#gaz mw2 x reader

[bunny-extract]

HIIIII can I put in a request for task 141 + Alejandro for a reader who smokes a lot (like weed and is kind of a chain smoker) and how they would act while high?

did someone post a copy of my diary ,,, i got obliterated while writing and hardly remember these sooo if they’re a lil self-indulgent you can’t blame me!

141 & Alejandro x Stoner!reader

est. relationships, mostly …sfw but they’re high and in love what can i say mdni

Captain John Price rolls the fattest, filthiest spliffs, there’s nothing you can say to change my mind.

When he splits the skin of one of his cigars and sprinkles globs of mossy green throughout you, for maybe the first time in your life, think you should say no to a blunt. It’s a behemoth of a thing, and he takes his time wetting the leaf on his tongue before deftly, delicately putting it back together. His fingers are sticky with crystals and you want - not for the first time, not by a long shot - to suck the aged taste of cigar off of each one.

Price catches you staring, an eyebrow raising in cheeky greeting when you bring your focus back to him. The tips of his fingers brush against your anticipating lips, and you’re half high before you even taste him off the leaf.

Whatever shit he’s getting, it is strong. You have to tap out before the thing even begins to burn properly, wordlessly trying to communicate that when you bury your face in his shoulder. His amusement is smokey, seen in the creases at the corner of his crescent eyes, contouring his cheeks. Smooths his arm over you to keep you tucked in while he cuffs away.

Price likes getting to a state of couch-lock when he smokes, valuing tenfold the luxury of sitting still when it’s not on his belly looking down a scope. If not for the help he’d be wired, mind racing, surely aching, even if he won’t admit it. Price groans up and down like he’s got grandkids, swears it’s for laughs and not because he is old and weathering—not at all.

(“What about the knee popping, sir?” — “Come lay over them and tell me, sunshine.”)

Woof. Price needs more than just a bit of weed to turn off. Few orgasms ought to do.

—

Simon “Ghost” Riley doesn’t smoke weed, but is particularly fond of teasing you about the habit. He’s just a lover boy who likes bullying his schoolyard crush. Pretty typical.

It isn’t your fault while waiting for him to pick you up you took a few pulls from your pen, maybe hitting it a little more desperately when you heard his bike purr around the corner of your street.

Through his balaclava and helmet, Ghost can smell that burn cart you refuse to get rid of on your mouth, eyes paying close attention when you fit the offered helmet on, shyly smiling when you can’t get the clasp into the right spot.

“What am I gonna do with you?” he chided, words coming through the built-in headset where the bass of his voice was felt right against your ear. Sinful fucking investment you didn’t even have the chance to steer him away from. Simon knew what he was doing—yours is the nicer one, anyway.

Ghost was quick to swoop into your space, knocking your knees apart to insert himself as close as possible. “Already smoked yourself stupid, hm? Need me to do everything for you?”

Your eyes roll, maybe flutter. Head screaming yes, yes, yes.

The tugging on his gloves caught your attention, the reveal of his long, notched fingers churning anticipation behind your navel. Your skin was burning even before his hands made contact, firm but gentle while lifting your chin, teasing where they lingered against your pulse, the center of your throat.

“How can I be sure you’re not just gonna fall off? Having a hard time standing upright,” he mocks, pushing your legs further apart. Your hand reaches out, clutching his jacket to balance yourself

“Be nice to me,” you plead, tone sweet, a bit helpless. Ghost has always pretended it had no effect on him, but he’s been sloppy and you’re too sharp for your own damn good. “C’mon, I’m sensitive when I’m high.”

“I’ve noticed,” he muttered back, the blunt tips of his nails drawing a down the hollow of your neck. You can still feel how the shiver that knocked up your spine pushes you further into his hands. Orchestrated with an intimate knowledge of your strings.

It’s the half-there look that always gets him, every bit of dreamy and dumb. He knocks his helmet into yours, trying to pull himself away. You spot the pink along his cheekbones when he helps you onto the bike and smile. Beneath his layers of protective padding your fingers found the familiar wave of his happy trail, locking your hands there beneath his jacket. . “Forgot my gloves. You don’t mind, right?”

He was never that good at hiding it.

—

John “Soap” McTavish’s only experience with the stuff was the dry, seedy ditch-weed nabbed by the sewers outlets in his hometown. Curbed him from the habit, not that he didn’t find is indulgences elsewhere. Honestly, he thought the stuff didn’t work on him.

Shrugs when you offer him an edible and just stares at the little gummy in the center of his palm.

“This all I need?” he’d asked. “That’s all you need,” you answered.

Then again ten minutes later. “Should I feel it yet?” — “No, Johnny.”

Twenty. “I think I feel it…” — “Probably not.” — “Yeah, no. Sure they’re not duds?” — “Careful,” you chimed with sage warning. “Say that now and you’ll be on the moon.” — “Bleedin’ counting on it, bonnie.”

It’s a good hour later while you’re both splayed on the floor playing Smash Bros that all of a sudden Soap starts actually being funny. For half of his banter you aren’t entirely sure you can unravel the English from his Scottish, accent thickening tenfold, while the other has you incapacitated, writhing on the floor.

Soap is certain that shit they lit on fire in a water bottle was literally just a bunch of weeds.

Johnny’s got a good sense of humor, but it’s impossible how funny he is high. He doesn’t realize the comedic timing he has sometimes, making his already theatrical expressions even more fantastic. It coaxes you from the giggles to that kind of full-belly laughter leaving you watery eyed and gasping for air. Leaves him looking flushed pink, chest puffed with pride and eyes practically lit up with little hearts.

Johnny had grabbed your ankle, dragging you toward him with only half his strength behind it. “And what’re you laughing at, aye, bonnie? What’s ticklin’ ya?”

Game forgotten, Soap ducks to your ankle to kiss, then the back of your knee. Keeps you squirming when he grazes his chin over the curve of your ass, small of your back. Crawling up your body until he’s stretched over you and can whisper in your ear,

“Don’t stop yet, love. Sweetest fuckin’ noise I’ve ever heard.”

He’s slumped to the side of you, the edible starting to roll over him in dizzying waves. Happy little noises leave his half-parted lips while your nails follow the planes cut by corded muscle across his arms, barely tickling the dark hair there on every odd pass.

He might feel a bit bad for letting you dote over him while he just lays there, but greened is an understatement. Soap understands your sage bit of warning earlier. Feels it from the weightless, blinding surface of the fuckin’ moon.

—

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick likes to take ‘walks’ when he smokes. This is a hike, Garrick — Keep up, love, or this is all mine.

A true gentleman, Kyle already has a perfect pearled joint tucked behind his ear when you meet up. He lights it between your lips and wipes the tears off your cheeks when you get overconfident and hold it wrong, making you cough. “Easy does it now,” he’d sooth, a touch smug. He always is when you agree to go along with his ideas. There’s just always a catch, you know it.

The trail you follow is simple, the wire of his headphones stretching between you, a playlist of songs you’d collected specifically to show each other in your ears. While your eyes are lost in the oversaturated scenery, Gaz is studying the way your lips move along to the music, the curve of your nose. You pass the sweetened paper back and forth until resin is staining the filter and your heads are as syrupy as the smoke.

Kyle keeps a hand tethered to you at all times, like a boy with a balloon. His smooth fingertips are a pillar of support against the fleshy back of your arm, barely there but exactly what you need to keep upright.

Depending on what he’s smoking it’s either endless chatter or deep, musing silence until he’s a bit more back in his body and less in his mind. When it’s the former you’re always treated to his quick wit, and expectant of the most beautiful bullshit prose about leaves blowing in the wind, or the meaning of life, and insists it isn’t just because he’s high. It is very much because he is high.

You keep a Notes page to write down all of his delirious predictions and proclamations, both brilliant and absurd. One definitely outweighs the other. You and Gaz cannot agree which that is.

—

Alejandro Vargas doesn’t smoke, and is pretty intolerant to the stuff. He’s got neither the time or desire for it. The Colonel, famously, doesn’t even drink, love.

This is all information you learned after you found yourself in his lap, a half-smoked joint tucked behind the ear his lips were barely moving against, whispering what you could only half translate. A lot of ‘I want’ and ‘you have’ going around, hot and promising when they moved over your thrumming pulse. It had you giggling, trusting his broad hands to keep you upright while you turned to jelly against them.

The talk catches you quick enough, and though you’re a little embarrassed the news struck with a wash of emboldened delight when Alejandro sought you out again and again.

There’s no pressure from him to cut your habit, but you stick to edibles and blasting through carts in the bathroom instead, always making sure to cover up the scent.

Alejandro is, unsurprisingly, aware every time you do it. His nose is too sharp not to be able to pick it out, and though he hates the smell of pot, Alejandro found himself drawn to the lingering, heady mix of it on your skin since that night, seeking it out on the collar of your jacket, against the corner of your mouth. It’s rare these days that he catches it, but when you join him in bed after a small walk around the backyard, he finds himself wishing you hadn’t blown the smoke downwind. Makes him think of that night, and he breathes against your ear again, heavy.

“What am I going to do with you, pajarito.”

From where you lay against him, your fingers traced the word over his flank. It was cute, little bird. You’ve been called that before.

Your voice was thick with sleep, eyes barely closed when you asked, “Do I look like a bird, Ale?”

The hand still tracing the word is pressed against his lips, humor rumbling and coy when he kisses your knuckle, the flat of his teeth felt between his split smile. Not an answer, but you took it for one, and drifted.

Against your ear, Alejandro half-whispered low in his throat, “It isn’t your features. It’s because you get high like you have wings.”

Through your sleep, you smiled. Checks out.

[sigh-tofm]

when they come home drunk…

… price

- thinks it’s important that he loudly tells you he’s married while you steady him upstairs to bed. points to his ring incessantly, slurs on and on about his perfect wonderful wife with the big ass and soft tummy. you roll your eyes and can’t help but smile when he doesn’t let you hold on to his arm to support him. something about protecting his virtue for his wife, as if you’re not standing right beside him. proceeds to lock you out of your own bedroom when you finally get upstairs, telling you his wife will be home soon so he can’t have a strange woman in their bedroom (but still remarks on your wonderful ass). you decide it’s too early in the morning to persuade your drunk husband to let you in, so you go down to sleep on the couch. you wake up with price sleeping soundly on the floor beside you, having gone to find his wife when she never showed up in his bed the night before.

… kyle

- gets sappy and apologises for being away. loses all concept of time when he’s drunk, says he’s sorry, he didn’t mean to be away so long, he was thinking of you the whole time, the guys pulled him along and he couldn’t say no. while he’s on his knees at your feet, pressing his face to your thighs and mumbling into your marbled skin, almost making you lose your balance with his fervent apologies, you gently remind him that you were the one who made him go out with the boys because he needed to unwind after a stressful weekend of combat drills, and that he had left with them less than two hours ago. he refuses to hear and only hugs your thighs closer, so much so that you have to support yourself on the wall. turns out all he needed to relax was you.

… johnny

- is horny. almost starts drooling when he eyes you at the top of the stairs, after struggling to close the entrance door for a good minute, causing you to investigate what made all the noise. gets a wild look in his eyes when he sees you in just his t-shirt and makes you scream and giggle as he chases you back up the stairs and to the bedroom. being absolutely shitfaced, he has the coordination of a tranquillised moose and stumbles head over heels across the floor, catches his foot on the doorway and narrowly misses the edge of the dresser with his head as he falls. still, his little soldier is courageously tenting his pants when you worriedly lean over him and he gets a good look right into the collar of your shirt.

… simon

- is emotional and clingy. can’t get enough of you, won’t leave you alone. you can’t make out half his words when he’s had this much to drink (and the mancunian in him breaks out too, making it ever harder to make out the words), but you play along, smile and nod and let him sit on the closed toilet seat and talk and talk while you do your night routine in front of the mirror. so lucky to have you, luv. how could’a lug like me get a pretty one like you, luv. his melancholy statements of love become comfortable background noise for you as you remove your makeup and apply moisturiser. lets you wash the sweat and grime of the day off his face with a washcloth, closes his eyes while you massage your floral-scented moisturiser into his skin, never once stopping his little speech. ambles after you out of the bathroom, holding on to the hem of your shirt, when you’re all finished and ready for bed. his devoted mutters only let up when be falls asleep next to you.

[konigsblog]

P!LINK COD MWII MASTERLIST (🌽)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. STRICTLY 18+. ALL MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED.

BEWARE: DARKER THEMES BELOW.

PHOTO CREDIT: GLUTT_R ON 🐦/X

KÖNIG

somnophilia with pervert!könig

taking kidnapper!könig for the first time

size difference with petite!reader and könig

“just the tip, könig.” with loser!könig

loser!könig who loses control (breeding kink)

being groped by kidnapper!könig (hole inspection)

forced breeding with pervert!könig

hope inspection with older boyfriend!könig

virginity loss with könig (virgin!reader)

letting virgin!könig use your body (virginity loss)

raped and recorded by könig

entertainment for kidnapper!könig (non-con)

raped in public by rapist!könig

incel!könig making porn for his online girlfriend

SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY

punishments with brat!reader and simon riley (brat taming)

relaxing simon riley with your pussy

‘obedience’ with simon riley

stepbrother!simon riley and his best friends

humping your stepfather's bulge

car sex with stepbro!simon riley

rough dom!simon riley and his fuck doll

being manhandled by your stepbrother

raped by kidnapper!simon

being filled by simon riley (breeding kink)

hole inspection with simon riley

cock worship with older boyfriend!simon

rough dom!simon x brat!reader (brat taming)

punishments with stepfather!simon

having your attitude fixed by your lieutenant

semi-clothed sex with pervert!simon

raped for intel by lieutenant!simon

JOHN ‘SOAP’ MACTAVISH

pervert!soap x milf!reader (morning sex)

“just the tip, i promise.” with stepbro!soap

your needy stepbro attempting to distract you

rough dom!stepbro!soap punishing you

playful!stepbro!soap and his virgin stepsister virginity loss

stepbro!soap eating you out

cuddling fucking with stepbro!soap

drunken sex with loser!soap

“fuck, don’t stop, bonnie...” handjobs with soap

being fingered by stepbro!soap

mutual masturbation with soap

stepson!soap with stepmom!reader

KYLE ‘GAZ’ GARRICK

shower sex with pervert!gaz

the type of videos gym bro!gaz sends you

riding gaz in your new lingerie

the result of getting high with stepbro!gaz

having your insides rearranged by gaz

riding gaz for the first time

“don’t pull out!” with pervert!gaz

sucking off gaz for the first time (inexperienced!reader)

letting virgin!gaz play with your cunt while you're high

treating soft!gaz to a handjob after his deployment

virgin!reader fucking themselves back on gaz

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE

being eaten out by john price (1)

being eaten out by john price (2)

morning sex with older boyfriend!price

spit play with older boyfriend!price

morning sex with sugar daddy!price

being eaten out by sugar daddy!price

manhandled by price

making out with price

stepdad!price and his slutty, daft stepdaughter

[evermoreal]

thinking abt some kind of outlaw!au where the 141 walk away from a raid with a lot more than they bargained for.

౨ৎ *· edit: this is now a series!

a few weeks back they’d received word of a nobleman and his wife who’d be leaving for their honeymoon, valuables aboard the carriage. after a bit of lurking and bribing, they’d narrowed down just which road was desolate and wild enough to get away with the raid.

concealed by the bordering forests, they’d waited. an embarrassingly opulent carriage came dawdling down the road (polished wood, velvet curtains, ostentatious engravings) & they pounced.

the drivers & guards, they’d expected. the gunshots, the shouting. what took them by surprise, though, was the wife, who did not fight as gaz wrestled her into his arms. who watched a little too closely when ghost dragged his blade across her husband’s chest, demanding the location of their funds.

“where’s’a money?” price questioned, moving towards the woman when her husband’s pride weighed heavier than his cowardice. his broad palm gripped her jaw as gaz held her arms behind her back. “hm, lovey? y’speak english? y’better tell me, or your sweetheart ‘ere ‘ll be gutted before tha night’s over.”

she watched her husband writhe for a long moment, before meeting price’s gaze. her voice was flat, steady. “kill him.”

soap barked a laugh. ghost cocked his head.

price, though, was intrigued.

“kill ‘im?” he echoed. then, he lifted her hand, yanking the diamond ring off her finger and pinching it between his fingers. “wha’ bout this? just a rock, is it? ‘till death do us part’ mean nothin’ to ya?”

“words don’t mean much when you’re forced to say them, sir.”

“forced?” price questions, narrowed eyes flicking across your features. he looks to your husband, then, who’s soiled his pants. “tha fuck is this muppet forcin’?”

price is quiet for a while, watching your husband as he wriggles in ghost’s grip. when he meets your gaze, there’s a small, barely-there curve to his chapped lips. “you really want ‘im dead?” there’s an amusement to his tone, a disbelief.

you steel your gaze. “yes.”

the curve of his lips bends into a grin, and you’ve barely exhaled before he’s lifting his pistol, aiming it at your husband’s head, and shooting.

limp, he falls to the ground.

you don’t flinch. in fact your voice is steady when you state, “the money’s in the chest, beneath the seats.”

once again, price approaches you. grips your jaw, tilts your face this way and that. he taps your cheek twice, and says, “you heard the woman. soap, get the money. gaz, tie ‘er up, she’s with me.”

[chamomiletealeaf]

Being so sensitive to squirting that the 141 make fun of your for it and have little competitions to see who can make you squirt the fastest :(

Johnny holds the record of 37 seconds from fingering you so fast you couldn’t tell when his fingers were inside or out of you.

After their little competition your poor pussy was so swollen and sensitive that all it took was a few rough spanks to your pussy from Price to make you squirt again.

“Oh well look at that? Seems we got a new record holder hm?” Price teases you and Johnny.

“That doesn’t count the competition is over!” Johnny exclaims angrily at Price.

Meanwhile Simon and Gaz are fucking rock hard from watching you squirt again so quickly.

[whateveriwant]

Ghost is the type of dad that, when his kids are driving him up the fucking wall, pinches the bridge of his nose as he thinks to himself “I should’ve pulled out.”

Gaz is the type of dad that, when his kids are giving him attitude, drops them off at Nana’s house because he knows she’ll teach them a thing or two about respect.

Soap is the type of dad that, when his kids are being ungrateful little shits, takes all of the batteries/cables/chargers out of their devices and buries them somewhere in the yard.

Price is the type of dad that, when his kids are getting on his very last nerve, threatens to drop them off outside the nearest animal shelter like a box of unwanted puppies.

[v1x3n]

[grabattheseballsss]

COD P★ LINKS

Yawll……dis is horny… so like fair warning

John price

Price tying you up after he catches you disobeying him by touching yourself :(

Overstimulation with John <3

Price eating you out after a loooooong mission

More price eating pussy (the guy LITERALLY looks like him or am I tripping)

Since you like using them so much, this shouldn’t be a punishment for you, correct ?

John getting you to ride his thigh

Theres a reason why they’re his favourite

Kyle Garrick

Gaz after ruthlessly fucking you for three hours ;3

What you get for flaunting yourself in front of his mates :(

Lazy night in with gaz

Shhh don’t want anyone to hear you

Late night humping with your clingy boyfriend

Roommate! Gaz getting tired of your horny whining

Simon Riley

Just a quick reminder of where you belong

Quick polishing’

A goodbye gift

A welcome home gift

Roommate! Ghost pounding you till you wake up :(

Owner! Ghost with his lil pup

Little film for later

Gettin’ crafty

John McTavish

Riding him until he’s dumb <3

Mornin sex with Johnny boy

Self restrain

Virgin! Johnny

Just his doll

Convincing your friend, Johnny to join your live 🫣

König

Hes just too big you needed a photo for confirmation

Need your colonel to reach you a lesson?

Just a quickie before he leaves for work

Quickie part 2

Good girls beg

[leafavleo]

GHOST would eat you out while kneeling on the bed, keeping your lower body up while you’re laying down on your back. You can’t really move since he’s holding you in his bruising grip. Your hands squeezing the bedsheets as he’s practically making out with your needy pussy.

PRICE is kneeling at the edge of the bed and eating you out religiously. He’s giving you an opportunity to grab his hair and move his head how you like. His beard is tickling the inside of your sensitive thighs. He often puts your legs over his shoulders, giving him more access. He’s a slow but messy eater — your juices wetting his facial hair, your scent staying on him for days.

GAZ is making you sit on his face, grind your clit against his nose while his tongue is buried deep in your dripping cunt. Even better when you’re sitting backward, so you can suck his throbbing dick while he’s lapping at your juices. The feeling of your sweet nectar dripping down his chin is something he’s daydreaming about everyday.

SOAP is eating you out from behind. Burying his face in your asscheeks as he spits and sucks on your pussy lips. Sometimes you’re reaching back to press his head more against your core, making you arch your back which gives him more access to lick your pussy desperately. He loves to bite and slap your butt from time to time, making you squeal in pleasure and slight surprise.

thehehe

[bunny-extract]

I have it in my head that Soap and Gaz are obviously the ones who are always trying to get off base, and they’re in ur room annoying you to come out. Gaz is flicking the lights and Soap’s doing his worst impression of some TikTok audio and you’re just about to tell them to fuck off when Ghost’s head just barely appears in the doorway.

“Get them out of here.” And there is no need for an ‘or’.

[sigh-tofm]

if you still sleep with a stuffed animal…

- price makes sure you don’t feel childish for it. you’re a little reluctant about admitting it first, but there’s no hiding it once you move in. you grip the edge of your shirt and stare down into the floor when he asks you about the well-loved teddy in one of your moving boxes. he embraces you and reminds you of your age and your big girl job, your degree, your car. none of that changes because you sleep with a stuffie, he mutters as his hands find your wide ass. goes on to tell you all the grown up things he wants to do you.

- kyle finds it endearing, even when you’re a little embarrassed to tell him about it. you’re already the most important person in the world to him. a stuffie only makes you more adorable in his eyes. and frankly, he gets it. it’s nice having something soft and warm to hold when you go sleep, he says and winks at you. still, teddy gets turned the other way when you two start undressing each other.

- johnny finds it a little odd, but only because he can fall asleep standing up in a chopper mid-flight, and therefore doesn’t quite understand that you have specific requirements in order to sleep well. but doesn’t tease you for it, instead always making sure teddy’s around for you. brings him out to the living room when you two (now three) are watching a movie and even borrows him for himself when you’re away. claims it’s because he smells like you, denies it’s because he’s growing fond of him too.

- simon treats teddy with the utmost respect. he probably had one too, long ago, until his father destroyed it. he understands your feelings about your stuffie and places him carefully on the floor next to the bed if you two get busy. stitches up his torn seams with his balaclava-thread. slides him gently back under your arm if you’re already asleep when he comes to bed. puts his own arms around you in turn, protecting your back while teddy has your front. still, slips a hand under your shirt to feel the soft skin of your tits to fall asleep to.

[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. 🫶

[slaughter-kin]

YEAH? AND?

[tame-the-lion-writes]

feral omega reader x task force 141

I've read a lot of Task Force 141 being assigned a group omega to force them to chill tf out as an all-alpha pack, BUT!-- imagine instead of taking one from a roster, Price just one day comes back from a mission with an omega he picked up from God knows where, cradling her like she's an injured cat.

The man's got tousled hair and a few scratches on his cheek from trying to wrench poor you out of a dangerous situation. Stuck under a fallen building or in an enemy prison cell, maybe--but that doesn't matter. You're coming home with him cause you've got nowhere else to go. And now you're essentially the feral wet cat adopted by these massive, powerful alphas. Cause omegas are supposed to be sweet and soft and tiny, and they just wanna protect you, but you're only tiny. And you've got a whole lot of teeth. It's both equally endearing and concerning.

Of course, the boys can handle you, though. And by handle, I mean, "Here, kitty, kitty. Please don't bite me this time. See, we're friends now!" At least that was how Soap put it, whereas Price and Ghost just sat in the same space with you until you learned that they were chill. Gaz made peace offerings with food. Soap was the last to enter your good graces.

Meanwhile Kate just tolerates you, since she doesn't know what the hell Price was thinking.

"You could've had anyone from the list, you know. A proper omega who knows how to cook and clean."

"Ah, but where's the fun in that? 'sides, she needed a home like the rest of us."

_

Bonus Thoughts:

Once you've calmed, you're still feisty--just feisty with everyone else but 141. Kate is somewhat of an extension. Not quite pack but trusted by your packmates. You eventually settle for glaring at her from across the room.

Heats? Yes. Sexual heats? Not quite. I imagine feral reader only ever being cuddly during her heats, at least at the start. But do with that what you will--it's one of the few times she initiates touch first. That, and when she's the possessive one--not the boys.

She's also definitely a bit of a kleptomaniac. She's already got one of Ghost's extra masks, Price's bandana, etc. from when they all gave her random stuff to get her used to their scents, but once she's gotten over fighting back, she wants more, more, more. Shirts and jackets start going missing. Even pillowcases. They catch on, of course, but nobody finds anything until Price opens his closet one day, and BAM--one messy hoard of a nest.

"You could've just asked."

Mildly disgruntled hissing.

[whateveriwant]

Ghost is the type of dad that would always be super blunt with his kids. So when his toddler asks him how her little sister came to be in mummy’s belly, instead of weaving a tale of magic wishes and baby-delivering storks, he says simply “We had sex”.

Gaz is the type of dad that would have his kid’s birthday entertainer cancel on him last minute. Good news is that the party store down the road is still open. Bad news is that the Spiderman costume he buys himself is two sizes too small.

Soap is the type of dad that would get kicked out of his kid’s football game because of his unruly behavior in the stands. Apparently, encouraging a group of six year olds to “Bloody kill!” the other team is frowned upon by most parents.

Price is the type of dad that would shave off his facial hair because he wanted to change up his look a little, only to end up scaring his kids (even making his ten month old cry) because they thought a stranger had broken into the house.

[witchthewriter]

Gaz: I sleep with a knife under my pillow.

Soap: Weak. I sleep with a gun.

Y/N: You’re both pathetic

Soap: What do YOU sleep with?

Y/N: Simon.