#tf 141 headcanons

[leyavo]

TF141 x concussed stubborn!reader

Summary: the tf141 guys trying to help concussed stubborn!reader. Requested.

John’s used to being in charge, making sure everyone’s well looked after before he even thinks of himself. It’s why you don’t like to ask him for stuff, don’t want to burden him or push too much on his already stressed shoulders. Doesn’t matter how many times he’s told you it’s okay, you can’t bring yourself to add to his worries when you can do it yourself.

You don’t get a choice though, warm hands slip behind your head and you blink, harsh glow cutting through the darkness. Your words echo in your mind, but John’s voice is clear cut like crystal and it brings you back.

“Come on, Petal. Let’s just have a look…” he says, turning you to lay on your side. His hand pawing your face, rough pads of his fingers sweeping the hair out of your eyes.

Whatever you tried to say, it’s grumbled. Tongue heavy and throat dry, you try to swat his touch away, but your arms thud to the floor. The ringing in your ear makes you close your eyes, black dots lining your vision.

“Ah,ah. No you don’t, gotta stay awake for me,” he says, sitting you up. You slump against the wall, reaching for the cup of water as he helps you drink.

Slowly you come back from the haze, your head on John’s shoulder. His palm running up and down your spine. The tingling in your mouth fades away, tongue light and jaw relaxing. The back of your head tender as try to glance up at John, maybe you should have accepted his help earlier. You wouldn’t have fainted and hit the back of your head on the radiator if you’d just let him in.

“You remember ya’ name?” He asks, shoulder nudging your cheek. “Nah miss stubborn ain’t ya.” Not giving you a chance to reply.

“I remember you being quiet,” you mumble, pinching his side to shut him up.

Simon’s still getting used to having an independent partner. You’ve always had to rely on yourself, only going to him as a last resort even if it makes it difficult for you. He hovers around at a distance until you ask, but sometimes he has to convince you to let your guard down so he can look after you.

You’d been doing some renovation work in the flat and refused to spend money on contractors whilst Simon was away, which he preferred. But you had decided to do things yourself which included hanging a new much heavier curtain pole on the wall.

He hears the crash, the thud that could only be the sound of your body falling. A clang of metal rolling across the bedroom as he rushes in. You’re half covered by the curtain, sitting up thankfully with your head in your hands.

“Fuckin hell,” Simon gasps, his knees hitting the floor beside you. He pries your hands away from your face and tugs your wrists to keep you upright.

You’re out cold, ready to go down as soon as he lets go, but he won’t. No he inches closer and slips an arm around your waist and the other under your legs to lift you. He talks to you as he walks to the bed and lays you down, palm smoothing the graze on your forehead.

“Luv, hello luv, earth to…” he calls to you, his face hovering above yours. He continues talking to you till you start to blink back clear vision, there’s a cold washcloth on your forehead and an about four pillows beneath your head and upper back.

There’s no blood on the cloth as he lifts it off, not that it’d make a difference with the red curtains. “I know my name” your snap as he asks you, but you say it when he repeats the question.

“Why don’t we leave the walls to me, huh? Who got hit with the shelf last time I came home?” He says, shaking you in his hold as he tucks you into his side.

“You did,” you mumbled, trying to muffle the laugh at the memory. Simon had come home, you’d shut the bedroom door a little harsh and the shelf had come away from the wall. Thankfully its was a cheap faux wood one that had nothing on it, unfortunately it landed on Simon’s head and you haven’t heard the last of it.

“Good thing we’ve both got thick heads”

Kyle’s in the rec room when he hears about your botched mission and he rushes to the infirmary, not really taking in your lieutenant’s words as he trails after him. He hears your voice first, smile tugging his lips at your defiance.

“I’m a medic, just focus on the guys.” You’re in medic mode, as Kyle likes to call it. Too concerned with the injuries of others to even think about giving yourself some much needed care and attention.

You’re peeling a red tinged gauze off your forehead, looks like you’d slapped it on without any care. And by the sight of your task force friends, he can see you were too busy tending to them than yourself.

“Hey, baby,” you say, smiling at him through the mirror. The guys groan and you wave them off. Kyle’s hand wraps around your bicep and he gently turns you. He cups your face, titling it to check the cut.

Your eyes flutter shut expecting him to lean in for a kiss, but his hand slips from your face and takes the fresh gauze from your grasp. “Hey wha-,”

“Shh, let me help,” Kyle says, guiding you into the nearest chair. “Don’t even..” he dodges your attempt to take back the medic supplies and you huff, crossing your arms over chest. Head dipping, brows furrowed as you stared at your lap.

“I’m a medic, just a scratch. Can do it myself,” you mumble to yourself, all whilst Kyle bites back a smile. Always so stubborn.

Kyle crouches in front of you, palms on your knees. “The slur of your voice says otherwise.” He knows by the tremble of your legs that the adrenaline’s the only thing keeping you going. “You’re all done, you wanna second before we go?”

You scoff, pushing out of the chair and stumble into Kyle. He catches you easily, one arm slipping around your waist and you drape an arm around his shoulder leaning on him for support. You point to the nearest wash station, pausing in front of the mirror to inspect his work.

“Come on, I know the basics,” he grumbles and you can’t help, but chuckle. You regret it though, palm pressing to your bruised ribs, “looks like you’ll have to go without me, don’t want you hurting yourself.”

Kyle’s always trying to make you laugh, which is no easy feat, but he understands your humour now.

“Yeah, you’re kinda funny looking…”

He shakes his head, helping you back to the barracks. Asking you the usual questions, what is your name, the year etc you may have said the wrong date just to see his nose scrunch up and have him scold you.

Johnny loves hanging out with you in your art studio. He sits on the stool behind you, scooting around with you as organise your paints and mediums ready to start. The secondhand easel had been giving you a hard time lately, the bolt and nut falling off each time you adjusted it.

You fiddle with bolt, refusing Johnnys help. He’s still healing from the impact of an explosion, bruises lining his body and scrapes on his arm and one side of his face. There’s no way he’s going to spend his days fixing stuff for you. He needs to relax.

So you push him away after the first failed attempt and the easel that hit your shoulder a second ago. Telling him it’s nothing, not your first hit that’s for sure.

“It’s fine, Johnny…god dammit. I don’t need you to do anything,” you snap, readjusting the easel, but you feel the smack on your head before you hear the crack of wood. You don’t know what happened next, but you’re flung back.

Johnny catches you before you hit the ground, light spilling through the window warming his face and highlighting the coppery undertones of his hair. Your lips part, heavy eyelids flutter as you try to focus on his sapphire eyes or the deep scar on his chin. Anything to keep you in the present and push the dark spots out of your vision.

Johnny’s words are a distance echo, his touch melting away. Each blink feels like slow motion, vision blurring. Johnny’s lips are moving, but all you can hear is the blood pumping in your ear.

It takes you a while to return to your body, the dull buzz of Johnnys hums filtering through the haze.

“There’s me gal,” he says, lips curving into a smile. His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheek. He’s patient, but the line between his brow and pout of his lips reveal his worry. He’s always quick to act, like something he can’t switch off. Never rests always alert.

“Was I out for long?” You mumble, leaning into his touch, his forehead pressing against yours lightly.

Johnny shook his head, leaning back with a grin. “You called me beautiful.”

Your mouth hangs open, but all you think of was the sun hitting the sharp planes of his cheek bones. Coppery undertones glimmering in the light, a muse if you must. Not that you’d feed into his inflated ego. You nudge him away playfully.

“You should hit your head more often,” he smirks.

[Masterlist]

I am well versed in a hit to head and have also pulled a curtain pole off the wall 😅 I’m dyslexic so there might be errors/mistakes - Leya

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

HALLOO!! I’ve been loving all of your recent stories!! (I especially loved to price x postpartum wife one) Anyway!! I was wondering if you could do a little cute one with how the 141 boys would feed a baby? It’s fine if you don’t want to cause it might now be enough information? Sorry. Ok, bye-bye!!!

-Lunar 🐱

Baby’s Bottle Brigade

Pairing: Task Force 141 x Baby (Platonic Dad/Babysitter Energy)

Warnings: None, just fluff, baby drool, and soft soldiers

Author's Note: Thank you for the request! I loved writing this!! I decided on Headcannons instead! Sorry it’s not too long!!

Summary: The boys of 141 each take a turn feeding the baby for the first time. Chaos, cuddles, and milk spills ensue.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

John Price

– has definitely done this before

– holds the baby like he was born to do it, their little head tucked perfectly in the crook of his arm

– checks the bottle temperature on his wrist like it’s second nature

– "There we go, sweetheart. Slow now. That’s it."

– hums while they eat—an old tune he probably learned as a kid, off-key but full of love

– wipes their chin every time milk dribbles down

– "Good job. Full belly now, huh?"

– gentle pats for burping, like he’s got a doctorate in baby care

Johnny “Soap” Mactavish

– chaos in human form, but enthusiastic

– picks up the bottle like it’s a microphone and makes it a game

– "Y’ready for the milk express? All aboard, wee one!"

– airplane noises, finger puppets, the works

– baby giggles and shoots milk down their front

– "I’ve failed you. Ruined your dinner. I’ll never forgive myself."

– snuggles them tight afterward, kisses their tiny head

– "You still love your Uncle Johnny, right? Thought so."

Kyle“Gaz” Garrick

– calm, organized, sweet as pie

– double-checks everything: formula, bottle temp, bib, burp cloth

– "Alright, little one. Dinnertime."

– holds them close and feeds them while chatting softly

– "Today’s forecast is cozy with a chance of cuddles."

– praises the baby like they just aced an exam

– "There we go. Look at you go. Big gulps, huh?"

– gets spit up on, just laughs

– "You got me good, huh? All’s fair."

Simon “Ghost” Riley

– stiff at first, like the baby might explode

– "You sure I won’t drop ‘em?"

– once he sits down and the baby grabs his finger, he softens

– "Yeah. Okay. I’ve got you."

– feeds them in near silence, eyes never leaving their tiny face

– "You eat like Soap. Loud as hell."

– baby falls asleep against his chest and he doesn’t move a muscle

– you find him still there an hour later, whispering

– "You're safe. Always, yeah? No matter what."

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

[machveil]

hi i wasnt sure where to go but im hoping others in the community can help me find a lost writing piece !! the premise was reader who works in the archives on base and doesnt think that tf141 notices her so she leaves little gifts that they need, like new cloths for their guns, lotion, etc etc. the boys keep getting gifts until they finally figure out its reader whos leaving them !! i can probably think abt more details but this is what ive got so far ! it was multiple chapters but i cant find it anywhereee !! hoping either you know it or someone else does !! also love ur work always <33

you’re in the right place! we’ve located fics before and we’ll try for this one too >:D

I personally don’t recall it, but I can get a search party going🎀✨I’ll update this post if someone comments or reblogs it with the fic title or author

[thatoneautisticshark]

Saw someone on tiktok call the handle at the back of a vest a bitch strap.

Made me think of this.

Everyone on base jokes that it's a good thing there's the bitch straps, everyone must be having to grab Johnny by it and tugging him back from bad decisions.

Soap thinks the truth is hilarious but keeps his mouth shut because he'd like to keep his teeth. The only time he is ever really grabbed by it is usually when someone pulls him back for a hug, or to steal his food.

Ghost however is a whole different story. Having a talk and the guy is an arse? Prices hand is resting on that strap, ready to yank him back of needed.

Gaz has yanked him back from running into a burning building. Soap yanks it when Ghost needs to check himself.

And the most humiliating part? Ghost reacts. The strap is tugged and he switches to docile. The pavloved the bitch strap to have meaning

[tobeholyistobeempty]

‘you’ll get used to it.’ | captain john price

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”

WARNINGS - 18+ mdni. smut. so much smut. darker themes ie death. a super deep and twisted interpretation of a solider who’s being reckless in attempt to run from their feelings. captain price is bred to hunt so it’s futile. piv. mirror sex. multi orgasms. size kink. dirty talk. dubcon slightly. we shouldn’t be doing this trope. slightly morally grey. a lot of sleep token references. fingering. reader afab. mentions of blood, injury. slight brat/dom dynamic. overstimulation.

The first thing you register is the weight of him.

Not his hands, though they’re there too — firm around your arms, holding you steady — but him. The heat of him at your side, sweat and cigarettes filling your muddled senses with each laboured breath you gasp for. The quiet, infernal energy that pours off him, taking up too much space, too much air from your already airless lungs.

“You with me?” His voice rumbles close to your ear.

You try to nod, but the motion sends a fresh bolt of pain ricocheting through your skull. Your breath hitches, and his grip tightens.

“Easy.” A low murmur, meant to soothe. “Almost there.”

There being the med bay, where fluorescent lights paint everything sterile. Too bright, too fucking loud alongside the offset drumbeat in your ears. He doesn’t let you sit on your own — eases you down onto the cot himself, hands as steady as they always are, even when yours are the furthest from.

You wince as you shift, and his eyes flick over you. He’s still assessing.

“Shouldn’t’ve let that bastard get a hit in,” he mutters, half to himself.

You know what he’s thinking. The result of your own impulsivity. Reckless. “Yeah, I’ll try to avoid that next time.”

He exhales sharply. A shake of his head. “Could’ve been worse.”

You know that. Just like you know he’s only saying it to ease your dread. But you can see it in the way he looks at you, something unreadable tightening at the corners of his mouth, that he’s seen it. Many more times than you think.

“I’m fine,” you tell him. “You don’t have to—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Just gives you that look, the one that shuts people up without him having to say a damn thing. It’s something you’re still learning about him — the way he often communicates without words. How his silence and pointed stares hold more meaning than most people’s shouting. You’ve also learned the effort to argue with him when he’s like this is a futile one. You’re a part of his team. He’ll be with you through it all.

Then, without asking, he reaches for you — because he knows you’ll let him. One hand bracing your chin, tilting your head so he can get a better look at the damage.

And even through the agony, it’s all too much.

The touch, the closeness, the way he hasn’t taken his eyes off you for one goddamn second since you’d been hit. Your throat goes dry at the realization that it’s doing more to you than it should. But you’ll never get used to how he does it. How a man like him — a wartime killer with more bloodshed on his fingertips than skin covering his limbs — can still look at you with something even remotely soft, when he’s bred to be everything but.

“You always this stubborn?” His voice is quieter now. A rough rasp against his throat.

You swallow, pulse hammering. “You always this persistent?”

His lips quirk, but his grip stays firm, fingers cool against your fevered skin.

“You’ll get used to it.”

You wondered then, if you ever really would.

———————

Months later, you’re still wondering the same thing.

It’s been months since that night in the med bay. Months of keeping yourself at arm’s length. Of keeping things professional. Of projecting platonic renditions despite the cursed thing threatening to take its place.

Or, well, trying to.

Because if there’s one thing you know for certain, it’s that tension like this doesn’t fade. It festers.

No matter how deep you try to bury it, perseverance is its ally. Helps it crawl out of the grave you dug for it in every brush of his fingers against yours when he hands over a magazine clip, every order spoken gravel in your ear, every glance held a second too long when neither of you are fast enough to look away. It leaves claw marks in everything, has been ever since the day he carried you through crumbling stone and mortar — ever since you felt him so fucking close and you realized you didn’t mind it. Since the moment you learned more about him in twenty minutes than you have in the entire year by his side.

That night relinquished something. Made you see him in a new light. What was once a beacon is now a solar flare for dead gods.

And it erupts here. Now.

In the barracks washroom after a mission gone sideways. After a fight that took too much out of you — left your bones aching, your skull pounding with the remnants of a concussion you’re beginning to suspect never fully healed — skin still humming raw, soaked in adrenaline and something a little too fucking reckless.

After he follows you in.

The door slams behind him, the sound ricocheting off the tiles. You don’t turn around, just strip your tac vest off with more force than necessary, breathing hard, hissing under your breath as exhaustion begins smothering out the fire in your blood.

“You got a fucking death wish?”

You can feel him staring at you. You know he’s seeing red — the heat of his eyes on your back incomparable to the even the greediest hellfires.

You exhale, press your palms flat against the edge of the sink. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” He steps closer. “You ran straight into that firefight without cover.”

“I handled it.”

“You barely walked away.”

Finally, you turn, glare at him over your shoulder. “That what this is? Another fucking lecture?”

He doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t snap at you like your previous COs would. He just watches. And somehow, that’s worse.

“That what you think I’m doing?”

You scoff, shake your head, turning back toward the sink. The mirror in front of you is cracked down the middle, splitting your reflection in two. And you think, rather ridiculously, that it’s a perfect fucking picture of how you feel. Torn. Between the persistence of him and the need to keep your distance. Between what you’ve spent months trying to ignore and the way it still catches you off guard—how you keep finding yourself watching him, noticing him, like something inside you has already made a decision you can’t retract.

Behind you, he exhales slow. You hear the shift of his boots against the floor.

“Can’t keep doing this,” he mutters. “Won’t.”

Something in your chest tightens.

“What, watching my back?” You force your voice to stay even. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“Not like this.”

The simplicity of that response has currency, and you know the behaviour. The familiar silence that tells you there’s more to this. Syllables pleading behind his teeth which he isn’t quite yet dignifying — but that slice along the back of his throat all the same. You meet his gaze in the mirror, and you see it then. In the dim light of his ocean eyes.

An emergence.

“I can’t watch you go down again.” There it is. Words coaxed out in that thick accent of his that inflicts them like a wound. He’s moving closer now, extinguishing the space. Stepping up behind you. “You haven’t been right for months. I need to know why.”

At that, you almost recoil — each syllable thrusting the knife deeper into your resolve, and you realize it’s not his accent that makes them cut, but the way he speaks them. Certain. As if he’s looking at you bare. No layers left to protect you. Like you’re nothing but sinew and marrow. Like your eyes and limbs are instruments to pick apart.

You stare at the sink. “So you are always this persistent.”

It leaves your lips exactly as you mean it — a callback, a test. You don’t watch his face, but the silence stretching long tells you it landed exactly where you wanted. A synapse snap back, an echo from the depths of whatever is eating you from the inside out.

“And you,” a pause, breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. “Are always this stubborn.”

He says it like an indictment.

You’re sure it’s because he knows you. Because he sees how you bleed and pretend you don’t. How you’ve been keeping yourself at arm’s length for months. Because you’ve cornered yourself — because you let the bruises fade without ever acknowledging how deep they burrow.

Your fingers tighten around the porcelain, like if you hold on hard enough you can keep the charade going. Pretend you don’t feel what you feel. But then, you glance up, and there it is — your reflection wavering in the split mirror, cut through by the fault line of your own indecision. Your own internal warfare.

“Yes,” you whisper. “But you knew that long ago.”

“I did.” His hand braces against the sink beside yours as he all but cages you against it. “But I keep thinking, sooner or later, you’ll let yourself stop.”

Another pause. A breath suspended in air too thick, in a space that feels too small.

“You want me to stop?”

He exhales through his nose. “I want you to want to.”

It’s an invitation. A quiet demand.

You swallow against the burn in your throat because it’s clear he knows what’s hiding behind your eyes. He’s just asking you to be honest. To pull the words from where they’ve been buried, to stop dissolving them like acid on your tongue. To let him in.

“Then you want for nothing.” Your voice is softer than you mean it to be, dangerously close to breaking. “Because you know I’d tell you anything if you asked.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror.

“Tell me what’s making you reckless.”

You’d expected that — or something like it — but it still takes you apart. Thread by thread, a rope cinched through the hollow of your ribs. Pulling, pulling —waiting for you to give.

And you almost do. Almost let it spill, let it take shape in the open air between you. The truth of it. The rot you’ve kept pressed beneath your tongue, the slow, patient decay of something you know you shouldn’t feel.

But instead—

“It’s the head injury,” you lie.

A hollow offering. Brittle. A crumbling thing in place of the real answer.

His fingers twitch against the porcelain, reflection sharpening in the mirror — cutting through the fractures he’s causing. He doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t accuse you of lying. And that’s worse. So much worse. Because it means he’s seeing you. Means he’s waiting — sifting through the hollow, the fractions of you that no longer fit together in search of the thing you hesitate to give him.

“You can’t lie to me.” It sinks deep. Sticks somewhere you can’t pull it free. He’s right. “We both know it isn’t just that.”

You exhale something like a laugh except it’s boneless and bitter, just nerves spilling out because they’ve got no where else to go.

“Didn’t know you were a medic now.” You break your eyes back to the sink. “Or a mind reader.”

“I don’t need to be.” The words come fast. Convicting. “I just need to know you.”

And that. That makes you look up at him again. Makes you meet his eyes. Makes you burn.

“Price—“

His lips are against your ear. “Tell me.”

Your throat closes. The rope pulls tighter. You know what he wants — what he’s asking. But the answer feels like it won’t fit in your mouth. The swell of truth too large. Too longly suppressed because god this is your Captain and all he did was save your life. You know you should just be grateful and yet the only thing on your mind is granting him more than the debt you owe.

Because when you can’t swallow your demons, they don’t just disappear. They turn to hunger instead.

It was his hands that had fed them. They’re still starving now.

“The truth will ruin everything, Captain.” The words tear from your throat like he’s ripped them out himself. “This isn’t something you, or anyone, can help me with.”

You feel him go still the moment the words leave you. Feel it in the hand bracing against the sink, the exhale of his breath against your neck.

“So that’s what this is.” Your stomach coils, something twisting tight as you turn your head to face him. He doesn’t move back. Just dips his gaze to your lips. “You’re feeling too much, yeah? Think by being reckless you can run from it.”

It’s startling, the way he sees right through you. Your silence is a telling confession and he reads it like scripture.

You’ve always known it would be hard with him. Knew it from the beginning, because he’s as sharp as he is skilled, because he knows how to look at a situation and read the words left unspoken.

You nod. All while wishing it was anyone else.

“You can’t outrun this.” His voice drops, dragging his free hand up the nape of your neck. “Can’t outrun me.”

He tugs you toward him, something dark flashing beneath his eyes — something like possession, something that makes your bones ache as his mouth ghosts over yours. A torturous, drawn-out motion, withholding what you know he’ll take.

A breath passes between you, your eyes closed, a million things unspoken. Spinning. Thrumming in the silence.

Then, he brushes his lips to yours. And there’s fire.

A slow-burning ruin, heat licking through your stomach, curling in your spine, and it devours you — every breath, every instinct screaming at you to pull away, to run. It’s all gone. Gone until the moment he pulls back. Presses his forehead against yours.

“I know.” You reply, and for a second you think he’s backing off.

He doesn’t.

Lips against yours again, he takes. Your mouth parts on a sharp inhale. Shock, surrender, his tongue slipping against yours, before he kisses you hard. Like he’s been waiting for this, waiting for your admittance. Like this is something he’s fought against just as much as you have.

Your hands find his shoulders, something to brace against as he pulls you in deeper. The breath is gone from your lungs, your pulse pounding for an entirely different reason now. You open your eyes as he pulls back again. Take in the sharp cut of his features — the shadow of a beard against his jaw, the darkness of his gaze, drinking you in like he wants to keep you there.

“You don’t get to die on me,” he murmurs, and it makes your world tilt. Makes you wonder if you hit your head harder than you thought, all those months ago. Makes you wonder if you’re hallucinating. “Christ.” His fingers flex at your waist. “You don’t get to be careless.”

There’s something in him you’ve never seen before. Something undone. Something you don’t understand but do at the same time — because you feel it too. The decades of loss. The battle scars. The countless near misses that linger for life. You weren’t thrusting yourself into open fire with some raging death wish — but you weren’t being as methodical as you should have been either, all to chase that fucking adrenaline spike. You didn’t think he’d have this reaction.

And there’s so much you need to say. So much you need to do. But all you can do is whisper, breathless against him. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause. A click of his tongue.

“I’m not done with you.” His mouth finds yours again, something softer this time, but no less demanding. You don’t fight it. And when his free hand dips down your back, you tilt your head up into him, hands fisted in his shirt, wishing you didn’t miss the feel of it so devastatingly when he pulls back again. “You want reckless? I’ll show you fucking reckless.”

You don’t have a chance to answer before he spins you around and shoves you against the counter. A groan slips from your lips, but you relish the feel of him — the warmth of his chest as he steps into you, crowding you until all you know is his heat.

His hands slide down your sides, gripping at your hips, the heat in your gut burning hot as he holds you in place.

“This what you want?” He mutters against the side of your throat, his nose nudging your jaw. “Or do you still want to run?”

You swallow, mouth parted, breath coming hard. It’s a question, but you know he doesn’t really want an answer. Not with everything he’s doing. Not with the way he’s holding you, the way his hands slip beneath your shirt, calloused fingers grazing bare skin as he tugs the fabric up.

Your breath hitches. “Christ, Captain—”

You feel his mouth brush against your neck, tongue lavving out to taste you. Like he’s hungry and you’re a goddamn four-course meal. You moan. It’s all you can do to stay upright, legs going weak when he nips at your jaw.

“No Captain.” A demand. His hand sliding lower, dipping under the fabric of your cargos. “John.”

John. You shudder at the implication of it. John is a rare thing—something you’ve only ever heard him give to a handful of others, and no one else. John is personal. John is when he’s no longer your superior, but instead, your equal.

“John.” Somehow, it rolls off your tongue like breathing, like it had always been waiting there for this moment. Another moan follows it, just as his fingers find your clit. “Ohgod, John—”

He hums, teasing you, fingers moving in paced, languid circles like he’s got nothing but time despite the way his chest is pacing against your back. Pressure building beneath his skin. You feel the tension in him — the way his muscles shift, the way he tenses in response.

“That’s it,” he grinds out, fingers speeding up just enough. “You like that?”

Your answer is an afterthought. You don’t speak, don’t need to. Your mouth finds his again, and he swallows the breath you try to take. All you can do is nod.

And you know you have no fucking right to know what he sounds like. How he tastes as your tongue wrestles his. Your head spinning too fast for you to think because he is everywhere, a heady mix of lust and need as you desperately try to chase the way he makes your blood race. It’s all so new. So fucking wanton. Needy. As if all the months of wanting have finally caught up to the moment, a wildfire that seems to burn all logic. You know this is wrong — but fuck you don’t care.

You know in a second, he’ll be pressing you against the granite and you’ll have to make a thousand apologies to whatever god may be listening.

But then he pushes a finger into you, and you only have one prayer on your tongue. “Oh, John.”

He exhales against you, a quiet growl that goes straight to your head. It’s the same sound he makes when he’s in a combat, and there’s something about the idea of being able to make him feel the same as he feels when he’s a man of war that makes fireworks light up behind your eyelids.

“Mm. She’s fucking tight.” He mutters as he curls his finger and presses deeper. You gasp, the sound swallowed between you. “This is what you needed, hm? Needed me to pin you down. Make you fucking feel.”

That— that’s exactly it. Your eyes dart up to his in the mirror because yes. In the fractures he’d caused he’d found what you were too afraid to verbalize. And it makes you keen — the way it’s like he can rip out your soul and hold it in his hands. You know you can’t hide it in your gaze, the desperation that comes with that kind of dependency.

Of course.

“You. Mm. You always know just what I need.” You moan out, as teasing as possible, while your climax barrels closer.

And he relishes it. Every second. It’s obvious in the sharp inhale he takes, the way his pupils dilate until the blue in his eyes look like a halo in a sea of blackened lust. Your head feels like it’s splitting in two, caught between the pressure building inside you and the heat that seems to be coiling so tight you could implode.

He adds a second finger, and you have to grip onto the counter if you want to still find your feet.

“Ohmygod—fuck, John—“

You don’t know how you look, can’t bring yourself to face your reflection — but you know how it feels, the way the world is tipping like you’re on the deck of a ship, the way your stomach clenches and your nerves light like fire under your skin. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on you. You spent months running from him just to end up here. You realize now that he’s always been a step ahead in a way you can’t understand, and you know you’re playing a game you won’t win.

“Let me feel it.” He purrs against your ear, fingers pumping. “Let it happen.”

You moan loud at that, clenching around his fingers because it already is happening. The pleasure is hot and blinding.

“Ohgod—“ your voice breaks between words, your head falling back against of his shoulder. “Fuck. I’m—“

He knows. The heat building in your gut so bright it seeps through your skin. So, he dips his other hand back beneath your shirt, palming your breast and you know it’s to make you fall even harder — and christ, he manages it. You erupt, climax hitting you like a train.

The bliss is blinding, and you want to scream — but can’t because his mouth is on yours, capturing every strangled gasp you give as you try to catch your breath. You’re trembling, legs shaking, your body trying to find some sort of ground as you gasp for breath — but then he’s pulling his hand out and sliding off to one side. You feel empty. Breathless. You think, in some dim place in your mind, that you should feel embarrassed now, but you’re too distracted to care. As your breathing returns, you can hear him sucking on his fingers.

Tasting you.

You can barely stand it, the noise curling through the fog in your head. You hear a soft pop, and suddenly his hand is on your jaw, tilting you towards the mirror, and you finally look.

You think you almost look the same. You can almost pretend that that this is what it’s always been — something fleeting and nameless and reckless — but there’s a flush on your cheeks, a gloss in your eyes, that you can’t deny. In fact, the only thing that breaks you out of the fantasy is the way John’s eyes meet yours.

As if there was ever any mistaking what you would allow to happen here. You know, looking at him, that that the hunger in your gaze would always give away the truth. That he would always know how to read you.

“Reckless.” He mutters, as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking, as if it’s something he’d known all along. You watch his jaw clench, his fingers digging into your cheeks. It’s not angry — it’s something more. A possession. “You do not get to leave me.”

You’ve known this man for barely a year, and yet he understands something you cannot. Something different from all your previous CO’s. Something that goes deeper than protection of a superior. And for the first time, you realize you can’t hide—not from him, not from whatever this is.

“Is that an order?” You whisper. Smirking.

He leans in, the heat of him branding against your spine, and you feel his words before he speaks them, rough and low on your throat.

“An order,” he echoes, hands sliding down to your hips. “And a threat.”

Your breath stutters, head spinning too fast to think. This is dangerous — whatever this is. It’s like the two of you are careening off the edge of a mountain, barreling toward something irreversible. You should stop this. You should pull away.

“Mm.” Instead, you arch your back, pressing against him with a low, breathy hum. “Now who’s being reckless.”

“Mhm. Knew you’d like that,” he mutters, mouth dragging against your jaw. His hands are already working, tugging down your zipper. “Brat.”

You should hate that word. Before him, you would have even more so. But something about the way he says it makes you bite your lip.

“You want to be put in your place.” His hands are purposed. Tugging down your cargos, undoing his belt. “That it?”

“Depends.” Your breath hitches. “Where exactly is my place, Captain?”

“Right here.” He presses you forward, palm splayed between your shoulder blades. His other hand grips your hip, dragging you against him, the thick weight of his need sliding along the slick between your thighs. You swallow a moan. “Right underneath me, Sergeant.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your head is spinning too fast to think. Then, he’s pushing inside you, and you lose the last of your breath.

“Fuck.” Your eyes catch in the mirror, watching as he sinks in, stretching you wide, splitting you open. The breath punches from your lungs, knuckles strained where you brace against the counter. Your head falls back, and he groans — a low, guttural sound that ripples through you. “Price—“

His fingers press into your jaw, turning your gaze back to the mirror. “Look at me.”

You do. And God. You wish you hadn’t.

Dark, blown-out pupils devour the blue of his irises. His chest heaves, the cords of his neck pulled tight. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anything more wrecked, more devastating, than the way he looks at you now.

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. His breath stutters. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”

You try. You really do. But fuck—

“Huge,” you gasp, tipping onto your toes for respite as he buries himself to the hilt. “Fuck—John—”

“Mhm. Don’t run—” his hand slides up your throat, fingers curling, just enough to make it dangerous. You gasp, pulse hammering against his palm. He knows. Of course he does. The way he knows everything about you. “You’ll get used to it.”

You’ll get used to it.

The words echo back at you. The same ones he murmured the first time you asked him if he’s always this persistent. If you could think, you’d laugh. But you can’t. Because now you know the answer. Yes, he is always this persistent. And no, you will never fucking get used to it.

Your moans have long since lost restraint, spilling from your lips in time with his thrusts, raw and wanton and so fucking desperate. He takes you like it’s not the first time, like he’s not far too big to be this deep — his grip bruising in the best way, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. You feel the fractures of yourself, a thousand pieces of you suspended midair, trembling on the verge of shattering. You’ve never been this close to the sun. And god, if it doesn’t feel like fire.

Then, he says your name.

Your name. Your real name.

And it’s like breaking the surface of water after nearly drowning—like oxygen flooding into starving lungs. It strips you raw, turns the world molten beneath you, sends you spiraling into release all over again, the pleasure so sharp it almost aches. His hand claps over your mouth, muffling your sob of a moan as your body locks up, trembling.

“Yeah. There we go. Let it all out f’me.” His voice is dark, rough with something that sends another sharp pulse between your legs. His hips slap against your ass, relentless. “I’ve fucking got you.”

And you know he does. In a way you don’t trust your breath or your bones. In a way that terrifies you just as much as it makes you need.

Your vision blurs, heat rippling through your limbs, but he—he is unmoving. Steady. Like steel. Like he can take you at your best and your worst. Like he could tame this thing between you, whatever reckless, nameless thing this is, and make it his.

“That’s right. You look at yourself,” he grunts, one hand digging into your hip, the other still clamped over your mouth. Your glassy eyes flick up to the mirror, catching his reflection behind you—pupils blackened, lips parted, gaze locked on you. “M’gonna dumb you out. Fuck you ’til you can’t walk, never mind run.”

Your nails scrape divots into the granite as he shoves you further over the counter, forcing you to take him deeper. A wrecked whimper slips through your teeth, body caught between overstimulation and desperate, eager want. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the slick drip down your thighs, soaking into your ruined cargos — you know he can feel it too.

“Shit.” He rasps, voice fraying. His hand leaves your mouth, slides down to your throat, not squeezing, just holding as his other moves. Fingers finding the mess between your legs, pressing slow circles over your swollen clit. “Tight little slut.”

Your body jerks. “Fuck—John—”

“That’s it. Gimme another,” he mutters, rolling his hips, hitting something deep inside you that makes your vision blur. “C’mon, sweetheart, I know you can.”

It’s too much. The thick, hot drag of his dick with every punishing thrust — the rough slide of his fingers. The weight of his body pressing you into the counter like he’ll never let you go. You can’t think. Can’t breathe—

And then he growls your name again, deep and needing, and it sends you over with a broken sob, body writhing, mind slipping into static as you cum again, clenched so tight around him it makes him stutter.

His hand fists in your hair, dragging your head back so his lips brush your ear. “Good girl. Fucking perfect—”

You feel it when he loses himself. Through the fog of pure bliss. When his grip turns almost punishing, when his hips stutter, when the ragged groan tears through his throat. He grinds deep, burying himself to the hilt, body rigid as he groans and spills inside you with a choked curse.

And then, there’s stillness.

Both of you breathing uneven — more so him, heavy against the nape of your neck. And for a long moment, it’s just that. Just the sound of your bodies slowing, just the lingering thrum of pleasure untwisting from both of your bloodstreams.

Then, his fingers tighten on your throat. Just enough. Just to make sure you feel it.

“You ever pull some reckless shit like that again,” he mutters, voice raw, scraping against your ear, “you won’t be able to fucking talk when I’m done with you.”

Your breath stutters, thighs twitching at the promise in his tone.

“You got a problem, you come to me. You don’t run. Don’t put yourself into the fire just to fucking feel something.” His hand slides up, grips your jaw, tilts your head just enough so you can see him in the mirror — blue eyes all pupil, sharp jaw clenched. “You’re mine,” he murmurs. “And I take care of what’s mine. No matter what.”

A slow, shuddering breath leaves you. He watches your lips part, watches the way your body reacts to his words. Then, his grip on your throat eases. A slow drag of his hands down your body, like he’s memorizing the feeling of you ruined under him.

“Understand me?” His voice is quieter now, but no less dangerous.

You swallow. Nod. “Yes sir.”

He hums. Seemingly satisfied, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder.

“Good.”

[gloomwitchwrites]

hi bby. i’ve been binging a lot of your little like tf 141 like mini tropes.

and i had one.

this is so random but it came to me so yeah.

tf 141 wanting to eat reader out and how they would react to you saying no bc you haven’t really felt like shaving

anyway yeah feel free to ignore this lol

Excuse me, but you're not allowed to drop something like that into my inbox and tell me I'm free to ignore it. Because I'm not going to ignore it. I'm going to obsess over it.

(hehe omg I'm literally kicking my feet and giggling over it)

MDNI

Soap hears “I didn’t shave” and responds with “lemme just braid this right quick and move it to the side.” You really think he’s going to care? Think again. If Soap is determined to munch, he’s going to munch. Hair doesn’t scare him. And if he happens to get a strand or two in his mouth, he’s spitting it out with a grin on his face and going back for more. This man enjoys going down on you so much that he’ll take you in any condition. (And yes, that means when you’re sweaty or menstruating.)

If you tell Price “I didn’t shave” his only response is a shrug of his shoulders. “What of it?” he asks. “I’m a grown man.” And he is a grown fucking man about it. Shaving is the least of his concerns. The fact that you even paused and showed hesitation over it tells him that he hasn’t done enough to make you feel completely loved and adored. Spread those legs honey because he’s diving in. (But if shaving really matters to you, Price is more than happy to get you regular waxing services and pay for them himself.)

Telling Ghost “I didn’t shave” doesn’t compute. No thoughts up there at all except “what.” Ghost wants to eat you out, and because he wants to eat you out, there isn’t anything else going on in his head. “I didn’t shave, Simon.” Silence. “Simon.” “Spread those legs, love. I want a taste.” “Did you hear me?” But Ghost isn’t even listening now. He’s getting on his stomach, making himself comfortable, pulling you over to him, not a thought in his head but how he’s about to feast for a bit.

Gaz hears “I didn’t shave” and immediately reassures you that it’s fine. “You think I care about a bit of hair?” he asks as he runs his hands up and down your thighs in slow strokes. “You’re always beautiful to me.” Gaz will have you blushing and preening under his attention, making you forget that you didn’t shave or that you’re even questioning the thought of him caring. And between those little words of affection, Gaz is kissing your thighs, touching you everywhere, easing any tension until you don’t care either, and your legs fall wide for him.

main masterlist

[connorsui]

Ghost: You have to change jobs

MC: ...I am not changing jobs?

Ghost: And why not?

MC: Why not? ..the tips are great?

Ghost: ...Become a stripper the tips will be better

MC: how will becoming a stripper be better?!

Ghost: I'll be your only client ...the pole would be in my room

MC: ...

.......be serious?

Ghost: I am being serious ill thrown in great insurance

[callmecoke]

Sugar Baby headcanons: The type of 'Photos' they enjoy

cw: Mention of sex work (sugar baby/daddy dynamic), Sharing nudes, Poly 141 x gender neutral reader. description of fondling, masterbation, dom and sub similiar dynamic, vague allusion to spanking, teasing, Very NSFW!

After you sent them the first photo, you opened a whole new door to financial opportunities. Sure, you could normally send just about any regular photo and get a perfectly good amount of money (and praise). However, sexy pictures of you seemed to double the amount you’d normally get. So, of course, you’d capitalise on that, especially with the men who have been incredibly generous to you. Over time, you’ve even learnt how the individual boys like their photos and thus can cater when needed.

Gaz absolutely LOVES seeing you oiled up and naked for him. Especially when he gets to see those ass cheeks of yours. He loves how the body oil makes your skin glow vibrantly, how the light reflects off your skin, and how wetness defines every crevice and little detail on your body. He’s constantly talking about how much he wants to touch you, how he’d rub the oil over your uncovered breasts, groping and pulling at every bit of flesh you’d let him touch. How he’d pull your ass cheeks apart and let his skilled and defined fingers rub over your swollen and begging hole. God, he wished he could touch you.

Prices will pay for just about any small item you might want if you tell him you want it. Do you plan on going for a little shopping spree? Here’s 500 hundred, and an extra 50 for the lunch. He wouldn’t want you to starve and tire yourself out with all that walking. There is a bit of a catch, though. Anything you buy, you have to send him pictures of. And sure, he loves the normal sfw pictures you send. But nothing gets him harder than receiving a little picture of you clad in the new lacy undergarments you bought with his well-earned money. How you shyly present yourself to the camera, expensive fabric adorning your pretty flushed skin. The little twinkle in your big round eyes, silently seeking his approval. And oh, does he approve. He approves so much that he’ll describe in detail how he’d have that nice underwear dangling from your ankle as he bent you over his knee.

With Johnny, well, Johnny is an appreciator of just about any flash of skin you’d let him put his eyes on. Chest, ass, thighs, half-naked, fully naked, an inch of exposed ankle, doesn’t matter. He’ll take it, and he’ll be grateful for it. However, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it when you make him beg for his prize. You like to play little teasing games with him, sending him photos of you with your hands on the hem of your shirt, gently pulling it up. Enough to show your midriff, but never enough to entirely pull over your head and reveal the delicate beauty of your bare chest. With this one photo, you’d have him drooling like a dog and begging like one too. He’d try and bargain, offering up just about anything to get you to take the shirt off and show him your perky nipples. And I mean anything. You want money? He’s got money. You can take as much as you want, all of it even. He’ll beg if you want to if you’re into making a grown man paw at your feet. Whatever you want, you can have; just please, please, put the poor man out of his misery and let him get a peek of those gorgeous tits. 

Now, Simon, he’s a little trickier to figure out. He rarely makes comments or sends you messages, only using single-word responses on rare occasions. It’s challenging to get a read on him. So, instead of guessing what he wanted, you decided to just…ask. You quickly realised that having you utterly subservient to his demands was his biggest turn-on. He’d give you specific instructions detailing exactly how he wants you. Legs spread, sitting up on your bed, no clothing ‘cept for underwear (Of HIS choosing. Something thin and sluty, where he can see the whole fullness of your weeping sex behind the small fabric). He wants you to arch your back; show it to him, luv. He wants your hand on your pretty aching arousal, playing with yourself for his entertainment like his good little pet. You find he's a lot more talkative when you let him order you around like this. He’s more than happy to reward obedience, especially with such a good, obedient pet like yourself.

[darkbunnylove]

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick is a sore loser.

“But he's so calm and emotionally mature —”

No. Stop it.

You’re tryna tell me our golden boy —that high-achiever of a man, record-holder in selection, Price’s handpicked favorite, who definitely played every competitive sport imaginable in school and probably captained half of them —just shrugs when he loses? Be so serious.

It doesn’t even matter what it is.

Quiz night at the base? He's correcting whoever’s in charge. Demanding sources.

Card games? Man’s locked in like there’s a whole cash prize to win. Loses, and suddenly the rules weren’t clear.

Darts at the pub? He'll be quietly tallying wins on a napkin until someone else beats him. Then? No one’s keeping score anymore.

Oh and drills? Hah. You better believe Gaz is checking everyone's time twice while reminding Soap who finished first. But if he comes in second? He is already asking for a rematch before anyone can even breathe.

So, bold of you to assume he’d go easy on you just because you two are now dating.

Thinking about a cute little round of mini golf on a lazy Friday afternoon? Yeah, well, good luck, darling, because that man’s not trying to win just at love. <3

[subliminalghoest]

Safe house

Ghoap x f!reader

The safehouse was barebones—four walls, a door that didn’t close properly, and a single narrow bed shoved against the wall like an afterthought. One thin blanket. No heater. Concrete floors so cold they bit through your boots.

Soap stepped in first, glancing around with a sigh. “Right, well. Guess this place was built for one poor bastard, not three.”

Ghost dropped his gear by the wall with a grunt. “I’ll take the floor.”

“Hell no,” you said automatically, slinging your pack down. “You’ll freeze.”

“I’m used to it.”

Soap rolled his eyes and gave Ghost a flat look. “You’ve got enough screws loose without adding hypothermia to the list.”

“Then I’ll take the floor,” you offered, already tugging at your jacket zipper. “I’m small enough to crash on my pack.”

Both men gave you the same sharp look.

“No,” Ghost said, voice final.

“You’ll ache for a week,” Soap added. “We’re not doing that.”

You all stood there a moment, silent, stubborn. Then Soap looked at the bed again and shrugged.

“We’re all adults. One bed, three bodies. Head to toe if we have to.”

You arched a brow. “Ever tried sleeping with Ghost’s boots near your face?”

Ghost snorted, the faintest smirk in his voice. “I’m not sleeping in my boots, you know.”

Eventually, an agreement was made: all three of you in the bed, boys facing outward—Ghost on one side, Soap on the other, and you safe in the middle. They’d flank you, keep you warm, no funny business. Just sleep.

That had been the plan, anyway.

You weren’t sure what time it was when you woke up—just that the moonlight had shifted and the room was bathed in soft silver. You were too warm, wrapped in heat that had nothing to do with the thin blanket.

Soap’s arm was slung lazily over your waist, his hand resting just beneath the hem of your shirt, skin-to-skin and entirely unbothered. His breath tickled the curve of your neck, soft and steady. One of his legs had somehow worked its way between yours, your leg hitched over his.

Behind you, Ghost was molded to your back, chest pressed close, the slow rise and fall of his breath an anchor against your spine. One of his arms wrapped around your middle, the other tucked beneath the pillow you shared. Protective. Possessive. Present.

You shifted slightly, caught between warmth and awareness, and felt Soap's fingers twitch.Ghost’s hand tightened, just a fraction. Like they both felt it too.

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t anything overt. Nothing crude. You were surrounded, caged in heat and strength and quiet tension.

And God, it felt good.

You could’ve pulled back. Should’ve. But you didn’t. You leaned in—drifting your fingers along Ghost’s forearm, letting your leg press deeper against Soap’s. Neither man spoke, but Soap’s breath caught, quiet and sharp.

Ghost... Ghost exhaled against the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, his face pressing in closer.

You fell asleep again like that—wrapped in the kind of tension that lulled you rather than startled. Wanting to stay wrapped in this dream a little longer before having to face reality.

—————————————————————————

The second time you woke, it was slower—every inch of your body aware before your mind caught up.

Warmth. Weight. Pressure. Breath against your throat.

Soap had shifted in the night, his head now tucked beneath your chin, resting lightly on your bicep. Your arm had curled around him, cradling him. His hand had drifted lower, fingers curved gently around the dip of your thigh. Your hips pressed snugly to his. Innocent, but barely.

Behind you, Ghost had only pulled you closer—his hand now splayed along your ribs, thumb rhythmically stroking the soft skin just under your breast.

You stayed still. Testing the moment.

Then you moved—just a little. A shift, nothing more.

Soap stirred against you, his body pressing closer.

Ghost’s hand stilled… then resumed its slow stroke.

Deliberate. Intentional.

“You’re awake,” came Ghost’s voice—low, gravelly. Dangerous.

You swallowed. “Didn’t mean to move.”

“Didn’t say stop.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Soap chuckled, his voice still thick with sleep and something else. “Think she likes waking up between us.” He arched his neck up and you felt his nose run up your neck, running back down to your collar bone where he nuzzled into you.

Your breath hitched.

“You’re imagining things,” you mumbled, but your voice betrayed you. Soft. Breathless.

“You sure about that?” Ghost leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear through the mask. “Because from where I’m lying, you haven’t moved away.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. You were burning now—trapped between them and completely unwilling to escape.

Soap shifted again, his hand trailing down your thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your shorts. “We won’t do anything you don’t want, love,” he murmured.

“But if you want something…” Ghost said, voice dropping to a low, dark promise, “…just say it.”

The silence stretched.

And you wondered how you were going to convince yourself that this was a bad idea.

Part two Here

[sweetheartbitesb4ck]

this is part one || part two || part three || part four || part five

Simon 'Ghost' Riley, who always kept such a stoic, emotionless facade, couldn't help but feel drawn in when he walked past your house.

Your windows were wide open, so the loud music crept out into the street as you danced around the kitchen, belting out lyrics along to the song. Simon paused as he noticed, a huff of laughter escaping from him as a smile crept over his masked face.

Stepping forward slightly, the Lieutenant craned his neck to peer through the window, his eyebrows furrowing with amusement as you jig around to the song, your singing muffled as you bend down to put a tray in the oven.

"Not too bad," Simon mutters to himself, referring to your singing. After a moment, he snaps out of his intrigued gaze, realising how creepy he probably looked, also realising, despite these unfamiliar feelings, how different he was to this person he'd never even spoken too, like a slab of concreate being best friends with a rainbow.

He carries on walking, shaking his head as if to shake the 'sense' back into himself, however he just couldn't get rid of that slightly fluttery feeling in the base of his belly. Ghost was used to being able to walk through life not feeling anything for anyone, partly because of his rough childhood and mostly because of the mannerisms gained from his line of work. Yeah, you hadn't had a great experience growing up either, but you were so open. Simon almost found it... refreshing?

Even at work he couldn't get rid of that lingering feeling. In the mess room, it was obvious. Simon was always... grumpy, to say the least, but today he wasn't even getting angry at MacTavish when he was being annoying, which was a clear indicator something was off.

Soap stops messing around, his grin shrinking to some degree. "Alright, LT?" he inquires, tilting his head slightly. Ghost grunts, scowling through his mask. Gaz looks over, nodding in agreement at Johnny. "Yeah, to be fair you seem off Simon."

Simon turns to Soap, then Kyle, his eyes dark. "Stop fucking pestering." He says bluntly, voice deep and gravelly.

Later, (in the pub, obviously) Simon was still quiet, sulking over his drink.

"I say we buy him some more booze and get him to spill," Soap whispers to Kyle, eyebrows raised smugly like some evil genius devising a master plan. "Yeah he's being weird." Garrick responds a little to loudly, and Ghost's neck pretty much snaps round. He looks the two up and down before returning to his drink. "Aye the blokes very crabbit." MacTavish mutters, rolling his eyes.

After Kyle and John had made poor Simon tipsy from countlessly thrusting more and more drinks before him, they started to question him. "Why so silent?" Garrick's eyes flick to Johnnies, as if to ask for approval for the question. Soap grins and nods, watching as Simon slams down down his fists on the table, leaning backwards in his chair.

"There's this girl," He mutters, shaking his head as both Gaz and Soap sit up, leaning in. "A lass, aye?" MacTavish squints, smirking at Simon. "Where'd you meet?"

"We haven't- I mean, I saw her through her window..." Simon grumbles, adjusting his skull mask. "Oh?" Kyle's mouth opens in a confused O shape. "Bit pervy. Maybe talk to her?"

"No... it'd be like a bag of skittles.. and I dunno, a boring old rock shagging." Ghost pouts through the mask, eyebrows contorted slightly.

"So... yer different from each other?" Johnny frowns, evidently bewildered. "I think he went and fell in love with this window lassie," He turns to Gaz, his expression contagious.

"That's the fucking problem!" Yells Simon, his eyes shining with unironic yet comical sadness. He slams his large, gloved hands into his face, tipping back on the chair.

"Show us window girl then," Garrick chuckles, obviously not convinced. The three man stand up, Soap shoving a few notes onto the table and thumping Simon's back gently as they walk out into the dark.

"She lives like..." The lieutenant trails off, pointing randomly around before stomping off down the road. After about 10 minutes of walking, he stops abruptly in front of your small house. The downstairs lights were all on, shining cosily from inside. The three stand there for a moment before Soap nudges Simon. "You gonnae talk to her or not?" Kyle steps back slightly as Ghost groans like some enamoured softy. "Maybe not..." Gaz murmurs.

"Oh you and your sensibleness can fuck right off." Johnny says as he starts to shoves Ghost up the pathway to your house, knocking on the door before darting away and leaving the bewildered man just standing there. Simon registers what's happening as the lock starts to click. It was too late for him to walk away. His breath hitches as you open the door and open your mouth, confused. "Hi?" You say, voice slightly unsure.

His eyes widen and he grins sheepishly, taking in your beauty close up and blinking as he starts to speak. "Hello Miss," You shift around slightly, grip tight on the door. Who the fuck is this guy? You think to yourself, looking the masked figure up and down.

You step backwards slightly as you notice another two men walking up the path, one grinning and the other rather reluctant. The one with strange looking mohawk places a firm hand on the masked mans shoulder and the other one just cowers behind mohawk man.

"My friend Simon here would like your number," Soap smiles, Scottish accent loud in the crisp night air. Simon nods enthusiastically. "You're pretty," He slurs, sticking up his thumb and grinning with his eyes. You nod, trying not to burst out laughing.

"Oh, well... thanks," You smile briefly, leaning backwards into the house to grab a pen. You weren't sure why you were doing this... giving some random man your number, but something had you hooked. Maybe it was the fact you could see how toned and muscly he was, even through his hoodie, or just because of how blatantly bizarre the encounter was. "Here," You tug up masked mans sleave, scribbling your number on the inside of his wrist. "Yay," He mumbles, turning around and tripping down the path, his two buddies in close pursuit.

You can't help but notice him drunkenly punch the air as he stumbles down the path, and as you click the door shut you can't ignore the smile plastered on your face and the flush creeping over your cheeks.

should I make a part 2 ?

sorry for any mistakes I'm tired af again heh... anyway, any reblogs / support is appreciated!! hope you enjoyed !

[leyavo]

Hacker!reader that joined the military as a political prisoner. You were found as part of a freedom fighter movement, forced to use your skills for a small military operation in exchange for prison or worse sent back to your strict cult family.

You now work as a hybrid technician in the field, still got a very short leash though. - tracker injected into the back of your arm. Maybe one day you’ll earn that freedom you desperately seek.

Freedom, is something you’ve fought for years. Escaped the cult you grew up in using technology. Nothing but a busted up phone and a concussed group leader, the type of grit and determination Captain Price likes when he reads your file. Slipped into databases and breached security systems like you’ve built them yourself. All in the name of bringing down shady operations and war criminals just like John Price.

He’s a lesser evil though if you want to help the greater good.

Taught to obey the same hand you were trying to break, the system you were trying to destroy. And your superiors all knew that, even gave you special treatment (not that type though). You’re more of a feral dog, a stray tied up to a lamp post and made to beg for scraps.

That’s how you get your call-sign, Lucky. Some sick, twisted joke of how your superiors liked to remind how fortunate you were. “Lucky, you’re still breathing…” when you’re in fact on the floor, your blood dripping on the training mat as a lieutenant looms over you. “Lucky I ain’t knocking you out.”

“Should think yourself lucky, I’d rather you rot away in a cell.” - everyone telling you to be thankful, to kiss the hand that trapped you. To play the good little soldier and be rewarded with a decent meal, a bed or a moment of silence without someone breathing down your neck.

The task force 141 changes that though, your handler pissed at how they can go above him and request your presence without him. Doesn’t stop him from controlling the situation. How your hands are cuffed to the bar on top of the table, left to wait five hours till John Price enters the interrogation room. A thick file thudding in front you, yours.

“This just might be your lucky day,” John says, flicking your file open and jabbing your mugshot clipped to the first page.

Gone is the handler whose boot presses on the back of your neck, the one to keep you down. You’re thrusted into the base with buzzing computers, whirring drones and you can’t help but lean into the hum of machines lining the task force’s room.

No, you’re new handlers a ghost. A silent observer that watches you from afar and gives you space to work. Lieutenant Riley, you don’t know if he cares about you really. Like it’s all part of the job working with the enemy. Doesn’t speak to you much, only barking orders out in the field or when he requests some research, intel.

The only one you can stand is sergeant Garrick, some sort of moral compass and voice of reason within the team. Someone you learnt to stay on side with as he’d probably be the only one questioning your wellbeing. Johnny Mactavish or Soap as they call him, too brash…the type your mother would wash their mouth out, make them hold the bar of soap until they stop speaking with such disgusting tongue. He gets the job done though, pulled you out by the scruff of your top a few times whilst bullets were flying.

Captain Price though, he’s oddly fair and you convince yourself it’s his way of manipulating you to do what you’re told. Not used to scheduled check-ins on your work or the good job he throws your way when you do what’s asked of you. In the back of your mind though you remind yourself what these people really are…

[Masterlist]

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Right Here, Always

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst with a soft ending, parental themes, military separation, mentions of emotional distance, a persistent but soft!Simon, slow-burn reconnection

Author's Note: This is for all of my baby daddy Simon lovers out there. I’m sorry if there’s mistakes! I’m half awake doing this

Summary: You swore you were done with him, but Simon Riley never really let go. And even with the miles and damage between you, he keeps showing up—for you, and the son you share. Maybe the door you slammed shut wasn't as locked as you thought.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

——

The knock comes just after sunset.

You glance up from where you’re wrestling your wriggly four-year-old into pajamas.

“Johnny, stop kicking, baby. Mummy doesn’t have the stamina to fight you and whatever just showed up at the door.”

He giggles, completely unaffected. “Is it Daddy?”

Your heart lurches. He always asks that.

You lift him into your arms and head to the door, half-expecting no one—only to find the broad silhouette of Simon Riley leaning against the frame, hood up, hands full of bags.

Again.

You don’t even ask how he got past the gate buzzer this time. He always finds a way.

“You’re supposed to be on base,” you say, eyeing the bag with the logo of your favorite bakery. “You flew down just to restock my fridge?”

He shrugs. “Had leave. Figured I’d spend it right.”

Johnny wriggles in your arms and squeals, “Daddy!”

Simon immediately straightens and opens his arms. You let your son dive into them, even though your chest tightens watching it.

“Missed you, mate,” Simon murmurs as he lifts the boy into a hug. His eyes flicker toward you. “Missed you both.”

You say nothing.

——

Flashback – One Year Ago

The breakup wasn’t one big explosion. It was a slow burn. Missed birthdays. Silent dinners. Deployment after deployment until you were raising a toddler alone while loving a ghost who kept disappearing.

“I can’t keep doing this, Simon,” you had said one night, voice shaking. “You’re more devoted to the bloody military than your own son.”

He hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t begged.

He’d just looked at you with those hollow, tired eyes.

“I do this for him.”

And that was the problem. You didn’t want a soldier. You wanted the man behind the mask. But somewhere along the way, you lost him.

——

Your phone buzzes late one night, just as you’re settling into bed.

SIMON (FaceTime)

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the answer button. Johnny’s already asleep, but he’ll be heartbroken if he misses a call.

You pick up.

The screen flickers. Simon’s face is partially shadowed, a locker behind him, camo undershirt clinging to his frame. He looks exhausted.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hi.”

“Where’s my little menace?”

“Sleeping. Long day.”

He smiles faintly. “Wish I’d seen him.”

You shift the phone, then sigh. “He made a dinosaur out of socks today. He says its name is ‘Sergeant Roary.’”

Simon chuckles, rubbing his jaw. “He’s got the imagination.”

“Wonder where he gets it from,” you mutter, a soft jab.

A pause.

Then—quietly—“How are you, love?”

You blink at the endearment, throat tightening. You should shut it down, remind him it’s not like that anymore. But instead…

“Tired. Work’s a mess. He’s got another ear infection, and I—” You stop, shaking your head. “Forget it.”

Simon doesn’t. “Want me to send some extra meds? I’ll call the doc.”

“No,” you snap. “I don’t need you to fix everything, Simon.”

He nods slowly. “Alright. But I’ll always offer.”

You end the call before you say something stupid. But later, as you lay beside your sleeping son, your fingers ghost over his cheek and you whisper, “He misses you.”

——

You don’t expect to find Simon sitting on your porch the next day, a toolbox at his feet.

“Boiler’s acting up,” he says casually.

You narrow your eyes. “You stalking my utility bills now?”

“Neighbour mentioned you cursed it out loud enough to rattle windows.”

You glare—but you let him in.

While he works under the sink, Johnny sits beside him, handing tools with far too much excitement. You catch yourself leaning against the doorframe, watching.

Simon glances up at you and grins slightly.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t think this means anything.”

“Didn’t say it did.”

But something about the way his voice dips—hopeful, steady—tells you he’s counting every inch you let him in.

——

The boiler works again.

And you didn’t even have to call a technician—Simon handled it in less than an hour, sitting cross-legged on your kitchen floor in a worn t-shirt and jeans, his arms covered in grease and soap bubbles from your leaky pipe.

You should’ve been irritated. But instead, you found yourself standing in the doorway with your arms crossed and an ache in your chest as you watched him talk softly to your son, Johnny, while they “fixed the monster pipe” together.

Johnny had squealed in delight every time Simon asked him to hand him a wrench. His tiny voice shouted, “Aye aye, Sarge!”—a little phrase Simon had taught him a year ago and he still remembered.

You don’t tell Simon that Johnny sometimes uses it when he’s playing alone, marching through the living room with his toy soldiers, pretending he’s on a secret mission to “rescue Daddy.”

You don’t tell him because if you say it aloud, it makes it real—how much his absence hurts, how much it’s still affecting you both.

And you’ve worked so damn hard to keep that part of your heart on lockdown.

——

It starts with a flat tire, followed by a warning light blinking on your dashboard all the way to work. Johnny throws a tantrum during daycare drop-off. Then your boss decides it’s the perfect day to breathe down your neck about a report that wasn’t even late.

By the time you get home, your back is aching, your eyes sting, and your soul just feels exhausted.

You manage to make it through dinner and bedtime—barely. But as soon as Johnny’s tucked in and the house is still, the weight of the day slams into you.

You sink to the couch, face in your hands. For a moment, you don’t even realize you’re crying until the tears are dripping through your fingers.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table.

Simon: You okay?

You stare at the message.

You hadn’t texted him.

You hadn’t called.

But somehow, he still knows.

With trembling fingers, you type back:

You always text me when I’m about to fall apart?

He replies instantly.

Only when I feel it. Want me to call?

You hesitate.

You: Yeah. Please.

The screen lights up, and his face fills the frame. His hair is damp, pushed back messily, a plain white tee hugging his chest.

He looks like he’s in the barracks, soft lighting flickering above him.

He sees your face and his expression immediately shifts—softens.

“Bad day?” he asks, voice low and comforting.

You nod, wiping at your eyes. “Felt like everything hit at once. I’m just... tired, Simon.”

There’s a pause.

Then his voice, barely above a whisper: “Wish I was there.”

Your throat closes up. You hate how much you want him next to you right now.

“You don’t get to do this,” you say shakily.

“You don’t get to still know when I need someone.”

He tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours.

“Then tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want this. That you don’t want me around anymore.”

Silence stretches between you.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

Simon doesn’t smile—but his gaze warms.

“Then I’m not going anywhere.”

——

A week later, you find Johnny curled on the couch with your phone, giggling at the screen. You’re half-certain he’s watching cartoons until you hear a familiar voice through the speaker.

“Oi, you cheeky bugger. You eat your broccoli today or is your mum still fighting that battle solo?”

You glance over his shoulder—and there’s Simon, grinning faintly from a shadowed corner of base.

You sit beside your son as he giggles, “Mum said I can have dessert after.”

“Smart lad,” Simon replies. “She’s the boss, ain’t she?”

Johnny pauses, then says something you didn’t expect:

“Miss you, Daddy.”

Your heart freezes.

Simon’s face softens immediately—his jaw tightening like he’s holding something in. “I miss you too, Johnny.”

You look at your son, who’s smiling like the sun’s in his chest, and feel something inside you crack open.

That night, while tucking Johnny in, you ask quietly, “Why did you call him that? Daddy?”

He looks at you, confused. “He is my daddy. Even if he’s busy being a superhero! He’ll always be my daddy.”

It’s so simple. So honest.

And you don’t have the strength to argue with it.

——

Simon shows up two days later with a box of food and a secondhand bike small enough for Johnny’s age.

You’re about to tell him off—again—but stop when you see Johnny’s face.

He squeals with joy, jumps into his dad’s arms, and for the first time in weeks, you don’t tell Simon to leave after dinner.

You watch as he tightens the bike bolts in the hallway, Johnny hovering beside him asking a million questions, and you realize you don’t feel exhausted tonight. You feel...

Warm.

Full.

When Simon stands to go, he stops by the door and looks at you, hopeful.

“You okay if I stop by again tomorrow?”

You hesitate. Then nod, once.

His expression doesn’t change much—but his eyes soften, like he just took a deep breath after holding it for months.

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

[ohgeesoap]

TF 141 and how they test your relationship:

Ghost: Bad at apologizing. Will show you he's sorry through actions but won't actually say it out loud. Eventually texts "I'm sorry" or writes it on a sticky note and puts it on the fridge.

Soap: Bad temper. It's not directed at you but it can be a little alarming to watch that switch flip because what the fuck just happened and who is he going to fight?

Gaz: Says things very matter of factly, so it makes you feel like he's leaving no more room for discussion when you still have plenty to say. You have to let him know that you're not done.

Price: Puts his hands up in a calm down gesture when he thinks your emotions are getting the better of you. Instantly sends you over the edge because why does he think that would work on you?

[lay-z]

I just watched some porn video of a guy on all his fours, cumming hands free, and I know Johnny trains himself to do that on the regular.

He'll be sitting next to Simon, right across from Kyle and Price, as the helo takes them back to base—and he'd have this glazed, absent look in his eyes as he stares at a random spot on the wall, gloved hands lightly twitching on his knees; his throbbing prick nearly invisible tucked up into the waistband of his black cargos.

It'd make Kyle furrow his brows, causing him to nudge his Captain's side before nodding his chin at the Scot.

"Cap, ya think Soap's alright? Looks like the bloody thousand yard stare, innit."

Price raises an eyebrow as he notices, too, but before he can inquire what the hell is wrong with his Sergeant, Simon chimes in from behind his mask, dry as ever:

"He's jus' havin' a hands free wank, sir."

Bonus: While Kyle is absolutely bewildered, he does take Johnny aside after landing with a hand on his mate's shoulder, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper: "So, 'bout that hands free wankin'—"

[tobeholyistobeempty]

obsessed with the idea of soap being the long term guy friend of yours that you swear you’d never hookup with because he’s just not your type and you really just don’t see him like that - until you suddenly go through a nasty breakup and find yourself under him being absolutely worshipped and overstimmed and fucking devoured from every possible angle. soap would happily play the long game and god would he ever play it well.