Note: I do write for a lot of people, if you request something I will try to fulfill it! I’ll also update this as I go, but please enjoy my work!💜✨ dividers by @saradika-graphics
I understand that it’s been a while. I apologize I’ve had so much going on in my life that I haven’t had the chance to write again and then I went through writer’s block and then I never picked up my motivation once more to continue writing my stories. I still see the request and comments and likes that everyone leaves on my page and I’m very flattered and very happy with everyone loving what I’ve written.
I apologize for taking such a long break. I hope that I can get the motivation to start writing once more and hopefully it’ll be soon.
For now, I’ll still be on a break, but I still love and appreciate all of you from the bottom of my heart.
Warnings: Flirty teasing, possessive touches, rough wall pinning, dirty kisses, sexual tension, reader is smug and irresistible, chaotic love energy, suggestive dialogue, boys are down bad, reader shoots them all last second
Author's Note: You didn’t just want to win—you wanted them desperate, breathless, and begging for more. And babe, you delivered.
Summary: A casual laser tag night turns into a dangerous game of push-and-pull, where no one can bring themselves to shoot you. Until you flip the script—and make sure the boys owe you for it.
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
The second the countdown ends and the maze floods with blacklight and fog, you know you’ve made a terrible, wonderful mistake.
Because none of them are playing fair.
You duck behind a glowing plastic barrel, vest humming on your chest, every nerve alight with tension. Somewhere in the maze, a vest blinks red and shuts down.
One down. Not you.
You move quick—silent over the padded carpet, adrenaline in your throat. The air smells like static, the faint thump of bass-heavy music vibrating through the walls.
You turn a corner—
And slam straight into a wall of muscle.
A hand braces beside your head. You freeze, eyes adjusting just fast enough to catch the shape of a beard under the blacklight.
"Thought you were slick, did you?" John murmurs, voice low and smug.
He steps closer, chest to chest, his other hand cradling your hip. You tilt your chin, daring him.
"You gonna shoot me, Captain?"
He smirks. "Not yet."
And then his mouth is on yours. Warm. Commanding. He kisses like he leads—slow, steady, confident. Your fingers curl in his vest, knees buckling when his beard scrapes your skin.
He breaks it with a low hum.
"Go on then. Run."
And he vanishes.
You lean against the wall, dazed. You’re not sure whether you’re turned on or winning. Probably both.
You move again—deeper into the maze—when you hear him.
"Peek-a-boo," Johnny grins, sliding around the corner like a shark on the hunt.
Before you can blink, he’s grabbed you around the waist, spun you, pressed your back to his chest. His lips brush your ear.
"I could shoot you right now," he purrs.
"Then why don’t you?" you challenge.
He grins, lifts you higher, presses you to the wall—and kisses you like it’s a sport. It’s messy, hot, open-mouthed and needy. His hand grabs a handful of your ass like he’s cashing in all his points now.
You melt into it.
Then he pulls back and smacks your vest lightly.
"Still lit," he beams. "Didn’t shoot. I’m so good."
Gone. Like a ghost in a kilt.
You take three shaky breaths. Your vest pulses like it knows something.
Then—
A shadow. Larger. Silent.
Simon.
You’re pinned before you can react. A gloved hand against your stomach holds you to the wall, his eyes unreadable beneath the glow of his mask.
"You’ve been busy," he mutters.
"Jealous?" you tease.
He doesn’t answer. Just steps closer. Hand curls around your throat—not tight, just enough to make you feel it.
"I should shoot you."
"But you won’t."
He doesn’t.
He kisses you instead—deep, slow, and devastating. One hand holding your hip, the other braced against the wall beside your head. You moan into it. It tastes like surrender.
"You’re lucky I’m soft for you," he growls in your ear.
And then he’s gone.
You slump to the wall, completely wrecked.
Which is exactly when Kyle finds you.
He slides in fast, vest still blinking, hair a little wild. "You’ve been cheating," he accuses, breathless.
You step forward, pushing him to the wall this time. "I haven’t fired a single shot."
"You’ve been weaponizing your mouth."
You smirk, tugging him down by the vest. "You scared?"
Kyle laughs—right before you kiss him. It's needy, hot, tangled. His hands roam your hips, gripping tight, mouth moving like he’s starving.
When you break the kiss, he's dazed.
"You win," he gasps. "Fucking hell."
You step back, gun still in hand, vest still untouched.
Then—three red dots light up your chest.
John. Simon. Johnny.
They emerge together like a final boss cutscene. Kyle stumbles back into the fold, breathless, still recovering.
Guns up. Triggers ready.
"You really think we won’t shoot you?" John asks, eyes narrowed.
"You want the win that bad?" you ask sweetly.
They hesitate.
Guns dip.
None of them can do it.
You walk forward, slow, gun dangling loose in your hand. They’re staring at you like you’ve got them all under a spell.
You stop. Smile.
Then—
You raise your gun.
Four shots. Four direct hits.
BZZT. BZZT. BZZT. BZZT.
John blinks in disbelief.
Simon’s jaw clenches behind the mask.
Kyle gasps out a curse. "You little—"
Johnny just whistles low, impressed.
You blow an invisible puff from the barrel, spinning it once.
"Oops," you say sweetly. "Guess I win."
You turn on your heel, hips swaying as the final buzzer sounds and the arena floods with red victory lights.
And just before you vanish through the exit, you glance back over your shoulder with a grin that could end wars.
"You boys owe me one hell of a night."
Then you walk away.
Game over.
They never stood a chance.
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
Warnings: Immortality, past life themes, obsession masked as love, emotional tension, photo evidence of reincarnation, reader discovering truth, heavy atmosphere, implied past violence, ambiguous ending
Author's Note: This is slow and semi climatic, like a gothic love story dipped in ghost stories and time-bending devotion. Enjoy✨
Summary: You find a photo album buried in Simon’s attic. Inside, a century of lovers who all look just like you. But the truth? It’s far deeper than a coincidence—and you’ve lived this before.
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
The attic smelled like cedarwood, old leather, and the kind of dust that only comes with untouched years.
You hadn’t meant to find it. You were looking for extra blankets. Something normal, something human. Instead, the loose floorboard groaned under your foot, revealing a shallow crawlspace tucked behind an old trunk. A heavy box inside it, buried under decades of time.
Simon had said nothing about this part of the house. Then again, Simon didn’t say much.
The box was weighty. Brass corners, reinforced like something from wartime. Your fingers trembled as they undid the latches, the hinges shrieking like something waking up.
Inside were photo albums.
Beautiful, hand-bound leather, some fraying at the edges. You picked one up—thin and delicate. Your name wasn’t on it, but something told you it belonged to you anyway.
You opened it.
Black-and-white first. Women in corseted dresses. High collars. Parasols. Then sepia tones, flapper dresses, cropped curls. Swing dresses in the 40s, bell bottoms in the 70s. Jean jackets in the 90s. All of them—
You froze.
Your hands stopped moving. Your eyes couldn’t.
They all looked like you.
Some had softer chins. Some darker skin, brighter eyes, longer lashes. But the resemblance was undeniable. Uncanny. Faces that could be yours in a mirror if the lighting was just off. Familiar mouths. That same tiny scar you’d had since childhood—identical on the collarbone of a girl in a Polaroid dated 1982.
And standing beside each of them—
Simon.
Unaged. His jaw the same. The same eyes, a little sadder in some photos. Smiling in exactly three. Always in black or muted colors. Always staring only at her. At you.
A photo fell out between the pages. A tintype.
The edges were worn, like it had been handled a thousand times. Victorian-era, maybe older. A woman in mourning black. You again. Her mouth unsmiling, but her eyes held heat. Next to her—Simon. Younger. His hair longer, curled at the nape. No mask. Just that same damn stare.
You turned the photo over.
One line, written in deep, etched strokes.
The face I always find.
You barely heard the door close downstairs.
“Love?” his voice called out.
You didn’t answer.
Boots on the steps. Slow. Heavy.
“Didn’t mean to leave the attic unlocked.”
You stared at the albums. There were seven in total. You’d barely gone through one.
Simon stood at the top of the steps. No mask tonight. Just him. Just his face. Older than the photo, younger than the time it carried. Eyes like dusk. Or maybe graves.
“How long?” you asked.
He sighed.
“A long time.”
You swallowed. “What am I?”
He took a step closer. “You’re… you.”
“That one?” You held up the photo. “She looks exactly like me.”
“You were her.”
Your pulse stuttered.
Simon moved slow, like you were a deer with a rifle trained on you. “Every life, I find you again. Not always at the right time. Sometimes too late. Sometimes you don’t remember anything. Sometimes it takes years.”
“You’ve been following me?”
“I’ve been waiting,” he said. “You came to me first. In a war. When I was still human.”
“You’re not now?”
A pause.
“No.”
You tried to remember. Something buried deep, deeper than dreams. A melody. A red scarf. A name that tasted like smoke. You blinked, and for a moment, the world flickered. A memory? A vision? You couldn't hold onto it long enough to know.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Simon sat on the floor beside you. Close enough to touch, but didn’t. He looked tired. The kind of tired that outlives lifetimes.
“Because every time I do,” he whispered, “you run. You forget me harder.”
You stared at the photo again. Her lips looked like yours. The curve of her cheek. The fury in her eyes.
“What happened to her?” you asked.
Simon closed his eyes. “You died. I didn’t.”
“How?”
His voice went quiet. “War. Fire. You tried to protect me. Or maybe I tried to protect you. I can’t remember that part clearly anymore.”
You breathed out through your nose. It didn’t feel real. None of this did. And yet the albums were real. The pictures. The scrawled messages. The dates. The face. Your face.
“Is this why you don’t sleep?”
Simon smiled, and it broke something in you. “I sleep. Just never well.”
You turned toward him slowly. “What happens now?”
“That’s your choice.”
A flicker again—this time, not a memory, but a feeling. That first time he kissed you. Months ago. That heat in your chest. Not new. Not even close.
The part that scared you most wasn’t the past.
It was how much your heart already knew it was true.
“Promise me something,” you said.
He waited.
“If I don’t remember... don’t try to force it.”
“I’ve never tried,” he said. “I just keep hoping.”
The album slipped from your lap. You crawled closer. His shoulders tensed like he expected you to bolt.
Instead, you laid your hand over his chest. Right above where his heart used to beat. Maybe still did.
“I don’t know who I was,” you whispered. “But I want to know who I am now. With you.”
Simon looked up. There was a storm in his gaze. Grief. Relief. Something endless.
And maybe love.
Maybe it always had been.
You leaned forward. He met you halfway.
And in that kiss, for one split second—
You remembered.
The battlefield. The blood. His hands over yours. The promise whispered in your dying breath.
“Find me.”
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
Omg Hiiiii!!!!! I’ve been reading all of your poly 141 task force x reader and I’m obsessed. I was wondering if you could do one where they have been together for a few years but they don’t live together so they decide to go house hunting and find a beautiful house for all five of them and how they help each other pack and move into the new house. But after they move everything into their new home and their settled down in the living room things get steamy😁😁
Author’s Note: After years of stolen time and scattered homes, this one is finally yours. And tonight, they show you just what it means to be loved by all of them.
Summary: You and Task Force 141 have been together for years—but now you're finally under one roof. Between the teasing, the tension, and the overwhelming affection, your new living room becomes the site of something holy: four men, one shared home, and you, utterly worshipped.
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
The last box hits the floor with a grunt.
John straightens, sweat at his brow, forearms flexing as he drags one palm down his neck. The front door shuts behind him with a heavy thunk.
“That’s it,” he says, voice low and final. “We’re in.”
The room echoes—bare floors, tall ceilings, golden light spilling through the high windows. The whole living room smells like pine and old brick and home.
Kyle is sitting on the floor, back to the wall, sipping the last of the lukewarm coffee from a gas station cup. Johnny’s laid out on the new couch, shirt riding up, one boot still on, one sock half off. Simon’s by the fireplace, back against the stone, watching you.
And you?
You’re stretched out on the rug in nothing but John’s old academy shirt and a pair of black boyshorts, grinning like you didn’t just get scolded three times today for being absolutely no help.
“Y’know,” you hum, arching your back just enough to pull a groan from somewhere nearby, “we could’ve finished faster if y’all let me help.”
“You helped by not distractin’ us more,” Johnny mutters, eyes dragging down your legs, already gone in the head. “Mostly.”
“You dropped three boxes,” Kyle reminds you, tipping his cup toward you with a smirk. “One on your own foot.”
“I wasn’t wearing shoes,” you shrug, smile widening.
John walks past, leans over, and smacks your thigh—hard enough to sting, soft enough to make you whimper.
“You think we don’t know what you’re doing, love?”
You just blink at him from the floor, big doe eyes, lower lip caught between your teeth.
Simon’s still watching.
It’s been years. Years of loving them in stolen time—between missions, across cities, in houses that were never quite shared. Years of split drawers, toothbrushes left behind, text messages that ended with see you when I see you.
And now they’re all here. All four of them. Same house. Same room. Same you.
You stretch again, deliberately. “S’too quiet in here,” you murmur. “We should make it feel lived in…”
Kyle raises a brow. “What, you want us to start fighting over the thermostat?”
“I was thinking more like…” You trail a finger down your stomach. “Breaking in the couch.”
Johnny snorts, sits up. “You minx.”
Before you can move, Simon’s already crossed the room. Slow, heavy steps. Doesn’t say a word as he reaches down and hooks two fingers into your waistband, tugging you gently up.
“C’mere,” he murmurs.
You go. Instinctive. Soft. Bratty and smug but already warm all over.
He pulls you into his lap as he sinks into the armchair. Big hands on your thighs. Palms dragging up your bare skin like he’s mapping you. His mask is off—long since tossed on a table—and his mouth brushes behind your ear.
“You been pushin’ us all day,” he whispers. “That what you wanted, pet? All of us on you?”
You whimper. Squirm. His thigh under you is rock-solid and so is the heat spreading up your spine.
John’s moved to the couch now, sitting across from you. Johnny’s leaning against the cushions, his arm slung over the backrest, eyes dark.
“You want attention,” John says slowly, voice low and dangerous. “You’ve got it.”
Kyle gets up last, crossing the room with a little smile. He pulls your legs across his lap as he sits beside Simon, one hand massaging your calf.
You’re surrounded.
Four pairs of eyes. Four bodies circling you like you’re dinner. Like you’re the thing they moved in for.
“You’re gonna be good now?” Simon murmurs, sliding one hand under your shirt. His fingers stroke slow over your stomach, up between your breasts. “Or you still gonna play?”
You meet his eyes. Bat your lashes.
“Can’t I do both?”
That’s all it takes.
John’s on you first, pulling you up and into his arms like you weigh nothing. Your thighs wrap around his waist as he kisses you hard—mouth greedy, breath heavy, hand gripping the back of your neck. He lays you down gently on the couch, eyes dark with something that’s more than just lust.
“You get one warning, sweetheart.”
“Or what?” you whisper. “You’ll spank me?”
He laughs. “That’s not a punishment.”
Your panties are off in a heartbeat. John sinks between your thighs and devours you like he’s been starving for it. His tongue is slow, steady, coaxing your first orgasm out of you while Simon holds your hand and Kyle strokes your cheek.
Then he lines up and presses in—deep, thick, stretching you wide.
You cry out. Grip his shoulders. You’re still wet from his mouth and somehow still tight enough to make him groan aloud.
“Goddamn—this pussy’s heaven,” John growls. “You feel that, baby? You feel how full you are?”
You nod, head back, body already shaking.
“You’re so good for us,” Kyle whispers, kissing your temple.
Johnny strokes your thighs, humming low. “Look how well she takes him, fuckin’ perfect.”
You come once. Twice. Crying, sobbing under them until John groans and fills you up with a broken gasp. His forehead touches yours when he pulls out, kissing you sweet and slow before stepping aside.
Then Johnny’s there.
He flips you gently onto your stomach and pulls you back into his lap, one hand guiding himself into your already-wrecked heat.
You scream into the cushions.
“So fucking tight,” he moans, holding your hips in place. “Still squeezin’ me—after all that?”
He fucks you hard but holds you soft, kisses the back of your neck, murmurs praise and filth in equal measure while you fall apart again, your thighs shaking around him.
When you’re trembling, breathless, he wraps you in his arms and finishes deep inside you with a whisper of your name.
Then Kyle lifts you gently into his lap.
“Hey,” he whispers, brushing your tears away. “You still with us?”
You nod. Barely.
He presses in slow. Tender. He doesn’t thrust—just rocks his hips, gentle, letting you ride the wave of overstimulation into something almost reverent.
“You’re incredible,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “You don’t even know how much we love you.”
You sob quietly. And when he finishes, he holds you longer than the rest, just rocking you gently while you tremble in his arms.
And then—
Simon.
Strong arms wrap around you. Lift you up like you're weightless. He carries you to the couch and sits, settling you down onto his lap, cock thick and hot between your legs.
You whimper. “I can’t…”
“You can,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your throat. “Just sit. Just feel me.”
He guides you down onto his cock. Inch by inch. Stretching you wide one last time.
But he doesn’t move.
He stays there. Deep inside. Hands cradling your hips. His lips at your neck. The others close in, draping the blanket over you, whispering soft words, holding your hands.
No thrusting. No chasing.
Just warmth. Fullness. Four heartbeats around you. One inside you.
You fall asleep cockwarming Simon on the couch.
And when the sun sets behind the tall windows of your new house, it does so on a living room filled with sweat, sighs, and love that’s finally come home.
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
You voted for it, you deserve it :). I’m not one to share stuff like this but as someone who’s mother is a minority. Im not sorry for putting out what I think is true. I’ve written a fic on the 141 boys helping the reader through the panic and pain of today and it’s my own feelings too. This wouldn’t have happened if we had Kamala. Now we have an orange in office that’s making our lives hell. It’s the chance for us to fight for what’s right before things get further down the rabbit hole and we’re unable to do anything.
Hi! I don't think I've seen any fluff on poly141 x f reader in the tags on this type of ask, I'm hoping to see in this request. But imagine poly 141 taking f!reader on a local fair date. Things have been going smoothly, eating great food, going on rides, until f!reader saw a cute giant plushie at one of the game booths. She wants one and poly 141 ends up into a small competition? Game? On how many can they win. By the end of it they ended up kicked out 😭 but at least they won her a plushie and a good time.
Ride or Die
Pairing: Poly!141 x F!Reader
Warnings: Shameless PDA, ridiculous competitive energy, mild suggestive behavior, tension that could ignite a plushie, public teasing, light swearing, handsy behavior, emotional softness, them being completely in love with you and not hiding it
Author’s Note: What starts as a sweet local fair date turns into chaos, heated glances, and a full-on plushie war. They're competitive idiots, you're their favorite thing in the world, and everyone else is just an NPC tonight.
Summary: You just wanted a fairground date. Your boys just wanted to spoil you. But when a giant plushie catches your eye, they start a war they don’t know how to walk away from. Between cotton candy kisses, jealousy-fueled games, and being very publicly in love, it’s anyone’s guess who gets banned first.
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
The fair smelled like fried sugar and hot pavement, thick in the air like summer nostalgia.
The sun had dipped low enough to make everything golden—carnival lights buzzing to life as your boys flanked you on either side. John’s hand was wrapped around yours, fingers warm and easy. Kyle had claimed your other side, brushing your shoulder every few steps. Behind you, Simon and Johnny were fighting over who’d finish the lemonade you’d barely had a sip of.
“Oi,” Johnny said, stealing it again. “She’s not drinkin’ it fast enough.”
“Because you keep draining it,” Simon muttered.
“Boys,” you said, smirking, “if you’re gonna argue over my spit, at least do it with some class.”
Simon choked on a laugh. Kyle turned, eyebrows up, grinning like he’d just won something. John gave your hand a squeeze, his mouth twitching at the corner.
“Y’realize we can’t take you anywhere,” he murmured.
You leaned up and kissed his cheek anyway. “Yet here we are.”
You’d been walking the midway for maybe an hour—funnel cake dusted all over Johnny’s shirt, Kyle’s phone full of silly pictures, Simon grumbling in the background about crowds while still keeping a hand on your lower back.
You were happy. Loved. Completely and utterly seen.
And then it happened.
You stopped in your tracks, heart doing a stupid fluttery thing.
There it was.
A game booth decked out in hanging prizes—and smack in the center, dangling high above the others like a trophy, was the biggest plush golden retriever you’d ever seen. Soft tan fur, lopsided smile, ears flopped like it was already tired of life.
Your eyes lit up.
You pointed without saying a word.
Kyle followed your gaze. “Oh no.”
Johnny grinned. “She’s in love.”
Simon just sighed, muttering something under his breath about consumer traps and plushie scams.
You turned to them, full tilt. “I want it.”
John raised an eyebrow. “That one?”
You nodded, dead serious.
“It’s huge,” Kyle said.
“Perfect,” you replied.
And just like that, the game was on.
—
They tried to be casual about it at first.
Simon handed over a crisp bill to the carnie like it was a briefing. No wasted movement. Eyes locked. Threw the first ball at the bottle stack like it owed him money.
Clang. Miss.
Johnny snorted.
Simon threw again—bullseye. Half the stack tumbled, but the top stayed balanced, mocking him.
Johnny stepped up next, clapping him on the back. “Lemme show you how it’s done.”
He winked at you before hurling the first ball wildly off-center, nearly knocking a nearby prize off its hook.
“Solid start,” Simon deadpanned.
“Warm-up,” Johnny said.
Kyle went for the ring toss. Missed every time. John tried his hand at the dart balloons—popped two, got a small keychain.
“This is bullshit,” Johnny muttered, arms crossed as the carnie shrugged again.
You leaned against the side rail, watching the whole thing unfold like it was the best movie you’d ever seen. The way they kept looking back at you—checking if you were laughing, if you were still watching, if you were impressed. Their eyes glittered every time you smiled.
“You don’t have to win it,” you said gently.
Simon looked over. “Yes, we do.”
Johnny rolled up his sleeves like he was going to war. “For you? We’ll burn this booth down if we have to.”
That got the carnie’s attention. “Hey now—”
John stepped forward. “How many tickets for the dog?”
“Gotta win the top shelf prize,” the carnie said. “Five knockdowns minimum.”
Kyle grinned. “Say less.”
—
They did not walk away after the first win.
Or the second.
By the time Johnny nailed the fourth prize, they were drawing a crowd.
You were covered in prizes—arms full of teddy bears, snakes, a foam hammer, and a neon star pillow that Simon won after muttering “last try” five different times.
Finally, finally, the dog came down.
The carnie handed it over with a grim look, muttering, “You’re banned after this. Fair warning.”
You didn't even hear it.
You were too busy squealing as John and Simon lifted the thing between them, showing it off like it was a trophy kill. Johnny kissed your temple from behind, whispering, “Told you we’d get it.” Kyle gave you a little spin, hands at your hips, eyes soft and full of heat.
“You happy?” he asked.
You nodded, breathless. “So happy.”
They looked at you like you hung the damn stars.
And then security showed up.
“You can’t keep blocking the booth,” the guy said, arms crossed.
“We paid fair and square,” John said.
“You’ve been here forty minutes. People are complaining.”
Simon rolled his neck. “What a tragedy.”
Johnny muttered, “Philistines,” while Kyle tried to bribe the guy with a free plushie. You were trying so hard not to laugh your face hurt.
Eventually, they walked you out—escorted, not arrested, but the vibe was definitely banned-for-life adjacent.
You didn’t care.
You were holding the stupid dog like a life raft, tucked under one arm as you giggled the whole way back to the parking lot. Johnny was hand-feeding you bits of fried dough, Kyle was still holding your waist, Simon’s arm was slung over your shoulder, and John had your fingers laced in his.
The truck was quiet, finally.
Late night breeze. Prize bags in the trunk. One ridiculously massive plush retriever stuffed across all your laps in the backseat.
You leaned into Simon, curled against his chest, your hand still warm from John's grip.
“Worth it?” Simon murmured.
You looked around at all of them.
At Kyle’s lazy grin from the passenger seat. At John’s soft eyes in the rearview. At Johnny’s foot tapping on the dash while he hummed under his breath.
You kissed Simon’s jaw. “You won me a dog.”
Johnny leaned over and whispered, “And a lifetime ban.”
John sighed. “Add it to the list.”
You pulled your new plush closer, grinning ear to ear.
They gave you a fair date.
They gave you chaos.
And most importantly—
They gave you them.
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
Could I pretty please request some fluffy smut with poly 141?
Heated Waters
Pairing: Poly!141 x Bratty-but-Sweet Southern!Reader
Warnings: 18+ MDNI. Group sex (f receiving), fingering, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, light overstimulation, multiple orgasms, praise, rough & soft dom mix, possessiveness, jealousy kink, pet names, brat taming, manhandling, aftercare, vacation setting, tender filth
Author’s Note: One bed. One private beach. One very loved brat.
Summary: You're the sweet-talking, tease of their dreams—and on this villa getaway, you decide to test every nerve they’ve got. Good thing they planned to break a sweat.
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
The private villa sat on a cliff above the sea, all smooth white stone and glass, open air and breeze-kissed linens. You were sprawled across the big outdoor daybed in nothing but your black bikini bottoms and John’s button-up shirt — unbuttoned, of course. Skin damp from the pool, hair tousled from the wind, you were the picture of trouble, just begging for it.
And you knew it.
“Kyle,” you called, voice sing-song, “you left your sunglasses out here, sugar.”
Kyle stepped out barefoot, towel around his shoulders, eyes scanning your body with a slow exhale. “That so?”
“Mhm. You want me to bring ‘em in?” You dangled them between two fingers, lips curled in a lazy smile.
“No, baby, I think you want attention.”
You grinned. Guilty. “You think or you know?”
Before he could answer, Johnny’s voice called from inside. “You startin’ shit again out there?”
“Maybe.”
“Christ,” Simon muttered from behind a book inside. “She’s been a menace since we woke up.”
“Just tryin’ to keep y’all entertained,” you teased, dropping the sunglasses into Kyle’s lap. “Wouldn’t want vacation to be boring.”
“You keep pushin’,” John’s voice rumbled from the kitchen, where he was shirtless and barefoot, sipping coffee with his hair still wet. “Don’t think we won’t take this to the bedroom.”
“Promises, promises,” you said, stretching—lifting your arms overhead so the breeze caught his shirt and revealed the soft curve of your chest.
That was the last straw.
———
It didn’t take long.
They moved together like wolves. Johnny grabbed your wrist, yanked you up with a hungry grin. Kyle was already pulling you inside, shirt flung from your shoulders, bare feet slapping the cool tile.
Simon slammed the bedroom door behind you. “You wanted attention?”
You were tossed onto the bed—pillowy white linen, wide enough for five—and Simon climbed on beside you. He didn’t kiss you, not yet. Just ran his gloved hand up the inside of your thigh, spreading you with a single push.
“She’s wet already,” he said low, gaze dragging over your face. “Course she is. Fuckin’ tease.”
Johnny’s mouth was on your neck before you could answer, hot and open, tongue tracing the vein there. “Let’s see how long that attitude lasts.”
Kyle kissed you full, hand firm on your jaw. He kissed like he loved you more than air—deep, slow, a little desperate. Like it physically hurt to be away from you.
John, behind them all, watched you squirm, arms crossed, cock already half-hard behind his swim shorts.
“I’m takin’ my time with her,” he said calmly. “Y’all break her too quick and I’m gonna make you wait your damn turn.”
They worked you open like art.
Simon pushed two fingers in slow and deliberate, palm grinding your clit. You whined, legs trembling already. Johnny moved to your chest, lips around your nipple, sucking just hard enough to make you buck.
“Beg,” Simon said, voice close to your ear. “Say you want us. All of us.”
You bit your lip, barely able to breathe. “Want it—fuck—Simon—Johnny—please—”
“Don’t forget me,” Kyle teased, mouth on your stomach now, trailing heat downward. “I’m feelin’ neglected.”
Then his tongue was between your legs. Flicking, circling, teasing. You sobbed out a moan, head falling back against the pillows as they surrounded you—touches everywhere, lips, hands, pressure. No room to breathe, no space without love.
You came on Kyle’s mouth with Simon’s fingers still inside you and Johnny’s hand over your heart, steadying you like you were gonna float away.
“Good girl,” John praised from above, finally stepping forward.
He dropped his shorts.
Your thighs clenched on instinct.
“John,” you whimpered, reaching.
“You ready to behave?” he asked, voice rough.
You nodded.
“You ready to be loved right?” he asked again.
You nodded harder.
“Then open up for me.”
———
He fucked you like he had nowhere else to be.
Deep, slow, heat spreading in your belly with every grind of his hips. You held onto his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, whimpering into his chest while he whispered in your ear how good you felt, how sweet you were when you softened for him.
When you clenched around him, body on the edge, he stilled.
“Wait.”
You whimpered. “No—please—”
Johnny pressed behind you, kissing your spine. “Be good. Almost there.”
Simon was at your side, jerking his cock with slow, lazy strokes, watching your face twist with need.
Kyle kissed you again, lips slick with you, voice full of praise. “One more, baby. Let John fuck it out of you.”
You fell apart again, hard, nails digging into John’s back as he rutted through your orgasm, pace stuttering, hips slamming deep until he groaned against your neck and spilled inside you.
But it wasn’t over.
They all took turns.
Johnny next—fast and playful, all hips and laughter and “fuck, you’re perfect, take it, that’s it, such a sweet thing”—until you were arching for him, crying his name like prayer.
Then Kyle—slow and emotional, his forehead to yours, fingers laced with yours as he slid in, thick and sweet and “you’re ours, always been ours, love you so much”—until your legs shook and he kissed you through it.
Simon was last. And he was mean.
He didn’t fuck you, he took you. Hands rough on your hips, face buried in your neck, voice cracking against your skin: “You wanna act like a brat, I’ll treat you like one.” And when you begged him to stop, he didn’t. Not until you screamed and shook and came again so hard you almost blacked out.
———
When it was over, they cleaned you up slow.
Kyle kissed your ankle. Johnny tucked your hair behind your ear. Simon got you water and held it to your lips. John pulled you into his arms like he never wanted to let go.
You laid in the middle of all four, tangled in arms and thighs and warmth, body sore and loved and kissed breathless.
“You still gonna run your mouth tomorrow?” Simon asked, rubbing your back.
“Depends,” you mumbled sleepily. “You gonna fuck me stupid again?”
John laughed low. “Oh, we’re not done with you, love.”
You smiled. Eyes closed. Heart full.
Paradise wasn’t the villa. It was them.
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
Instead of me uploading how I have been recently, I’ve decided to change it up and instead will be uploading every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and possibly every other Saturday or Sunday.
That way I have the opportunity to relax and spend time with my family and myself as well.
I love and hope you have an amazing day! Midnight Shadow Cafe💜
Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Southern!Reader (ft. John, Johnny, Kyle)
Warnings: Southern drawl & sayings, cowboy hat rule (both ways), flirty dominance, sexual tension, possessive touches, thigh brushing, shirt grabbing, suggestive dialogue, dance floor teasing, cultural confusion, boys being nosy, a soft ending that’ll wreck you
Author’s Note: You’re bold, barefoot, and lethal with your charm. Simon’s repressed, brooding, and secretly wrecked by the way you look in your sundress. It’s dusty, romantic, hot as hell, and Simon’s about to learn that down South, a hat can say everything. Y’know what they say, Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.
Summary: You drag the boys to a barn party deep in the Southern countryside, but Simon’s still clinging to that British stubbornness. Until you slap your cowboy hat on him—and suddenly, it’s not just a dance. It’s a declaration.
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
The barn glowed gold and low, string lights dripping from the rafters like fireflies caught in a Mason jar. The air was thick with the scent of hay, barbecue smoke, spilled beer, and honeysuckle hanging heavy on the breeze. Boots scuffed against old wood while music drifted lazily through the speakers—some country-pop beat with too much twang and just enough bass to make it sexy.
Simon Riley looked like a man who’d been dropped into hell without a map. Or a fan.
Leaning against a post at the edge of the dance floor, arms crossed tight, dressed in all black like he’d just come from a funeral—or a hit job. Every inch of him screamed tense. Big boots planted, biceps flexed beneath that stretched fabric of a T-shirt, jaw ticking every time someone twirled a little too close.
He looked like a hitman who got lost on the way to a job and ended up at a hoedown.
And he looked right at you.
You were barefoot in the dust, sundress hitched a little higher than necessary. Heat clung to your skin, glowed in the shine of your shoulders, the soft sway of your hips as you moved. Wild curls tumbled down your back. Your eyes never left his.
You tilted your head, smirking slow. “C’mon, cowboy. Don’t make me come get you.”
He frowned. “I told you. I don’t dance.”
“You fought in a war, sugar. You can survive a two-step.”
“I’d rather fight the war again.”
You clicked your tongue and walked toward him, hips moving like sin and summer heat. You stopped just close enough to steal the breath right out of his chest.
“Then I guess I gotta motivate you.”
Simon squinted, guarded. “What kind of motivation are we talkin’?”
You reached up and pulled your sun-worn cowboy hat from your head—scuffed, sweat-darkened, loved through years of barbecues, trail rides, and backseat hookups—and placed it right on him.
His whole body stilled.
“What’s this, then?” he asked, brows drawn.
You gave him that sweet, wicked grin. “Down here, baby, we got a rule. If a girl puts her hat on a man… it means he’s hers. For the night.”
Simon blinked. “Is this Southern voodoo?”
“Nope. It’s worse. It’s Southern flirting.”
You leaned up, brushing his chest with yours. “Now you’re wearin’ my sweat, my scent, my claim. You belong to me.”
Johnny hollered from across the floor. “She gave him the hat?!”
Kyle barked out a laugh. “Poor bastard. He’s been branded.”
John just sipped his drink with a shake of his head. “God help him.”
Simon adjusted the brim, a little dazed. “You lot done?”
You grabbed his belt loop, tugging gently. “They’re just jealous you’re the only one gettin’ lucky enough to wear it.”
“Not sure this feels lucky,” he muttered, even as he followed you willingly onto the dance floor.
“You will,” you promised, curling your fingers around his neck as you took his hands and placed them on your waist.
The music shifted to something slower, a little darker, a beat that hit low and heavy, built for hips and heat and bad intentions.
You started moving—graceful and easy, guiding his big, unsure frame through the rhythm. Simon followed, stiff at first, boots dragging, but his grip on you was firm. Steady. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.
“Left… right… heel tap,” you whispered. “Now rock it back. Loosen up, baby. You move like someone glued your spine together.”
“I’m tryin’, love.”
You laughed and pressed closer, your chest brushing his. “That’s the problem. Quit tryin’. Just let go.”
He did. Or maybe he just gave up and let you take over.
Either way, he started to move with you—not against. A slow, rolling sway. Bare skin brushing fabric. The occasional slide of his thigh between yours. A hand drifting lower than it had any right to be.
And that look—the one in his eyes. Half lust, half panic. Fully obsessed.
“You’re makin’ it real hard to focus,” he muttered.
“That’s the point,” you whispered.
When you spun under his arm and came back chest-to-chest, you dragged your hands down his shirt—real slow—til you reached the waistband of his jeans. He hissed in a breath. You looked up through your lashes.
“Still think this hat don’t mean nothin’?”
“No,” he growled. “It means everything.”
Behind you, Johnny shouted, “Alright, y’all are one verse away from dry-humpin’!”
Kyle doubled over. “Get a barn room!”
You flipped them both off without looking.
Simon leaned down, close enough to taste your smile. “They always this loud?”
You smirked. “They ain’t even started.”
The music slowed. Faded. The barn dipped into that hazy moment between songs—soft laughter, warm sweat, glowing lights, shadows curling along the rafters.
And you? You stood on tiptoe and slid the hat off Simon’s head.
“Thank you for bein’ mine tonight,” you whispered.
But before you could turn away, Simon—quiet, breathless, flushed red to the tips of his ears—did something that damn near killed you.
He reached up.
Took his own ballcap off.
And gently set it on your head.
You froze. So did Johnny. So did time.
Simon cleared his throat, voice low. “Thought that was the rule. Goes both ways, yeah?”
You stared up at him.
He kept going, awkward but soft. “I don’t have a cowboy hat. But… that’s the closest I’ve got. So.”
You grabbed his shirt.
Yanked him into a kiss that tasted like heat and dust and everything you’d been holding back.
The boys whooped behind you. The world tilted a little. And Simon?
Simon kissed you back like he’d finally found his footing.
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
Author's Note: To every single one of you who helped me hit 1k—thank you for showing up, for staying, and for letting me write softness into the cracks. I never thought I’d make it this far. I appreciate and love all of you. Thank you and I appreciate it all.
Summary: It’s been one year since the boys walked away from war and into the house they built with you. But when dinner is forgotten and silence settles over the home, it takes your voice—and your hands—to remind them just how safe they really are.
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
The house they built sat on a hill where the trees broke just enough to let the wind talk through the leaves.
Wooden beams. Fire-scorched hearth. A long porch with room for five rocking chairs no one ever used. It didn’t look like a fortress—but for them, it was. Four broken men and the one woman they’d kill for, all tucked into one space that smelled like slow-cooked garlic and cedar smoke.
You were barefoot in the kitchen, apron twisted at your hip, gumbo bubbling too high on the stove. Something smelled burnt. Maybe the rice.
You checked the time. 6:17.
Friday night.
Dinner night.
The only real rule in the house: no alone time, no war stories, no guilt. Just the five of you. You’d been cooking since four. No one had come in to taste the broth, steal a kiss, wrap arms around your waist and whisper about dessert—nothing.
Your hand tightened on the wooden spoon.
"Where the hell are they?"
Floorboards creaked under you as you padded toward the den. You passed the muddy boots John left in the hall, the half-repaired drone Kyle said he'd finish last week, Johnny’s hoodie slung over the stair rail like a flag. But the house still felt… hollow.
Then you heard them. Low voices behind the door.
You stopped. Rested your fingers on the wood. Listened.
“I still don’t think I deserve this,” Simon’s voice, gravel-low. “Not after all the things I—”
“You do,” Kyle interrupted. Quiet but firm. “We all do. Don’t act like we didn’t all carry our share of blood.”
Johnny, softer: “It’s just… a year, yeah? A whole fuckin’ year since we walked outta that life. How is this even real?”
A beat of silence. Then John: “Because we built it.”
You pushed the door open gently.
Four heads turned.
You stood there, apron tied, eyes dark with heat and confusion. “You all forget what today is?”
Kyle stood first. He always did when you were hurt. “Shit, love—no, no, we didn’t forget.”
“I burned the damn rice,” you muttered, stepping inside. “And none of you were there to tell me it still tastes good.”
Johnny was already crossing the room. “C’mere, bonnie. C’mere.” His arms wrapped around your waist, forehead pressing against yours. “I’m sorry.”
Kyle’s fingers brushed your back. John’s large hand settled on your shoulder, grounding you like an anchor. But Simon—he lingered just out of reach. Mask still on. Gloves still clinging to his hands like armor.
You looked at him.
“Simon.”
His eyes flicked up. A pause. A crack in his walls.
“You don’t have to wear that,” you said softly.
He didn’t answer.
“You know you’re safe here, right?” you added. “With me. With them.”
He swallowed hard, jaw clenching, chest rising like he was preparing for a blow.
You walked up to him, slow and deliberate. “Let me see you.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t stop you either.
Your hands came up, fingers finding the edge of the mask. You peeled it back gently—inch by inch—until the fabric fell away, and there he was.
Scars. Blonde hair, uneven and soft. Full lips. Strong jaw. Brown eyes that held too much pain and too much hope at once.
You reached up and cupped his cheek.
“I love your face,” you said. “Every part of it. Even the parts that hurt to show.”
Simon leaned into your touch like he was afraid you might disappear.
Behind you, Johnny made a small, aching sound. You looked over your shoulder.
John’s eyes were dark and low-lidded, jaw tight, chest rising. Kyle had tears in his lashes, even as he smiled.
“C’mere,” John rasped.
And suddenly you were in his arms. His lips brushed your ear. “Say it.”
You tilted your head. “What?”
“Say it again.”
“You’re mine,” you whispered.
Then it broke open.
John kissed you hard—deep and slow, like he needed to make a memory. Kyle came up behind, mouth finding your shoulder, arms curling around your waist. Simon leaned in to press a kiss to your throat, breath hot, and Johnny dropped to his knees in front of you, hands dragging down your thighs.
They were on you like hunger. Like need.
“You gonna make it up to us for missing dinner, sweetheart?” John murmured against your jaw, his hands already sliding beneath your apron.
“She doesn’t owe us shit,” Kyle countered with a grin, lifting your shirt just to press kisses along your spine. “But I wouldn’t say no if she wanted to.”
“You all are lucky I love you,” you said breathlessly.
Simon’s voice hit low and rough. “We’d burn the world to keep that true.”
They undressed you slowly, reverently—hands brushing every inch of skin like they were mapping it to memory. The firelight painted your body gold. Johnny’s fingers skimmed your stomach as he nipped your inner thigh. Kyle whispered dirty things in your ear while Simon kissed a line down your back. John knelt behind you, thick hands holding your hips like you were something sacred.
The rug scratched at your knees, the air heavy with sweat and want. Four bodies surrounded you—warm, aching, starved not just for touch but for you.
“You’re not just ours,” John said, kissing the space beneath your ear. “We’re yours.”
You blinked hard, breath stuttering.
All of them.
Their weight.
Their love.
Their need.
This house wasn’t just a safe place. It was a promise.
And when they laid you back—arms tangled, breath shared, kisses traded—you didn’t just feel loved.
You felt home.
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
i think itd be really funny to do a poly141 x reader where the reader is heavily southern american, and similarly to Ghost not being able to understand soap sometimes he also cant understand the reader.
Bless Your Heart, Lieutenant
Pairing: Poly!141 x Southern!Reader
Warnings: Heavy Southern accent, regional idioms, thick sexual tension, suggestive language, flirty teasing, emotionally constipated soldiers in love, Ghost being linguistically defeated, polycule tension, soft possessiveness, dangerous charm, lazy touches
Author's Note: This fic is hotter than asphalt in August and twice as chaotic. Our reader is pure Southern charm and mischief, and poor Simon Riley is one idiom away from medically combusting.
Summary: The boys of Task Force 141 have handled just about everything. War. Wetwork. Interrogations. But what they weren’t prepared for? You. A dangerously flirty Southern transplant with hips that sway like sin and a drawl that Ghost can’t understand—or resist.
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
The base was quiet in the late afternoon. Heat rolled in through open windows, sticky and golden, baking the concrete like a cast-iron skillet. Outside: dry wind and desert silence. Inside: clinking tools, murmured curses, the low hum of fans pushing dead air.
And you.
You leaned into the open doorway of the armory like you were posing for a slow camera pan. Sunlight kissed your shoulders and sweat caught in the hollow of your collarbones. Dog tags bounced gently against the swell of your chest. Combat boots. Rolled-down cargos slung low on your hips. Tank top tied tight to bare a tease of belly. You looked every bit the Southern storm that had blown into their lives three months ago—and none of them were safe.
"Y’all really tryna fix that bolt with no elbow grease?" you asked, voice syrupy as pecan pie and twice as dangerous.
Kyle looked up, blinking. "What?"
You strode in, multitool twirling in your fingers. "This bolt’s stickin’ tighter’n a tick on a fat dog, darlin’. You gotta lean into it."
Kyle wheezed, nearly dropping the rifle in his lap. “I’m gonna need subtitles.”
Johnny, hunched over the bench, grinned without looking up. “You’re like a Southern crossword puzzle.”
You clicked your tongue. “Ain’t my fault y’all ain’t got no flavor up in your dialect.”
Then came Simon.
Simon Riley—mask on, sleeves rolled, forearms dusted in oil and tension. He walked in like a man already regretting it, only to freeze when his eyes landed on you.
“Lieutenant,” he said, stiff as always.
You smiled slow. “Well hey there, big fella. Ain’t you lookin’ meaner than a snake in a sugar jar.”
Simon blinked. “What?”
Johnny lost it. “He’s already glitchin’!”
Price followed Simon in, raising a brow. “The hell does sugar jar have to do with anything?”
Kyle leaned back, grinning. “Means he looks dangerous—but, like, sexy.”
Simon turned to him like that made it worse. “How?!”
You stepped close, brushing your hand along Simon’s forearm. “Don’t get your feathers ruffled, sugar. You look real handsome when you’re confused.”
“I’m not confused,” he muttered.
“You are,” Price mumbled behind him.
“She’s just talkin’ in riddles again,” Simon grumbled.
“She’s speakin’ poetry, mate,” Johnny corrected. “You just don’t speak heartache.”
You turned toward Simon again, voice dipping sweet and low. “I could give you a lesson or two, Lieutenant. Teach you how to speak Southern… real slow.”
Kyle clutched his chest. “God help him.”
—
Later.
The rec room buzzed low with evening tension. Lamps glowed golden in the corners. Ice clinked in glasses. One fan rattled lazily in the ceiling.
You sprawled across the shared couch like a throne was built just for you. Simon’s black shirt swallowed your frame, sleeves rolled up and hem knotted at your ribs. Your bare legs stretched over Johnny’s lap, toes brushing his thigh with idle affection. Kyle sat near your feet, playing with the charm on your ankle bracelet.
Across the room, Price sat in the leather armchair, legs spread, drink in hand, eyes fixed on the scene like it was the best entertainment of his week.
Simon stood by the door, arms crossed, tense as a live wire.
Watching.
You stretched, arms overhead, shirt riding high. “You just gonna lurk, Lieutenant? Or you comin’ to get cozy?”
Simon’s eyes dipped. He didn’t speak.
“C’mon now,” you drawled, slow and sinful. “You’re lookin’ at me like you seen the devil in a sun dress.”
Kyle choked on his drink. “God damn.”
Price chuckled. “Let’s hear the list.”
You grinned, fingers trailing Johnny’s chest. “One: he’s still stuck on what I meant earlier about his attitude bein’ drier than a biscuit at a Baptist potluck. Two: he’s mad I stole his shirt and made it look better. Three: he’s dyin’ to say somethin’ clever but knows I’d run circles ‘round him. Four…”
You sat up slowly, fixing Simon with a knowing look.
“Four: he’s imaginin’ what I’d sound like sayin’ please in that deep voice of his.”
Johnny outright groaned. Kyle looked like he was praying.
“And five?” Price asked.
You smiled. “Five’s between me and God.”
Simon shifted like the ground under him got unsteady. “What the hell is a Baptist potluck?”
Kyle patted your calf. “Means your personality’s like stale bread, mate.”
“I’m not stale,” Simon growled.
“You sure ain’t sweet tea either,” you teased.
His hands tightened over his biceps. “I don’t understand a thing you say.”
“You don’t need to,” you said. “You feel it, don’t you?”
He stared. Silent.
“I told y’all,” you added, twirling your hair. “He’s slower than molasses in January.”
“What does that—” Simon started, then paused. “That’s an insult, isn’t it.”
Johnny was crying laughing. Kyle nodded solemnly.
Simon sighed and started to turn away—then stopped.
Then turned back.
And crossed the room.
Every bootstep was heavy. Purposeful. Final.
He stood over you, towering and unreadable.
You tilted your chin up, daring him.
“You mean everything you say?” he asked, voice low, gravel thick in his throat.
You blinked, slow and hot. “I wouldn’t waste my breath if I didn’t.”
He reached down.
Touched your chin.
Tilted your face gently—like he was checking if you were real.
Then his thumb brushed your bottom lip.
Once.
You didn’t breathe.
No one did.
And then he walked away, back to the shadows, back to himself.
You exhaled, slow. “Lawdamercy.”
Price groaned. “We’re all so screwed.”
Johnny leaned in, wide-eyed. “He understood that one.”
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
imagining the 141 men letting you practice mock-exams on them while pursuing a medical degree, johnny would not be able to stay serious, simon would just sit there but not answer any of the questions, but i think john and kyle would be the perfect patients just happy to help you
Author’s Note: For every tired med student who’s ever begged their partner to let them check reflexes or palpate lymph nodes. The 141 are here for you—with varying degrees of helpfulness.
Summary: With OSCEs fast approaching, you need real humans to practice your mock exams on. Luckily, the 141 boys are more than willing to help—with varying degrees of seriousness.
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
The living room looked like a crime scene if the victim had died under a pile of flashcards and highlighters. Notes, textbooks, and anatomy diagrams were sprawled across the couch, floor, and coffee table. Your stethoscope dangled from your neck like a noose. You hadn’t seen sunlight in three days.
And somehow, you had four of the most elite military operatives in the world sitting in a semicircle around you, waiting to play pretend.
"You all promised you'd take this seriously," you said, attempting to muster some authority, despite the fact that your hair was frizzing out of your bun and your scrub top was definitely inside-out.
Johnny raised a hand. "Scout’s honor."
"You weren’t a Scout."
"Aye, but I knew a guy who sold their cookies."
You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Johnny, sit."
He leapt onto the armchair like it was a throne, peeling his shirt off with dramatic flair and slouching with his legs wide, covered in tattoos and smugness.
"Right then, Doc. Diagnose me with whatever makes you touch me the most."
From the couch, Simon groaned audibly. "This is gonna be a long night."
You continued as if Johnny hadn’t spoken. You took his pulse—elevated, but that was probably because he kept laughing. When you asked him to breathe in and out, he dramatically puffed his cheeks.
When you tapped on his abdomen, he made exaggerated fart noises.
You stood up straight. "You’re impossible."
He shrugged. "But hot."
"Next."
Simon stood without a word, towering in front of you with his mask still on. He sat in the chair like a silent shadow, posture perfect, arms folded.
You cleared your throat. "Can you tell me what brings you in today?"
Silence.
"Simon?"
His eyes blinked once.
"...Are you gonna say anything?"
He slowly turned his head and gave you a look that said, you brought this on yourself.
Fine. You adjusted your stethoscope and started taking vitals. His heart rate was slow and steady. His breathing was controlled. He didn’t even flinch when you palpated lymph nodes or checked his reflexes.
"Can I at least get a fake cough?"
Nothing.
You sighed. "You're healthy, quiet, and emotionally repressed. Go sit down."
Kyle stood up next, hoodie already halfway off as he walked to you with an easy grin.
"Chest pain post-exercise. No radiation, non-pleuritic," he recited like a script.
You blinked. "Have you been reading my study guide?"
"Maybe." He winked and took the chair, posture relaxed. "What can I say? I like helping you out."
He was a perfect patient. He answered every question with textbook clarity, allowed you to guide his movements through the exam, and even asked you mock follow-ups like he was the examiner.
When you palpated his chest, he looked at you like you hung the moon.
"You’re really good at this," he said quietly. "I’d trust you to treat me for real."
Your fingers paused. You looked up, caught in the soft warmth in his eyes, and felt your chest tug.
"Thanks, Kyle."
He grinned. "Now go make Johnny redo his whole exam. That was a disaster."
Last up was John.
He’d been watching you the entire time from the couch, a book in his lap and a steady gaze on your every movement.
"You ready for me, love?"
You nodded. "Always."
He peeled off his Henley with the efficiency of a man who’d been through a hundred medicals before. His chest was broad, scarred, a map of stories he never spoke about. But his eyes never left yours.
"Any complaints?"
"Just a bit of tension. Probably from worrying about you burning yourself out."
You bit your lip, focusing on your stethoscope. As you pressed it to his chest, he inhaled deeply, his body calm beneath your touch.
"You’ve been up late every night this week," he said softly.
"That’s what med school is."
"You’ve got to give yourself a break, sweetheart."
You checked his reflexes. "I will. After this."
When the exam was done, he gently caught your hand. "You’re brilliant. You’re prepared. But even machines overheat. Let us take care of you for once."
The words caught in your throat.
And just like that, the tears came.
You didn’t sob. You just sagged, eyes stinging, lungs tight.
Kyle was already there with a blanket. Johnny set down your anatomy model and walked over, pulling you into a hug that smelled like his cologne and faint sweat. Simon didn’t say anything, but his hand was steady on your shoulder.
John pressed a kiss to your forehead. "We’re proud of you. No matter what."
You sniffled. "Thanks for being my patients."
Johnny smirked. "Anytime, Doc. But if you ask me to bend over for a rectal exam—"
"—you’ll do it and say thank you," Kyle interrupted.
You laughed. Actually laughed.
Four of the toughest men in the world, and here they were—holding your notes, playing sick, making fart jokes just to see you smile.
You’d make a damn good doctor. But you already had the best medicine.
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
I love your short fics, love when they come across my dash, they live in my head rent free 🤭
Thinking about one (or all, your pick) of the 141 boys getting called in because their kid is in trouble at school, but when they arrive they learn that their kid was only standing up for someone else who was being bullied. Bonus points if it's their little girl standing up to a big mean boy.
They learn this by walking in on their non-confrontational, normally pacifist partner (the other parent) absolutely ripping the headmaster a new one for putting their child in this situation.
The boys thought they were going to be the bad cop in this scenario, but instead they are the ones having to rely on their hostage negotiation training to get their little loves back home.
(It's hard not to feel something at the sight of the mama bear energy... It might be pride but it's probably something else 🤭)
Xoxoxo
Daddy’s Little Defender
Pairing: Poly!141 x Reader
Warnings: Mild language, parental rage, school bullying mention, protective reader, found family parenting, soft domestic tension, lots of heart
Author's Note: Domestic chaos meets protective firestorm. This one’s for the softies who would go feral for their kid. Based on a beautiful request about mama bear energy, nervous dads, and a little girl who refuses to let injustice slide.
Summary: A call from school sends the 141 into panic mode—your daughter’s in trouble. But when they arrive, they find you already handling it in a way none of them expected. What was supposed to be a parent-teacher meeting turns into a standoff... and maybe something a little more emotional.
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
It started like a perfectly normal Wednesday.
Toast crumbs scattered across the kitchen counter, Kyle and Johnny bickering over whose turn it was to pack the lunchbox, Simon groaning at the sound of Peppa Pig playing in the background, and John sipping his coffee with the paper tucked under his arm like he was already ten years into retirement.
You kissed foreheads, wiped faces, and reminded Bonnie for the third time to wear socks that matched. Your little girl—seven years old, gap-toothed, and bright as a firecracker—grinned up at her dads like she was the queen of the castle.
Everything felt routine. Cozy. Soft.
Then Simon’s phone rang.
He frowned at the screen, answered calmly, then froze halfway through “This is her father.”
John looked up. Kyle stopped stirring the oatmeal. Johnny leaned off the counter slowly.
Simon’s face didn’t change—but something in the room did.
He ended the call, voice tight. “School. Something happened with Bonnie.”
No one wasted a second.
They loaded into the SUV with terrifying efficiency, each man scanning the situation like a mission. John drove. Johnny had his arm slung around the passenger seat, tapping his fingers. Kyle checked the school address twice even though he knew the way. And Simon just stared straight ahead like he could will the truth into existence.
“She’s a good kid,” Johnny murmured for the third time. “Wouldn’t start nothin’. She’s just like her mum.”
That much was true.
Your girl had your heart—sunshine-bright and gentle-handed, always the first to share her juice box and stand up when someone cried. But when they arrived at the school office, the secretary’s expression was pinched.
The principal was waiting in his office, awkward and pale, fidgeting with a folder.
“I’m afraid this is a behavioral issue. Bonnie kicked another student. In the shin.”
The room went still.
“She what?” Kyle blinked.
“Apparently, he was pushing another boy. And she intervened. Verbally at first. Then physically.”
The principal adjusted his tie. “She told him—verbatim—‘Do it again, and I’ll break your nose like my Papa Simon did to that man in Berlin.’”
Johnny wheezed. “She what?”
Kyle covered his mouth, eyes wide with barely contained laughter. Simon looked like he was deciding whether to be proud or terrified. John’s jaw clenched.
“She’s suspended for the remainder of the week,” the principal added, as if it was the only logical outcome.
Then—
Boom.
The office door burst open.
And you were there.
Not the quiet, honey-voiced version of you who made bedtime tea and hummed lullabies.
No.
This was war.
“Who the hell do you think you are suspending my daughter for protecting another child?” you snapped, voice low and crackling with fury.
The principal flinched. “Ma’am—”
“She didn’t start a fight. She ended one. Where were your staff when a third-grade boy was getting pushed around hard enough to bleed? You want to discipline someone? Try disciplining yourself.”
“Mrs.—”
“Not MacTavish. Not Garrick. Not Riley. Not Price. Just Mama. And Mama is pissed.”
The room crackled with tension.
Outside the door, Bonnie sat cross-legged on a bench, head bowed, chewing her sleeve.
You didn’t even wait for a response. You stormed out, dropped to your knees, and pulled her into your arms.
“You okay, baby?”
She sniffled. “I didn’t mean to get in trouble.”
“You’re not in trouble,” you whispered fiercely. “You did exactly what I taught you. You stood up for someone who couldn’t. That’s bravery, Bonnie. That’s being a good person.”
Behind you, the boys emerged one by one.
Johnny knelt first, ruffling her curls. “Shin’s a solid target. You alright, little one?”
She nodded into your shoulder.
Kyle crouched next, eyes full of admiration. “Didn’t think you’d use Berlin as an example.”
“She listens,” Simon muttered.
John crouched in front of her, calm as ever. “You scared us, sweetheart. But we’re proud of you.”
“Even though I kicked him?” she whispered.
“Especially because,” he said.
You stood slowly, heart still hammering in your chest. All four men turned toward you with something unreadable in their eyes.
Admiration. Awe. Maybe something else.
John reached out first, brushing your wrist with his fingertips. “Didn’t think I’d walk in and see you going full recon mode.”
“I was livid,” you muttered. “They were blaming her for doing the right thing.”
Kyle slipped an arm around your waist. “You were amazing.”
Johnny leaned in with a low whistle. “Honestly, might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Simon, of course, deadpanned, “You did use my Berlin story. I feel oddly honored.”
Back in the car, Bonnie happily sipped her juice box from her lunchbox, swinging her legs like nothing had happened.
You sat sandwiched between Johnny and Kyle, your hand in John’s, Simon driving up front.
And in that moment, everything settled again. The storm passed.
Your girl was safe.
Your boys were here.
And they’d all learned something important today.
No one—no one—messed with your kid.
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
Warnings: Misogyny/redpill content (as a narrative device), emotional distress, swearing, comfort, light suggestive references, mentions of toxic internet culture, soft polyamory, fluff, hurt/comfort, domestic dynamics, protective!141
Author's Note: This one-shot explores the impact of redpill/incel rhetoric when it bleeds into everyday life—and how love, trust, and shared warmth push it back out. Featuring your favorite grumpy-soft boys being protective, supportive, and just a little bit petty.
Summary: A spiral of doomscrolling lands you in the middle of a redpill echo chamber. Your boys aren’t having any of it—not with you, not in this house.
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
The video’s thumbnail was obnoxious. Red text. Squinting man in wraparound sunglasses. Buzzwords like “WOMEN OVER 25” and “HIT THE WALL” punched across the screen like it was selling a political thriller. You pressed play.
Ten minutes later, your stomach hurt.
You didn’t even realize Johnny was home until he was suddenly standing behind you, towel still looped around his neck, a scowl etched into his face.
“What the fuck is that?” His accent sliced through the audio before you even registered he was there.
You startled, flipping your phone over. ”Just—something that popped up. I was curious.”
“Curious?” Johnny snatched the phone like it personally offended him. “Jesus, babe. This is Andrew Tate’s discount cousin.”
You laughed, thin and nervous. “I didn’t think it’d mess with me this much. I just wanted to see what people are watching.”
Johnny scrolled. “They’re not watching. They’re inhaling this shit like it’s gospel.” His voice was sharp, but his eyes were worried. “You okay?”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The content was stupid, you knew that—but somewhere between the charts, the smugness, and the cold detachment with which women were dissected like faulty products, something inside you cracked.
And Johnny saw it.
“Hey,” he said, voice softening. “Don't you dare believe a fuckin’ word of it.”
From the hallway, Kyle’s voice carried in. “What’s going on?”
“She’s watching incel videos,” Johnny called.
Kyle appeared in seconds, dishrag in one hand, brows raised. “Oh, hell no.”
You gave a weak smile. “It’s not like I agree—“
“Doesn’t matter,” Kyle cut in, eyes kind but firm. “That shit gets in your head. You let enough of it in, it’ll start whispering lies in your own voice.”
You tried to brush it off. “I just wanted to understand it.”
John’s heavy footsteps hit the hardwood floor before you heard him speak. “You don’t need to understand it, sweetheart. You just need to stay away from it.”
He walked in wearing an old army tee, sleeves tight on his forearms, mug in hand. He looked like he’d seen this before—like he’d dealt with more than a few young soldiers who came back from leave parroting the same poison.
“They want you to question yourself,” he said, sitting beside you. “That’s the whole point. Convince you you’re not enough so they can sell you the illusion of control.”
You stared at the muted video still playing on your phone. “But what if I am too much? Too opinionated, too independent, too—“
“You’re ours,” Simon interrupted.
He was leaning against the doorway, black hoodie, hood up, mask half pulled down. His voice was dead calm. Dangerous.
“If you ever repeat that shit about yourself again, I’ll break every one of their microphones and necks.”
You blinked at him.
“They want you insecure because insecure people are easier to manipulate, he said. But you? You’ve got four highly trained men wrapped around your little finger. And not one of us would change a damn thing.”
John leaned over and kissed your temple. “Exactly.”
Kyle knelt in front of you, hand on your knee. “You’re not ‘high-value’ like some commodity. You’re just you. Funny. Fiery. Gentle. Smart. Real.”
Johnny nudged your shoulder with his own. ”Also ridiculously hot. Don’t forget that part.”
That got a chuckle out of you.
Simon crossed the room and sat on the arm of the couch beside you. “Tell me something, he said quietly. Do you think I’d share a bed, a life, with someone who didn’t make me feel safe?”
You shook your head.
“Exactly,” he whispered. “You’re the only soft thing I’ve got left. And I’m not giving that up for anyone’s idea of what’s ‘marketable.’”
Kyle grinned. “Besides. If you were some ‘obedient tradwife’ type, Johnny would spontaneously combust.”
“I would,” Johnny said. “I’d set the fuckin’ kitchen on fire out of spite.”
“I’d help,” Kyle added.
“And I’d be recording,” John muttered.
You were laughing now, tucked between them all like you’d never left. Warm. Safe.
Johnny looked at your phone again. “You want me to throw this against a wall?”
Simon held out his hand. “Give it here. I’ll queue up some actual content—cat videos, maybe. Slow cooking. Paint mixing.”
“You’re such a softie,” Johnny teased.
“No. I’m just anti-bullshit.”
John’s arm slid around your shoulders. “You know what I think?” he murmured. “Let them sit behind their cameras preaching loneliness. Meanwhile, you’ve got four men who’d die for you—and live for you, too.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
Kyle leaned up and kissed your cheek. “You’re so much more than they’ll ever deserve.”
You let the phone slide off the couch and buried your face in Johnny’s chest. The video kept playing, muffled by cushions. But it didn’t matter.
Because you couldn’t hear it anymore.
Only the heartbeat of the men who loved you—four anchors holding you above the noise.
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
Just popping back in to say a quick thank you for 1k! I love and appreciate each and every single one of you who love and appreciate my work!! I’ll be releasing a 1k special once I’m back from my mini break!
