#captain john price x gn reader

[sstormyskyess]

Decompressing

author's note: wrote this because i think it would fix me tbh

cw: hurt/comfort, small domestic fight [like really small], non-sexual bdsm, spanking, aftercare, subspace, dom!price

word count: 1000+

John Price x GN!Reader

Today was bad. Really bad. And you were tired. So, so tired. Even getting home was a chore; you were so irritated that every little inconvenience on your way back to your safe haven of a home had you seething. All you want is your bed—you want to sink into the sheets and not come out for as long as possible.

But your husband, your perfect husband who could do no wrong, has other plans. You know he means well, of course he does. All he wants is to help, but it feels like he's smothering you.

Finally, you snap.

"Just leave me alone, John!" You bark all of a sudden. You storm off to your shared bedroom and the door rattles on its hinges from the force with which you slam it shut. By the time you've thrown yourself under the duvet and buried your face into the pillow, you're already regretting what you did. Your face burns with shame as you imagine what his reaction was, the look that was on his face.

Luckily, he does give you space. The door only opens an hour or so later, once you've cooled off to a simmer. Not a full rest, but not boiling either. You bury yourself further under the sheets to shield yourself from the light that floods into the room from the hallway and then the light from the lamp that John turns on. His weight settles on the bed behind you and you melt under the heaviness of his warm hand on your side. He's silent—letting you think, you assume.

"I'm sorry," You mumble, voice muffled by the pillow under your head. He hums in response and starts to rub your shoulder. "I know, sweetheart." His voice is warm, calm, a perfect contrast to your own choked up tone. "It's alright."

There's a brief pause. It's tense and it causes you to turn over and peek up at him. He's looking down at you with his silvery blue eyes and your gaze meets his meekly. "You know that was inappropriate. You don't talk to me like that," he says, and although you're being scolded, he sounds anything but angry. You still feel terrible for what you did, but you know he wasn't upset with you. It didn't stop you from pulling the sheets over your face childishly.

"Come on, love. Get up," he tells you, firm yet patient as always. You knew what was coming next and it made you shudder with anticipation. You do as he asks and he moves to sit on the edge of the bed. You shuffle in front of him, dragging your feet and still avoiding his eyes. Your muscles tense when he takes hold of your thigh, squeezing it. "Over my knees."

You know he wasn't punishing you. This was anything but a punishment; it was for you, not for him. When you're laid over his legs, your face nuzzled into his side, you know that he's taking care of you and it makes you sigh softly.

His large palm massages the meat of your thighs and up to your ass, then his fingers find their way under the waistband of your pants. He tugs them down to your knees, taking your underwear with them. You shiver at the wash of cold air that breezes across your bare skin and John, ever observant, takes a moment to warm you up with his hand in wide circles over your ass.

When his hand pulls away, you immediately brace yourself, eyes shut tight. He brings it back down with a harsh slap to your ass and you yelp. He smooths over your skin as a slight comfort. "Don't forget to count, love," he instructs. You murmur out a small 'one,' and wait for his next spanking.

You're holding back tears after you reach seven, your asscheeks and thighs burning hot and prickling with pain from the intensity behind each hit he laid upon you. He takes a pause, running his hand up and down your spine. You glance up at him, silently questioning him.

"Tell me what happened today," he says with a leveled gaze peering back down at you. You go back to bury your face in his side, but his other hand takes hold of the back of your head, redirecting you to look up at him again. "I'm not asking," he reminds you with a tight squeeze to the nape of your neck. "Yes, sir," You respond with a nod.

You start recounting your terrible day, telling him everything that happened one after another, all the while keeping count just as he told you. The tears finally fall as you spill all of the feelings that were building inside you all day, everything that was pent up and ready to burst at the seams. You eke out apologies to him between your sobs, and he listens to everything you say intently, reassuring you that things are going to be okay. You squeeze his free hand tightly when he offers it to you and all of it is just so much. It's so overwhelming; it's cathartic.

When you tap his thigh, John knows that you've gotten it all out and you're finally relaxed, lost in a floaty, comfortable state far above the sea of troubles that you were stewing in before. He bundles you up in his arms and totes you to the bathroom, running a warm bath for you to rest in. Your eyes are puffy and rimmed with red while you stare up at him, leaning into his touch while he cleans you up from head to toe. His calloused fingers scrubbed along your scalp, keeping you drifting in subspace.

Once you’re cleaned up and dried off, he lays you on your stomach in the bed gently, peppering your warm skin with kisses. Across your shoulders, up and down your spine on the bruises that were forming on your ass and thighs. Looking back at him over your shoulder, you can see his soft eyes looking back at you, practically glowing in the light of the bedside lamp. Soon enough, you’re lathered up in lotion, cooling your irritated skin enough to let you drift off to sleep peacefully, cuddled up next to your husband. You could talk more in the morning, but for now you just needed to rest.

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

[prismuffin]

HIIII! YOU'RE BACK!!

IDK if your request are open or not. So this doesn't have to be a request. But I just had this thought plaguing my brain that John Price talks in his sleep. Like really long conversations and weird comments. He just talks in his sleep.

I'm not taking too many full requests at this moment so I'll just write this as an ask since those are always open for me!! (some romantic implications!!) Anyway I think that-

John definitely doesn't know initially that he's a sleep-talker- at least not fully. He's had many people who have had to share bunks or tents with him tell him he definitely mumbles every now and then but it wasn't until he met you that he knew the full extent of it all. Being with John came with sharing a bed, and sharing a bed came with the knowledge of his sleep-talking. At first, you'd kept it to yourself for quite a while before one day deciding to ask him if he knew he sleep-talked. When he mentioned the fact that he mumbles a bit you were quick to correct him, recounting the stories, conversations, and jokes that he'd talk about in his sleep. He thought you were kidding so you downloaded an app to his phone that records him in his sleep and lets just say he was extremely shocked at how right you were. A lot of times he was talking at almost full volume and he wondered how you even slept next to him some nights, but you just said you'd gotten used to it. Tries to do certain therapies to not sleep-talk as much since there were times he'd relay valuable or classified information in his sleep which could be dangerous. The "therapies" aren't working too much which he's slightly annoyed by but at least now he knows that he's a sleep-talker.

———

Directory

[bossalphadotdocx]

[would you save me a spark? we'll light up the dark]

Pairing: Captain John Price x GN!Reader (3rd pov)

A/N: baby's first fic on this blog! Fierce is the callsign for reader. My sister may be a doctor but I'm not one and it's too late to ask her abt medical conditions by the time I'm writing this

Cw: major character death (you, as the reader), grief, medical inaccuracies

Part 2

He held their body close to his chest. Damn his vest for blocking to feel the last warmth left in their body. He could feel their blood seeping into his sleeves, his gloves. Then he saw it. The necklace he gave them fell out of their neckline alongside their dog tags.

It made a soft cling amongst the loud battlefield. And that's when his heart truly stopped.

He regretted everything. He regretted for not telling them of his feelings earlier than he should. He regretted of the missed chances. He regretted for dismissing the hints.

"Wherever you go, captain, I shall follow." Those were the last words they told him through the comms.

"Goddammit, and here you are...going to a place where I can't follow."

He sobbed. "I'm so sorry...sweetheart."

The spark of his life...now only a fleeting embers in the air.

-

They hummed a tune. One that Price often heard them humming before missions. He got curious and asked them, "I always hear you humming that, what's the title?" The sergeant looked at him with a smile and they grinned.

"The title of the song is Save Me a Spark, sir. It's by Sleeping With Sirens. If you're curious, you might want to check their entire discography."

It turned out, Price didn't like most of their songs except for select few. And Save Me a Spark was one of them. In the privacy of his office, the song often on replay.

One day, Gaz walked in without knocking and he grinned ear to ear when he heard that his captain listening to a certain sergeant's favorite song. When Gaz pointed it out, Price couldn't help blushing and yelled at him to get out. He knew he wouldn't get a good night's sleep that night because obviously Gaz going to tell Soap about their captain's crush toward one of their members. He wouldn't worry much about Ghost.

One day before another mission, the team was preparing themselves. Pulling on their gears and clipping their ammo's to their vests. Price looked at one of his sergeants, his hands still busy with his vest, shuffled on his feet nervously. "I listened to their discography, sergeant but...their music way too loud for me."

The sergeant chuckled instead. "I know, cap. Rock isn't for everyone. It's nothing to be ashamed of." They said as they clicked the last things they needed to their vest.

Price felt his ears reddened. Praying no one noticed, he asked them, "What's your favorite genre then, sergeant?" He felt like it's a silly thing to ask. As if he's going back to high school years trying to make a move on a girl who looked at him weird with that question.

The sergeant put their finger on their chin and hummed. He could hear shuffling behind him and some whispers that he knew coming from Gaz and Soap. The little shits.

"Beside the obvious rock genre, I listen to pretty much anything, sir. A bit of pop, K-pop, hip-hop, anything really. It's a hit or miss too." They said. "If you want, I can give you a playlist of my favorites?" At this, he heard some hissing behind him, "Say yes! Say yes!"

To which he nodded, a bit enthusiastically. "Yes, I would love to."

The sergeant smiled and bumped their fist onto Price's vest. "After this mission then. Hope you will enjoy some of my faves too!"

He grinned. Hard not to, afterall.

"It's a promise, then."

They smiled at Price, made a salute gesture and nodded. "See you later, cap!"

After a short while, he could hear whistles behind him. The other two sergeants of 141 and the lieutenant, most especially the former two were giving him a face of both amusement and shit eating grins. Even he could see the squint on Ghost's eyes. The three of them going to be the death of him.

--

The mission, apparently, went awry. What he thought would be a quick "get in, get out" mission went south real quick. It's a short miracle the five of them made it out alive with only minor scratches and bruises on them. He tended to his brave soldiers, all thanks to Gaz for pulling Soap and Fierce out.

Once they're in the base clinic, it turned out that Fierce got a light concussion and they needed rest. They grumbled under their breath and Price offered to bring them to their room to which Fierce nodded, head still down. Price knew they were gritting their teeth, holding in the headache that came from the concussion.

After checking the other three for the last time, Price lead the way and put his hand on their back for a second, to Fierce to move forward, signalling them it's time for them to rest in their room. They nodded and walked beside Price.

"You must rest right away, soldier. We did some damage to them before things went shit." He tried to assure them. Fierce huffed and just kept walking beside him. Price could see them trying to keep up with his pace and he slowed down for their sake. They just got a concussion after all.

For the entirety of their walk to Fierce's room, they kept silent. One which Price would raise an eyebrow at, as he knew Fierce was quiet talkative even with him. He knew they got concussion but this...is very quiet of them.

As they arrived at their destination, Price said "Is something bothering you, Fierce?". Fierce halted their movement to open the door to their room and looked up at their captain's face, only for them to look into his eyes for a second and then lowered it to the ground.

They wriggled with their fingers then shook their hands away on their sides--Price noticed the tick. "It's nothing, sir."

Price crossed his arms, his stance was a sign of patience, silently urging them to tell him what's on their mind and he would wait for them. It was obvious the captain wasn't going anywhere until he got his answers, they sighed. "I'm upset that I couldn't tell you about my favorite songs right away after the mission, sir."

Price's eyebrows went deep into his beanie. Surprised at the answer as that's not one he was expecting.

He was expecting...some self blaming and ready to give them a piece of his mind if they did. But this one made him flabbergasted.

They both stood in silence, in the hall which thankfully no one was there to witness his moment of weakness. He scratched his mustache, a poor attempt in trying to calm down the sudden thumping of his heart. He uncrossed his arms and put them on his hips instead.

He smiled and patted Fierce's shoulder.

"It's fine, Fierce. There's always tomorrow. How about this, you can come into my office tomorrow morning and we can listen to your favorites together?" He offered.

Please say yes. Please say yes. Goodness, this feeling is worse than being shot in the shoulder.

They beamed. And it was one of the most beautiful sight Price ever laid his eyes on and he subconsciously smiled too. Fierce nodded so fast, their eyes squinted from how big their smile was it made Price worry because the last thing they all need was another trip back to the base clinic.

Then Fierce clutched their head and Price quickly grabbed their arms to help them balance themself. They quickly reassured him, sheepishly, they said "It's okay, cap. I got too excited, nothing a short rest won't help." They quickly opened their door and walked into their room.

But before they had the chance to close the door, Price held it open with his hand, leaning a bit inside and quickly he told them, "John."

Fierce looked up, confusion evident on their face.

"You can call me John...when we're in private."

The sergeant grinned, white teeth on display, and nodded. "I will see you tomorrow...John."

---

Final A/N: TBH I DIDN'T EXPECT TO MAKE IT THIS LONG and make it a series to boot? Oh god forbid. This fic alone took me almost a week what with work and masters degree I'm currently having. Don't ask when the next update is, but I'm surely hooked w this fic to continue it!

[rejectedbytheempty]

actually, ykw? imagine if simon had a civilian s/o and bc he’s constantly away and the partner is there most of the time anyways, he lets them decorate the place.

they make it so cozy with a million lamps with stained glass lampshades and tapestries on the walls and an unexpected number of stuffed animals on the bed.

one time, simon invites tf 141 to his flat and their jaws dropped, bc ofc simon didn’t warn them about the absolute pinterest board that his place was.

in fact, he hadn’t mentioned a partner at all, or to you that his team would be coming over so you’re still in one of simon’s raggedy old t-shirts with a handful of dry cereal halfway to your mouth.

it’s generally a shock for both parties, simon excluded, who seems to settle himself right in, kissing the top of your head, eyes crinkling slightly as he grins, looking rather like a cat showing off the bird he dragged in.

you had some choice words for him later, but for now, you brushed the crumbs off your face and wiped your hands off on your shirt before sticking your hand out to the team to introduce yourself.

surprisingly, it goes rather well. all things considered. the team is charmed by you and your ability to make ghost blush and smile endlessly. and you’re absolutely enamored with the fact that they keep complimenting your decor.

[criminalamnesia]

Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!

And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.

ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.

you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.

your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.

you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.

one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.

you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.

one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.

the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.

he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.

“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.

the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.

well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.

you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.

apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.

simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.

“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.

“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.

the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.

you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.

the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?

“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”

“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”

“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.

“points to you.”

“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.

he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.

“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.

you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.

“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.

“or should we take off another?”

you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”

“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.

“ghost!”

it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.

“what, mactavish? im busy.”

“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.

the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).

“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.

“it’s fucking shepard.”

it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.

you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.

“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.

you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.

you pass out.

when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.

“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.

your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.

the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.

your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.

“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.

you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.

“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.

“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.

“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”

he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.

he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.

just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.

“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.

you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.

“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.

“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”

“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.

“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.

“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.

“and whose fault is that?”

the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.

“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.

you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.

simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.

your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.

“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.

“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.

the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.

“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.

spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.

john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.

when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.

the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.

there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.

it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.

your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.

when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.

“how’re you feeling?”

you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.

“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”

the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.

the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.

“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.

no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.

you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—

you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.

that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.

your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.

————————————————

authors note:

I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.

thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶

[sigh-tofm]

if you wear glasses …

… price

- makes sure you always feel beautiful, especially if you’re just starting out or feel insecure with them on. kisses the bridge of your nose and your forehead. wears his own reading glasses when he’s working on reports or just puttering around the house. sits with you on the veranda, hand in hand, reading quietly while the sun sets. both of you wearing your glasses.

… kyle

- forgets you wear them and sometimes kisses you so fervently that your combined breath fog them up. you giggle as he picks them off your nose and neatly deposits them on a free surface. you continue kissing him and to make it fair, kyle turns off the lights so he too needs to rely mostly on touch the rest of the evening. turns out touch is all either of you need.

… johnny

- has broken them on more than one occasion. he’s cracked the glass and bent the frame, and it has happened both during playful wrestling matches and, uh, intimate wrestling matches. visiting the optician to pick out a new pair becomes a bi-annual afternoon date for you two. johnny always pays and isn’t even ashamed to admit out loud what he’s done while your cheeks heat and you look anywhere but at the optician.

… ghost

- always makes sure they’re clean. once you take them off to sleep, shower or just rub your eyes, he steals them away (sometimes right from your fingers or even nose if you’ve managed to get something on the glass while cooking). first uses an alcohol wipe and then dries them off with a soft linen cloth bought especially for that purpose. does not let you clean them yourself. likes to make your life easier when he can.

[the-raindeer-king]

The quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach.

That's how the saying goes. You never realized just how true it was until you started working as Captain John Price's assistant. It had started off innocently enough, bringing him a tea or coffee when he asked. Maybe scolding him whenever you found out he skipped lunch.

You had been baking brownies, trying out a new recipe, and you just needed someone to taste them (and maybe help you get rid of the batch if need be). So, you brought them to work, left them in a pretty box on Price's desk when you dropped off his coffee.

You certainly hadn't expected the rest of the task force to come around to your desk, begging to know why you didn't bring any for them. Turn out that not only did Price brag out your baking skills, he's refusing to share with the rest of the task force, despite the fact you had brought more than enough for all of them.

Looks like you're going to have to make more.

[ghouljams]

Ok nobody extrapolate anything about me from this...

The first time you cry in front of the 141:

The first time you cry in front of Ghost it's because you can't fucking take it anymore. All the little things, all the comments you know he didn't mean to hurt, all the conversations you ignored because you didn't want to make him feel like the bad guy, it all comes to a head. You don't even mean it to happen, and you feel like shooting yourself on the spot as soon as the tears start flowing. It feels manipulative. It feels disingenuous. You feel like a piece of shit having him awkwardly bundle you in his arms as you break down sobbing over a topic that normally would mean nothing to you. And it all comes out. All the worries and slights you ignored, all the fears and doubts, all the things that made you question if you could ever even start to bring up with him. Like throwing up, once it starts you can't stop it.

He looks like you've hit him when you finally escape his bear hug. You barely get the chance to take it in before you're thrust back into sobbing hysterics, blubbering out apologies, how you feel like you're manipulating him, how you're a bad partner, how you're sure he's going to realize he doesn't want you and leave. You barely hear the rough "Jesus Christ" over your own hiccuping.

Ghost shuffles the two of you over to grab you a t-shirt to blow your nose in while you're sniffling and wiping at your eyes. You feel pathetic having him hold the fabric to your face and telling you to blow.

"Didn't know ya made this much snot love," he jokes.

"You're dot funny," you whine, nose still clogged with wattery mucus as your tears finally start calming down.

"I know," he grumps.

"You're mad at me," you sniffle.

"I'm not," he sounds mad, "mad at myself. Shoulda seen ya keepin' things to yourself, I'm glad ya finally told me." His scarred mouth screws to one side. "Just gotta work on makin' sure we don't get to this point again."

-

The first time you cry in front of Soap it's because you're so fucking mad at him. He's arguing with you over nothing, the same way he always does when he's in a bad mood. Finding little things that dig at you and twisting just enough to make it not his fault when you snap. Back and forth with your barbs until you got to bed angry.

You can feel the tears burning at your waterline before they spill and you know your hot cheeks don't bode any better. You're not yelling but you almost wish you were, at least of you were yelling at each other it might make you feel better about the sudden waterworks. You hate when this happens. Too big an emotion in the body, it has to come out somewhere, you suppose this is just the quickest avenue. The way Soap's face drops from anger to concern pisses you off though.

"Hen, are ya-"

"I'm so fucking mad right now," you assure him, "don't look at me, don't even acknowledge them."

"Ah dinnae ken," His voice is getting softer, it only makes you more upset, "Oh my bonnie, ahm sorry ah didnae think this would hurt ya so bad."

"Fuck off," you try to push past him to lock yourself in the bathroom and he catches your arm to pull you against him. "Fuck off!" You shriek, pushing at him.

"No," he holds you a little tighter, "my mam would 'ave my heid hearin' ah let ya walk away from me like this, yer stayin' 'ere."

"I will fucking skin you Mactavish," you struggle harder.

"Aye anno, now shut up an' quit yer kickin'."

You do neither of those things.

-

The first time Gaz sees you cry it's because no one's ever seen you before. Even in your best relationships, your closest friendships, no one sees you like Gaz. No one picks you up from work with flowers and takes you by your favorite bakery just so you can have a slice of cake when you watch your comfort show. You're not even through the title music, Gaz sorting through your takeout options after he'd gotten you a "fancy plate" and a small fork to eat with, when you break down in sobs. He's on you immediately, hushing you as he gathers you into his arms. He's so attentive it hurts.

"It's OK baby," he hums, "don't have to talk about it, you just let it out."

God even that gets you crying. You don't have to get your words right or find a way to explain what you're feeling, you can just feel it. You try to think of a way to put it into words but it all lines up wrong, sounds too juvenile, doesn't make any sense even to you. There's no need to say anything though, Gaz just sits there with you, holds you through it as you wet his shoulder with your tears.

You don't even know why you're crying by the end of it, you just kept coming up with other reasons to cry. Jesus you don't think you ever got over your last grandparent dying, or losing that one friend, that's something to unpack later. You feel drained. Literally dehydrated drained. Gaz's shirt is soaked, but he doesn't day anything when you pull back.

He cups your cheek at wipes at the wet stains on your cheek with his thumb, eyes searching yours before he gives you a tight smile.

"Why don't you go take a hot shower, yeah?" He offers, you give him a watery nod, he smiles and pats your knee. "Alright, off you go. I'll be in, in a second."

The second time you cry in front of Gaz it's before he's got you pinned to the shower wall.

-

The first time Price sees you cry it's because you're tired. You're tired of giving everything to this relationship and seeing him leave right when things seem to be falling into place. His phone buzzes in the middle of the night and you don't stop the downpour when he grumbles out a swear and turns on the light. You glare at the ceiling and let the tears flow. It hurts. Tight in your chest. This feeling like you'll never be enough, like he'll always have something more important than you, it kills you. So why can't you leave him?

Are the good times really good enough to make up for the bad?

It makes him stop what he was doing when he sees the resolute grimace and the flow of tears over your cheeks. You shudder in a breath when he sits on the side of the bed. You refuse to look at him.

How could he do this to you?

"Sweetheart," he starts, his voice low, gentling, "I'm sorry."

"You're not." You correct him, "Otherwise you wouldn't keep doing it."

"You want me to choose between you and the world, you know what I'll say." He always sounds so sharp, ready to guilt you into giving up what he wants.

"I'm asking you to choose between me and paperwork," you bite back.

"You don't know-"

"You get phone calls when you're being deployed." You remind him, "You get reminders when papers are due." You turn to glare at him. The look on his face twists like a knife in your chest. You're dead on the money, and it's killing him. "So can this really not wait until the morning, are you really that eager to be rid of me?"

"I'm sorry," he tries again, toeing off his shoes, "you're right, I hadn't noticed." You turn over as he climbs under the duvet again. You fold your legs up as his arm drapes over you hip and he curls around you. His lips touch your shoulder, a silent plea for forgiveness. "Let me make it up to you, no more running into red tape I promise."

You don't bother agreeing to empty promises, but the next day he's had the paperwork sent from the base. The same the next day. Price always told you working from home didn't suit him. Waking you up with a cuppa on the other hand and walking you to the station does though.

He makes good on his promise, he doesn't run off until the next call comes in.

[lxvvie]

Let's talk about your habit of nearly making Price late when he has to report for duty.

You've taken to sleeping on Price as opposed to next to him. Doesn't bother him none. He welcomes it, actually. Price finds it endearing the way you bury your face in his chest; you said he was "nice and firm" and Price couldn't argue with you there.

He's so nice and firm in fact that you can't be bothered to let up off him when morning comes, leading to the following (or something similar):

"Sweetheart..."

"No."

"It's time to get up, darling—"

"—Nope."

"Duty calls—"

"—Nah."

Price'll chuckle, deep and hearty. Just another one of your morning rituals after all and it's not like he's unwound his arms from around you. Price figures you'll let up after a couple minutes and he'll move then... at which point you tighten your hold. "Not a chance in hell, Cap'n."

Price sighs in faux exasperation. What would he do without you?

[youronlydarlin]

warning: Sex pollen :), noncon/dubcon, some of them are mean on this one, horny desperate men going insane for your hole, not proofread 😭

Jus' over here havin thoughts about sex pollen infecting your favorite boy man

Finding yourself in the middle of a botched mission, you desperately try to open the door that separates you from your lover. You can hear him hacking, n coughing on the other side. N'd your sweet soul's nearly crying at the thought of what's happening to him. Is he dying !? Pink gas escapes from under the door and you don't even have the time to react before it suddenly opens.

Captain John Price who tries keep some of his composure. You must commend him for it, really. But you turn around to see if the coast's still clear and that's all it takes for his composure to break. Before you knew it you're being lifted into the air. Back pressed tightly against your Captain's chest while he holds you up with the back if your knees. He's got you in a full nelson :( And all of a sudden there's a knife in his hands. You cry out at the thought of what he could do to you but you're silenced the moment he uses it to rip an opening through your trousers, all the while he's rutting against your ass, cause he's just so pent up. Oh, you have to understand!

His dick is inside of you the moment it's freed. Tries to be considerate about it, gives you a few seconds to adjust before he's drilling into you with wild abandon. Fucks you so deep, there's a bulge in your tummy and spots in your vision. Sinks to the floor with you the moment he cums, holding you close to his chest and trying to come up with a decent enough explanation.

Simon "Ghost" Riley who let's out a loud grunt before falling on top of you. The impact makes your head spin, and it momentarily knocks the wind out of your lungs. His body crushes yours beneath the concrete floor and you don't have time to recover before the feeling of phantom hands start to roam your body. And you can no longer blame it on your fall, because your trousers are being ripped away by rough gloved hands.

Poor, little, you can't even object when he wrestles you into a mating press :( Shoving two of his thick digits inside of you with no warning. He's moving them in a scissoring motion, and you cant help but cry at the dry, and painful insertion. He's so mean!

"Shhh, puppy... 'I need this..." Doesn't even say please! Doesn't even give you a warning before the mushroom tip of his cock is breaching past your entrance. It's definitely way thicker than his fingers, and a lot more harder to get used to. He uses your bunched up knees as leverage to fuck you deeper, n deeper till your pretty eyes roll to the back of your skull.

He sounds like an animal when he cums. Growling pure filth to your ear while he grinds his dick inside you. Ready for a round 2?

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish who doesn't even wait. He was already hard as a fucking rock, hearing your cute voice cry out for him on the other side of the door. But now that it's opened, the only thing in his mind is dicking you down till your addicted to his cock.

Very impatient. You're literally like a ragdoll to him and he jus' manhandles you so you're face down, ass up :(

Shoves his fingers in your mouth while pulling your trousers down. He eats you out like a man starved. Like this was going to be his first, and last meal. Not a moment later and he's bullying your hole with his fat cock. Babbling nonsense about how fucking tight you are and how he's "waited to do this for so long". But he cums, and he cums deep.

The definition of painting your insides white.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick who looks like he's in so much pain. Unlike the other boys he tells you not to get close. He's not right in the head, can't you see that?? But you're sweet. Too sweet, and he wonders if you taste just the same. He's wetting his lips before knows it. He feels terrible. Eye fucking you while you're just trying to get him to talk about what's happening. Is he ok? He's not dying, is he? Tell me where it hurts, please.

You fret over him, and he's never felt such embarrassment in his life before. He feels bad, looking down at the massive tent in his pants. But he feels worse when he's pushing you against the wall. He's tried to hold back. Really, he did. But there's just so much a man like him can take in a situation like this. And he's trying to whisper apologies to you while he hasn't fully lost himself.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, just please....Fffuck–let me fuck you. Please..."

He's so desperate n'd whiney. As if he's not making your thighs shake and your brain into goo. He's fucking your mouth with his tongue, sturdy hands grabbing hold of your legs and wrapping them around his firm waist.

It's all too much. You're brain moving slower than your mouth can say "slow down". In a second he's got your trousers to the side, and his pants bunched up on his knees. He's shaking so much you're worried he might topple over. But he doesn't. Instead he slams his hips directly into yours. Your mouth opening in a silent scream.

He cums the moment he gets his dick in you. He's just so sensitive, ok :( And he doesn't stop at just one round, not even two. Three and his cum's leaking out of you, staining the floor and both of your thighs. Still moving his hips like a man possessed. Four, you're nearly passed out. And there's a slight bump in your stomach from where you're sure his cock, and cum is.

Head lying limp on your shoulder, you wonder how many times you've cummed already, or if this was even going to end. He smiles at you, so brightly he looks like your Kyle again. But he's kissing the side of your mouth before biting at your lips.

"Jus one more. Jus' one more, I promise..."

a/n: I literally don't know what bought this on. Are the parts where I lost motivation obvious? Yes? Ok. Fuck Some characters parts are longer than others I'm so sorry 😭 This has been rotting in my drafts for about 2 days. Hope you enjoy this more than I do 😞. Eat up, my loves!

Yours, truly,

–dolly

[dmitriene]

helping john price to shave his face, seated comfortably on his bulky lap, corded muscles lax beneath you, coarse hairs brushing against your skin when you fiddle on his legs, finding a comfortable position to shave at the edges of his mutton chops carefully, smoothing the overgrown hairs so that his beard line is even at his cheekbones.

heavy, warm palms of his holding at your round hips, squeezing at the plushness that hides beneath one of his shirts you wear, your legs on either side of his hips, brushing against the cotton fabric of his boxer briefs, since he wears nothing but them and some pajama shirt, soft edges of his body prominent and pressing against you.

you hold onto his chin, tilting his head with a razor hold between your fingers, as you move to adjust the length of his mustache, thick dark hairs with gray spots curling slightly, as you brush the razor against them, cutting the length and damaged hairs that were burned accidentally by his cigar, eyes crystalline blue as he watched your concentrated face, lips pouted slightly.

john leans to give you a kiss, beard scratching with a slight burning against your skin, smearing the shaving foam from his face onto yours, making you giggle muffled into his lips, tickling, causing a wide smile on john's lips that makes his cheeks round, eyes creasing, the blue tint of his irises gleams as his hands grip at your hips tighter, pressing you closer against him.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[sapchat]

Just saw a TikTok where a guy used his wife to hide his *problem* during their first look for their wedding and I have thoughts.

Price the type of guy to never think he’ll get married, but when he starts dating you and as it gets serious he can see you two getting married. Consequences of that is now anytime you two talk about your possible marriage and future, he gets a boner.

Johnny is the same way, except he can see himself getting married and ‘settling down’, just never knew who it’d be with (he jokingly told ghost if he isn’t married by 40 they’re getting married. He was on land nav training for a month). So as the time for your guys’ wedding gets closer… he starts having to sit with pillows while planning….

Kyle is the guy who knows to control himself and be fine. No pop ups during the planning at all! But then he turns around and sees you in your wedding attire… how it fits you in the chest and shows all the right parts… shit… the photographers getting a show….

Now Simon…. Sweet baby Simon who never saw himself getting close enough to anyone for a FWB situation let alone to date…. But now you’re getting closer to your little private wedding, and it’s not so much a “I’m horny at the thought of getting married to this person and being with them forever, the possession I’ll have over them with this marriage”, it’s a “I’m so excited to spend the rest of my life with you and I’ve Pavlov’d myself to connect joy and happiness to sex and now I’ve got a happy boner.” Scarred cheeks tinted pink, tears pooling in his eyes as he looks at you and from joy and embarrassment that he’s got a boner whilst you’re both getting this personal moment on camera….

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Ghost, looking like he just came back from a war: Sir Price: Oh my god, what happened?! Are you ok?! Y/N and Gaz walking in with a bunch of shopping bags: Hi captain! Ghost, eye twitching: I didn't know there were so many kinds of suits

[rejectedbytheempty]

just saw a video abt ppl in the military sleeping anywhere they can and i have the cod brainrot so obviously thought of tf141

ghost and you just about to get down and dirty but he had to do a quick bathroom trip. next thing you know, you hear snoring coming from the bathroom and he's leaned against the wall, eyes shut.

price promising that he'd watch the whole movie, because it was one of your favorites. but lo and behold, you barely get past the opening scene and he's laid back with his mouth hanging open.

gaz making dinner for the both of you. you smell burning from the kitchen and find him face down on the counter, spoon in hand as the food blackens in the pan.

soap trying to give you a massage because you've had a hard day. turns out it relaxed him instead because minutes later he's collapsed on top of you, drooling onto your back.

[criminalamnesia]

the 141 x reader fic that you did was so yummy!!! pls make them suffer the wrath of reader and make 141 realise how much they need them when they leave,

your work is so amazing btw and your way with words is simply ✨chef’s kiss✨ (((o(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)o)))♡

thank you!! here’s part 3 :)

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

angry didn’t even begin to describe how you felt as you slammed the door to price’s office behind you.

you were tense, muscles taut and poised to fight. your fists clenched at your sides, blunt nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt. your jaw was clenched, teeth grinding together as you resisted the urge to march back in there and unleash your fury.

no. not like this. not when you weren’t a hundred percent. not when they would still look at you like you were a wounded doe, stumbling around on broken legs.

in the back of your mind, you can hear that psychologist saying ‘this anger will eat you alive if you let it. you need to let it out somehow.’

you inhaled, unclenched your fists, and made up your mind. you pulled the iv from your arm, wincing at the pinch of the needle.

you left the iv pole standing there as you made your way to the gym.

the gym was empty when you arrived, which made sense for this time of day. many would be occupied by drills or in the mess hall. others would be sleeping off long nights. you had the place to yourself, and you were grateful for the absence of watchful eyes and sweetened tongues.

you were tired of those who knew nothing acting like they knew something. of those who apologized or asked if you were okay. word spread like wildfire around base, and the subject of your ‘betrayal’ had been front-page news since the start of the witch hunt.

the gym door clicked shut behind you, and you surveyed the room. you knew your doctor would have a fit once you returned to the infirmary, and that she probably wouldn’t let you out alone again, but you didn’t really care.

you needed to let off some steam, and the best way you knew how was with your fists. either you start swinging at a bag or at a certain someone’s face. the bag won’t be condescending, and that makes your choice easy.

you approach one of the bright red punching bags in the corner. it’s scratched and taped from where someone had busted it open. scars that didn’t go away, that wouldn’t— just like yours.

you huffed. it didn’t do any good to start feeling sorry for yourself. you hadn’t done anything wrong. your team had.

you stretch your arms out in front of you, fingers interlocking to pop your knuckles. you catch sight of your severed finger, still healing. they’d recovered what had been chopped off, but hadn’t been able to save it.

just another permanent reminder, something to make sure you didn’t dare forget. you didn’t think you ever would regardless.

you shook out your hands and rolled your shoulders back. fists raised, you angled yourself towards the bag. feet spread, shoulders squared, thumb tucked under your fingers instead of inside. a stance that was second nature after years of sparring and hand-to-hand drills.

the bag was firm when your fist connected with it. you would have been lying if you said it didn’t hurt. you punched with the other hand— same results. the time you’d spent confined to an infirmary bed had done a number on you. muscles had atrophied, bones had weakened. the leg you’d suffered a bone-deep cut to shook under your weight.

you didn’t care. you kept punching, your breathing picking up as your emotions guided you. sweat dripped into your eyes and rolled down your back. you felt weak, physically and mentally. you hated feeling this way, and so you punched harder.

“slow down,” a voice grumbled from behind you.

you ignored him, continuing to punch the bag. you hadn’t heard the door open, nor heard the sound of him approaching, but you would have been surprised if you did.

simon always had a penchant for sneaking up on people, intentionally or not.

“gonna pass out if y’don’t stop,” he said after a minute. you could feel his eyes on you. you ignored him again.

you didn’t need to turn around to know he was standing there with his arms crossed, eyes full of something unreadable.

“stop,” he says firmly, and you sense his movement as he surges forward. his hand lands heavily on your shoulder, pulling you back from the punching bag. you heave in a breath before spinning around and punching him in the nose.

simon stumbles back a step, eyes widened slightly. for someone who prided himself on being so observant, he clearly didn’t see that coming. it made you feel the tiniest bit smug that you’d caught him off guard for once.

you dropped your hands to your knees then, squeezing your eyes shut as a wave of nausea washed over you. damn the bastard, he had been right. you shouldn’t have even been in here in the first place, let alone exerted yourself as much as you had.

your hands were shaking as you tried to pull yourself together. you opened your eyes to see drops of blood on the gym floor, by your feet. you had split your knuckles open.

there were also drops of blood at simon’s feet. you looked up then, slowly straightening your posture. he’d removed his mask, his face bare as he stared at you. blood dripped from his nose.

“gonna have to hit harder than that if y’want to break it,” he says, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“did you follow me in here?”

“no.” he says, and you’re giving a mirthless laugh.

“oh, please. im sure price sent you, yeah? you’ve always been his little lap dog. he says ‘jump’ and you say ‘how high,’ isn’t that right, lieutenant?”

your tone is tense, angry. you throw his title in his face, seeing as he’d been so quick to remind you of yours back in price’s office.

simon watches you, and you want to tackle him. he had always been quiet, always stoic. you’d been with him for years, but you still didn’t think you’d broken down all of his walls.

he was so good at masking his thoughts, his feelings. you weren’t. soap had always called you an open book. whenever you were mad or upset, everyone knew it.

no one knew anything about simon unless he wanted them to. it drove you mad then, and it was sure as hell driving you mad now.

“you need to get back to the infirmary,” he tells you. he wipes the back of his hand under his nose, smearing red across his skin. for a moment, you want to chastise him, reach up and wipe the remnants from his face.

you quickly shake that thought from your head. what is it they say— old habits die hard?

these habits would die if you had to strangle each one with your bare hands. anything you harbored for the four men on your team, for the one you’d called yours, was dead and gone.

“fuck off,” you tell him.

“why are you so damn stubborn?” he says then, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him start to crack since everything had happened. emotions are beginning to leak through his stony exterior, whether he means them to or not.

“you don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. none of you do,” you say, and you take a step forward then, eyes blazing as you stare up at him. “not after what you did.”

he doesn’t speak for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. his eyes never leave yours.

“it shouldn’t have happened like that.” he tells you. you scoff.

“like that? you mean the four of you torturing me? tying me up and mutilating me like I was just another fucking target?” your voice was rising as you took another step forward, shoving a finger into his chest.

“if I’d treated you like another target,” he said, tone even. “you would’ve been dead.”

“so you showed me mercy, is that it?” you bared your teeth, a hollow laugh escaping your throat. “oh, thank you simon. I really felt that fucking mercy when you cut off my finger, and when you cut through layers of skin to get to bone.”

you inhaled before continuing. “I should be grateful then, right? is that what you want from me? for me to recognize your fucking ‘mercy’ and take you back? take you all back?”

he just stands there. you can see his jaw clench, but he makes no move to speak. you find it funny that he hasn’t even tried to apologize. john, your ever prideful captain, had swallowed his failure and pleaded for your forgiveness.

johnny and kyle would surely have done the same if they’d had the chance to speak to you, even if they only had a minute.

but simon? simon doesn’t. he doesn’t outwardly admit his wrongs. he doesn’t apologize. doesn’t seem sorry, even. you don’t know what’s going on inside his head, but you find yourself not really caring to know.

the fact that he can’t bring himself to admit, in blunt words, that he had astronomically fucked up and that he felt even the slightest bit of remorse, told you everything you needed to know.

cold, stoic ghost. you hadn’t been afraid of him when you’d first joined the squad, and you weren’t afraid of him now.

but back then, you’d wanted to break down those stone walls of his. you’d wanted to be someone he felt safe around, someone who knew him inside and out.

now, you’re packing your time with him into a box in your mind and dumping it into the trash. simon riley means nothing to you now.

“take your mercy and shove it up your ass,” you tell him. you step back and drop your hand, your eyes still locked on his.

“and by the way,” you say as you start towards the door. he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t move an inch. it’s as if he’s rooted to the spot.

“you should’ve just killed me.”

author’s note:

not really sure how I feel about this one tbh. I have plans for a part four, but I’m not quite sure how long I’ll be making this series.

and as for simon— I want to write an extra part about his thoughts/feelings about everything. let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in!

anyways, let me know your thoughts please :) (I honestly may end up deleting this and rewriting it when I’m not tired lol)

taglist: @preeyansha @igotmajordaddyissues @nanatheoaktree @aesthetic0cherryblossom @oceanicexolorer @soph121212 @liv2post @cupid-eclipse @angels-despair18 @k4marina

[cryptid-cave]

Currently thinking about a reader who, while having a full-time job and playing the part of a “real adult” pretty well for the most part, is still kind of lost and pathetic. It feels less like they’re living and more like they’re surviving, getting by on their own with just a cat for company.

Enter John Price, who’s currently on medical leave and just itching for a project. Maybe reader works at a store near his home that he shops at almost every other day, or works at the library where he goes when he needs to get out of the house. Either way, he spots this pretty little thing who clearly needs some love and guidance, preferably from a strong, gentle hand - and who better to do that than him?

Anyways, save me bossy and demanding Price with a savior complex, save me