#task force 141 x you

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; leah rests as you confront laswell over her clear interference. later, a heartfelt plea for the pack’s forgiveness stirs conflicted emotions, forcing you to grapple with resentment and the weight of leadership.

⚠️ warnings; none

��� previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

Leah stayed the rest of the day and night. After finishing her tea and sandwiches, she’d curled up in your room, exhaustion pulling her into a deep, dreamless sleep. Sybil stayed by her side by your instruction, her large form pressed protectively against Leah as though sensing the fragility of her state.

You watched her for a moment before stepping out, closing the door quietly behind you. When you found Fiona in the main hall, you stopped her with a firm look. “Leah is resting in my room. No one goes in—no one—unless I say so. That includes my Mother.”

Her eyes widened briefly, but she recovered quickly, her expression smoothing into the composed professionalism you’d come to expect from her. “Understood,” she said with a small nod.

As you walked back to your studio, the weight of everything pressed down on you—your thoughts swirled, torn between the boundaries of what you could do now and what you could risk for later. You needed clarity, or at least a good understanding of how things had turned out this way. 

The decision solidified as you reached the door to your studio. Pausing briefly, you raised a hand and muttered an incantation under your breath, weaving a ward around the door. The faint shimmer of magic settled over the frame, ensuring no one would disturb you inside.

Once satisfied, you stepped in, closing the door behind you and locking it for good measure. You crossed the room to your desk, the weight of the moment settling heavily in your chest as you reached for your phone.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, the weight of everything unspoken pressing heavily against your chest. The hesitation was brief. With a sharp breath, you tapped the call button.

The line rang twice before her voice came through, tinged with an edge of surprise she couldn’t fully conceal.

“This is unexpected,” Laswell said, her words crisp but laced with curiosity. There was a brief pause, and then she added, more composed now, “How can I help you?”

The neutrality in her tone grated against you, stirring the embers of frustration you’d been holding back for far too long.

“I don’t need your help,” you said firmly, each word clipped.

The silence on her end stretched just long enough to let you know she was regrouping, processing your tone.

“You helped her, didn’t you?” you continued, not giving her a chance to deflect. “You helped Leah get to the coven.”

She exhaled softly, though whether it was in resignation or something else, you couldn’t tell. “She needed closure—”

“You don’t get to decide that,” you interrupted sharply. “I was clear with the pack, and I was clear with you. You don’t get to meddle in my business, Laswell. Not anymore.”

There was a pause, and when she spoke again, her voice was steadier, more guarded. “She was desperate. I made a judgment call.”

You closed your eyes, willing the anger simmering beneath your skin to stay in check. “A judgment call,” you repeated bitterly. “Just like the last time? When you brushed off my concerns? When you refused to see what was happening until it was too late?”

The words hung heavy in the air, the silence on the line louder than anything else.

“I made mistakes,” Laswell said finally, her tone softer but still holding that iron edge. “And I’ve spent every day since trying to fix them.”

You shook your head, though she couldn’t see it. “This is the last time, Laswell. The last time you get involved. I’ll take care of Leah for now because it’s the right thing to do. After this, I’ll see to it personally that she gets back home—safely, where she belongs.”

Laswell didn’t respond immediately, and you imagined her pinching the bridge of her nose in that way she always did when she was trying to decide whether to push back or let it go.

“In a way,” you added after a beat, your tone cooling slightly, “you respected my wishes by not coming to the celebrations. For that, thank you.”

Another pause. Then, finally, her voice came through, subdued but steady. “You’re welcome. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

You didn’t answer. There was nothing left to say. With a sharp flick of your thumb, you ended the call, the screen going dark as the weight in your chest shifted—not lighter, not heavier. Just there.

For a moment, you stood in the silence of your studio, the faint hum of the warded door the only sound. You set the phone down on the desk with a quiet sigh, the conversation leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

. . .

Laswell stood outside your former apothecary, her phone still in hand as she let out a slow, steady breath. The conversation with you had left her more rattled than she cared to admit. Even though she’d managed to hold her composure, your words still lingered, sharp and cutting.

Around her, the scene was bustling. Farah and Alex were inside, sorting through what remained of your belongings. They had accepted her offer of the space—not happily, but only because they respected your wishes. Their sadness was palpable, laced with a quiet anger that neither of them had voiced directly.

Whatever you had left behind, Farah and Alex treated it with care. They tucked away your tools and keepsakes for safekeeping, their movements precise and deliberate. The pack lingered around, their gazes lingering a little too long on certain items, and it wasn’t long before Soap and Gaz tried to sneak something.

Soap, ever the opportunist, had spotted a small trinket—a small wolf charm you’d crafted long ago—and pocketed it with a practiced ease. Gaz, less subtle, had picked up one of your old notebooks, flipping through it with a wistful look before tucking it under his arm.

Farah, already on edge, caught them both in the act. She turned sharply, her glare cutting through the room like a blade.

“Put it back,” she snapped, her voice firm and unwavering.

Soap gave her his best puppy-dog eyes, the kind that usually got him out of trouble. “C’mon, lass,” he said, his voice soft and pleading. “It’s just a wee thing—something to remember her by.”

Farah’s expression didn’t falter. If anything, her glare deepened, her hand resting protectively over the small swell of her belly. “I said, put it back,” she repeated, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Gaz hesitated, glancing between Soap and Farah, but the weight of her stare was too much. With a sheepish nod, he placed the notebook back where he’d found it.

Soap lingered for a moment longer, his fingers brushing the charm in his pocket. Farah stepped closer, her presence towering despite her smaller stature.

“Soap,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

With a resigned sigh, he pulled the charm from his pocket and set it down with exaggerated care. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, backing away with his hands raised. “No need to get cranky.”

Her glare didn’t waver, and Soap quickly retreated to the other side of the room, muttering something under his breath about “pregnancy hormones.” Alex, who had been silently watching from the corner, hid a smirk behind his hand. Farah shot him a look, and he quickly busied himself with organizing another box.

Satisfied, Farah returned to her work, tucking your belongings away with even greater care. 

Back outside, Laswell turned toward the door just as Ghost emerged, a large box balanced effortlessly in his arms. He moved with his usual precision, quiet and efficient, his gaze fixed ahead as though nothing else existed but the task at hand. He didn’t linger, carrying the box to Alex’s truck without a word before heading back inside.

Price followed a few moments later, stepping out with a smaller box tucked under one arm. He set it down near the doorway, dusting off his hands as his sharp gaze settled on Laswell.

“That was her on the phone, wasn’t it?” he asked, his voice low but laced with a pointed edge.

Laswell hesitated, her grip tightening slightly on the phone in her pocket. For a moment, she considered deflecting, brushing him off. But Price’s eyes told her that wouldn’t work.

“Yes,” she admitted finally, tucking the phone away as though trying to put the weight of the conversation out of reach.

Price exhaled heavily, his jaw tightening as he looked toward the apothecary. His fingers brushed over the edge of the box he’d just set down, the movement almost absentminded. “And?”

Laswell squared her shoulders. “And nothing,” she replied, her tone sharper than she intended. “She doesn’t want me—or any of us—involved any further.”

Price’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze hardening as he nodded slowly. “Yes, I figured as much,” he muttered, glancing toward the doorway where Soap had lingered earlier, his usual energy dampened into something far more subdued. “And yet here we are.”

Laswell folded her arms, her gaze flicking toward the truck where Ghost had disappeared moments ago. “She made her wishes clear,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “We’re doing this because it’s what she wanted—for Farah and Alex to have this place, for them to have help.”

Her eyes drifted back toward the apothecary’s open door. “Whether we like it or not.”

Price studied her in silence, his sharp blue eyes as unreadable as ever. After a moment, he gave a curt nod, his posture easing slightly. “Fair enough,” he said gruffly, turning toward the doorway as though considering whether to follow Ghost back inside.

Laswell stayed where she was, her hands slipping into her coat pockets as she stared at the apothecary, her thoughts churning. Ghost had returned to his task with his usual quiet intensity, and Soap had retreated to lean against the wall, his troubled expression a stark contrast to his usual demeanor.

The pack was subdued, their energy tempered by the weight of your absence and the silence of things left unsaid. But as Laswell observed them, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they wouldn’t back down anytime soon.

Something about the way they carried themselves, the way their gazes lingered on your shop, told her this wasn’t the end for them. They’d find a way to keep trying. 

Whatever. That was their business now.

Laswell exhaled softly, brushing off the thought. She had done the best she could, made the decisions she thought were right at the time. Hopefully, with time, the strain between you and her might heal. But for now, she wouldn’t hold her breath.

Her gaze drifted back to the apothecary’s weathered sign hanging above the door. The carved wooden depiction of Sybil stared back at her, elegant and protective.

Laswell hesitated, her hand hovering near the sign, before she finally reached up and carefully unhooked it from its place. The wood was smoother than she expected, its edges worn from time and weather. She brushed off the faint layer of dust that had settled on it, her fingers lingering on the carved lines of Sybil’s regal form.

For a moment, she simply stood there, the sign in her hands, her thoughts tangled between regret and resolution.

This, at least, she could keep safe.

Tucking the sign under her arm, Laswell turned away from the apothecary, her steps steady as she moved toward the truck. She didn’t look back.

. . .

The soft crackle of the fire filled the room as you sat on the sofa, a stack of letters balanced on your lap. Each envelope bore the mark of a coven leader or an influential figure, their words congratulating you on your confirmation and, in some cases, making subtle overtures for future alliances.

You worked methodically, reading through each one and making notes on who deserved a reply, a gift, or a polite dismissal. This was just the beginning, one of many responsibilities you’d have as your Mother’s heir, and though it felt overwhelming, you tackled it with quiet determination.

Sybil lay curled at your feet, her coat gleaming in the firelight, her slow, even breaths a comforting rhythm.

A stir from the bed caught your attention, and you glanced over to see Leah shifting, her eyes fluttering open. She sat up slowly, her movements more assured than they had been earlier. Her cheeks, once pale and hollow, held a hint of color now. It wasn’t surprising—the food, tea, and subtle spells you had cast were meant to revitalize her, to help her heal from the inside out.

Now, as she stretched and blinked at the firelight, she looked better—if a little hesitant. Her gaze shifted to you, her head tilting curiously as she noticed the stack of letters.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice soft but steadier now, carrying a confidence that hadn’t been there before.

“Replying to letters,” you said absently, flipping to the next one. 

Leah swung her legs over the edge of the bed, watching you carefully. The silence stretched, but you let it. You were too absorbed in the task at hand to press her further.

To your surprise, she broke the quiet with an abrupt question, one that made your pen still over the paper.

“Do you think you can forgive the pack?”

Your head snapped up, your eyes meeting hers in the flickering firelight. For a moment, you weren’t sure you had heard her correctly.

“Excuse me?”

Leah shifted uncomfortably but didn’t back down. Her light brown gaze held yours, steady despite the tension that suddenly filled the room. “I said… do you think you can forgive them? The pack. For what happened.”

Your expression hardened instinctively, the calm you had been cultivating unraveling in an instant. 

She bit her lip, glancing toward the fire before looking back at you. “It wasn’t their fault. Not entirely.”

You sighed softly, setting the letters aside as you straightened in your seat. “Not entirely,” you echoed, your tone sharper now. “That doesn’t change the damage they caused. To me. To themselves. To you.”

Leah hesitated, but there was a flicker of determination in her expression as she pressed on. “I’m not saying what happened was okay. It wasn’t. But they’re… broken. And I think—no, I know—they’d do anything to fix it if you’d let them.”

You stared at her, your thoughts churning. It wasn’t an easy thing to consider, not after everything.

Leah’s voice softened, her earlier confidence faltering just slightly. “I’m asking because… if you don’t forgive them, I’m not sure they’ll ever forgive themselves.”

The weight of her words hung heavily in the air, and for a moment, the only sound was the fire’s crackle and Sybil’s soft breathing.

You took a long, measured look at Leah. For the first time, you saw her clearly—not the broken, haunted version she had been when she arrived, but the person she truly was beneath it all. Her beauty wasn’t just in her features, though those were striking; it was in her kindness, the quiet determination in her voice as she spoke on behalf of others.

She wasn’t pleading for herself, not really. She was pleading for them—for the pack that had been as much victims as they were perpetrators. It was selfless, genuine, and painfully earnest.

It made the weight of your resentment feel… pitiful.

You glanced toward the fire, your thoughts swirling as you turned her words over in your mind. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps forgiveness could give them something they couldn’t find on their own.

But even as you considered it, a familiar truth settled heavily in your chest. Forgiveness was one thing. Forgetting was another entirely.

Your gaze returned to Leah, and you let out a quiet sigh, your voice softer now as you finally spoke. “I may forgive them one day, Leah. But I won’t forget. I can’t.”

Leah’s expression shifted, her lips parting slightly as though to protest, but she stopped herself. Instead, she nodded, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she seemed to accept your words.

“That’s fair,” she said quietly, her hands resting in her lap. “I just… I hope, for their sake, that forgiveness will be enough.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you leaned back against the sofa, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the room. Sybil shifted at your feet, her dark eyes watching you intently.

“I’ll think about it,” you said finally, your tone carrying more weight than you intended. “That’s all I can promise for now.”

Leah nodded again, her gaze dropping briefly to Sybil before returning to you. “That’s all anyone can ask for.”

The room fell quiet again, the crackle of the fire filling the space as Leah settled back onto the bed. You returned to your letters, but your thoughts lingered on her words—and the truth of what they might mean for you, the pack, and everything that lay ahead.

banner credit

[stargirlstabber]

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

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Ghost: I cut my finger Y/N: I can kiss it so it'll get better Ghost: That works? Y/N: Yeah my mum used to do it when I was little *later* Ghost: I need you to punch me in the mouth Roach: Fucking finally

[7s3ven]

FILE LOADING… tf 141 x hacker! reader

pt one

You needed a way to lighten your prison sentence and Task Force needed a hacker who actually knew what they were doing.

It was a win-win situation if it wasn’t for the fact that you always work alone. Teamwork? That was an unheard concept to you.

You, with a criminal record so long it could be used as a blanket. You who came from a mafia family so it’s no wonder such a sweet looking doll ended up in prison for stealing valuable files.

Task Force 141, an elite squad who had no idea how to spend their hefty pay checks. The idea of a special woman in their lives was merely a figment of their imagination until Laswell threw your files down in front of him.

You were young, barely twenty-seven. The tattoo ink decorating your body with feminine designs was a harsh contrast to your background. And when you sneered at the camera, it gave a perfect view of your tongue piercing and gems adorning your teeth.

In short, you were the perfect little thing they could spoil.

“Reaper? Why do they call her that?”

“Because it’s the last name you learn before a bullet pierces your fucking skull. Once she steals your information, there’s no getting it back. And when she shares it with your enemies, you’re a deadman walking.”

[gloomwitchwrites]

141 when a younger recruit has a very obvious crush on you (not dating yet)

Oh, anon. I had fun with this one. Simply because it's a "we aren't dating yet so why are you jealous" scenario just waiting to happen. That's where my mind went with this. The boys have zero claim on you but they are possessive and territorial as fuck. omg. Do you hear that? It's me standing outside screaming because I need to get a fucking grip. Anyway! Enjoy!

Presented in four double drabbles.

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

Task Force 141 x Reader (gn!reader except on Simon's)

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): hidden feelings, jealousy, possessive behavior, intimidation, crushes, suggestive themes, swearing

Word Count: 800

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

John Price

John is the superior here. He's the one in charge.

Yet he feels completely out of control.

This isn't happening. This isn't fucking happening. He has spent months—months gently putting himself before you. Jealousy and possession are strange to him. They don’t come easy. And yet here they are, eating him from the inside out, chewing away at his resolve.

Anger and irritation are starting to seep in.

A new recruit with an obvious crush shouldn't make him this irate. There isn't any competition, but John can't help himself. All he sees is this wanker making eyes at you, speaking softly and with such tenderness that it's driving John up the fucking wall.

Which is insane. Stupid. You do not belong to him. The two of you are not dating—not anything—but somehow that doesn't matter.

His feet are moving before he even realizes it. The recruit turns in John's direction and instantly pales.

Good. Fucking good.

You turn too, brow furrowed.

"Captain?" asks the recruit, straightening his spine.

John shoves himself between, staring the recruit down, all venom. "You're wanted elsewhere."

"Y—yes. Sir."

The recruit salutes and takes off, the primal jealousy purring softly with contentment.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle is going to grind his teeth into dust if he doesn’t unclench his jaw.

What the fuck is this bloke doing over on this side of the complex anyway? He’s a goddamn new recruit. Freshly arrived and still green.

Do you even realize he’s flirting? Kyle can tell just be the way he stands far too close, or the subtle way he touches your arm. His smile is stupidly large. The man is completely struck by you. You appear completely oblivious, having a conversation with him like there’s nothing amiss.

Nope. Kyle is pissed. Furious. Which is fucking ridiculous. The two of you are not a couple, even though Kyle wishes otherwise.

“You look right scunnered.” Soap appears at Kyle’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“That,” he growls.

Soap frowns, following Kyle’s line of sight. Soap’s frown turns to a knowing smirk. He turns it on Kyle with a mischievous glint. “Want Ghost to scare the shit out of him?”

The rest of the team knows how Kyle feels about you even if they don’t comment on it.

“That would be great,” says Kyle flatly.

Soap lightly pats Kyle’s shoulder. Turning around, he cups his hands around his mouth. “Hey, Lt!”

John "Soap" MacTavish

"I could rig an explosive. Put it under his bunk. That’d be fucking brilliant,” murmurs Johnny.

"We're looking to scare him. Not to maim everyone in his immediate radius,” replies Kyle.

"What about a firework? Poppers? Oh! A stink bomb?"

"That’s fucking childish, Johnny,” mutters Simon.

Johnny isn't jealous. Really, he's not.

He's just...protective. That's what he tells himself anyway.

Kyle, Johnny, and Simon observe you from across the communal gym. A new recruit from the latest batch is hanging on the ropes of the boxing ring. His stance is casual, skin glistening with sweat as he gives you his best smile while he chats you up.

The lad is putting it on thick, and Johnny is having none of it.

You are not Johnny’s spouse. You are not dating. You are not his…anything.

But that hardly matters.

Because Johnny has stolen plenty of kisses from you. He’s put his hands on your body. He’s been far too close for the comfort of a coworker or friend. In that, there is a claim. Johnny can draw the line somewhere.

He is so close to making you his.

No one is getting in his way. Not even a charming new recruit.

Simon "Ghost" Riley (Female Reader)

"Don't do it, Simon. It's not worth it."

Johnny's words don't satiate the anger. Rage is boiling beneath Simon's skin. It is white hot—fierce. All of this emotion and yet Simon has no claim over you.

It still hurts. Still aches.

The two of you are not together—not dating. But it's Simon's name you scream with pleasure, and that counts for fucking something.

His fists clench, muscles coiled with wrought tension. Johnny places his hands on Simon's shoulders and shoves him back down in his seat. If Simon weren’t ready to flay his newest target alive, Johnny wouldn’t be so bold.

"Remove. Your. Hands," growls Simon, slowly.

Kyle grimaces, his gaze darting between Simon and Johnny. He looks ready to jump in if Johnny needs him.

"I'm doing this for you, Lt,” murmurs Johnny, even as his hands keep the pressure.

"She's mine."

"We know,” reply Johnny and Kyle in unison.

One of the new recruits is putting on his best performance, following you around like a lovesick puppy. Johnny is right. Simon can't go over there and knock the man to the ground, no matter how much he wants to.

"Take a deep breath, Lt."

"I'm trying."

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[sigh-tofm]

the night before they leave for deployment…

… price

- takes you out. you go to an expensive restaurant and eat the best they have. cost is not an issue. price orders two fingers of their finest bourbon and you get a glass of whatever you want. you go for a little walk after, hand in hand, just pretending to be two regular people in a regular relationship. you’re home at a sensible time (price needs to sleep a fair few hours before deploying) and you sit in the bathroom, gazing at him as he trims his moustache with that hard look in his eyes. he’s had last nights like these too many times to be wondering about what is waiting for him in the morning. he knows it won’t be pleasant, so there’s no use in pretending. later, in bed, he pulls you onto his chest and holds you there, knowing the next time it he falls asleep it will be with a cold, hard rifle in his arms. better savour your warm, soft body for as long as he can.

… kyle

- just wants to be intimate with you. not sex, but closeness. you sit him in front of the bathroom mirror and trim his hair, he lays you down on the rug in the living room and works through all your muscle knots. you do facemasks together. you sit side by side on kitchen chairs pulled into the bathroom with your feet in the tub, taking a footbath together. you uncork one of the your fancier bottles of wine (kyle only has a small glass, can’t risk getting hungover the day after) and drink it with your favourite takeout. you go to bed together, holding each other, breathing each other in. if this is the last night, it better be the best night.

… johnny

- has you in his favourite positions. you let him manipulate your body and fulfil his fantasies with you. afterwards you take a long shower together, you touch up is mohawk after, stroke him all over. committing every detail, every scar and mole, to memory. he does the same with you, although you suspect it’s mostly to have wank material for late nights or long watches when he’s deployed. no matter. you order takeout when you’re both dressed again, eat it on the floor in front of the sofa while watching a stupid comedy. anything to take your minds off of the inevitable. you go to bed late and he spoons you. you don’t mind how tightly he holds you, knowing that when you wake up, you will be alone.

… simon

- behaves a little eerie. you don’t know exactly how he changes, how he becomes this ghost-person you have only heard stories of from johnny. you know simon tries to keep you away from it all and never brings work home, least of all his mask. he spends the last night with you on the sofa, him sitting sideways and you on his lap. you’ve ordered good food, and while you eat and watch the movie, he watches you. boring into you with those amber eyes. you don’t comment on it, understanding that this is some kind of ritual for him. knowing that you are real, that you exist, that he needs to come home to you. you speak very little, only pragmatic sentences about passing the pop. the first few times it unnerved you, the way he was so quiet, but now you enjoy getting to be what he needs, however little you understand the process. eventually you both fall asleep on the sofa, and when you wake up you’re tucked neatly into bed, alone.

[luxcuriousao3]

Imagining another angsty and implausible scenario with the 141 cuz why not.

The 141 goes undercover and meet you, a sweet little thing who has no idea what the people she works for actually do. Think oblivious hostess at a restaurant that's actually a mafia front. And fuck if you're not a distraction, greeting them with a pretty smile every morning, asking about their day, offering to help whatever task they have to do. (They've been ordered to go kill a few someones. You were thinking more along the lines of fetching the tea while they did paper work). Johnny definitely fucks you at some point. He can't help himself. Dog with a bone, that one.

Cue their cover being blown, and when more traditional methods of torture prove unsuccessful, your boss decides to use their fondness for you against them.

And thus begins one of my favorite tropes, "being tortured in front of your love interest."

[midnightcrw]

Even though Simon is quite an intimidating man and most people are afraid of him, sometimes he's quite adorable, especially when he has a fever. With the blanket pulled up to his chin and the pillows all fluffed up, all you can see is his head while his nose is red from blowing it on tissues.

Though you would never admit out loud that you find him adorable like that, you think it's obvious from the way Simon looks at you with a deadpan expression on his face.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," you scold him lightly as you put both hands on your hips.

"Then don't treat me like a baby," his voice was hoarse because of his cold, and it sounded different because his nose was all stuffy.

And hearing him sound like that made you bite your lip, trying to stop yourself from cooing, which you definitely didn't succeed in doing.

"Get out," he coughed in between as he slowly turned away from you.

"But-"

"Out."

And that's when you immediately left your shared bedroom.

"Open your mouth."

"I never thought I would hear these words from you," Simon said with a raspy tone.

"Open!" He knew you were frustrated and that's why he now kept his mouth tightly shut, just to provoke you even more.

"Come on," you said as you pushed the spoon full of cough syrup towards his lips, but Simon just shook his head frantically as he dodged the spoon, causing some of the syrup to drip onto the sheets.

You let out a heavy sigh of annoyance while cursing inwardly as you stood up to get the wet wipes to clean up at least some of it, but not before you caught Simon grinning at you like an idiot.

"I saw that!" you yelled as you slammed the door shut.

"I wasn't even hiding it!" Simon tried to shout back, which ended in a coughing fit.

[fishsinsareacknowledged]

Idk something bout the 141 with a cryptic ass nurse. The way they look in worry and not curiosity when you patch one of them up. How you seem to always know whats wrong with them before they even tell you. The way that you fix them up with an almost 100% accuracy. You're the best nurse and the most terrifying, the way your eyes glance at blood and gore with too much interest scares them.

The way your cold cold hands stitch them up with too much perfection, no mistakes as if you treat them like your own patch up dolls. Always getting injured and never injured yourself.

One day, Price asks Laswell where she got you, only for said woman to sigh and tell them not to ask about it. They wanted a healer they got one didn't they? Especially with the base's waiting time, it was far quicker and they did get treatment faster but it doesn't erase the way your eyes always go through them. Organs for your own amusement.

Never making time to even converse with them before you're back in your own little private room, doing whatever. It makes them feel less than human around you and yet they feel more alive.

It shuts down one day when Soap asks you what your name is. Strange isn't it, not even on the file price got did he have clearance to your name. And yet no matter how many times you repeat your name the scot can't catch it. So they settle on "Lass", based on Johnny's nickname giving. At least you follow them around now.

[barrackspredator]

Lead Guitarist!Price who writes the lyrics and takes the lead on most of the interviews.

Rhythm Guitarist!Gaz who swoons all the ladies with his voice and charming personality.

Bassist!Ghost who writes the music sheets and can’t be bothered to attend interviews, or deal with fans.

Drummer!Soap who isn’t trusted to speak during interviews and likes to get messy with haters in the crowd.

Groupie!Reader who spends a lot of time getting passed around in the tour bus.

[lxvvie]

How do you think the 141 would react if their partner was playfully mad at them in the morning because they had a dream where he cheated on them?

Price - The one who shrugs it off with that chonky-cheek smile of his because this isn't the first time he's dealt with something like this. Yours just happened to be the tamest reaction.

Gaz - The one who jokes back on some, "I cheated with you, darling," type shit which makes you snort in response.

Soap - The one who's genuinely confused as to who he'd cheat on you with because... who would he cheat on you with? Plays it cool, though, and proceeds to show you in many ways why you're the ONLY one for him, bonnie. ❤️

Ghost - The one who fucks it all up by giving you sass and sarcasm which actually gets you angry, puts him in the doghouse, and earns him a spot on the couch that night. Ghost doesn't give a fuck, thinks it was the most hilarious shit ever (if his chuckle at your indignation was any indication), and brings you into the living room to sleep on the couch with him because it's you and him against the world. And the couch.

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ synopsis; you thought your bond with the pack was unshakable—until an unexpected stranger arrives in town. suddenly, you find yourself pushed out of their hearts. now you must uncover the truth before it’s too late, or risk losing everything.

↣ moodboard

chapter one;

chapter two;

chapter three;

chapter four;

chapter five;

chapter six;

chapter seven;

chapter eight;

chapter nine;

chapter ten;

chapter eleven;

chapter twelve;

chapter thirteen;

chapter fourteen;

chapter fifteen;

chapter sixteen;

chapter seventeen;

chapter eighteen;

chapter nineteen;

chapter twenty;

chapter twenty-one;

epilogue

banner credit

[meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender]

Summary: When the god of the Winter needed a messenger, he had chosen you. Yet your elders wanted you dead. But John Price, the god of the Winter, had other plans for his devotee. Eventual Poly 141.

A/N: Leaving this here, then backing away slowly. If you like, please comment and reblog. Special thanks to @itsagrimm for editing, even though you aren't into the type of writing. Thank you to @ethereal-night-fairy and @wildflower-and-honey for feeding my brain worms. I love you three and cannot thank y'all enough <3 Thank you, @saradika, for your beautiful dividers that I use in literally everything.

CW: (18+) Children begone! PIV smut, swearing, a Dyslexic wrote this, Religious Kinks, brief mention of suicide, brief mention of hypothetical pregnancy because what is John Price without a breeding kink? Voyeurism, exhibitionism, praise kink, elements of paranoia, and mindreader elements.

NO AI

Leave a comment and reblog!

You had been abandoned. Sent aimlessly into the east by your deceiving elders to find the oh-so-benevolent god of Winter. Your people had discarded you, and perhaps, you had now been forsaken by the Holy One. Under the new winter moon, you had no bearing in these strange woods. You were lost and without hope. Stumbling into a thicket, you paused, catching your breath. Once your village elders cut your binds and removed the blade from your still bleeding throat, you ran. You had three options now: find the Winter God John Price and beg for mercy, return home to your village to die by your elder’s blade, or finally, die by a frozen death.

 

Yanking down the sleeves of your dress, you shivered. Only a fool would think the thin lace would be enough to fight the cold. You hadn’t bothered to ask for a cape when you would be dead come dawn by the blade of your elders or the mercy of winter’s chill. Besides, if the elders thought it could help entice the winter god closer to you, you welcomed the possibility. The god liked fine things- the fragility of ice coating sleeping trees, the nuanced tendrils that composed a snowflake, the finespun embroidery on an altar cloth. Perhaps the gossamer lace of your gown would make you look as alluring as snow?

 

Your village worshiped the god of the East along with his three other seasonal counterparts. In the winter, the altar faced east for John. In the spring, it faced north for Kyle. In the summer, the altar faced west for Johnny, followed by facing south in the Autumn for the one they called Ghost. You traversed the mezzanine of the aged temple as if it was your birthing ground, dedicating yourself to the unknown and to what divine vexed within. 

 

A creature howled in the far distance, three more joining in the call. You wished you had a blade for protection, but the foolish  elders would not allow it after the last messenger sent to find the God of Winter killed himself. He died from fear of the gods with his body left for the animals starved for winter scraps according to the elders. The collapsed skull and bloodied rock meant otherwise. You would become like the warrior- murdered- if you didn’t keep moving.

 

At least you’d be dead if you stopped moving, and wasn’t that something to rejoice over for the elders? They wanted you gone the moment you opened your mouth, defending the holy temples in a burning righteousness against their infidelity. The elders mocked your faith, staging a spectacle to rejoice in their perceived standings with the holy gods, to enshroud their continued greed of village resources, and holy temple offerings while preventing you from stepping foot inside the sacred temple. 

 

All you wanted was to worship your gods in peace and for your village to know that peace. 

 

A branch snapped in the distance. Setting your foot down ever so quietly, you glared into the darkness of the night. In your chest, your lungs froze as if a tiny breath could lead starving beasts toward you, but your heart tapped a wild rhythm against your bones like a war drum urging warriors forward in battle. Between the bones of the trees, a figure raised from the ground. Dirt quaked in its path, fearing the disturbance as flashes of odd whites and black wove into a tall, hulking beast emerging like smoke. The vaporous monster inhaled. It was as if he sucked the forest in with his expanding breath, the conductor of the skeletal structure of the land. The one who assembled appendages of bone like armor and crown, marking his distinct otherness to any creature known before. Opening his eyes, bright gold light flared from its eye sockets, a perpetual fire, locked on burning you alive.

 

You ran. Barreling through the underbrush, thorns cut and tore at your dress, slowing you down. Pushing deeper into the woods, you dared not glimpse back at the monstrous shape. The gods, you prayed, would give one last indulgence by sparing your life. Dodging fallen trees and saplings, you heaved for a breath. Your toe caught on something sending you tumbling forward, down the hill, to be stopped by a mangled stump. There was little to be felt from the roar in your mind and blood careening to endure, to run, to survive.

 

Looking up, the terrifying haint peered down at you with its head tilted to the side, lazily biding his time hunting you. Fleeing, you made way towards the river that supplied the village with water. The monsters couldn’t cross the running water at the bottom of the ravine. Everybody knew that. Your breath created puffs of smoke with each gasp of air, streaming from your lips like a dragon’s purr.

 

Down at the river, you paused, cursing at your luck. The river was frozen over, but how deep the ice went was beyond you. You had to cross, fighting for a chance at life and to find John Price to appeal for assistance proving your claims. Taking a deep breath, you ventured on the ice, straining your ears for cracking and shifting sounds. Freedom sang like a siren from the other side of the waters with the promise of faith delivering you into her hands. On the other side was an assurance of one more day in your beloved temples with the beloved gods, of life, and of being free from the elders.

 

Without the freedom to roam the holy grounds of faith, what would be left for you?

 

You slipped with a screech, flailing until you caught your balance. Your hands trembled as breath fogged the air. Crossing was the only option, regardless of death prowling down to find you. The thought of the being sent shivers down your spine, and you squeezed your eyes shut as if it would banish the evil and push you across the waters.

 

“Stop!” A man bellowed like thunder echoing in the ravine. You jumped, slipping on the ice. With an assured crack, the ice broke, plunging you into the icy waters.

 

You gasped, choking on river water. Kicking to the surface, you were met with a ceiling of ice. You hit the ice with your hand to no prevail until the bubbles from your nose dissipated and a film of darkness descended upon your peripherals. In the gloom, eyes of golden fire shimmered at you, refracted by the ice, illuminated by the flash of lightning. 

It smelled like oak and spices as you inhaled. The bed you laid in was spacious, a soft luxury you sunk greedily into. Moments of time slowly returned to you as you stirred, until a tapestry unfolded, painting what had occurred in the woods to you. How you had survived drowning or hypothermia was beyond you, feeling none of it, now. Cocooned tightly in thick blankets, albeit naked as the day you were born, sleep still called in the comfort of the home. A warm crackle of a fireplace and the deep mutterings of men speaking filled your ears as you blinked. In your nest, you buried further in, savoring the needed heat with a sigh with your eyes peeking over the cover.

 

The two men, seated in the corner, had stopped conversing to stare at you. One was slim but muscular, with dark skin and shining brown eyes. He wore a grin both authentic and sly as if mischief personified, waiting for his time to strike and laugh at your mild misfortune. 

 

The other man was a bear. Thick, burly, legs with sizable thighs spread to consume room; it seemed all he did was call attention to himself. The cocky spread of his legs to the icy blues of his eyes; your neck burned as he smirked, having caught you staring.

 

“Hello, Fawn,” The bear rumbled, intentionally softening his voice and leaning down as if afraid to spook you like the little deer.

 

“Ghost found you,” injected the younger one. “It took him and Soap to pull you from the ice and bring you home. That was pretty stupid; getting on the ice like that. Haven’t people told you not to do that?”

 

Getting on the ice was stupid, but letting yourself get consumed and murdered by a beast was even worse. You had half a mind to tell the younger man your thoughts on the matter, but here you were, naked in a stranger's bed… alive. While grateful, you needed to leave. The task to find John and plead for his assistance in clearing the village of your awful elders still loomed, as did the precarious nature of being nude in a room of two strong men. 

 

“I’m looking for someone,” You mumbled. “I had no choice.”

 

“I know,” The older man hummed before speaking your name like a whisper of wind on your ear. 

 

The God of Winter . Your spine went straight before you bolted upright, clinging the blankets to your chest. These men were not men at all but your four holy gods. There was half a mind to shuck off the blankets and fall to your knees in reverence. You had offered prayers while bathing before; was this any different? As you shifted, apologized, and begged for pardons on the tip of your lips, John shook his head and stood.

 

“Gaz, go let Soap and Ghost know our fawn is all right,” John said, clasping Gaz on the shoulder. Gaz promptly left the room, closing the wooden door behind him, not before offering you one final comforting grin.

 

“I am sorry. I had to find you. The elders sent me to the woods to murder me. And… I didn’t know what else to do but to seek your help. I’m so sorry, please forgive me. The elders are murdering anyone who dares question them. Nobody believes me even though I have proof! The village will not survive the winter because of our elder’s theft from them and of the temple and I need your help. I have done nothing wrong except be loyal to you, John,” You rushed out in a single breath. “Please, help me. Help us .”

 

John set his hand on your cheek, running his thumb over your warming cheeks. A violent shiver sprung through your body, encouraging you closer to the god. You closed your eyes and nuzzled into his palm, lulled by the smell of spices and the alluringness of being physically held by him. Finally, you had removed the burden of secrecy and responsibility and John took it lightly with his hands soothing the ache from your skin with the glide of his fingers. 

 

“Love, you’re being too harsh. There is no reason to apologize,” He reassured you with a kiss on your forehead. “The fault lies with your elders. You have done all I have asked of you and more. Do not agonize yourself over the stubbornness of others. It will get you nowhere.”

 

You closed your mouth and held his wrist, keeping him to you. You thought of all your nights spent praying to the god of Winter when sleep evaded you. When you screamed or cried your prayers in agony, begging the divine god of winter to make himself known to you so that your faith was not in vain and your people could be free from the elders. 

 

But what of your people? What choice would they make? The old gods were worshiped only in tradition and the elders had slowly pushed your people further from the gods as the temple began to deteriorate. 

 

You were always dedicated to the divine in odd ways. Observant gifts of John’s favorite flowers and drinks were left on your homemade altar—prayers written on little papers in a box. Spare time spent tending to the aged temple and cleaning it, preparing it for worship. Devotion in wearing John’s favorite color as a ribbon around your wrist, bearing his color like a mark of ownership over you. 

 

It was… your stomach clenched as you remembered bathing in his favorite fragrances, the soap trailing between your breasts, water falling as gracefully as the curves of your skin, for his solstice day. Later that night, deciding to offer John an orgasm on a lust-induced whim. When you came down from your high, you swore you could feel the divine by your knees, looking down at the mess you had made, dribbling into the sheets. The idea of him voyeuring into your bedroom made you leak, reaching a bold hand down to part your lips for him to see your swollen clit.

 

“What you want from us, little Fawn,” John tilted his chin to look you in the eyes as his warm toned voice dipped between your thighs to make them clench. “Comes at a high cost for you.”

 

“And let my people suffer from the elder’s greed? Surely, you understand how harsh winter can be! And to let the gods lay waste when this is proof you still are near has to be blasphemy. I don’t want to die, but I’d rather try dying than be left bystanding in silence, rotting away-”

 

John took your neck in hand and hulled you to your feet. Your words died on your tongue as his nose pressed into your cheek. Chests pressed together, his human form radiated heat and softness protecting layers of muscle and power. You wondered briefly if his divine form would look more bear or beast, unleashing the thrum of calculated energy pulsing inside the god.

 

“Fawn, martyrdom is for suicidal fools. Not even the martyrs ask for their portion, they stumble upon it trying to uphold the will of the gods which threatens the portions and powers that be in your mortal world,” John shook your head ever so slightly, pressing closer until you gasped, looking up at him with wide eyes. Dark as ice, they pierced into you flickering from your eyes to your mouth, the urgency he held you with inching into territories you were unsure of but eager to explore. His eyes flickered down for a moment, and you shivered at your exposure, pressing your face into his neck as if to hide. “You will stay the night but come dawn, you must return home to live for us.” John instructed, pushing your hair from your neck. Leaning down, he nipped the bottom of your ear playfully, kissing along your neck.

 

You hummed, offering your neck to his lips. It didn’t matter if you had laid with a million other people before or none at all. You yearned for the assured solidity of the gods, and now you had it. They could have your body, the works of your hands, the words of your mouth, the paths of your feet. You only wanted to be near John, safe, nestled into his side, even if for a little while. To be welcomed into the god of winter’s bed for even a night? The idea made your thighs slickened with want, heat pooling in your stomach.

 

Everything in your bones wanted to please him, to let him have his fill of you, to honor him with the best of your skin and body. You’d get on your knees for him. Suck his cock until you are panting, with his cum on your tongue. You wanted to be good . You let out a little whine, a soft vibration in your throat. John chuckled, coming up from your throat to kiss you properly, all while moving you on the bed.

 

He kissed down your throat, gently touching your chest with the hints of friction making you squirm, tangling your fingers in his hair.

 

“I want you to soak my fingers and cock with this pretty cunt tonight, Fawn” John decidedly spoke. You eagerly nodded, humming as his hand squeezed the fat of your stomach. 

 

You opened your thighs as he descended between them, grinning as he knelt before you. You could have laughed at his eagerness if it wasn’t for the gentle, inquiring sweep of his finger through your folds, collecting your wetness. A sigh fell from your lips as he played with your cunt, a pleasant warmth filling your mind as your legs found a home on his shoulders, your hand on the back of his neck, scratching the short hairs there.

    

“Been thinkin’ about this pretty pussy since you showed her to me,” John growled, thumb swirling on your clit just as you had when you played yourself for him. Your knees bent, pushing your pelvis to catch the angle just right . “Offered me use of your body, a delicacy, to use as I please. Perfect little human for me to fuck whenever,” He growled before putting his mouth to work, sucking on your clit.

 

You keened, bucking your cunt into his face. John devoured you whole, feasted on you, your head in the clouds, floating with nothing to tether you but his mouth. The god of winter’s fingers prodded your entrance, slipping in with a slight stretch. His fucking hands, reaching depths you could never achieve on your own, made you moan, opening your eyes to watch him. From below your stomach, John was fully committed, eyes closed, grunting against your cunt.

 

John fought against your legs, drawing out the pulsing waves of pleasure until your ears were ringing, vision white, cresting into a beautiful brainless hum as your body went limp. 

 

“Fuck, John, I can’t,” You whimpered, pushing his forehead back. Your chest heaved, hands grasping for anything you could reach until he slid his hand in yours, anchoring you to him. He moved, and you closed your sticky thighs, clenching at the slick dribbling down. John reverently kissed your collarbone, hands brushing over your scalp, lulling you from the cloudy space.

 

His lips kissed along your neck and chest as his hands wandered along your hips and thighs, rough fingers tickling the sensitive skin of your ass. Your eyes opened, greeted by his gentle gaze as he hovered over you. His mouth had been pinkened by your cunt, hair mused by your thighs and hands. 

 

Grabbing his hand, you kissed his palm before licking the fingers that had been inside of you moments before. Something was intoxicating about the way you tasted, strong and delicious. Taking his fingers in your mouth, you hummed, thinking about how much thicker his cock would feel. John swore, pushing his fingers against your tongue, stilling your control. You moaned, letting your eyes close and legs fall open. Holding his arm, you could feel how your tits were pressed together by your biceps, making you not only a sight but a spectacle .

 

“Want my cock that bad, little fawn?” John teased. Opening your eyes, you nodded, nudging him closer with your foot. Removing his fingers, he drug his hand down your centerline, leaving a cold trail of your spit down your body. He slowly entered you, grunting with his eyes glued to the way you sucked him in.

 

“Fuck, John,” You whimpered, panting at the fullness pressing you open. His thumb rubbed your clit, lulling you back to another orgasm. Spreading your legs, he placed a knee on the bed as he began to thrust, covering his cock in your frothy slick.

 

It was hot and so, so full as he reached parts of you that had you gasping for air and tearing up. There was no pinch, only a subtle burn from the stretch, soothed by his cooing in your ear and thumb working wonders on your clit. Shifting his hips, he fed you more of his cock, making your vision go frayed around the edges. If your brain could leak away, it would slowly leak out with the wetness of your cunt.

 

“Just like that, fawn,” John encouraged, making you clench around him. “My little offering to take as I want, letting me use you like a good girl,” John grunted as you clenched around him, his hands falling to your stomach and hip, selfishly grasping at the plush skin to pull and drag you off his cock with.

 

“I’m,” You whined, clawing at the god’s massive arms, rippling with movement. “Please, John! Feels so good, filled up,” You babbled, trying to run closer and further with each thrust.

 

His other hand laid over the base of your throat, curling possessively around, forcing your eyes to his, forehead to forehead, as he pressed and pressed into your cunt, stretching you wide and filling you perfectly.

 

“Pretty wet cunt, dripping for me,” John’s lips brushed your ear, moaning into it. He reached a hand to gently pinch your nipple, making you gasp. “Rub yourself for me. Let me see you soak my cock.”

 

You slid a hand between your thighs and rubbed your clit, spreading your lips wider, feeling fully exposed, unable to help the moan and the chasing buck of your hips, humping the tight heat pooling in your stomach.

 

“Cum, love. Cum for me.”

 

You listened, you always did, a perfect little offering for him to use. You fought to keep your eyes open as you came, body convulsing, to show him what he had made you into. But when your fingers became too sharp, the pleasant hum of blood in your head turning into a sharp ringing, you went limp, thighs covered in slick cum as John took his final thrusts. Ropes filled you as his hand lovingly smoothed over your lower stomach. He rested his forehead on yours, panting as he lazily kissed you, his cock twitching as you warmed him. 

 

“You okay?” John whispered from his place between your breasts as you scratched the back of his head.

 

“Sore,” You hissed as he slipped from you but was quickly scooped into his arms and laid across his chest. “M’tired,” You confessed, closing your eyes with a soft sigh.

 

You would be content to lie on his chest for the rest of time, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, wrapped in the warmth of his broad arms. Everything about you felt small compared to him; the way his hands engulfed yours, the way your calves had laid over his shoulder, the ripple of muscles and fat as he had fucked you. 

 

“I need to clean up,” You mumbled, fingers following the lines of his pectorals. 

 

“In a moment, darling. We’ll both clean up.” John kissed the top of your head, reaching for a glass of water for you to drink from before he took a few sips.

 

The god of Winter leaned down and kissed you so gently, soothing the aches with gentle hands against your thighs. Though, you felt it was more an excuse to touch your thighs more, but you didn’t mind. After cleaning up, you fell asleep swiftly, draped over his chest as his fingers traced dainty traces of snowflakes along your spine, tended to and protected. 

In the morning, you woke in your own bed, dressed in the robes of a high priestess, as someone pounded on your door. As you rose, you felt the phantom aches of the previous night between your thighs. Quickly hiding the robes, you caught the white scars of John’s handprint over your womb, etched like silver ice into your skin.

 

“One second!” You yelled, dressing. Once you were decent, you threw open your door and gawked.

 

“There’s been a war party! They burnt the elder’s homes and the wheat stores! We need help!” The man took you by the arm and pulled you into the fray of dark smoke against the blooming pink winter sky. It was snowing, melting into water that slid down your arm and into the frosted grounds.

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Price, entering Y/N's room: Why are you taking so long to get ready? Y/N, out of breath: I..I just can't find anything to wear Price, opening the cupboard: What? You have lots of clothes. Lets see, shirts, trousers, hi Simon, jackets, more shirts

[amaryllis-3]

unhinged fem reader × unhinged task force 141

WARNINGS: MDNI, dark themes, stalker! reader

"Don't you have the feeling of being watched?"

It was a hunch, nothing more, but after all those years of having to keep his guard up, Kyle was painfully aware of his surroundings. Even with his back to them, the man could perceive someone's intense gaze piercing him, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing up slightly. For a moment he almost felt in danger, as if a predator was about to pounce on him and tear him to shreds, before he forced himself to rationalise the situation.

He was in a pub, at home, not in some war theatre putting his life at risk for international security. Most of those present were so drunk they were struggling to stand; they could hardly have posed a threat. Besides, with the military background he and his teammates, who were sitting in the booth around him, had, the most dangerous ones there would have been them.

Perhaps it was the duty's mindset talking: his body might have been in Britain, but his mind was still stuck in some scorching desert of the Middle East. After the long deployment that had kept him busy over the last few months, getting back into his everyday routine had proved difficult. Having a pint with his best mates should have been the right opportunity for that, and he didn't need to ruin it with his paranoia.

He almost regretted bringing it up, noticing how relaxed his comrades were. Had anything really been out of the ordinary, they would have noticed it too.

Yes, it had merely been a poor trick of his consciousness, nothing serious. He could have ignored the unsettling sensation that had begun to simmer under his skin; it was just for a night at the end.

Notwithstanding his good intentions, Gaz's eyes ended up moving subtly around the room, his body remaining motionless as they scanned every nook and cranny they had access to for explanations.

There didn't seem to be anything relevant to report.

Kyle almost breathed a sigh of relief, once, to his extreme horror, he identified the source of his discomfort. His heart slowed its pace for a fraction of a second before resuming beating at double speed.

You had the most bloody chilling stare he'd encountered in a long time, and that was already saying a lot. It appeared capable of delving into his soul, but not in the pleasant, clichéd way one would have found exclusively in a romance novel.

No, yours was ruthless.

It clung tooth and nail to the walls of his being without regard for what his reaction may have been. It was greedy and insistent, driven by an insatiable hunger that nearly bordered on desperation; the kind of expression that should have belonged to a raving lunatic, not someone like you.

Despite having been caught red-handed, you hadn't even bothered to look away. You'd met him head-on, as if you wanted to make your presence known to him, wanted him to realise that from the moment he'd set foot in that place, your full attention had been uniquely on him. Hell, he wasn't even sure he'd seen you blink since he'd initiated eye contact.

There was something extremely wrong with you, something that he wouldn't usually prefer to meddle with outside of work, but which simultaneously drew him like a moth to the flame. You were simply captivating, in a psychotic way, but equally so.

"That's the bird." Gaz's head turned quickly towards Ghost, who hadn't dwelled to articulate more. As though that was a well-known notion. The comment was followed by Johnny's big laugh and a grunt of approval from Price, knowing glances exchanged between the three able to convey more than a thousand words.

Was he the sole one in the dark about the whole affair?

Kyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Your existence was still a steady constant in his brain from which it was practically impossible to escape, but he was stubborn about discovering the truth. His eyes moved around his companions, trying to interpret the mystery you were. He wanted to be part of it, wanted to have access to what could only be a dirty little secret he'd been excluded from for no apparent reason.

"The bird?" He asked in a hushed whisper that had a reverential tinge to it. His focus was locked on the man who had dangled the forbidden fruit in front of him just to deny it right when he was about to grab it. His lieutenant was a mask of austere silence, the balaclava he wore making it difficult to comprehend what Simon Riley was thinking. Gaz, however, swore he saw the corners of his lips lifting barely from beneath the fabric, brown irises flashing with a mirth he didn't believe he'd ever witnessed on him.

The answer, however, didn't come from him, but rather from the Scot, who was far too excited to share the news with him. "The bonnie thing has been stalkin' us for a while noo." The casualness in his tone would normally have made Kyle frown, but with you involved, he didn't feel like opening his mouth. Ah, pretending nothing was going on when a stranger was actually hounding his mates purely because you had made the butterflies in his stomach flutter in a manner he couldn't define? What on earth was happening to him? To them?

"And she's quite dedicated," Ghost added, "she sneaked into Price's house the other day." At that the captain let out a small chuckle, lips stretched into an affectionate smile, which clashed considerably with the talk the group was having. "She surely did. (Gaz didn't mean to be mistaken but was that a hint of admiration seeping out of his superior's words?) Was naive to assume I wouldn't notice, though."

How strange life was. If anything like that had happened a few days earlier — no scratch that! if that had happened merely a few hours earlier, he would have taken them for crazy. Yet now... Now he was somewhat envious that you hadn't attempted to break into his residence.

"Seems she's startin' to fancy Garrick as well, innit ?". Only then did Kyle notice how none of the three were really looking at him. Their faces might have been facing in his direction, but their equally intense eyes were passing through him, trying to catch a glimpse of what was behind, trying to catch a glimpse of you. "Och, ye bet. Ah could ken that wild stare anywhere," Johnny confirmed, hardly suppressing the excitement he was experiencing.

As if drawn by theirs, Gaz's gaze returned to you, finding you in the same position he'd left you. No noticeable changes were present, but now that all four of them were acknowledging your presence, he was pretty certain he saw your pupils dilate. His rational side would have considered it simply a play of the lights; after all, his eyesight wasn't sharp enough to pick up those small details from his position. And nonetheless he sensed that this was the case, that you thrived a little more under their attention.

He had to see it, witness for himself how that strange dynamic between the five of you would evolve. He was sure you would disrupt their lives, but they would absolutely return the favour.

"So you'll be on board too, sergeant?" Kyle didn't even need to ponder much the instant the proposal left John's mouth, mind and soul already strangely in agreement about his next course of action. "Yeah, I think I will, Cap."

Just a silly thought I've had lately instead of behaving like a productive human being. May add more in the future.

➮ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

[gloomwitchwrites]

There was this tiktok trend where kids and their mums would pull a prank on their dads by telling their mums to shut up...141 with a teenage son who tries it?

Anon, I am very aware of this prank. If mom is in on it, I consider it all in good fun, but omg, these guys would be absolutely stressed if they heard their teenage son tell mom to "shut up." Heads would absolutely roll over that!

Price is certainly old enough to have a teenage son on the older side. I would even say the same for Ghost. Gaz is old enough for a younger teenage son. With Soap's age...that's stretching it. BUT SUSPEND DISBELIEF Y'ALL. I'm aging Gaz and Soap up a bit for this one.

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

Presented in two double drabbles and two triple drabbles.

Task Force 141 x Female Reader (w/ children)

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, pranks, domestic, dad!141, brief suggestive themes, marriage

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

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Ugh. Shut up, Mum.”

There is a brief pause between mum and when the television remote hurtles across the room. Your son doesn’t duck in time, the hard plastic hitting his shoulder before bouncing onto the kitchen island with a loud clack.

Before your son turns, Kyle’s baseball cap with the Union Jack, soars through the air like a frisbee. This one your son manages to avoid, but it’s quickly followed by a slipper. It flies past his head, and you catch it out of the air before it makes contact with the front of the microwave.

You and your eldest son turn in Kyle’s direction as he manifests in the kitchen entryway, the other slipper in hand, poised to launch it at the first sign of any movement.

“Wanna repeat yourself, mate?” Kyle appears calm and poised, but you notice the subtle tension in his jaw.

“It was a joke, Dad! Promise!”

Kyle’s arm holding the slipper starts to rise.

“Kyle,” you say. His gaze flicks to you. “Just a joke. No harm. I was in on it.”

His shoulders immediately sag. Kyle shakes his head. Rolls his eyes. Heading for the fridge, he opens it up, grabbing a can of his favorite beer.

Kyle sets the beer down on the island, pointing the slipper at you and then his son. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words come out, just an exasperated huff.

Kyle snatches up the television remote and sticks it into the pocket of his grey sweatpants. Keeping hold of the shoe in one hand, and his beer in the other, he gives the two of you his back, heading into the living room.

“No one bother me until the game is over,” he says over his shoulder. “And someone bring me my bloody slipper!”

John Price

"Fucking hell, Mum. Shut it."

John is up and out of his seat so fast you hardly see him move. He strides over to his son, yanking him off the stool by the scruff of his shirt.

"John! It's a prank!" you say quickly, reaching for his arm.

The boy is dangling in the air, toes just shy of touching the ground. "A prank?" asks John skeptically.

"Mum is in on it. Promise."

John sighs heavily and slowly lowers his son to the ground. The moment his feet touch ground, he tries to step away, but John holds firm, keeping his eldest child immobile. He leans forward a bit. Lowers his voice.

"Prank or no, you never talk to your mother, your sisters, or any woman in that manner again. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy." John releases his son. "The lawn needs trimmed."

"Yes, sir."

Your son scurries away. It isn't until the door to the garage opens and shuts that John moves toward you. His arm drapes over your waist, hand landing firmly on your ass, squeezing hard.

"You're coming with me."

"To do what?"

He presses his lips to your ear. "For a different sort of punishment."

John "Soap" MacTavish

"You’re off your head, lad.”

With Johnny’s cold tone comes a tension to your son’s shoulders. He becomes rigid, sliding down into his chair like he can escape from his father by cowering underneath the table. Johnny comes around the corner, a bit of sweat on his brow. He's been building furniture all day for the nursery.

"Want to repeat that for me?" asks Johnny.

Your son’s voice cracks. "It was just a prank, Dad."

"It was what?" Johnny strides forward.

"It's a prank. I'm in on it. Promise," you say, attempting to soothe Johnny’s anger.

Johnny crosses his arms over your chest. "Is it?" He glances between the two of you and sighs, muttering, “Am pure done in.”

He disappears down the hall, returning with a stack of instructional manuals, dropping them into his son’s lap. "You're building furniture."

"But I—"

“You right scunner. C’mon.” Johnny yanks his son out of the chair, the stack of instructional manuals goes flying. Your son reaches for them all, desperately clasping them against his chest.

“Johnny," you call out, walking around the counter to intervene.

He glances over his shoulder, frown gown, sly smirk on his face. “Deal with you later."

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Oi, Mum. Shut it.”

Your son is a wonderful actor. You’ll give him that. Even you almost believe him. Not that he would—he’d never—but his delivery reminds you of a completely pissed football fan ready to throw a punch at a member of the rival team.

He should consider theater.

Simon, your husband, is watching a rugby match in the living room. The television is on but at a low volume.

Within seconds of the words leaving your son’s mouth, Simon appears like a phantom guardian in the entryway. In one he holds the remote like a weapon. The other arm cradles his infant daughter. She looks like a small bean. Slightly curved as she snuggles closer against Simon’s chest as she sleeps.

He's not looking at you. He's staring at his son, gaze intense and full of fire.

You’ve seen that look before.

Mission abort.

"He's joking, Simon. It's just a prank,” you soothe, knowing you need to get ahead of this.

Not that Simon would hurt you or his son, but he rarely takes any shit. This prank was a gamble, and you’re completely regretting it.

"Don't mean it, Dad."

Simon just stares for a long minute. His daughter squirms and that is when he glances down, severing the connection. Observing her must change something in him, because his gaze returns to the two of you, and there is a calmness now.

Sighing heavily, Simon shakes his head, completely exasperated. The eye roll is so apparent it’s like a shout.

In the moment he was pissed—livid. But now he’s over it, more annoyed and unamused than actually mad.

Turning on his heel, daughter still cradled in one arm, Simon returns to his recliner, settling back into the soft cushions to finish watching his rugby match.

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