#TF141 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

deunmiu-dessie · 15 hours

Text

𐙚₊˚⊹♡ 23 c.o.d men rambles with nsfw visuals (p-links) ♡

featuring!— kyle ‘gaz’ garrick, johnny ‘soap’ mactavish, simon ‘ghost’ riley, könig, john ‘captain’ price, phillip graves, vladimir makarov! ♡

₁ 𐙚 imagine fucking john doggy style, and he’s jus’ so horny for you so you guys don't even make it to the bed :( he tosses you onto the couch and lifts your ass into the air, his thick, meaty cock bruising your insides. then he grips your hair and bends you back to slant his lips over yours in a messy kiss 😖

₂ 𐙚 having a sloppy make-out session with gaz when he gets back from a mission. sucking on his tongue and whimpering into his mouth while his big hands run up and down your thighs and ass. gaz always gets you so needy and wet before he dicks you down, having tears streaming down your face and thighs trembling :((

₃ 𐙚 soap fucking his cum back into your swollen pussy while whining and whimpering, promising to get you pregnant; thick and hard at the thought of you round with his kids. he pumps your pussy to the brim with his cum that night, til it drips down your thighs.

₄ 𐙚 gaz loves to record the two of you having sex, and loves to send it to the 141 group chat. loves to show off his pretty girl whose pussy takes his big cock so well :( loves to show them how well you moan and beg, loves to show them your fucked out face, loves the way the team goes feral as you moan their names with bleary eyes and drool spilling down your chin. loves to show them that regardless, you're his.

₅ 𐙚 simon using your pussy as a cumdump... literally, when you act like a brat. he'll have you lay naked across the bed, hand fisting his cock as gazes at your tits, your needy cunt drooling and clenching. he'll watch as you cry and beg for him to fuck you, your wrists bound together and tied to the headboard. then he'll press his thick tip into your pussy and spill himself inside. brats don't get to cum, as he likes to say— sorry :(

₆ 𐙚 kyle 'will overstimulate you while pussydrunk' garrick. baby gaz just loves the taste of your pussy, especially after going so long without it :( you're so warm and sweet, needy and sobbing-- and he's missed the feel of your thick thighs wrapped around his head, missed the feeling of your hands running through his hair. so, just let him enjoy his meal.

₇ 𐙚 needy soap who swears he'll just rock against your panties, his thick cock nudging your fattened clit which presses eagerly against the pre-cum soaked fabric. soap who moves your panties to the side and shushes you with a kiss to your lips, swearing he'll just thrust against you; thumb brushing against your bundle of nerves. soap who loses himself in the moment, gripping your thighs and looking at you with pleading eyes, swearing he'll only use the tip, thick, bulbous head already stretching your pussy. 🥺

₈ 𐙚 after you had the baby, john can't stop thinking about seeing you swollen and round again, with your breasts heavy, and thighs thick. john who breeds your pussy at any moment he can. whether it be with you bent over the counter and cooking dinner, with you sleep; your pussy warm and welcoming, or even in the shower, your milk-heavy tits pressed against the shower door. ( bonus )

₉ 𐙚 makarov who finally gives in to your pleading demands, his hands rough as he forces you onto the bed, yanking down your skirt and pulling your panties to the side. his gaze is cold and calculating, even a bit annoyed. makarov who snatches the loli from your mouth, running it up your slick pussy before pushing it in. "Это то, что вы хотели, да?"

₁₀ 𐙚 he makes sure to fuck you well before he leaves on a mission, his thick cock bullying your slick cunt full of his cum. gaz makes sure you know who your pussy belongs to, makes sure he has your thighs trembling in his arms as he fucks you against the shower wall.

₁₁ 𐙚 simon loves to watch you ride him, loves to have your tits in his face, taking one of your sensitive nipples into his mouth. loves to hear you whine that your cumming for the fifth time, loves to watch as his abdomen becomes sticky with your creamy cum. loves watching your lips tremble and your eyes water as he thrusts sharply into you, knocking on your cervix and bruising it.

₁₂ 𐙚 having sex with gaz always overstimulates you in every sense of the word and not just with your body. gaz loves to watch you fall apart on his cock, loves to grab your chin and keep your eyes locked with his, loves to watch your gaze get bleary and your mouth struggle to form words all while his hand moves in quick figure eights on your clit, cock spearing through you deliciously. gaz will press kisses to your swollen lips, groaning into your mouth. "on me, luv. le' me see those gorgeous eyes."

₁₃ 𐙚 price loves to suck on your tits, while his cock slowly pumps in and out of you. loves to bury his face into the valley, placing kisses and sucking hickies. john price sucks on your nipples like a man starved, thick hands squeezing and kneading :(

₁₄ 𐙚 imagine getting punished by boyfriend graves because you fucked up during a mission, the objective getting away. he tells everyone to leave the room, glaring eyes stuck on yours. graves who orders you to strip, pushing you down against a busted couch, yanking down your combat pants, and tearing your panties. graves who angrily unzips himself, as you blubber and plead, pussy leaking and ready. he watches as your pussy struggles to take his cock, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you apologize repeatedly. "don't want to fucking hear it, sergeant."

₁₅ 𐙚 gaz fucking you into the bed after he gets home from a mission gone awry. soft lover gaz who just can't be his usual giving self. gaz who takes what he needs from you, regardless of the tears that stream down our face.

₁₆ 𐙚 könig, all needy can't help but fuck your thighs, whimpering and whining :(

₁₇ 𐙚 having a threesome with soap and gaz; who can't help but record as soap practically makes love to you with his eyes. gaz who could care less as you forget all about his cock, breathing heavily as he watches as your pussy struggles to swallow soap's cock. gaz who sends the video to the 141 group chat.

₁₈ 𐙚 imagine makarov sharing your pussy with yuri as a reward to the man. makarov who guides your mouth over his cock, all while sipping on his alcohol; yuri fucking into your pussy needily, grunting and groaning as you squeeze around him.

₁₉ 𐙚 100 percent believe this is how gaz and soap eat you out, prove me wrong. i'll wait. ( bonus: since soap made you cum first, you granted his wish. )

₂₀ 𐙚 john overstimulating you while whispering how much of a good girl you are, slapping at your thighs when you cringe away from him, his thick fingers finding your clit again. john who fucks into ravenously, cooing as you shudder and buck against him.

₂₁ 𐙚 graves finally puts your smart mouth to work, shoving his thick length down your throat. graves angrily saying your pussy isn't good enough for his cock. his words, not mine.

₂₂ 𐙚 angry sex with toxic gaz, who swears no one will ever fuck you as good as he will. who tells you that you belong to him, that you were made for each other, that you won't leave him. who fucks you dumb until you promise to stay.

₂₃ 𐙚 soap swears he won't cum inside you...

spent hours scrolling through twitter porn, help me.😔

705 notes · View notes

loveindefinitely · 3 days

Text

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

13 — THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS BAD THOUGHTS, ONLY YOUR ACTIONS TALK

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

You’d, somehow, forgotten just how… vibrant two of your oldest friends were.

With the blades of the helicopter still spinning, the deafening sound of aircrafts around you, and a steady mist of rain, your body collides with another.

“Oi, watch it!” You exclaim, a beaming smile stretched over your features as the bulky, oblivious man squeezes his arms around your torso and buries his head into your neck. “You smell like gunpowder. And your fiancée.”

His voice comes out muffled against your skin. “And you smell like cheap body wash.”

He squeezes you once more before finally letting you go, his dimples deep and hair soggy with rain. You study his features, the sharpness of his jaw and the dusting of brunette against it. Him. One of your oldest friends in the military.

He looses a breath, eyes meeting yours and his hands falling to your shoulders, a comforting weight. You don’t have any words, can’t find them, so all that leaves your lips is a single name.

“Alex,” you whisper, voice breaking in the middle, heart a sore throb in your chest.

The storm clouds above paint the world around you in harsh greys and physical manifestations of sadness – but in it all, your light has arrived.

And how powerful it is.

“Moonflower!” A deeply familiar, feminine voice shouts, and you spread your arms wide and accept the body that crashes against your own. Your laugh is startled and pure, but relief and serotonin floods your system as warm as the embrace you’re surrounded in.

You’d found solace and even a home in your solitude, your loneliness, but now?

Now, with the only two people in your life that have remained by your side, no matter the distance, holding you in their embrace?

It feels like family, even if you know there isn’t a space between the two of them for you to fit in – no crevice large enough for you to ever comfortably merge.

A foster family, maybe. Or a found one, however tenuous and distant.

“I missed you both so much,” you murmur, voice cracking slightly. You clear your throat, inhaling a trembling breath as you squeeze your eyes shut and rest your face in the crook of her neck. She smells of an odd mixture of her usual perfume, and Alex’s cologne.

You wonder if you’ll still have enough limbs attached to get to their wedding, by the time everything has been dealt with.

If you’ll even have a head attached.

It’s a small eternity (or maybe a few seconds, or maybe a few years) until she pulls away, a glint in her eyes that seems a concoction of pity and strength.

“You look stunning, Farah,” you grin, and your cheeks burn with the odd sensation of joy.

She crinkles her nose, dark stray hairs flying across her face from the continuing wind of both winter and the helicopter. Her skin glows with health – and you realise, then, how even with the stress of reconstructing a nation, she’s happy. Honest and unrepentant and golden. A survivor of war, but a survivor nonetheless.

Raising a brow, she returns, “You look like shit.”

A chuckle leaves your throat, the familiarity that is Farah’s honesty akin to a hot chocolate and a blanket wrapped around a freezing frame.

“You look like you’ve been injured,” Alex adds, a small wince gracing his features. He’s miraculously found himself once more at Farah’s side, not unlike a loyal guard dog.

A guard dog guarding a lion, maybe, but a guard dog nonetheless.

“Unlike you two,” you chastise, folding your arms and burying your cold hands in the space between your bicep and breasts, “I’m at war.”

“With the guy we warned you about,” Farah raises her brow, voice acidic and biting. “The guy we told you was going to ruin your life?”

“There’s a difference between ruining my life, and quite literally ruining my life,” you counter, watching a cloud of breath hang in the air, chilled by the evening cold, before dissipating into the breeze.

“He can continue ruining your life inside,” Alex cuts in, a hand falling against the dip of Farah’s spine, and the other moving to rest between your shoulder blades. He applies just enough pressure to be convincing, but not demanding.

It may as well be a demand, however, with how weak your mindscape seems to be in the face of comfort and familiarity.

The base seems small, even with the short distance, a reminder of how self-contained and cataclysmic your life has become (has always been). It’s well past eight, now, and with the winter hours it’s almost pitch black already. A few stars decorate the black landscape, this far out from most light pollution. Your eyes stray to the glistening balls of flame, and you wonder if someday soon you’ll find yourself amongst them.

Two duffel bags hang off of Alex’s shoulder, and it sparks your interest.

“How long are you two planning to stay?” You ask, as if they’re merely old friends staying for a weekend, catching up over bottles of wine and damaged decks of cards.

They both shrug, almost in sync. Your heart thunders in your chest at the small display of how attuned they are with each other – how in love. It’s Farah who answers, simply, “However long it will take.”

When you look down to your boots, ripples of water against sleek concrete cascading beneath each footfall, it’s merely to hide the stretch of a smile that braces your chapped lips. Your voice is small, uncharacteristically vulnerable, when you mutter to the ground, “Thank you.”

“We owe you, hell, we owe you more than a dozen lifetimes for what you’ve done for us,” Alex scoffs, the gratitude rolling off of him unlike the rain soaking his long-sleeved v-neck.

“Let’s just call this even, then,” you retort, lifting your head once more, allowing them both to see the softened curve of your mouth, the gentle slope of your brows.

The rain has paused its pouring, but a whole other kind of thunderstorm awaits the three of you in the entry of the base.

When you’d called Farah and Alex – just two nights ago, mere minutes after finishing your meal with Ghost and Soap – you hadn’t spared many details about Graves. You’d told them of your betrayal, of your thoughts, of the adrenaline rush that was that last fight with him.

What you hadn’t disclosed was your increasingly peculiar arrangement with the 141. Or your tryst with Gaz. Or your mess of feelings, as a whole.

So, really, you hadn’t told them much in the realm of everything.

Now, seeing the outline of four starkly familiar profiles, waiting underneath the small awning above the entrance to the base, you regret leaving such vital pieces of information out of your hours-long call.

“This is the one first impression you don’t want to fuck up,” is all you manage to grate out to the two beside you, before you fall into hearing distance of the very imposing image the 141 has managed to portray. Sometimes, you forget how genuinely daunting the four men are, with the different lights you’ve seen them in.

This is not one of those times.

As soon as the light sitting at the door shines against the three of you, Soap startles forward, clad in only a tight-fitting grey shirt, with a hefty leather jacket in his grip. When he reaches you, not even glancing at the newcomers, he pulls the jacket over your shoulders, warm and gun-rough hands brushing the soft skin of your neck as he does so.

“Impatient, lass, runnin’ off into the rain without any feckin’ layers,” he reprimands, without any bite at all.

You’re stumped, for a moment, before shaking your head lightly and stepping away from the utterly confusing man. With a dramatic flourish of a hand gesture, you motion towards your left.

Thankfully, Soap hadn’t met you too far out, so it only takes a few steps before you’re standing before the other three. A healthy dose of scepticism and tension fills the air between you all, and while you could certainly do without it, it still stings.

Just as you’re about to introduce everyone, despite Soap’s oddly rude behaviour, Price interrupts.

“Bloody hell, small world, ain’t it?” He chuckles, throaty and pleased, muscle-corded arms folded over his chest. His smile is like a beam in the dark of night.

“Thought it’d be a nice surprise, old man,” Farah returns, bringing out her hand for him to shake with a firm grip, both comfortable and at ease in each other’s presence. When Farah goes to pull away, however, Price stops her from doing so with wide eyes, laser-focused on her ring-adorned finger.

“Well I’ll be damned, Alex, how’d you convince her to deal with your arse for eternity?” Price teases, and while you expect the younger man to hit back, he simply beams.

The three seem to be in their own little world, with you, Soap, Gaz and Ghost being left with raised brows.

“Oh, sorry, guys,” Alex raises a hand, having the decency to look sheepish. His eyes trail along the 141 warily, before meeting your own eyes, relaxing slightly under your gaze. He seems reluctant to break the contact, but does so nonetheless, words directed at the 141 as he says, “Price is an old friend.”

Farah and Price break their quiet conversation, directing their attention back to the group at large. It’s quiet, for a moment, which is a blessing considering the large personalities at hand.

You’re the one to break it.

“Well,” you start, a sudden burst of anxiety sparking in your stomach – you hadn’t considered the merging of your two lives, of past and present, the clashing of…

Oh. God.

Oh God. Oh God, you had almost forgotten that, but if you had, maybe they did, too? Yes. Definitely. It’ll be fine.

(It won’t be fine, you’re more certain, but a little lie to yourself can’t hurt. Much.)

You continue, not a breath out of place despite your internal thoughts, “Farah, Alex, meet the 141.”

Gesturing to the four men, meeting all of their eyes, you then gesture to the other two. “Guys, meet Farah and Alex.”

Silence fills the space between you all for a mere moment – just past a second, really – but it’s damning and heavy all the same. It has your chest tightening and your throat constricting, not unlike a thread of rope being pulled taut around the curve of your neck.

“Thank you for taking care of her,” Farah says, voice steady and calculated. Defensive, really.

Gaz’s eyes narrow, his voice perfectly even and sickly sweet as he responds, “I can promise you, the last thing Sweetheart needs is to be taken care of.”

It’s… tense.

You’d, of course, expected that it would take some time for Farah and Alex to become anything close to friendly with the 141, but this feels different. A kind of static alights the air, a live wire sensitive to any spark that will instantly set it aflame.

“It’s good to see you again too, mate,” Alex smiles, but a sharp edge lines the curve of his lips. His eyes meet Gaz’s, and they don’t stray.

With a tight smile, Gaz responds, “Likewise.”

Ghost stands farthest from the group, a haunting spectre, shrouded in shadows with his arms folded over his chest and his hip resting against the wall. It’s impossible to see where, exactly, his eyes are trained – but you know they rest on you nonetheless.

Soap’s jacket remains a comforting weight on your shoulders, and although you’re loath to admit it even to yourself, it is miles better than the thin top you’d braved. He’s standing closest to you, on your right, posture straightened and imposing. He exudes a kind of energy you haven’t felt from him before, the closest being when you’d been separated from him post-surgery, maybe.

“Let’s have some tea, maybe, in the common room?” You ask, but it’s not really a request. Your tone is thick with insistence and command, and no one is in a place to deny you.

By the time you all make it to the common room – Alex and Farah comfortably speaking with Price, and you walking silently with Gaz, Ghost and Soap. The latter, especially, remaining a close presence at your side.

A few candles are lit against the windowsill, and a singular lamp sat against the large couch has been lit. No need for the blinding white light of the ceiling – just comfort and familiarity.

It feels at odds with the terse energy at hand, but simultaneously, a blessing.

Alex immediately takes a seat on the far right of the couch, at ease with himself and his surroundings. Gaz sits on the far left, leaving two spots between them. Without a word, Soap’s hand finds your lower back, and he virtually pulls you with him to sit between the two men.

You find yourself stuck between Alex and Soap, with Ghost, Price and Farah more than happy to stand. Even if there was space, you doubt they’d choose to take a seat.

“We need to find out what Shepherd’s up to,” you speak, breaking the small talk between Price and Farah, as well as between Gaz and Soap. The room falls silent immediately. “And we need to find out what actually happened to my mother.”

The silence continues, and you find yourself pulling the leather jacket tighter around your frame – finding solace in the heat of the two men at either side of you. Your past and your present, both there, both helping.

It’s, surprisingly, Ghost who answers the sentiment first.

“We’re at your disposal,” he simply says, as if it’s ever that simple. Maybe it can be, maybe it will be, with the powerhouse of a group that’s surrounding you now, with all of your history and feelings and sentiments.

You can feel the seeds of hope in your chest begin to blossom, begin to shine underneath the rays of sunlight that are Ghost’s words.

“Are,” you roll your tongue in your mouth, feeling the words out before you speak them, “Are you all ready and willing to do this? Because if you’re not, I’m going to get the job done myself.”

It’s true, suicide mission or not.

“Yer outta yer feckin’ mind if ya think we’re leavin’ ya behind now,” Soap scoffs, relaxing further into the couch as he throws his arm up and around the back of the couch, hand skimming your left shoulder. His thigh presses against your right one.

“You’re stuck with us now, Sweetheart,” Price shrugs, hands in his pockets.

Murmurings of agreement and similar sentiments echo around the group, and you find yourself exhaling such a deep breath that you’re sure it expels some decade-old air that had been stuck in the crevices of your lungs.

“Hold on,” Farah raises her hand, brows furrowing as her other fist rests at her bucked hip. “What’s this whole Sweetheart thing about?”

Soap’s hand finds the nape of your neck, brushing away your hair to rest a firm grip around the warmed skin. Your heart skips a beat in your chest, and another when he responds, “Simple, aye? She’s a Sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s impossible to quell the growing grin that’s creeping onto your face. “This idiot,” you nod towards the Scot at your side, “Was bleeding out. Gave him some sweetheart lollies to help with the blood loss, and, well, here we are.”

“Here we are,” he echoes, his eyes trained on your profile. When you meet his eyes, for a mere second, it feels like an electric shock.

Alex, on your other side, glances at you through the corner of his eyes with a hint of conspiracy. He leans in, mouth just a hair away from your ear, when he asks, “Which one of them are you fucking? Or have they all tumbled into your bed?”

Your elbow to his side is more a knee-jerk reaction to his words than anything, but you’re at least decent enough to wince at his groan of pain. He clutches his side like he’s been shot on the field, head falling to rest against your chest with dramatic flourish. Both Gaz and Soap start, as if about to physically restrain the man, and your unamused gaze immediately finds the Sergeants.

What the actual fuck is up with everyone?

“Not a jealous woman, are you, Farah?” Ghost chimes, voice guttural where he stands just to your left, by the arm of the couch. You can’t say you’d forgotten his presence – even with his silence, it’s a tangible, physical weight on your shoulders – but it still startles you when he speaks.

Farah’s easy smile turns into a cryptic smirk instantaneously, and, fuck.

Maybe, very possibly, most likely definitely: they remembered. Or, at least, Farah did.

Fuck.

You suppose it’s not really a thing you forget, unless your mind’s an overfilled storage room of memories and current events and problems. Which yours most definitely is, and of which theirs is likely not.

“Can’t say I am. Not the first time they’ve gotten handsy,” she shrugs, as if it’s an obvious statement.

As if the room hasn’t instantly dropped approximately ten degrees, and your heart stops where it should be thrumming in your chest.

It’s almost funny, how you instantly train your attention to Gaz. How your mind immediately fears his expression, his reaction to such a thinly veiled sentiment.

What you see is the instant rising of walls, the shuttering of his eyes, and the stiffening of his frame.

You wonder how many missed heartbeats it takes to constitute a heart attack.

“Old fling, were they?” Price asks, because, really, of course he does. When you look to him, he deliberately keeps his gaze on Farah, not giving you a single glance. It’s not jealousy, you know, because it’s Price, and he, in no capacity, holds any such feelings towards you. But it’s something damning nonetheless.

Alex, oblivious idiot that he is, finally pulls his head back up with a sharp laugh. If you didn’t know him, you’d think it was malicious. “Nah. Just thought some experimentation with an extra partner would be fun, and, hey, she is pretty damn hot.”

“You’re a dickhead,” you chastise, suddenly aware of all the points that you and Alex touch – all the points that you and Soap touch.

“Didn’t realise ye were into that,” Soap bites, abruptly, tone sharp and acrid. You barely suppress a shiver at the shift in the man’s attitude, in comparison to his usually jovial and good-natured attitude.

“Didn’t realise you were into kink-shaming, either,” you retort, almost startling at your own defensiveness.

Ghost’s hum feels like a reprimand, akin to an owner using a dog whistle on their trusted border collie, or a dominatrix snapping her whip.

“I don’t think threesomes are a kink?” Alex’s statement ends in a question, a confused look settling over his features. “Like, polyamory definitely isn’t, but what about one-offs? Babe, do you know?”

Farah doesn’t answer, not for a long while. Entirely too aware of the tension filling the room, of the dangerous game she’s about to partake in. The one Alex started, likely unknowingly, but started nonetheless.

“No. It’s not kink. But some of what we did was.”

For, well, not the first time in your life (or even the last week, really), but pretty darn close to it, you consider storming into the weapon supplies and shooting yourself.

“Well!” You exclaim, nervous laughter following the statement, palms clammy where you wipe them against your pants, “Farah, Alex, you probably need some rest, y’know, after your flight. I certainly need it.”

Standing before you even realise you are, you move to get the hell out of there, when Soap’s hand wraps around your wrist, and tugs you back down to sit even closer against him. When Alex’s hand finds your shoulder, you realise distantly that this must be a kind of tug of war. Or piggy in the middle.

Potato, patata. You’re the bait either way.

“The night’s still young,” Price cuts in, and everyone around you seems to nod. “Unless you’re uncomfortable, Sweetheart,” he adds, and the genuinity beneath his words turns into a threat of your pride in your head.

“I’m fine,” you straighten your shoulders, set your nerves. “Just looking out for my friends.”

It’s a lie. You know it, Ghost most likely does, too, and you can only hope that everyone else is ignorant to that small fact.

Subconsciously, you find your attention drifting to Gaz once more.

He hasn’t spoken, you realise, not since Alex had said that. When he catches you watching his profile, lit by the lamp, the candles – he meets your eyes. Not for longer than a second, or half of one, you’re sure, but it hits you like a bullet. When he instantly looks away, you can’t help the sudden anger that stokes the flames in your stomach.

It’s not as if you were openly flirting with either Alex or Farah, and even then, who was he to be mad? You’d been together once, for God’s sake – not for a single moment since. Long days of work and stress and training made the comfort of his bed simply that.

And even then, even then, you were in no way official. Not in any semblance of the word, not with the stakes of the mission at hand, the risk that came with such relationships.

His response gives you half a mind to play up your past on purpose. You won’t, but the urge is definitely there.

It’s not silent, thank god. Alex, Price and Farah have continued a previous conversation, Ghost is silent and brooding, and…

“Didnae pick ye as promiscuous,” Soap states, fiercely meeting your eyes with a swirling of emotions visible within his own. He says the words like they’re poison on his tongue, and, fuck, you’re close to breaking point.

Your responding smile is nothing short of mocking. “Calling me a slut is less wordy, don’t you think?”

“Dinnae put words into my bloody mouth,” Soap seethes, leaning in further to your space, the scent of his cologne invading your senses. You hate how confused it all makes you feel, how unsure of your emotions and goddamn attachments.

“Oh, sorry, does the big bad military man want to tell me what such a big word means? If I don’t have the mental capacity to choose how I have sex, I surely can’t understand your wide vocabulary, can I?” You hiss, bending your neck slightly and not backing away from his posturing for even a moment.

“Soap, stop threatening her,” Price barks, and you distantly remember the people around you, the setting, the image the two of you must make.

You remember, and you can’t seem to find a single fuck to give.

“I can fight my own damn battles!” You yell, not sending a single glance Price’s way – eyes completely remaining on darkened blue instead.

“And that’s why ye still got bloody feckin’ bandages, damn bruises –”

“Do not go there with me right now, Johnny, or I swear to fucking god.”

Both of your chests heave, and you’ve forgotten what even sparked this sudden argument, this spiteful back and forth. You haven’t a clue in this moment, and you relish in it.

“She’s a better damn fighter than the lot of you,” Alex interrupts, “Injuries don’t mean shit, ‘specially not when you don’t know what the fuck she’s gone through.”

Soap directs his ire toward the man at your side, voice thick with anger and his accent when he counters, “And ye know ‘er so much better, jus’ cause ye got in ‘er pants? Aye?”

“Because he isn’t acting like a goddamn meathead!” You find yourself fisting your hand into his shirt, pulling him closer to you, faces inches apart.

“‘Nd kissin’ ‘n tellin’ is fine ‘nd dandy,” Soap laughs, without a hint of humour, “Thought ye had standards.”

A lot of things happen in the preceding moment.

You’d like to say you can’t be blamed for any of the actions that occur, but you also know that accountability is a virtue. And you mean to uphold it.

It goes something like this.

The fist that had been wrapped in his shirt pulls back, and instead, collides with his jaw.

Arms wrap around your chest, caging your arms to your side. Arms, too, wrap around Soap, pulling him away from you. You’re both yelling obscenities, none of which you can name, and you both fight against your restraints.

You don’t need to have a full frame of mind to know that it’s Alex and Price holding you back, and through the haze of it all, you’re sure it’s Ghost and Farah keeping Soap away.

“Calm the hell down!” Price commands, voice a beam of light in a storm. It brings you back to yourself, but not enough to stem the bleeding of your anger, just enough for you to recognise it.

“Bloody idiot, Johnny, get it together!” Ghost is saying to Soap, standing in front of him and shaking his shoulders as Farah’s arms remain wrapped around his torso, keeping his fists below his waist.

Gaz is nowhere to be seen.

“Don’t fucking speak to be, Johnny, I don’t want to see your face,” you shout, eyes glassy, before you finally ease into Price and Alex’s grips, their own going lax. You shoulder off their arms, before without a word, storming down the corridor.

Your name’s called out after you, ‘Sweetheart’, ‘Moonflower’ – none of it matters. Not past the roaring in your ears, the spite burning in your veins. The pent up energy of an unfinished fight.

Shoving open the door to your – Gaz’s – room, you startle when you see the man himself, standing in the middle of the room, shirt in hand. The only light comes from the window, the full moon high in the sky more than enough light to serve as a lamp. His sweats hang loose on his hips, his muscles bulging but still lithe, more like a gymnast’s build than a wrestler’s.

He’s never looked better.

Whether that’s the adrenaline speaking, or the anger, you don’t know. Don’t care. Not past the need to have his mouth against your own.

It takes all of two seconds before the door slams shut behind you, and you’re shoving Gaz onto the bed, his own groan answer enough. His brown eyes glisten with the moonlight, and his throat dips when he swallows, focus trained on where you tug off that damn leather jacket. your shirt following.

“I don’t want to hear a word from you,” you demand, “Unless it’s yes, no, or please.”

He nods, shaky, voice breaking when he responds, “Yes.”

Kicking off your pants, leaving you standing in only your panties and bra, you move to straddle him. He dutifully remains laid onto the bed, chest heaving in harsh sweeps, mouth slightly open in a mixture of shock and lust.

“Where do you get off,” you breathe, voice heavy with threat as you drag your pointer finger along the length of his throat, before following the line of his collarbone, “Being all moody about who I’ve fucked? What gives you the right?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, the weakest he’s ever sounded, “Not – I’m not mad, I just. I want you.”

Your hand finds his neck, forming a light grip around it. You haven’t applied any pressure, but his breath hitches at the weight of it, the promise.

“That sounded like more than one syllable,” you frown, mockingly patronising. You squeeze his neck, not anywhere hard enough to choke, but enough to have him squeezing his eyes shut. “We can talk later.”

He nods, harsh, quick jerks of his head, and the slightly unhinged smile returns to your face.

You hadn’t gotten the fight you’d yearned for, not with Soap, but this is a good enough replacement for that need.

Dragging your hand down his bare chest, you pause when you see scars. Not healed like those from battle, and ones you recognise. Before you can process what it means, Gaz lets out a sharp gasp, and when you look to him, his eyes are wide and.

And scared.

“No, hey, you can speak,” you ramble, and you can feel the flame of rage dim to sparking charcoal. It should be scary, how quickly you find yourself worried for the man, but it’s not. “It’s okay.”

“I should’ve told you,” he immediately breathes, squeezing his eyes shut once more. His head falls back to the bed once more. “I’m.”

He swallows, and you find your hand gravitating to his throat once more – this time, in a soft, soothing caress.

“I’m trans,” he finishes, saying it like one would whisper a secret in a confessional. Your heart stutters in your chest, and it aches, the idea that he’s had lovers who’ve made him feel so awful about his identity.

Your hand moves from his neck to his cheek, thumb brushing underneath his eyes, and they finally flutter open once more.

They soften when they see your smile.

“Thank you for telling me,” you say, voice low and cautious. “If you wanna stop, it’s fine, but,” you shrug, “You’re hot. I still wanna fuck. You might have to show me what feels best, but that’s kinda hot, too.”

“You’re okay with it?” His voice is fragile, shaky, and fuck he’s pretty.

“I’m okay with it,” you echo, sentiment genuine and kind. “Tell me what you want, Kyle.”

His arms remain laid out on the bed at either side of him, his skin still heated with want and need and wanton lust. His voice strengthens when he answers.

“I want you to use me – take it out on me,” he says. “Please.”

And who are you to deny such a request?

author's note. i was veryveryvery close to orphaning or marking as complete. i'm not really in or interested in the COD fandom at all anymore, but, i realised that i also want to see where this story goes? excluding the characters, the actual story and world i've created for sweetheart has me wanting to see it to its end.

that, along with the fans. you guys and your genuine interest and comments have made this project worth it. i can't express enough how much you all mean to me, especially those that comment on every chapter and have been there every step of the way. thank you, thank you, thank you.

i can't promise as efficient and regular updates, but i CAN promise that i plan to finish this story in its entirety.

thank you to those who have stuck around, and thank you for those that continue to do so. you mean the world to me, and the very writing of this fic is owed to you.

(also, if anyone has any feedback on my trans rep and dealing with a trans character, PLEASE lmk. i am in no way perfect, and if i've made a mistake, please tell me so i can fix it and grow as a writer!)

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re @lalashhyl @someonepleasedateme @letmeapologise @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @inarabee @simp-sentral @littlecellist @clear-your-mind-and-dream @browtfyoudoing @oreo-cream @fanngirl19 @infpt-zylith @marispunk @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @xvintageghostx @thigh-o-saur @thriving-n-jiving @callsign-pyro @mmmangel @aisawa-reo @just-pure-trash @silly-norman @annoyingstrawberryballoon @chop-zulyzulyyy

294 notes · View notes

deunmiu-dessie-sideblog · 21 hours

Text

gaz is definitely the type of guy who makes out with your tits. like the man gets so caught up in the moment, tongue laving at your nipple and his other hand pinching and pulling the other. he usually leaves them slick with saliva— and to the point where they’re as hard as a pebble, as well as tender and swollen. ( bonus if you're lactating 🤭, he has an obsession. )

153 notes · View notes

honestlyhiswife · 2 days

Text

you’re gonna look me in the eyes and tell me that this isn’t soap and roach?

#honey has the mic #tf141 #cod mwiii #cod mw1 #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty modern warfare #john soap mctavish #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #gary roach sanderson

73 notes · View notes

blu-oo · 12 hours

Text

I’m sure it’s been discussed plenty of times before but I’m still confused/stuck on the fact that TF141 were the ones to release Soap’s ashes. Realistically I know it’s likely not that deep and the devs/writers/whoever just wanted a heartfelt sendoff or whatever, but the implications won’t leave me alone. Like, was there a funeral? Did Soap’s parents/family show up? Why aren’t THEY the ones given their son’s ashes? I know I read somewhere that Soap wanted to be let go in the Highlands but idk if that was Canon or not. What does it mean that rather than his family, his team was given his remains? I am haunted.

Again, I realize the real answer is probably just “who gives a shit, look, the boys are mourning, oh no, time to get revenge” but still.

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw3 #john soap mactavish #tf141 #tf 141 #not sure if i should tag the rest but fuck it i want opinions people #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #john price

44 notes · View notes

baby-jaguar · 3 days

Text

Lust by Nature {Part 4}

Masterlist, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Read on ao3

Pairing: Captain John Price x fem!Reader

MDNI: 18+!

Warnings for this chapter: Drugging, hinted non-con but just a hair

Word Count: 5,777

Summary: He’d been used to the small messages telling him to make you simmer down, something not uncommon in the scope of you being, well, you.

A/N: There are a few POV Shifts and time skips in here, denoted by the "---". Work has been kicking my butt so sorry this is late. I hope ye enjoy

Waking up, you almost bit a medic’s hand off.

Wild and afraid. It was sudden and the place was seemingly so new that it triggered your fight or flight. You did not want them anywhere close and for far too long than you deemed necessary. Insistent on them leaving you to heal on your own even if you’re sucked dry of any magic at this point. Snapping your teeth like a wild animal when one medic tried taking your shirt off to get to the gouge on your side, before snarling as two were tag teaming you to keep you down.

Something about their hands not feeling warm enough, not having the smell of tobacco leaves stained into their skin to leave a trail of smoke. Yet there was something lurking in the air. Something different; You knew the scent was familiar, it felt like it belonged in the medical ward yet it shouldn’t be here near you. It screamed danger, something clawing and scratching at your mind to remember.

The scent trails around the room like the smell of burnt clover, making your stomach want to recoil and throw up its acid with the lack of any substance in it.

The lab.

Neurons fire off, and your hackles are raised. Literally. Hissing and ignoring the medics around you, yowling like a damned animal in pain when you realize what you’re smelling. Stuck in fear, now grappling with the sheets as your hands grab onto the bed rails, shaking the bed as you shift in short and shaky bursts.

---

Somedays Price’s office felt like a sanctuary, while others, it feels like his own jail cell. Head down, furiously scribbling his memories onto paper to prepare the after-action report while leaving a separate sheet blank and off to the side with your name at the top.

God, he had it in his head that he needed to be so fucking pissed at you. For the dream, for disobeying orders, for getting hurt. But he knows it’s irrational and can at least objectify his emotions enough to see them from a third-person point of view.

His head’s in his ass and he’s acting like a fucking boy.

Even Soap had earned a scolding from the Captain, taking it in strive to only break the berating with a smirk on his lips. He knew. Johnny knew, Ghost knew, and even fucking Gaz knew that you were getting underneath Price’s skin. Something no woman had ever done so easily and successfully before.

His cell rings, not his personal mobile but rather his work flip phone. One that either means business or trouble.

“Laswell.”

The number was unsaved, as all are since this was the one he toted around everywhere while deployed.

“Captain. I’ve got some news for you. Now a good time?”

Leaning back, he takes this saving grace as a moment to rest his eyes and hand from writing. “Of course. Wha’s goin’ on?”

There’s shuffling on the other end of the line, sounding like she’s standing up to walk somewhere. Price presumes it is towards a window. Dramatic woman.

“We’ve gotten word that there's some unrest back in-”

Her statement is cut off when the phone begins vibrating again. “Laswell, hold on. I’ve been expecting this call, can I catch you in a moment?”

A scoff is his answer before cutting the call and switching to the new one.

“Yes?”

“Need you in Med, stat. Saint’s going-”

“On it.” Snapping his phone shut while moving to the door. He’d been used to the small messages telling him to make you simmer down, something not uncommon in the scope of you being, well, you.

He can hear the commotion at the end of the hall before he’s near the door. Opening the door in a flurry, he finds you in a state he’s never seen before; Wide-eyed, backed into the back of the bed, and curled up to shield yourself. A second sweep of the room makes him realize you’re not protecting yourself from the medics. No, you’re looking towards him, but seemingly not at him.

“Saint.” The growl catches your attention, focusing on his mustache twitching as his eyebrows furrow. “Care to tell me why the medics said you need to leave the infirmary before you make one of the staff go to inpatient?”

“It's wrong. Doesn’t smell right.” In return, your head only snaps in his direction, eyes only keeping on his for a moment. “Don’t take me back, I don’t want to go back.”

The blatant stare you receive is more than enough to let you know he’s lost in whatever this whirlwind of emotions is. “You need to settle down, and behave.” The whisper is a promised threat, entirely off-kilter from what you need right now.

“I don’t want them touching me!” You hiss almost petulantly, being sure to restrain your voice for only him to hear. “I have to leave. Just let me heal myself, please-”

His hands move out of sight from your narrowed eyes as you beg; Coming up to capture your jaw with one hand as the other holds your shoulder. He steadily leans in to hold your face still.

“You need to stay and get checked out. You were hurt, sweetheart.” The harsh command battles with the softness of his palm cupping your jaw as his thumb stroking your cheek.

That’s when you saw him through the window.

A man, dressed in square glasses and a white coat that seemed cheap and fake in material. A scam of a man. Dr. Deidrick.

This man knows you well, as you know him. He was a constant in the lab, the person who oversaw all testing of blood, vitals, but most importantly testing the magic inside you. A large amount of scars on your body were because of him, always measuring your healing capabilities depending on your energy levels and what you had used as energy prior to the test.

Locked in a stare-down, Price only registers your change when you stiffen and stagger a breath. “What’s wrong?”

Looking at where your eyes are, he finds the man looking in through the small door window, glaring at your face, seemingly at where Price touches you gently. When he moves to glance at Price, he gives a small nod before entering.

“Everything okay, Captain?” His tone is polite and neutral, speaking to Price while his gaze remains on you. “Is she having a little fit?”

The clicks of his dress shoes make more noise of his entrance, your hands latching onto Price’s forearms.

“And you are?”

The doctor laughs, giving a smile more than forced. This you know for certain.

“My apologies, I am Dr. Deidrick. I came to visit once I heard our little demon was wounded.”

His possessiveness in the phrasing alone ticks off the Captain's mind, raising questions as to what in the fuck is going on. He can feel the slight tremor of your hold and, for more decency, the hand cupping your jaw moves to hold onto yours.

“So, you’re from the facility?”

“Yes, I was her previous caretaker in medical for the last several years.” Cockiness evident when his attention shifts to grab the chart at the end of the bed. “I hope you do not mind I came to check in on her healing and progress. Just a simple evaluation and report.”

He reads over the chart for a moment; Flipping the page while moving closer to your side, opposite of Price.

“How are you feeling, Devil?”

Instead of quiping a sharp or actual answer, the response is enough to shock the Captain.

“Hello, Dr. Deidrick.” Speaking softly and politely, as if you were some nobel greeting a high priest. Don’t misbehave.

You’ve learned this lesson with him.

“Hello. Now, how are you feeling?” He digs in further with the question, eyes moving up from the paper with a weighted look.

“I’m fine. Sore. Tender. I told them I could heal on my own.”

"Mm..." Dedrick watches as you speak before moving to place the clipboard down, grabbing a pair of gloves. "And you believe that you can heal yourself easily?" His voice remaining calm and civil.

That's one thing you’ve always hated. Even in the cruelest and inhumane moments when studying creatures and hybrids alike, he had the calmest voice.

“Yes, I’ve dealt with worse.” Spitting the answer at him in a quick snap, you can't help but let anger flare. “You of all people should know that.”

Dedrick's expression changes for the first time. His eyebrows raise and jaw tightening in warning with a sharp look.

"I know that you can heal, but that doesn't mean that you should." A hint of an edge to his voice bleeds through. "Your injuries are still serious. If you leave here before fully healed, that would be highly irresponsible."

“The medics already cleaned and sutured it. There’s nothing more to do.”

You can see the game he plays, yet you’re playing it too. Price doesn’t know, the entirety of your team doesn’t know. If for their sake or the sake of keeping yourself alive, it's not certain.

Telling Price would solve this problem right here, right now. Screaming the horrors Dr. Deidrick has committed to others and to you could easily raise alarm bells through the whole base, yet you remain a perfect little actor. Just as you were trained.

“I’ll determine that for you, not you.” Deidrick retorts shorty, gaze shifting from your body to Price. “I will have to do an exam of the wound and her damage. Just to make sure there are no outliers to her magic or health.”

There isn't room for argument here, seeing as Price is a Captain and not a fucking Doctor over mystical creatures and beings.

“Well, I can be in the room with her. That be an issue?”

The most Deidrick can muster is a forced grin, narrowing his eyes to Price’s presence. “Yes, that is perfectly understandable for you to oversee the process, Captain.”

A swift silence ensues as Deidrick walks to the medical cabinets and the end of the room, looking over his clipboard and grabbing medical tools- the kind that isn’t even needed but instead for show. All for the sake of Price.

The velcro cuff of the sphygmomanometer wraps around your arm before the manual pump begins from Deidricks hands. The cold stethoscope in the crook of your elbow, silence as he measures your blood pressure. Just as he is about to speak, the sharp ringing of a dial tone sounds out.

“Shit- I have to take this.” Price’s hand retrieves the phone from his pocket, confirming the caller. “Be right back.”

“No… No, please.” Unabasidly begging, your hands on your Captains arm to try and anchor him to you. “Don’t go.” It's a quiet plead, begging if that, but the wild look in your eyes makes him stiffen for a moment while caught between two choices.

“I’ll be right back. Be good.” The faint squeeze of your hand registers in tandem with him leaning down to place a reassuring kiss on your head. Before you can beg again, he’s out the door.

---

“Laswell.” Price speaks quietly into the phone, moving into the hallway near the medic’s station, a few idling around on their computers to input vitals.

“Said you were gonna call me back, John. Got worried your old mind forgot about me.”

A small scoff out of courtesy for the woman's harsh humor, yet he doesn’t say anything back.

“Anyway, I need to tell you where your group has been assigned to. You’re headed out to-”

“Do you happen to know if any personnel relating to Saint's previous facility can be on base?”

Cutting off Laswell would usually end with a sharp reprimand akin to an elementary school teacher. Yet this question is well worth her thought. Even she can recognize that.

“Not without warning and an established confirmation of visitation. It’s the normal protocol for off-site visitors to that level. Why?”

He chews the side of his cheek, nodding in thought as he confirms what he previously knew. His eyes flit between your medical room’s door, the window to the outside, before settling on a whiteboard with various patient names.

“There’s a doctor in the med unit with her right now. Say’s he found out she was wounded and came to check on her… That’s just downright unnatural when she was wounded three days ago for fuck sake. How’d he even find out?”

Silence greets him in response, but it's a sign of her thinking. A tussle of paper sounds out before typing on her keyboard. “There was no agreement or discernment of their medical staff being on base. Only the executives and her previous commander. He shouldn’t be there nor even have access.”

It only confirms Price’s simmering anxiety, eyes stuck on your door from afar.

“What did you say his name was?”

“Dr. Deidrick. Said he’d be givin’ her an exam of the wound-” The words die in a sharp crumble on his tongue when you scream his name.

“Was that-”

“Send the boys my way, I’m dealing with it.” Hanging up the phone, his body already shouldering the door at a moment’s notice.

It doesn’t budge.

Looking through the window, he’s met with your wide eyes, brows arched up, while your body tries to scurry off the bed yet you’re not even moving. The sight of brown leather tied to your wrists becomes glaringly obvious.

“Somebody get this door open, right fucking now!” The bellow echos in the hallway, sending a fluttering panic around the staff while he continuously tries to shoulder the door and get the handle down.

“John! Help me!” Your howling meets his ears to send a shiver down his spine. I should have listened, I should have stayed, I should be in there.

I should be protecting her.

Shifting his stance to the left, he can see Deidrick at the counters, holding up a small brown vial while extracting its contents into a syringe. Only after he deems it filled, pushing the air bubble out, does he look to Price.

“It’s just to settle her down, not to worry.”

God, he wants to throw up. He wants to murder this man with his hands and rip each artery from his body to hang up as vines growing onto the wall. He wants nothing more than to soothe your crying face in his arms away from whatever torture is going on right in front of him.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS THE KEY?” He shouts again, sparing a glance towards the staff as five of them look in drawers around the main pod of their stations.

Movement from the room demands his attention, the footsteps ringing out in heavy weighted clicks on the floors. You can’t even look back to Price, struggling like an animal caught in a metal trap.

---

“They already know, just fucking run while you can.” The guttural hiss is uncontrolled as it leaves you, voice raw from lack of water in your mouth accompanied by the panting of your breath. Eyes only set on Deidrick, you can’t focus on anything but keeping the needle away from you.

“This is your exam, my dear. There’s no harm in that.” He chastizes, tsking you with a mocking voice. Fully seeing his old self alights your body and magic, trying to strum out of you like a whip, yet so dulled into yourself with nothing to thrive on.

“I can see how weak you are. Have they not been taking care of you?” The coldness of his hand dawns upon your face, grabbing roughly on your jaw to pull you towards him. “You know I can give you what you need.” The green of his eyes makes you sour, having only ever seen them as a rancid mix of piss yellow and barf green to match his existence.

“You’ll settle down and be a good girl for me, yeah? Just like old times.”

“I can’t wait to torture you in hell.”

He laughs, a genuine smile lighting his face up as he leans in closer. “The sweetest promise of eternity, devil.”

Moving back after giving your jaw a far too firm squeeze, his bony fingers bring the needle up to the light to double-check before gripping the meat of your bicep. “Dont. Move.”

You couldn’t hear anything over the commotion outside, thus, when the metal door slams open, you jump.

Right into the fucking needle.

A shocked cry leaves you, eyes now stuck in fear to watch for the amount he pushes through.

Half of the dose goes into your arm.

It would have been more, save for the body that immediately pulls him and the needle away from you, throwing him onto the ground.

Price stands, heaving and shaking with a snarl lighting up his face while looking down on the man.

“When I put you under, it will be six feet under the god damned ground.” His hands are on the man in a flurry of movements, checking his waistline for any other surprises, and when finding none, he throws a punch at him.

Then again. And again. And Again.

You don’t realize you’re stuck in a trance of watching him until warm hands find your wrist on the opposite side of the commotion. You’re startled until being met with warm brown eyes that match his skin, his smile calming.

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?” Gaz’s hands work quickly on undoing the straps of your wrists, letting the sounds of the fighting echo in the room while rushing footsteps come from the hallway.

Ghost and Soap enter the doorway, a quick survey before getting to Price and doing god knows what to the man- you can’t see anymore as Gaz cradles you into his neck. Tucking the blanket around your backside before carrying you away in a bridal carry, he shushes you when his scent and warmth break you into a sob.

“Shh, it’s okay. We’ve got you now.” Vaguely registering his lips on your head, your eyes dim into a barely open gaze while the world moves too fast around you. Hot tears track down your face and onto his shirt.

“You’re with us now. Not gonna let that happen ever again.”

The sound of a whimper mixes in when you call out his name. Raising a hand to grasp his shirt in a weak fist as you register him moving you to somewhere through the hallways. Somewhere familiar; the team’s common room.

“Gonna make you nice and comfortable right here. Not gonna leave you, Saint.”

And in the most ironic series of events, for a second time, your world goes dark.

---

The sound of the TV playing a god-forsaken soccer football game makes you stir. Muscles stiff and tired, a feeling of something on the back of your hand makes you wince. Groaning, you move the other hand to paw at the intrusion, before someone else’s touch halts you.

“Hey now, none of that.” The soft voice from earlier speaks out, with an almost hint of authority as he moves your hands away from each other. “You’ve got an IV in you, Need to keep that in for a bit longer.”

Stirring, the world comes back into view when your eyes open slowly and try to blink the yellow overhead lights away. “Gaz?” His name is slurred in your drowsy speech, head lifting up to look around before finding him face to face with you.

“Good morning, Princess. How’ya feelin?”

Stiff, sore, like you just got run over by a train.

“Not too bad.” Sitting in his lap, now in a pair of sweats and a shirt that you recognize isn’t yours, you both sit under a fuzzy blanket pulled from your room. “What happened? Where is-?”

“Hang on, let's focus on you first. Does your side hurt right now?”

It does, a constant stinging that radiates into a dull thrumming. It feels bulky, the firmness of tape keeping down what you presume to be gauze while it pulls at the peachfuzz on your skin. Your arm, the one that took the injection, feels sorer than after a full mission.

“Feels fine right now, would like some meds maybe later.” Quietly responding before looking up to his brown eyes. While Gaz usually has enough snark to serve his entire country, his gently and nurturing tendencies highlight in the soft and intimate moment.

He holds the qualities of a leader, and possibly be concerning at his young age. But seeing as he’s grown under Price’s wing, being a favored candidate from the beginning, maybe his weight was a shouldered experience to lighten the Captain's load. Maybe he won’t be able to fully take his place until the gentleness withers away into hate and bloodborne desire to bark and bite under the pull of a leash.

Maybe he’ll get sick of it and decide to have a family, leaving this life behind when he feels his hands have turned far too dirty.

He turns his gaze to the TV for a moment, drawing a long sigh in before releasing, a small frown on his lips. “You remember anything?”

You’d rather not. Had you still been in a sterile environment, you’d have woken in a panic just as before.

“Yes. The… yes.” Glancing away, you can feel the shift in your eyes focus. “I remember something happening when I saw Price’s face then you were there.”

You miss the look of worry on his face when the game on TV catches your attention as someone scores. “Where are the others?’

“Price and Soap dealing with the brass. Ghost was here a second ago but will be right back.” Gaz’s head tilts back behind him to check around before reaching up to the IV bag behind you two. “You’re just about finished, you fine if I take this out?”

Offering him your hand, he removes the tube and tape before placing a gauze square and bandaid over it. “Not supposed to take it out until you’re completely done, but you’ll drink your water, yea?” Inadvertently speaking close to your ear while he clamps the IV line shut, a chill runs down your spine.

“Mm, I will. Thank you.” Silent gratitude for him being sweet enough to let you off the tether, you take it as a signal of freedom and try to get up. Before being interrupted.

“Stay down, Saint.”

Ghost enters the archway of the common room; Dressed in baggy sweats and a T-shirt that shouldn't be as form-fitting as it is. A black gator mask hides the lower half of his face. He makes his way to a spot on the couch adjacent to you and Gaz.

“Your stitches are barely holding from earlier. Not allowed to be moving like that.”

Underneath you, Gaz squirms while clearing his throat once you settle down. “Ah, actually. Ghost.” He starts, voice now sounding reluctant with trepidation. “You mind taking over for a bit? Haven’t eaten and need to piss.”

A mix between a laugh and worry crosses your mind as you pout when realizing he’d been here the whole time with you.

“Sorry, Kyle.” Whispered as you give his shoulder a pat, looking to Ghost for whatever his plan would be. “How long was I out?”

The lieutenant scoots next to you, arms brought out to grab underneath your legs and back before gently transferring you into his lap. You can feel Gaz getting up behind you, a soft squeeze on your shoulder before he leaves. “Bout an hour ‘n half.”

The difference between Gaz and Ghost is definitely in size, but the lieutenants body is firm and demands that you accommodate to him rather than how Gaz’s size lets his boldly mold to you. You’re still blinking slowly, sluggishly trying to reintegrate your mind into full speed. A grunt acknowledges the statement.

“Didn’t know you had blond hair.”

Ghost is pretty, not even in his own way, he is just simply pretty. Brown eyes contrast the lightness of his hair, some spots missing where scars trail over his scalp. His forehead also having lines from stitches done too messy, wrinkles from years of fighting, and a few freckles decorate the top bridge of his nose. A second scan shows a hairline scar over his left eyelid, a group of eyelashes being blond where the scar ends.

“You wouldn’t ‘ave known.” A huffed laugh makes his chest puff up, only looking down at you for a moment before watching the game.

Before you can even ask another question, he voice muted. “That… doctor. He wasn’t supposed to be on base. Not even from what he did, but there was no agreement to have the facility’s medical here. Not even the command can get on here without clearance and a schedule.”

The clench in your jaw halts your words, growing almost distant in the eyes as you digest the information. “So how did he get on base? Just lie his way through everything?”

Ghost sighs, watching one of the teams score a goal before turning back to you.

“Yes. Fucking skunk lied his way through, altered some ID and got into medical. They say he was watching over your file and once he saw your name ping in as a combat injury, he was acting as your attending and case manager.”

It really should send more of a chill down your back than the small amount it does, rather, a sluggish feeling churning in your stomach. You’ve been through horrible things. Having eyes on you stopped phasing you a while ago.

Letting the conversation drop, you both turn your attention towards the football game to watch the halfway point. You find a place for your face to rest on his collarbone, laying yourself to use his chest like a pillow. He doesn’t react, yet in moments where the visiting team comes close to scoring a goal, his knee bounces in anticipation.

“Did you ever play any sports?”

His knee settles before responding. “Hockey. Short time, but ‘s fun.”

“Hm, was gonna take you for a rugby kinda guy.”

“Nah, that's more John’s style. The both of them.” The mental image of a younger pair of Johns conjures in your mind, a soft grin twitching the corners of your mouth at the thought. “Sometimes they’ll play when we’re together on leave.”

“Leave?” A pause as your eyes blink open slowly. You don’t remember closing them. “Like you guys just… Leave?”

The feeling of his large, warm, hand moving to hold your back comes when he shifts to look down at you. “Leave. When we get a break from duty.” It comes out as a question more so, his brows furrowing down.

“Oh.” Matching his confusion. “I didn’t get to have those. Nowhere to just, go.” You didn’t have a home, lost that long ago. Sadness was gaslit into happiness by telling yourself you didn’t have to pay rent, and bills, and not worrying about the economy.

Something shifts in his eyes, Ghost himself looking like a kicked puppy now as he takes in your implications. Softness emits subtly in his eyes and the way he slightly rests you on his chest when pushing you into him.

“I’m sure you can ask Capt’ to fix that.” A soft scratch of your scalp leads you to settle down, and when you keep breathing in the smell of him, you fall asleep.

---

“... lost it by a point. Bloody coach looks like a muppet.”

“Won’t be able to show his face for the next year. Damn bloke.”

The voice sends enough of a spark to take you out of your REM cycle, now taking stock of where you’re at. From the smell of it, you’re on the couch but now lay on it instead of a body. There's a few more steps of shuffling before it stills.

“How is she?”

The warmth next to you grunts, shifting to leave the couch. “Seems fine, but fell back asleep quickly once Gaz left ‘er with me.” The new set of footsteps have a distinct gait, trying to be silent but failing with the TV no longer being on. “How’d your side go?”

“Almost got me on excessive force.” The croaky voice makes your mind wake up more, realizing its Price. “Almost knocked the brass out hearing that. Had to make sure he saw the vials and needles he snuck in.”

“Was he going to… do anyth-”

“No.” Price cuts Ghost off immediately, something lying in the tautness of his voice. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know, else I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em.”

Exhaustion covers your body and mind, fighting it to the point where it feels like you have to unstick yourself from the couch but tingling makes your body want to still. You pull on your muscles enough that Price notices.

“Hey, pretty girl. Can you hear me?”

The groan that leaves you is enough of a signal that you can. One of his hands moves to pet your hair down as the other adjusts the blanket on you. Footsteps elsewhere fade away, signaling Ghost’s departure. Your eyes open to watch Price squat down in front of you.

“There she is.” He coo’s in a hushed whisper. Part of you wants to cry at how good it makes your heart feel. All you can manage is a whimper.

“Still tired?”

“Mhh. Yes.” Croaking makes you realize how thirsty you are, somewhat regretting not staying up to drink your water like you’d promised Gaz. “Where were you?”

Blue eyes leave the depths of your red ones, tracing over your face to your neck, down to your body, and how you lay on your uninjured side. “Taking care of business. Nothing to worry about.”

His hand comes back to your arm, making you flinch as he presses onto the tiny spot of dried blood. The small twinge of pain from his softness makes you want to scream at him, cry at him while crying for him to hold you. To give any emotion clearly while silence eats away between you.

“Did I mess up?”

The white of his eyes shows a bit more when he widens them in surprise, fliting up to hold your gaze. “No… No, Saint. You did not mess up.” In a moment, he moves to his knees, crowding you onto the couch while bringing your face closer to his. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have left you in there. Should have fuckin’ listened to you.”

In a twisted sense, the couch seems like his pew, and you are the body he weeps over. Wrapped in a blanket is a far-off notion from any white to be buried in, but your open eyes just feel so tired and dulled from the last few days. Rightfully so. His hands cup your face like they would hold a bible open, finding scripture in the features of your face.

Price doesn’t cry. How much would it take to make him? Has he had a family? Did he lose someone he loved because of enemies? Did he have a tragic backstory that granted him an almost immortal sense of luck?

There’s certainly no angel on his shoulder because you’d have fought and killed it on the first day.

“You didn’t know.” Starting hoarsely, swallowing the saliva in your mouth. “I didn’t want you to know.”

There's dissatisfaction from hearing your answer, a pull at the corners of his mouth. “I need to know, Saint. I have to know. That’s not goin’ to happen again.” Leaning down to press his chapped lips to your forehead. “I’m sorry.”

The feeling of his hair in your hands is surprisingly soft, almost as surprising when you realize you’re bringing him in to kiss you.

It’s soft, languid, and slow, yet anxiety boiling at the bottom of your stomach. His lips part yours, leading you to taste the tobacco you tried days ago. His mustache and beard scratch your face, prickling your skin in an added sense of feeling to grapple onto. Dragging you closer with an arm wrapped behind your back, his tongue teases yours before diving in deeper.

“While this is sickeningly romantic,”

The voice makes you gasp like a whore in her lover's shared bed, the drawl sardonic enough to know it is exactly not that.

It’s so much worse.

“I rather prefer a different type of scene.”

The woman stands against the doorway, arms crossed while she surveys the scene. Dressed in black pants and a turtleneck, her blue eyes light up with the white overcoat that shields her from the coldness of desert nights.

“Kate-” Price backpedals, separating himself from you enough to sit up straight from his place on the floor. Stuttering, he glances at you before back to her, a blush fading into existence on his aged skin. “I- uh. What are you doing here?’

Kate Laswell, smirks before looking at you with a slightly softer expression. She’s still cocky through and through from catching her prestigious ally making out with his little demon.

“After the shit show got up the ladder, I decided to make a quick trip to check-in. And, you never called me back, Captain.”

Ok, now it is starting to seem like a lovers quarrel. Feeling out of place, you don't move until Price takes a moment to clear his throat, leaning forward as if to obstruct you from her view.

“Well, I’m assuming it’s more serious than a phone call let it out to be.” Standing his hand brushes your shoulder before he crosses his arms. Laswell watches, moving forward a bit. Her eyes glance towards you, a subtle nod in greeting.

“Pleasure to meet you, Saint. Sorry to interrupt.” Absolutely no shame eludes from this woman. Continuing on, she holds Price’s gaze; “A base just got accredited for their first hybrid operator. Similar to our situation with Saint.” She takes a moment to look over you, briefly checking out the remainder of the IV bag on its stand. “Need you to go do didactics for our friends.”

“And which friends are you speaking of this time.”

She pauses, a flicker of her lips turning upwards if only for a moment.

“You’ll be headed back to Las Almas.”

As if watching a dramatic TV show, your eyes flit back to take in his reaction. If you had the energy, you’d feel bad for Price’s stress levels. With the sigh he lets out, you know that he can never catch a break.

#task force 141 #call of duty #cod mw2 #captain john price #call of duty modern warfare #tf141 #john price #john price x reader #captain jonathan price #captain price x reader #kyle gaz garrick #sergeant kyle gaz garrick #simon riley ghost #ghost simon riley #simon riley #is this how you write suspense #John Price needs a break

37 notes · View notes

mrsariariley · 1 month

Text

ghost and his tiny gf !

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

simon riley, who is huge! he takes up half of the couch - but when he manspreads? you cant even see the couch under his enormous body!

simon riley, who has to bend down when entering a room otherwise he'll hit his head on the doorframe. he can't possibly live without a high ceiling!

and simon's girlfriend..

a tiny little thing, has hardly ever grown! youre so small, simon has to bend down to kiss you. simon has to lean down slightly to hold your hand - and even then, you can only wrap your hands over 3 large fingers!

when you wear his clothes, it pretty much fits as a blanket!

when the boys from the force first laid eyes on you, they were just so shocked. ghost? as in big lieutenant riley? with a small thing like you? no way!

simon loves seeing his girl all curled up on the bed when he gets home, hardly even taking up half. he loves seeing you nuzzle your face into his big chest when he wraps his large arms around your tiny frame, warming you up instantly.

but, he would be a liar if he said it didnt turn him on.

seeing you whimper and whine when he pushes half of his big cock into your tiny little hole, writhing and letting out small sobs of pleasure.

"mmf.. s-si..!! it wont fiitt!!" youd whine through slutty sobs.

"y'r taking me so well, doll.. y' can do it."

and when he does fit it all in, youre just a mess under him. completely braindead and rambling nonsense about how it just feels too good, and he's too big! all drool and tears :(

but dont worry, he'd be so good to you !

finishing inside of you and pulling out, removing his head from the crook of your neck. he'd kiss all up your body, leaving red hickeys that will eventually turn purple. he'd wipe away your tears, leaving you to rest as he runs you a bath.

and then, when youre back in bed, exhausted, he'll snuggle you into him - youd never sleep any better.

do not re-publish OR translate my work !

mdni / masterlist

a/n: first post kinda nervous !

#♥︎ aria brainrot #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost smut #simon riley smut #cod #cod smut #tf141 #task force 141 #simon riley x small!reader

10K notes · View notes

chamomiletealeaf · 9 days

Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

6K notes · View notes

starryylies · 1 month

Note

can we get baby fever simon when we tell him we're pregnant?!?

ੈ✩‧Simon when you’re preggo *ੈ✩‧

✰☺︎✰~ Bby fever: manifested to reality ~✰☺︎✰

🍼 Simon whose eyes betray him when tears flow out when you give him the news

🍼 Simon who falls to his knees on the ground kissing your stomach thanking you over and over for giving him such a blessing

🍼 Simon who gets right to it, finding baby supplies, trollers, pacifiers etc

🍼 Simon who buys a crib from ikea which leads to him cursing the instruction paper calling it stupid and badly explained

🍼 Simon who completely stops drinking infront of you, quitting it to release himself from the past.

🍼 Simon who makes you sit at home and relax like a pretty wifey so you don’t exert yourself

🍼 Simon whose praises for you are constant the entire day, from when you get up till when you sleep

🍼 Simon who gets very overprotective of you like a guard dog.

🍼 Simon who finally has the courage to visit his fathers grave only to look down on it and say he will never treat his kids like that

3K notes · View notes

yawnderu · 3 months

Text

Giggling about the idea of the 141 with an immortal reader. They'll never get used to seeing your body fall on the ground, dead eyes focusing on nothing for a few seconds until you get up, ranting about how you don't like getting shot in the head because it feels like getting brainfucked.

Just an absolute idiot ready to risk it all for them because at the end of the day, no matter how many bullets you take, you'll always come back.

It's the reassurance of seeing you get up from the ground after leaving cover to distract the enemy so your teammates aren't pinned down anymore and can escape, dragging you by the vest because no matter how much you can take, no one is left behind.

#cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #call of duty #141 x reader #simon riley #ghost cod #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #141 x fem!reader #tf141 #kyle gaz garrick mw2 #john soap mactavish #john price cod #captain price

5K notes · View notes

temeyes · 7 months

Text

id picture (gone wrong)

5K notes · View notes

deunmiu-dessie · 29 days

Text

pillow princess!reader who decides that they want to try being on top for once and anchors their small hands on ghost's chest, bouncing sloppily on his cock and whimpering at his praise. “that’s it. good girl, just like that.” pillow princess!reader who pants in small, short puffs, cheeks flushing red and legs cramping. pillow princess!reader whose movements start to get slower just when they're on the brink of cumming. “ i c-can't, m’tired, si.” bf!simon who rumbles deep in his chest at your whiney complaint, "ah, fuckin' hell." bf!simon who grabs the fat of your hips and fucks up into you, hard and fast, gravelly voice mocking. "look at you, can't even fuckin' ride me properly." bf!simon who simpers at your scrunched up face and bleary eyes, mouth open to let out pitiful sobs. "m' sorry, d-daddy--mmn!" he chuckles softly, "'s alright, pet. " ˙ᵕ˙

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ - 𝒸𝓁𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓂𝑒! ⁽ nsfw ⁾

9K notes · View notes

loveindefinitely · 5 months

Text

01 — 𝘎𝘖 𝘈𝘏𝘌𝘈𝘋 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘊𝘙𝘠, 𝘓𝘐𝘛𝘛𝘓𝘌 𝘎𝘐𝘙𝘓

༊*·˚ LUST FOR LIFE — task force 141 x reader

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, legal age-gaps, inexperienced reader, virgin reader, corruption kink, slight power imbalance, praise, degradation, light dom/sub, slight daddy kink, oral, vaginal sex, your father's a dick, very minor soapghost, aftercare

series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.

// NSFW CONTENT UNDER THE CUT //

Stay in your room, your father had said. Don't bother us tonight, your father had said. They are dangerous men that do dangerous things, your father had said.

Yet, here you were, standing at the bottom step of the stairwell, hiding behind the wall adjoined to the living room, listening in to the men on the other side.

You were bored out of your brains. It was a Friday night, and like hell was your over-protective father going to let you go out or party. And the fact that he wouldn't even introduce you to his only friends? Or let you leave your fucking room?

It had left you pissed off to no end, so.

Here you were.

"Bloody close," you hear a voice grunt, deep and gravelly. It sends heat to your stomach immediately, and it's almost embarrassing.

You hear the sound of a hand slapping a shoulder, and the bark of a laugh. "Aye, still got the cash you're gonna owe me?" This voice has a -- Irish? Scottish, maybe? -- lilt to it, humour and kindness embedded into its layers.

"He'll find a way outta paying," a third voice chimes, laughter in its tone.

Someone else clears their throat. "You're all gonna get yourselves indebted to each other at this rate," a fourth voice says, sounding almost resigned.

"You all need to shut the fuck up before she sticks her nose down 'ere."

Your spine straightens, and fury simmers in your blood. Did he have to be such an asshole? Why was your father so... so anti your existence? Why was he so ashamed of you, yet so overbeating?

"She's not a kid anymore, you really oughtta to lay off," the man with the scottish accent says, slightly stern in his delivery.

"If you met her, you'd understand how fuckin' annoying she is. Always wants me to deal with her emotions, as if they're my fuckin' problem," your father replies venomously. Your stomach has dropped to your feet, you're sure of it.

There's a low whistle in response, and a silence settles behind the wall. An unsettling one, full of animosity. The fact that you can tell that from behind the wall says a lot.

"I'm gonna go out and get some drinks. Maybe some dinner. Needa get out of this fuckin' house for a bit," your father says with a grunt, sounding like he's gotten up from the couch. "Call if you lot need anythin' while I'm out."

A few grunts of agreement, and after a few seconds, the front door opens and slams shut.

You let out a small breath of tense relief, eyes fluttering shut as you deeply exhale. The immediate relief of having your father out of the house is immense.

"I feel bad for her," you hear the third man speak, voice quiet and low. "You hear how he speaks about her -- what's he like with her?"

"Gaz, whatever you're thinkin', drop it," the first speaker grits out, impatient and tight.

"He's right," the scottish one says with a huff, "Poor kid. She's legal and he isn't letting her out on a Friday night? 'Nd he fuckin' wonders why she's upset."

"He must have his... reasons," the fatherly voice of the fourth speaker says, although his tone says otherwise.

You swallow, slowly creeping off of the bottom step and onto the wooden floors. Front pressed to the wall, you move just the slightest bit, to allow yourself a small peak into the loungeroom.

There are four men, like you'd expected, and they're...

They're big. There's no other word that comes to mind, except for big. Tall, broad, packed with muscle. Military-grade men.

Your mouth is suddenly parched of any moisture, and your brain turns to putty.

Selfishly, stupidly, you spend another dangerous moment to admire the four. The couch curves, the four of them seated on it, facing the TV hung on the wall. They're backs are to you.

Or.

One second, they're all blissfully turned the other way, and in the next, one's head turns, and deep brown eyes meet yours.

Your eyes go wide, and you immediately dart for the stairs, heart in your throat.

Rushing up, trying to stay quiet but still hurrying, you make it to your room in record time. You shut the door behind you, chest tight and breaths harried as your back presses to the wood.

Stupid, stupid girl, you think.

They are dangerous men who do dangerous things.

That's what your father had said, wasn't it? So what were you thinking, risking a look? For what purpose?

Then, there's a knock on your door.

Your eyes go impossibly wide, and your lips purse together as you slowly move away from the door. With one breath, you train your face into a pleasant, kind smile as you slowly open the door, only allowing a bit of your room to be shown.

"You're his daughter, ain't ya?"

You have to crane your neck, eyes going up, and up, and up, until you meet the man's eyes.

The skull balaclava shouldn't cause your face to heat, or your breaths to quicken, but they do.

"I -- um, yes, I'm really sorry for eavesdropping," you mumble, eyes flitting to the floor and hand squeezing the door in an anxious gesture.

A hand grabs your chin, forcing your gaze to meet the man's chocolate eyes once more. They're imploring, impossibly so, and your thighs squeeze together against your better judgement.

"Come watch the game with us," he says, and although the sentence isn't a demand, it feels like one.

So, like the good girl you are, you nod, his grip loosening as you do.

You forget that you're in your tiniest sleep shorts and your thinnest tank top as you follow him down the stairs, his large hand resting on your lower back.

This was the most touch you'd ever felt from a man that wasn't in a familial way, and your nerve-endings feel like they've been electrocuted.

Whatever conversation that was happening silences as soon as the two of you walk into the lounge room, your hands squeezing each other painfully tight.

Your anxiety was warranted in this situation, wasn't it? Surely, it was okay to be scared of four men whom you'd never met.

Four sets of eyes are trained to your body, and there's a slight tremble in your hands as you sit in the spot balaclava had gestured towards.

It seats you in the middle of the four of them, and your heart beats impossibly faster as you settle into the leather, feeling so small in comparison to the men surrounding you.

It's a new, albeit not entirely terrible, feeling.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" The man furthest to your left asks, and when you meet his eyes, they're warm and kind. His lower face is mostly covered in a beard, and he's wearing a light brown hat.

You bite at your inner cheek, gaze flicking back to your thighs as you weakly say your name.

Their gazes burn your skin, like a living force, and your hands form nervous fists in your lap. The warm yellow light of the living room lamp creates a warm, safe ambience that doesn't exactly fit the emotions swirling inside of you.

You flinch only slightly when a warm hand moves to rest on your knee, the thumb rubbing comforting circles on it that ease your tight muscles slightly.

When you look to the owner of the hand, it's to see a warm grin and a faux mohawk.

"You're so tense, lass," he says, his mouth quirking into a knowing smirk. "We don't bite."

"Don't speak for all of us, Soap," the man sitting on your close left says with a charming grin, his eyes meeting yours when you turn to him. "I'll ask nicely, love, don't worry."

You nod, slowly, in some sort of trance. This entire situation doesn't feel entirely real, more like a figment of your deepest desires.

Ones you've never let yourself think about, except for the darkest of nights and the dirtiest of feelings.

"Don't scare the girl," the man with the balaclava says, eyes narrowing on the two men beside you.

"Says the one with the fuckin' mask, ya weirdo," the scottish one says with a scoff of a chuckle. Your mouth pulls into a soft grin without you realising, and the hand on your knee tightens ever so slightly.

"I'm Price," the man who you've deemed the most sensible of the group says with a warm smile. His head gestures to each of the other three men respectively. "That's Gaz, Soap, and Ghost."

You can't say that you're all too familiar with the names, nor how...different they are, but you nod nonetheless, reserving the names in your memory.

"Father dearest never talked about us?" Gaz asks, eyebrows softly furrowing in question.

You shake your head, almost apologetic in the movement. "He doesn't like to tell me much, he's, ah... private."

There's a few returning grunts of understanding, and they settle your nerves just a little bit more. For men of their size, they were surprisingly good at keeping you feeling safe and comfortable.

"What're you doin' all alone on a Friday night? Pretty young thing like you, 'nd you're not at a club? A date?" Soap asks, and if you notice that he's moved just the slightest bit closer to you, you don't say a word.

You feel your face heat, and you murmur out your reply. "Never been to either," you admit, pulling at a thread in your sleep shorts with nervous jerks.

Ghost settles further into his chair, legs spread in an almost dominant way. "Surely you've at least had your first kiss?"

If you could get anymore embarrassed, you're sure you'll combust on the spot.

You softly shake your head.

"Aw, love, you're adorable," Gaz says, a hint of a smirk on his features. His dark eyes glimmer in the light, and you lick your bottom lip to wet it.

Price's arms rest on his knees, and his eyes seem trained on you, debating some sort of inner conflict, before they firm with some kind of resolution. "Y'know, we've been training rookies lately," he states, but with a knowing undertone that everyone in the room seems to pick up on except for you.

"That we have," Ghost says, his voice sending shivers down your spine as he nods in agreement with Price.

"How about we train you, bonnie?" Soap asks, his hand moving just the slightest bit higher on your thigh.

You swallow, mouth dry.

"Um. Like, train me... how?" You ask, although there's some part of your brain that knows all too well what area they're thinking of.

Gaz's hand moves to sit at the nape of your neck, stroking in soothing movements that leave your eyes half-closed and glassy. "How about I show you how to kiss, love?"

Your stomach hollows, and your chest rises and falls in heavy beats. Nervously looking around the room, you squeeze your eyes shut as you nod shortly.

Soap's hand tightens around your thigh, a barely hidden warning. "Words, baby, or you're goin' back to your room."

The threat instantly has words flying out of your mouth. "Yes. Please. Just... be gentle?"

All four men seem to huff a laugh at that, but Gaz nods, dimples showing as his smirk deepens. "I can do that."

He pulls you in, and your eyes flutter shut as his lips meet yours.

The feeling leaves you entirely dazed, your nervous system alighting with signals as your thoughts seem to pause, if only for a second. It's nothing like you'd expected, and butterflies erupt in your lower stomach.

He pulls away, not having breached your mouth, and you must look as out of it as you feel because he laughs.

"That good, love?" He asks, teasing and entirely prideful.

You nod, a bit too fast and enthusiastic, before his hand pulls away from your nape. The loss is mourned, briefly, before your attention pulls away from Gaz and instead to Soap.

"Gotta learn from all of us," is all he says, before his lips crush against your own. Where Gaz was tentative and soft, Soap is all energy and desperation.

His hand squeezes your thigh, and when it had moved from your knee to pushing against your tiny shorts, you haven't an idea.

You can't find it in yourself to care, with his relentless attack on your mouth, your lips, your mind.

When he pulls away, you realise it's because Ghost's moved to stand, and his hand is in a tight fist in Soap's hair, pulling his face away from yours.

"Actin' like a fuckin' mutt," Ghost mutters, tone laced with vitriol. It's degrading, and yet Soap doesn't seem phased in the slightest.

You're about to inquire about that when your attention's caught by Price, his knees spread and patting his thigh. "C'mere, sweetheart," he says, and like a dog on a leash, you do.

His unbelievably large hands grab your hips as he seats you in his lap, and with how he's got his legs spread, it forces you to sit over his groin.

It's a compromising position, and the heat that rushes to your core is an entirely unknown feeling.

He doesn't move his hands from your body as his eyes devour it, before they meet your gaze with a warmth to them that has you shivering.

"Show me what the boys have taught you, hm?" He says, and with shut eyes and a stiff movement, you press your lips to his.

He groans, pleased, his thumbs rubbing circles where your skin's been revealed by your tank top. No one's ever touched you there, not in this way, and it has your pussy wet.

When he pulls away, he licks at his lips, as if he's devouring your taste.

"You're so pretty, sweetheart, mm? No wonder your father's got you all locked up," he says, and the reminder of the source of your anger has you wanting to do entirely too reckless things.

Like kissing the four men he warned you about.

Like doing more, maybe.

...Maybe.

His hands force your hips down, and you let out a small whimper when your clit presses against his belt buckle, the action sending pleasure shooting up your spine.

He raises a brow, catching the change in expression and your small sound. "What's wrong, pretty?"

And then, he pulls you down again, deeper this time, and the movement has your breath hitching, core burning with need.

"Oh, you naughty little girl," he says, and the words have your mind turning into some sort of mouldable clay, entirely able to be controlled by whatever these men wanted to make of it. "So needy, ain't ya?"

Someone presses against you from behind, and a belt buckle presses against your lower back.

"My turn to feel those lips, innit?" Ghost says from behind, leaning down to whisper his next words next to your ear. "See what all the fuss 's about."

The idea that you're being passed around, like you're some kind of... of whore has you entirely speechless in the most positive of ways.

You feel filthy, and you love it.

Leaning your head back, you manage to make eye contact with the large man, before his lips press to yours, upside down.

He devours, all encompassing, his tongue slipping into yours without any hesitance. You're clumsy, unsure, but he makes up for it with experience and dominance. The entire act has you woozy, needy for more of them, more of their touch.

You don't expect for Price to start forcibly rotating your hips, forcing you to grind against his lap, but it forces a moan from your mouth, the sound getting devoured by Ghost's overpowering tongue.

"Who knew she'd be such a desperate slut?" Gaz asks, as if you're not there, as if you're just something to be observed. It causes another moan to leave your mouth, and Ghost detaches himself from you with a grunt of his own.

"Think she liked that," Soap says, amused and proud, in a strange sort of way. "Wanna be used, baby? Taken by men nearly twice your age?"

"Yes," you say, on a groan as Price's motions speed up, the pleasure so new and different and good.

Then, he stops, and a whine comes out of you before you can stop it.

Price makes a condescending noise in response. "Poor babygirl needs all the attention, hey? Needs her little pussy played with?"

"She looks like a goddamn mess, cap," Gaz says, his hand coming up to rest on your head. He gives comforting pats, not unlike one would with an obedient puppy.

Ghost's hands come around your waist, and before you even process what he's doing, he rips your sleep shorts in half, leaving you completely bare.

"Didn't think to wear panties, dumb girl?" Ghost asks with an appreciative groan, his large hand cupping your now exposed pussy.

With a whimper, you shake your head, your eyes squeezed shut at the embarrassment and nudity. No one had ever seen it before, and now, four of your father's friends were getting an eyeful.

"Lemme see if she's nice 'n wet for us," Soap murmurs, picking you up from Price's lap in a princess carry.

It doesn't even last two seconds before he's splaying you over the now empty couch, your hands pathetically covering your most private of areas.

"None of that, sweetheart," Price says with a 'tsk', grabbing both of your wrists in one hand and pinning them to the couch above your head, leaving you effectively defenceless to the men.

Soap's hand moves down your stomach, before he pauses for just a moment. "This okay, baby?"

You nod, because yes, this is most definitely okay.

Gaz gives you a stern look, so you quickly fix your mistake. "I -- yes, sir, it's okay."

There's a surrounding sound of approval, and Soap smirks from where he stands beside your hips. "Sir, aye? Like the sound of that."

With that, his finger slides down your pussy, and your eyes shut with a soft moan. His hands are rough, scarred, calloused from years of work on the field, and they're so much larger than your own.

"Think she likes it, sir," Ghost says, taunting Soap, whose eyes are completely transfixed on your glistening pussy.

"Not the only one," Price says with an approving murmur, his hand tightening around your wrists. The sense of powerlessness has you aching with desire.

Soap's finger continues to rub against your slit, not breaching your entrance, instead continuing to tease and amplify his touch. Your eyes are shut, too embarrassed to look at the mess you're likely causing on the fabric, and too nervous to see the expression on the men's faces.

"Do you play with your lil cunt often, princess?" Ghost says, voice darkened with lust.

Your face feels like it's burning, but you nod. "Sometimes. I -- ah," you break off with a moan as Soap's thumb presses against your swollen clit.

"Be a good girl and answer when spoken to, love," Gaz says with a sound of disappointment that has you aching to amend your mistake.

"I'm sorry, sir, I, yes. Sometimes 'm just needing to, um, y'know..." You trail off, trying to preserve any amounts of dignity you had left. You were aware that masturbation was normal, but you'd never discussed it with a single soul, and talking about it felt like laying your soul bare.

Price's other hand moves to gently brush your hair from your face, the gesture so at odds with Soap's sensual movements.

You're about to say something, what, you aren't exactly sure, when Soap's finger roughly enters your soaked pussy. A loud whimper escapes your lips at the sudden intrusion, and the sheer size difference of his finger compared to your own.

"Aww, baby, it's alright," Soap coos, and it's so fucking condescending. It's cruel, almost, as if you're so dumb that you can't even form your own thoughts.

Which is, honestly, more true than you're willing to admit.

"'Atta girl," Ghost groans when your whimpers only increase with every thrust of Soap's finger.

Gaz's hand moves down to replace Soap's thumb on your clit, using the pads of his fingers to roughly circle around it. That sensation, mixed with Soap's intrusion, has your back arching slightly from the couch.

"Think she's close, Cap," Gaz says, conversationally, again treating you like you're not entirely capable of voicing your own feelings or thoughts.

"Mm, that right, sweetheart? Close already?" Price echoes, the hand not around your wrists going to squish your cheeks together, causing your lips to pucker. "What a pathetic girl, hm?"

Those words, those demeaning, humiliating words, only stoke the fire in your stomach, and your eyes burn with unshed tears as you shakily nod.

As soon as you do, however, Gaz pulls away, and Soap's finger leaves your pussy entirely. You groan, eyes opening slightly to see what could've possibly caused them to stop.

"You look so upset, baby," Soap laughs, and his smile is no longer the jovial one it had been mere minutes before -- no, it's been replaced with something much more predatory, something much more dangerous.

Dangerous men.

Ghost moves, then, moving your legs with much more care than you'd expected from the large man, before moving to kneel at the end of the couch where your legs had been. Hooking your knees over his shoulder, he effectively folds you in half.

"W-what are you doing?" You ask, almost frantic, utterly confused at your current state.

He leans down, hooking his balaclava over the tip of his nose, before there's searing wet heat at your core, causing you to throw your head back with a loud moan.

Gaz chuckles, "So dirty, love. Like having the big bad Ghost with his head between your legs, huh? Like having the attention of men with blood on their hands?"

Oh, and the confirmation -- the proper, hard proof, that they killed, that they truly were as dangerous as your father had said --

"Yes, fuck, please, oh my god," you ramble, almost incoherent with your words as you body trembles with the feeling of a mouth at your pussy. "Jesus, don't stop."

You can hear laughter around you, some words being passed between the men, but your focus is entirely on the tongue dipping into your folds, licking at your essence like a man starved. Like you're his only salvation.

Soap's hand is in Ghost's hair, a complete parallel to the kiss the two of you had shared, and he's pushing Ghost further against you, manhandling him like a toy for you to grind against, for you to take advantage of.

"I'm gonna, oh, please, I'm close," you cry out, eyes squeezed shut yet again as Ghost's ministrations only double in enthusiasm.

"Yeah, sweetheart? Gonna cum all over his face? Go on, ride it, there we go," Price eggs you on, his hand patting down your hair, massaging at your scalp as you lose yourself to the pleasure of it all.

You cum with a desperate keen, tears finally spilling down your cheeks as you ride out the high, embracing this moment for the beauty it is.

It doesn't hit you, not at first, the full extent of your actions.

Ghost pulls away after your whimpers turn into ones of overstimulation, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh, your twitching pussy, and then your inner knee as he carefully sets your legs back down on the couch.

"Such a good girl, aye?" Soap asks, rubbing at your tense calves with expert strokes and pressure. "Did so well for us, darlin'."

Your head feels like it's been filled with cotton, and your mouth is in a similar state as you nod dazedly.

You're not sure when, but at some point, Price gently moves you to lay your back against the cushion of the couch. "Need you to drink something for us, sweetheart, okay?"

Gods, this part? Them treating you like a princess, like you're something worthy of taking care of, it's almost as good as the orgasm they'd given you.

Gaz comes into view with a glass of water, and when he gently moves your chin to open your mouth, you let him pour it down your throat.

It feels almost like you're entirely too weak to do anything by yourself, like your ability to function has been completely removed by these men. It's intoxicating, the kind of feeling that could be as addictive as the most threatening of drugs.

The water slides down your throat, and it's as if it cools you from the inside out, your heartbeat slowly coming down from the quickened pace it was previously at.

Price picks you up, cradling your head to his chest as he sits down, the other three settling down on the couch as well. Gaz, sitting beside Price, moves your legs to sit over his lap, your feet in Soap's. Ghost sits to Soap's left, his eyes focused on you as you get comfortable, burrowing your head closer to Price.

If you could stay in this moment forever, you think that you'll be a very happy woman.

Closing your eyes, you drift into a space between sleep and awareness, and when they flutter open again, you realise that your previously exposed pussy and legs are now hidden by your sweatpants that had been laid on your bed, ready to be put away.

Price's hand is in your hair, softly playing with the strands. His hand encompasses your entire scalp, almost, and if you weren't completely exhausted, that fact alone would have you ready to get on your knees.

"What're we gonna do?" Gaz whispers, and you realise with a start that they must all think you're still dozing. "I mean, we seriously fucked this up."

"Not yet we haven't," Ghost interrupts, voice still gravelly and low, but with a hint of warmth. "This doesn't change anything."

"This changes everything!" Soap hisses back, incredulous, his hands stilling from where they were rubbing into your feet with practiced movements. Were they all trained masseuses, or something?

No. Trained killers, your mind unhelpfully supplies, and a chill runs down your spine.

Oh god. Oh god. What had you done? Seriously, what the actual fuck had you done? You just.

You just lost your virginity to four of your father's very lethal, very dangerous friends. Friends who are nearly twice your age, at that.

Oh. God.

"Laswell will be expecting correspondence by three," Price mutters in a voice akin to a whisper. "You boys know what we have to do."

What? What were they talking about? Who was Laswell? What did they have to do by three?

Your mind whirrs, like a hamster in a wheel, before the sound of keys jingling on the other side of your front door has your entire body freezing.

Oh god.

Oh. God.

"Shit," Gaz grumbles, and between one thought and the next, you've been bundled up into a warm chest, the movement fluid and shockingly quick. A hand at the base of skull softly pushes your head against a warm neck, and your legs hang over a muscled arm. "I'll take her upstairs. Be quiet and quick."

There's murmurs too quiet between the other three as you're taken up the stairs, two steps at a time, by the man whose fingers had been on your pussy, at most, only an hour ago.

You're aware that you've been taken to your room when the door clicks behind you, the familiar path to it engrained in your memory, even with your eyes closed and in someone else's arms.

The smell of vanilla and caramel is a comforting and familiar one, and you realise that you'd left your candle burning all night.

It's really the least of your worries, but that thought manages to snag at your conscious like an annoying fly.

"I'm so sorry, kid," Gaz whispers, gently laying you down underneath your bedsheets, before pulling them up and over your lazed form. "I'll try my best to talk some sense into 'em."

You're not sure what he could possible mean -- what the fuck was even happening, what your life was even becoming, but his words are nothing if not sincere.

His tone is almost... apologetic, in a way, and you reserve that thought for later. When you're not pretending to be awake, when you're still not slightly out of it from your first orgasm caused by someone else, when you're not in the middle of the worst moral conflict of your life.

Your window's slightly open, allowing a soft breeze to brush over your still slightly heated skin as Gaz presses a soft kiss to your forehead, brushing your hair back.

"Get off me!"

Your father. That's your father's voice, and it sounds panicked, angry -- not unusual, but still, the cause of it was nearly always you.

And those specific words, what --

"Y'know, Laswell found out somethin' pretty interestin' the other day," a voice that you recognise as Ghost's says, tone mocking interest.

Gaz moves away from you, before going to the window and looking out at whatever scene is happening down there. Somehow, he hasn't realised you're not asleep -- you'd kept your breathing pattern the same as it usually was when you're asleep, some youtube video you'd watched months ago finally coming in handy.

You can hear them all clear as day through the small opening of the window, and Gaz can too.

"Aye. Somethin' 'bout some info bein' leaked," Soap continues Ghost's train of thought, and you're so lost it's almost pathetic.

But, you continue to listen, desperate for any source of understanding for whatever the fuck was happening down there.

"You can't possibly think it was me!" Your father yells, his voice full of venom and rage. To have it not be directed at you is a rare moment, and you allow yourself a small breath of reprieve.

"We know it was you," Price says, before sighing loud enough for it to be heard from your room. "The way you spoke about that kid of yours was enough to cement the idea."

"She's a fuckin' waste of space, and where do you get off on caring how I treat my kid? Has nothin' to do with the job!"

Those words hurt. Like an actual, physical wound, almost.

Gaz swears under his breath, and you can feel the tension ooze out of him like a wave. It's... oddly comforting.

There's the sound of a fist hitting a jaw, and it takes everything in you not to race to the window and look at what's going on yourself.

"Jesus fucking christ!" Your father hisses, and you put two and two together. One of the three men down there had punched him -- if you had to take a guess, it was Ghost.

"You've never been one of us, and you'll never be one of us. You sellin' us out was the last straw, mate," Soap snarls. You can hear him spit on the ground, before another sound of fists flying makes your heart race.

There's a moment of silence, until two things happen in the span of five seconds.

First, your father screams, "Please! Don't --"

And then...

A bullet.

The sound of a trigger being pulled.

The sound of a bullet ringing through the air.

The sound of a final breath.

Your eyes fly wide, and you immediately stumble out of bed.

Gaz's gaze meets yours, and there's nothing but apology in them. No guilt, just apology.

He doesn't stop you from looking out the window, where your father's body lays in the grass, blood leaking from the wound now sitting between his eyes.

And when you turn to him, he doesn't stop you as you land a punch to his jaw.

a/n. CROSS-POSTED TO AO3 ummm so did i PLAN for this to become an actual fic? no. not in the slightest. but i was writing the fingering bit and was like. what if her dad died? and there's an actual plot? so uhhh here we are! anyways hope yall enjoyedddd if u guys know me u know polyamory is my SHIT so there will very likely be more poly!tf141 x reader to come. ty for reading mwah mwah mwah

5K notes · View notes

sleepyconfusedpotato · 1 year

Text

Ghost forgets he wears a mask sometimes.

The remastered version of the OG prompt because that ending REALLY sets the fucking scene.

I'm sorry Gaz.

23K notes · View notes

midnightarcheress · 1 month

Text

cowgirl

a little bar challenge characters: simon 'ghost' riley, john 'soap' mactavish, kyle 'gaz' garrick, john price cw: nsfw, fem!reader, tf141 lusting for their teammate, idk there's nothing much

"i'm not going on that!" you exclaimed, crossing your arms at the man in front of you.

the buzzing of a bar after a successful mission was a familiar sound for the task force. the glasses clinking, the chatter of old and new friends, the horrible background music, and the abhorrent pick-up lines would, weirdly enough, calm your nerves after days covered in heavy gear and harboring pent-up stress. or maybe the source of your mind's serenity was just the alcohol already flowing on your bloodstream, courtesy of the three tequila shots you were - willingly - forced into drinking.

"come on, bonnie, it will be fun!" Soap said, pointing at the sign propped above the mechanical bull, "besides, ye can win the hat for us."

you scoffed, glancing at the direction the scot referred, right after seeing another contender fall to the bouncy mat under the bull, followed by a string of boo's from the watchful horde. bold red lettering stated 'break the bar's record and win a cowboy hat!', tempting drunk custumers into fooling themselves for a measly prize.

"i bet she's scared," Gaz prompted, adding fuel to Johnny's pleas, "don't wanna be mocked by the crowd."

you rolled your eyes in response, "i'm not scared, Gaz, i just don't see what all the fuss is about. why don't you do it?"

"nuh-uh, don't turn this on me, missy. you're the one being challenged here," he retorted, earning a soundful hum from Soap, "tell you this, if you manage to stay there for a full minute, i'll pay you a twenty. don't even have to stand the whole three minutes of the record."

Ghost and Price stayed quiet during the whole exchange, unimpressed by the trio's shenanigans. they had endured too many drinking competitions, bets, dares, arguments and blatantly stupid ideas coming from the youngsters of the squad over the years, so nothing fazed the two superiors. underneath their apathy, however, lied a real sense of entertainment, illustrated by discreet smirks after particularly dumb comments - usually dropped by Soap's mouth.

"make it a fifty and we have a deal." you smirked, sipping from your beer pint. if you were gonna humiliate yourself in public, it better be for real cash.

"fifty if you break the record, how does that sound?"

after a second of pondering and a few too many glances at the machine's movements, studying it meticulously to engrave how to properly react when the controller jolts the apparatus from side to side, you uttered a hesitant yes, winning a cheerful chant from your friends and some whistles from the audience.

you stepped on the mat and quickly hopped on the mechanical bull, adjusting your legs around the fake saddle. it shouldn't be that hard, right? the initial movements were easy - just holding on the chord and letting the laws of motion do the work. you didn't want to admit, but it was actually pretty fun.

eventually, the controller decided he was being too gentle and started picking up the pace, making your body rock back and forth on bull, decision that knocked the air out of your lungs for a split second, before you composed yourself and tightened your grip on the handles like your life depended on it. the crowd shouted gleefully, encouraging you to push through, despite a few snarky comments preying on your fall, just the expected.

what you didn't expect - and neither realized - was the way your teammates were reacting.

Gaz stood there with his jaw almost reaching the floor, being impressed not only by your sturdy grip, but mostly by the way your back arched when the machine tilted forward, defining your muscles through the skin-tight fabric of your shirt. even if you didn't endure the whole minute from the initial bet, he was willing to give you his entire wallet, just to watch you ride it again, and definitely not to imagine you bouncing on his lap for a little longer.

Soap, who has always been aware of your beauty, suddenly had to sit down after feeling his pants tighten at the sight of your plump ass jiggling due the repeated impacts on the bull's back, in desperate attempts to grind yourself. in addition, the tiniest bit of your lacy underwear peeking out of the dark jeans that hugged your hips flawlessly wasn't helping with his situation.

the daring smile that painted your lips, juxtaposing the concentrated frown of your eyes as you tried your best to not fall during an exceptionally wild movement, only supplied Ghost's cock with an overflow of blood, twitching at the view of your plush thighs clenching around the bucking machine whenever it defied your determination by leaning too much on the sides, shaking to make you collapse on the mat.

Price, however, acted as gentleman the whole time, just admiring your ability and strength to stay clutched to the unpredictable machinery. that, of course, was only until he got a view of your perfectly round tits, taunting the edges of your low-cut top and threatening to spill out at any given minute, ready to give him a real show. the adrenaline-filled flush that gave your cheeks an innocent pink hue, felt very similar to the sudden rush on his shaft that made your captain almost choke on his scotch.

three minutes and forty-seven seconds.

"that was so much fun!" your giggly shout and stumbling figure getting closer to the group was enough to snap the men out of their trance. they quickly took notice of your wide grin and the brown cowboy hat placed on your head, followed by the loud screaming of the public that just witnessed the bar's record being broken.

"come on, pay up, Gaz." you said, sticking your palm to receive your well deserved money in a contained victory dance.

the four men glanced at each other, gathering the courage to speak up after your little performance that had them weak on the knees for a colleague.

"didn't think you had it in ye, bonnie." Soap stated as Gaz reached for the wallet in his back pocket, almost considering giving you a fat tip for the spectacle. the sergeants were certainly doing a poor job in hiding the blush on their cheeks and small beads of sweat on their foreheads, consequence of trying to ignore the tent formed on their trousers.

your superiors, on the contrary, remained quiet and seemingly undisturbed by the previous scene, silently sipping from their glasses but still watching the chatting trio. only now, they wouldn't dare to get up and risk the others - specifically you - noticing their throbbing cocks marking their pants, yearning for the touch of your silky flesh.

after collecting your gains, you rapidly swayed to the bar counter, ordering a new drink with your sweet, sweet money, while the task force members ultimately etched the sight of you riding the mechanical bull in the deepest corner of their brains - saving the images for the great release when you all get back to base.

okay this is my first official thingy i feel so silly. also english is not my first language so...

#cod #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #john price #tf141 #tf141 x reader #ghost cod #soap cod #gaz cod #fem!reader #cod mw #cod mw2 #oneshot #nyx writes ☾#midnightarcheress

2K notes · View notes