird little comforts.

Knowing they were on the other side of the dark curtain, dirty and wet and tired, but alive settled a bit of the hammer of worry in your chest. It warmed you from the inside as much as the water on the outside.

The door hinges creaked again, announcing another arrival. You were grinning now.

"Captain scare ya off, Gaz?" Ghost teased.

There was a moment where he didn't respond. "This is just the warmest room in the house, with how much water she's using."

You laughed lightly as you lathered up. Whatever he was in here for you also didn't mind. You trusted Kyle with your life, and with the times he's seen you drunk after celebratory bar nights, you couldn't chase him off now. Those little comforts.

Before you could rinse off, the door creaked a fourth time. You thought maybe one of them had left. Maybe Kyle. But instead, you heard an unmistakable grumble.

"You moppets. Let the girl shower in peace." Price's voice was low but laced with a tease.

"And wot brings you 'ere, Captain?" Soap poked right back.

You rinsed yourself, a laugh escaping you as you thought about the four grown men occupying the small space. Little comforts. 

"What's so funny?" Ghost's voice was light, or at least as light as it could be when he wasn't too stressed.

"Are you all hiding from Kate?" You teased.

When your question was met with silence, you had your answer. Your laugh burst from you as you turned the water off. It subsided only as the chill of the air entered the isolated space as you extended your hand through the small gap between curtain and wall. There was a moment of shuffling and scrambling, then a towel landed in your hand.

"You'd be hidin' too if you were down there listening to her plans, that woman never rests," Soap's voice grumbled. It made you laugh again as you wrapped the towel around your body. You finally pulled open the curtain to the scene before you.

Like you'd guessed, Soap was seated on the toilet, boots off in the pile next to your own, his clothes still damp. Ghost was seated on the floor in front of him, still fully geared. Kyle had at least taken off his equipment in a different room, sitting on the floor against the sink counter. And Price, also still fully dressed, was leaning just inside the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

While the other men glanced away in their respectful little ways, Soap watched as you stepped out, earning a thump on the leg from Ghost.

"What?" Soap cried. "She's'not naked!"

You laughed, stepping over Ghost and Gaz's legs as you made your way to the door. You rested your free hand on Price's shoulder and his eyes met yours.

"Surely Kate's new ideas aren't that bad," you teased.

The man shrugged, a smile crinkling his eyes. "You can go find out."

You huffed a tiny laugh. You could feel all their eyes on you now, so you made a point to linger just a moment longer. "One of you start showering; you all smell."

You headed for your own room as Soap's gripes and protests hit your ears. You understood something along the lines of “wouldn’t if you’d not taken all the water.” You smiled to yourself. They were protective, always in that weird little way of theirs after the high stress, near-death-experiences you all go through together. Shared little weird-not weird, just your own-comforts to make sure you were all alive and well. And you wouldn't have it any other way.

Thanks for reading.

[princepotionsss]

poly! tf141 hybrids x reader au 2/?

WARNINGS: language, brief (not descriptive) SA , reader is afab

(Pls be nice I’m not very good at writing, not proofread)

It has been six months since you got your first hybrid, a mastiff named John Price. The two of you were inseparable. Everything was perfect. You didn’t think about getting another hybrid because why? Your hybrid was everything you ever needed, John was everything you ever needed.

That was until you were coming home late from a friend’s birthday party in the city and had to park two blocks away from the restaurant. You insisted to John that he needn’t come, that you’d be fine. You were a big girl who never had any problems before. So you went alone.

Walking the cold streets of the city at night felt like an adventure you never really went on. Distant sound of cars honking and laughter could be heard. Saying goodbye to your friends you left the restaurant and headed towards your car which was parked on a side street so blocks away. Not terrible but could be better.

As you walked the streets got quieter and a bit more sketchy. Building lights flickered and the street just felt eerie. Coming upon an alley a group of men who were standing around smoking a cigarette eyed you. Slightly panicked you started to walk faster because you were so close to your car, you could see it!

Too afraid to look back you kept your eyes ahead and your pace fast until you felt a cold arm grab you. Yanked into the alley you were now surrounded by three strange men who all smelled like cat piss and smoke.

You tried to push away only to find yourself being pushed hard against the dirty brick wall, your white petty coat now ruined.

Your hands are held down as you feel a hand snake to your thigh and the now regretful short skirt that John picked out for you. John! You thought about your hybrid and how you needed him.

Crying out you yell for help. Tears prick your eyes as a dirty hand clamps over your mouth as the men yell and more hands roam your body.

Muffled cries and thrashing came but you were stuck in place against your will. Suddenly a giant crash came from deeper in the alley and a figure stalked its way up. It was a hybrid, a German shepherd to be exact. The hybrid wore a skull ski mask and had tattered clothes. The hybrid was covered in tattoos and dirty.

“Get off her.” The hybrid growled in a deep gruff British accent. The men laughed and told him to fuck off. Your cries still muffled by the hand over your mouth. Your lipstick was definitely now smeared even though that was the least of your current problems.

The hybrid growled and grabbed the men attacking them like a wild animal. You fell to the grown crying holding your self tightly. The three men ran out of the alley to get away leaving you and the animalistic raged hybrid.

The hybrid stopped growling and sighed before walking over to you. You sat on the ground crying and now shaking. Your fingers gripped your skirt trying to keep it down.

The hybrid gently grabbed your arm and hoisted you to your feet “you alright?” The thick gruff accent asked you making you feel small. You glanced up at him, the ski mask with a skull on it covering his face still but blood seeped through it and down his neck.

“You’re bleeding.” Is all you mumbled out shaking. The German Shepard hybrid scoffed and wiped his face with the hand of hand. “Not mine.” His blue eyes looked deeply into yours, the harshness had gone but still it was unsettling to be so close.

“Now where you heading?” He asked gruff as ever, his tone almost alluding to being annoyed.

“M-my car, the black one.” You shakily pointed to the back suv just up the street. The hybrid nodded and led you to the car his grip on your arm not harsh but not letting go. The hybrids ears were on point alert and his tail was dangling in between his legs as he walked next to you. The fluffy pointed ears twitched at every sound, his piercing blue eyes scanned the area for any danger.

As you got to your car you pulled your keys out of your pocket and unlocked the suv.

Bright lights and an unlocking sound were heard as the scary looking hybrid opened your car door for you.

You went to get in but paused. Your eyes scanned him. He was tall, scary and still had blood seeping from his mask down his neck. His clothes were tattered and dirty along with his tattooed covered arms.

“Get in little bird.” He huffed annoyed but you didn’t listen. Your heart was beating a mile a minute and guilt was seeping in. You couldn’t just leave him.

“What about you?” You ask in a soft quiet voice, not wanting to upset the hybrid. He looked down and his ears flickered an emotion you couldn’t read. His blue eyes stared deeply at you.

“Where will you go? Those guys could report you and-“ you started to ramble “just get in the fucking car.” He swore his eyes almost testing your sincerity.

“No!” You said a bit louder. “You, I’m not leaving you on the streets to get caught and euthanized.” You crossed your arms firmly. The hybrids ears dickered flat for a second before he let out a deep growl. “You have another hybrid, I can smell him.” He started to argue. “So? He won’t mind, get in my car. Your death would be on me.” You say firmly but your voice low. The guilt had already set in.

You could imagine hybrid control grabbing him and him fighting back but sadly losing. Then being euthanized for being aggressive. The thought sent a chill down your spine.

The hybrid growled but went around an got in the car. His ears were pinned flat annoyed and on edge as he stared at you to get in the car.

“Let’s bloody go then little bird.” He scoffed.

It was a miracle you both made it to your house in one piece the way you were driving. The adrenaline finally wore off and you were exhausted. You felt dirty and wanted nothing more to go shower and curl up into John’s arms.

Pulling into your driveway you hear the hybrid next to you release a sigh “thank fuck.” You hear him mutter aggravated. If you weren’t shaky you would have laughed. You got out of the car slightly stumbling and you call for John. His name escapes your lips in a small cry.

You walk to the house the other hybrid walking behind you. “John!” You cry out again and you try and unlock the door. The door opens before you can finish and John steps out into the cold night encapsulating you into his arms . His eyes are trained on the hybrid behind you, his tail and ears on guard.

You crumple into his arms crying as you retell what happened “and I couldn’t let him die!” You dramatically sob into your hybrids chest as his large hands just rub your back and shoulders. “Sweetheart he wouldn’t have died.” John say gruffly taking in the homeless hybrid who was caked in dry blood.

“I wasn’t going to fight her.” Is all the other hybrid said with a scoff. You ignored both in your shaking “you don’t know that!” You pout with tears.

“Alright alright.” John sighed in a low deep tone as he gently wiped your tears. “He can stay the bloody night.”

The two hybrids stared at each other as you took a deep breath trying to calm down.

“What’s your name?” You hiccup as you walk into the house, the two hybrids following you. The new hybrid stood hesitant and alert in the doorway as the door was closed.

“Ghost.” The hybrid said on defense. You sniffled as you nodded. You told him your name. “And this is John.” You introduce your hybrid to the wild one.

The two just looked at each other having a silent conversation. The silence was eerie and uncomfortable. You cleared your throat. “Go get him clothes sweetheart, I’ll show him to the guest room.” John instructed and you nodded.

As you returned from upstairs with a pair of fresh clothes for Ghost you gently handed them to him. Johnny stood next to you watching intensely.

Ghost grabbed the clothes and retreated into the guest room closing it without even a thank you. You twiddled nervously and looked up to John who just scoffed rolling his eyes as his hands found your waist.

“Come let’s get you a bath yeah?” John guided you to your shared bathroom.

What an insane night.

[mossygirl333]

Hey Girl!

This is just a question about headcanon heights of TF141 lol. How tall do you think they would be? Bc I have no clue, since I've never played any COD games😅

height discourse is wild but this is how I view them

in order from tallest to shortest (and you know what, I’ll add age headcanons too)

könig - this man in 6’6 - 6’7, 6’6 Is too tall to be a sniper but being 6’10 is just wildly disproportionate in my eyes. I see him being like…32-ish? Younger thirties most definitely.

Ghost - 6’4, which I think is his canon height, he’s definitely in his late thirties early fourties bc of his high ranking, so we’re gonna place him at 38

price - only slightly smaller than Simon, at 6’2 and a half. He’s a lot older than the bunch, 45 years old. (Enough to have two children, a wife, and also be divorced 😔) (and be a captain ig)

Soap - 6’0 to 6’1 and he’s also the youngest at 26 (this is canon!)

Gaz - i see him at around 5’10 - 5’11 and being maybe 27?, only a little older than soap. Maybe by a couple months?

[price-askblog]

What if you and your wife adopted all of us for tax purposes

🌧️

and who exactly is included in “us”?

[machveil]

I need this post injected into my veins

you know that whole “141 hunkering down at one of their nearby flats when desperate on a mission” trope that ends in them meeting reader they didn’t know about?

yeah well, simon reluctantly bringing the team back to his flat when they need a place to lay low. and simon doesn’t warn them about the sweet thing he’s got waiting back home for him

and they just gawk when you creep out into the living room, his shirt barely covering your ass when you crawl into his lap to greet him. no shame from either of you as you greet each other with a sloppy, tongue-filled kiss

one hand groping your ass when he introduces you to the lads, side eyes shared between them because not one of then knew simon had a bird

sharing a cigarette together on the balcony before he sends you back to bed, since he’s still technically on duty. crawls into bed after setting the lads up in the living room, snuggling you back to sleep just for you to wake up alone in the morning

ramblings before bed

[autumnheartsprice]

"You're my issue!"

price x gn!reader

<mentions of gun going off, bullet wound, crying, kinda angsty? slow burn if you squint? happy romantic ending, no smut>

"God damnit, you fucking muppet! The 'ell were you thinking?!" he mutters, carrying you against his chest as he rushes back to the helicopter, a hand pushing against the bullet wound in your abdomen. He looks down for a brief second and sees your half-closed eyes as you whine in pain as he presses your wound more in attempt to stop the bleeding; "You stay awake, you idiot, don't you care close those fucking eyes!"

The whole way back to the base was hell for the poor medics, Price's yelling only a distraction to the point he had to be separated. Gaz sat with him in the back to keep an eye on him, not wanting his Captain to do anything reckless.

"You put a bullet through me and you'll have one on your back until the moment my team kills you, Graves." Price says, as he holds his hands up in the air, weapons being stripped away from him. You stand next to Price, in the same exact position as him. A knife hidden in your boot is your only resort but his gun pointed at Price would kill you before you even had a chance to reach for it.

The two men bicker at each other, throwing insults and threats in the air as Price stalls, waiting for the rest of the team to get to their location in the building to take him down and rescue you two from the unhelpful situation.

Gunshots go off in the building, appearing closer as the team makes their way through to you, the mistake of arriving quietly ending with a consequence. "Tsk tsk. I told you just a little meeting with just the three of us, seems like you can't follow instructions, Captain."

"Actions have consequences. Thought you'd know this by now." Graves says. Your eyes focus on his finger moving to pull the trigger and you quickly step in front of your Captain before the gun could go off and the bullet hits Price.

You fall to the ground, hand rushing to feel the site as blood doesn't hesitate to gush out. Your ears ring, almost missing the gunshots that go off towards Graves but you're too distracted to look over. Tears gloss over your eyes as you see someone's figure kneeling down in front of you and yelling going on.

Price sits at your side, refusing to take shifts with everybody else because he wanted to be the only one with you. The medics said it shouldn't take long for you to wake up; the sudden shock and blood loss wasn't a shock to cause you to pass out for a while.

He doesn't change out of his clothes or even take off his vest, not wanting to take his eyes off you or leave you alone for a second. He only washed the blood and grime off his hands once they arrived back to base because he knows how much you hate dirty hands.

It takes about 48 minutes and 32 seconds, to be exact, to wake back up. Price continuously looked back between you and the clock to make sure you weren't out for a concerning amount of time.

Your eyes slowly opened, blinking a few times as the bright florescent lights welcomed you. Your hand moves to cover your eyes and shield them from the assaulting brightness, only causing you to whine in pain as the movement makes the wound stretch out a little.

Price's eyes immediately snap towards you from the clock as he hears you waking up and whining in pain. He quickly moves his chair even closer to your bed to try to help you. "Easy, hon. Don't want to go hurting yourself even more." He mumbles, the tone in his voice was a mixture of emotions. Fear, anger, sadness, guilt.

You groan in annoyance, not a big fan of the growing pain in your abdomen. "Don't wanna fuckin' hear it. Don't act like such a reckless idiot next time and you won't be in this sort of pain." Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, unsure of what happened as your memory was still coming back to you.

After he calls in the nurses to come check on you now that you're awake, he sits in silence and just stares at you and your blurry tear-filled eyes as you start to take in everything and remember, his harsh words not helping in the slightest.

After the nurses leave and it's just the two of you again, he moves to sit on the side of your bed, making sure to sit on your unhurt side to avoid the pain that'll come from the large dip in the bed. You wanted him to ignore the tear that rolled down your cheek, but he didn't fail to miss it. His hand comes up to gently tuck your dirtied hair behind your ear with a deep sigh. "Let it out, sweet girl. It's okay, nobody's mad or disappointed with you. It's no good keeping in all these emotions, hm?" he whispers. He leans closer to let your head rest against his chest as sobs start to escape from you. Harsh and scared sobs rack through your body as tears start to stain his shirt. "There ye go, good girl. Let those emotions out."

He continues to whisper sweet nothings into your ear as he lets your emotions run free. It takes a little bit to get you to calm down again but he doesn't mind; it's not his first rodeo to calm you.

Once your breathing is more stable and just occasional shaky breaths and sniffles, he leans back to look at your face. Red and puffy. He takes your chin into his hand and forces you to look up at him despite you trying to avoid it.

"Don't you dare scare me like that again. Ain't no man on this Earth that's good enough for you to risk your life for." he pauses, trying to think of what to say next. "Do y'know how fuckin' scared I was? Holding your unconscious body, not knowing if you were about to die in my arms or not? Did you even think about how stupid it would be to jump in front of a bullet?!" He finishes, voice slightly raising by the last sentence. Your hand moves towards his to force it away from your chin, forcing it to rest in his lap.

Tears start to brim your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall this time. Your head falls back onto the pillow behind it as you stare at the empty space in front of you. "What? All of a sudden you can't handle the consequence of being so stupid out there? Should 'ave you written up for this." He mutters out.

"Really? Go ahead and write me up then, tell 'em to switch me to a different team once they read it since my efforts can't be appreciated around here." He tries to interrupt you to talk, "No. You had your chance to speak. Not even one "Thank you"? You know damn well that shit happens out there that you didn't expect beforehand, you know soldiers end up getting shot all the time. Thought as Captain, you'd know this by now, but obviously not."

He scoffs after you finish and steps closer, looming over you from the side of the bed. "You're not transferring. You're not leaving me." It was your turn to scoff now, irritated by his words. "Really? That's the only part you heard? What the fuck is your issue? Huh? Old age making you lose your hearing?" He rests a knee onto the side of the bed, and grabs your face. "Really? What's my 'issue'? You're my god damn issue! Can't you see that I can't bear you leaving me and being out of my life?"

He stares at your pupil-blown eyes as you try to register what he just said. "You stupid idiot." he mutters under his breath before leaning closer, his lips ghosting above yours. You seal the kiss; you pull him as close as possible without hurting yourself even more and tangle your fingers into his beard.

The kiss feels like it lasts an eternity, a good kind of eternity. Your tongues slip into each other's mouth, exploring the newfound closeness before he pulls away - almost causing a whine to escape your lips but his face stays close to yours. "You're my issue." he repeats. "A good kind of issue?" you ask, silently enjoying the way each other's breath fans against the other's. "Enough to make me gonna start graying soon, how about that?" he teases; you playfully pretend to inspect his beard before replying, "I think I already see a few gray hairs, Cap." You giggle as he leans in again to press kisses against your face.

"Fuck, I love you, idiot."