Summary: On their days off, the MW2 boys trade missions for moments of quiet love, playful chaos, and tender routines with the woman who grounds them.
A/N: This might be a little boring, but I wanted to share my thoughts about the MW2 boys on what they do on their days off.
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Captain John Price
Price’s mornings always start on the porch, cigar smoke curling while the kettle whistles inside. You join him barefoot, sweater slipping off your shoulder, and he immediately tucks you against his side with that warm, protective arm. He listens while you chatter about everyday things—work gossip, a new recipe you want to try—and you can feel him relax. Later, he’ll wander the garden while you follow behind with a basket, pretending to help but mostly teasing him about his stubborn weeds. Evenings are your favorite: the stew simmering, him pouring you a glass of wine while he takes whiskey neat. You’ll curl into his lap on the couch, telly playing football, and when his team scores he lifts you up in his arms like you’re the victory itself. With him, you never feel the weight of his world—just steady love in every small, ordinary ritual.
Simon “Ghost” Riley
You wake to the clatter of pans—Ghost, cooking again. The kitchen smells like roasted herbs and butter, and when you pad in, his mask is tossed carelessly on the counter. He looks almost boyish without it. “Hungry?” he mutters, sliding a plate toward you. You sit on the counter, legs swinging, telling him about your plans for the day while he listens, nodding, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. After dinner, he surprises you by showing his battered sketchbook. Faces, places, bits of his soul captured in graphite. You trace the edges gently, honored he let you see. That evening, you curl on the couch, his arm slung around you, his body warm and solid. He gets restless sometimes—heads out for a long run—but always comes back. Always locks the door, always finds you. And when he finally sits, mask off, he’s yours in full, quiet vulnerability.
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish
With Soap, no day off is quiet. You find him shirtless, grease-streaked, tinkering with his motorbike in the driveway. “Give us a hand, lass,” he grins, handing you a wrench you’ve no clue how to use. You laugh, he laughs harder, and somehow you end up sitting on the concrete with him, covered in smudges and sunshine. By midday, he’s dragging you outside with a football. You protest, but he won’t take no for an answer. He tackles you gently into the grass, both of you breathless with laughter. Dinner is his chaotic cooking—too much spice, too much food, but it’s delicious because he made it. Friends pile in, stories get louder, and Soap has an arm around you the entire time, tugging you into his lap. Later, when everyone’s gone, he sprawls on the couch with you tucked under him, controller in hand, your laughter still echoing in his chest.
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
Gaz’s mornings are disciplined—you find him in the living room doing push-ups while you sip your coffee on the couch. He grins up at you mid-rep, “What? Just keeping sharp.” You tease him, then join in his workout, though he spends more time laughing at your attempts than actually training. Afterward, he takes you out—lunch at a little café, wandering city streets hand in hand, popping into shops you linger at. He carries your bags without complaint, tossing playful jokes your way. Back home, you flop on the couch while he boots up a game, headset sliding on. He always sneaks glances at you, though, as if making sure you’re still there. Later, he lets you pick the Netflix show, even if it’s not his style, arm pulling you snug to his chest. For Gaz, days off are about balance—and always making space for you in it.
Summary: Task Force 141 finds themselves as unexpected spectators while you, a civilian, endure a Brazilian wax with varying levels of composure
A/N: I had way too much fun writing this one—it was one of those random, intrusive little thoughts that just needed to come to life. I’ve been kind of a ghost on here lately (pun fully intended)
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Simon “Ghost” Riley
Ghost leans against the wall, arms crossed, mask hiding his expression—but you can feel his eyes on you. The faint hiss of fabric shifting gives away that he’s adjusting his stance when the esthetician pulls another strip.
“You’re tougher than some lads I’ve interrogated,” he mutters dryly. His gaze lingers, unflinching, clinical even—but there’s a flicker of amusement at the corner of his tone. He doesn’t make a scene, just watches with that unnerving calm, as if he’s cataloging every twitch, every wince, storing it away for later.
Captain John Price
Price makes himself comfortable in the chair across from you, legs spread, cigar rolling between his fingers but unlit.
“Bloody hell, love, that’s dedication,” he chuckles when you flinch at the tug. He doesn’t leer, but he doesn’t look away either—curiosity and a bit of cheeky admiration in his blue eyes. He tips his hat back, relaxed, the kind of man who could hold a casual conversation while you’re in the most vulnerable position imaginable. “Reckon you’re braver than half the recruits I’ve trained.”
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish
Soap can barely contain himself. He’s grinning like a menace, elbows on his knees, head tilted to catch every reaction.
“Och, lass, that’s brutal! Ye sure ye don’t want me holdin’ yer hand?” he teases, winking. He winces in sympathy when the strip rips, but then immediately bursts out laughing at your glare. “C’mon now, I’d have tapped out long ago.” He doesn’t mean any harm—his laughter is light, affectionate, and he’s clearly enjoying seeing you so human, so unguarded.
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
Gaz tries to play it cool. He sits a little further back, phone in hand, pretending to scroll but sneaking glances when he thinks you’re not looking.
“Respect,” he says finally, shaking his head with a half-smile. “I’d never put myself through that.” His tone is warm, genuinely impressed, but he keeps his eyes soft, not making it weird. You catch him looking once too long, and he clears his throat, ears tinged red. He’s the type to tease you later, but in the moment, he’s trying to be a gentleman—even if his curiosity betrays him.
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Simon “Ghost” Riley
His weight presses down on you in the best way—hot skin, tense muscles, that controlled strength of his holding you completely captive beneath him. Simon’s hips grind deep and slow, each thrust pushing a breathy moan from your lips. His hand's braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh as he drags it higher around his waist.
Between moans, you breathlessly ask, “Can I get on top?”
His movements pause. For a moment, all you hear is the rasp of his breath near your ear, the tick of his jaw flexing. He leans up just enough to meet your eyes, his sweat-dampened hair clinging to his forehead.
“You wanna ride me, is that it?” His voice is low, rough—like gravel coated in sin.
There’s amusement in his gaze, but it’s mixed with something darker. Possessive. Intrigued. Slowly, he leans back, dragging his palm over your stomach, lingering just beneath your breasts as he shifts off of you.
“Go ahead then.” He lays down fully, arms resting behind his head as his eyes flick down your body. “I’ll let you be in control... for now. But just know—” his gaze sharpens, “once I’ve had enough, I will be taking it back.”
And as you swing your leg over him, he licks his lips like he already knows you’re going to break first.
Captain John Price
Your back arches under his touch, his beard brushing against your chest as his mouth works you open with skilled, deliberate attention. Every roll of his hips feels like it’s dragging your soul closer to the edge.
Then, a bold thought bubbles to the surface, and you gasp it out before you can second-guess yourself. “Can I get on top?”
John stills. The next breath he exhales is deep, heated, and laced with a chuckle that rumbles straight through your ribs.
“Is that so?” he murmurs, lifting his head with that slow, cocky smirk that only he can pull off.
He rises, settling back on his elbows as he watches you, eyes hooded with lust and pride. “You want to take charge, sweetheart?” His fingers trail along your thighs as he adjusts, giving you space, but not letting go completely. “Go on then. Show your captain what you’ve got.”
As you straddle him, he cups your hips with firm hands. “Just remember who’s still running the mission,” he teases against your lips. “I’m just letting you have a little fun.”
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish
You’re already writhing under him, tangled in his tattoos and teasing words, his accent thick and ragged as he praises every sound you make. Johnny’s lips trail your collarbone, biting just enough to leave a mark before he pulls back with a wicked grin.
And then you whisper it. “Can I get on top?”
He freezes, eyes widening slightly. “Oh?” His grin grows wider, playful, excited, practically glowing with approval. “Well, well, look at you. Wantin’ to ride me now, do ye?”
Before you can blink, he flips onto his back, bouncing the both of you with the motion, arms stretched behind his head like he’s lounging on a beach instead of aching with need. “Climb on then, lass. Let’s see how wild you really get when you’re in control.”
As you move over him, he groans low in his throat, hands sliding along your thighs, his cock hard against your inner thigh. “Dinnae expect me to behave though,” he warns, eyes burning. “'Cause I’m still gonna be in your head the whole damn time.”
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
You can barely form a thought between the steady rhythm of his hips and the warmth of his mouth against your shoulder. Kyle’s body is flushed against yours, his fingers tangled in your hair as he murmurs sweet, breathless things between each kiss.
But when you breathe out, “Can I get on top?” it cuts through the haze like a spark.
He stills, his forehead pressing to yours as a slow, thrilled smile spreads across his face. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You wanna take the lead?”
You nod, lips parted, your voice barely a whisper. “I want to feel all of you like that.”
That tenderness in his eyes sharpens with desire. He shifts easily beneath you, hands helping guide you up until you’re straddling him. One hand stays firm on your waist, the other brushing a thumb over your lip.
“You’re so fucking sexy when you ask for what you want,” he says, voice low and reverent. “Now ride me, baby. Let me feel how good you want it.”
As you sink down on him, his mouth falls open with a quiet moan, eyes never leaving yours. “Just like that. Take your time. I’m all yours.”
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John Price
The tension in the air is heavy, Price pacing back and forth in the living room. His boots thud against the wooden floor, his voice calm but undeniably laced with frustration. He gestures sharply, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours.
"You’ve got to think things through more carefully," he says, his tone level but firm. "It’s not just about you—it’s about how your choices affect everyone around you."
You’re already bristling, and defensive, and instead of responding with words, you do something completely unexpected. You lift your shirt, exposing your chest with a raised brow and a defiant tilt of your head.
Price freezes mid-step, his mouth slightly open as his eyes flicker up and down. His brows knit together in pure disbelief, and for a moment, the only sound is the ticking of the wall clock.
"Are you bloody kidding me?" he finally says, running a hand down his face, his frustration giving way to reluctant amusement. He exhales heavily, shaking his head, the corners of his lips twitching as if he’s fighting a grin.
"You’ve got a strange sense of humor, love," he mutters, stepping closer and resting his hands on your shoulders. "But fine. You win. I can’t keep a straight face after that."
He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead with a soft chuckle. "Just warn me next time, yeah? You nearly gave me a heart attack." As he teasingly brushed his fingers against your nipple, a sly smirk playing on his lips, he guided you toward your shared bedroom with an air of quiet determination.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Ghost stands stiffly by the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his broad chest, his imposing figure taking up the small space. His tone is clipped, his words deliberate as he levels you with a look.
"You can’t keep doing things like that, alright? You’re not thinking about the consequences."
You cross your arms, letting his words hang in the air for a moment before deciding to take a different approach. Without a word, you lift your shirt, your gaze steady as you watch his reaction.
He goes completely still, his body language shifting as he takes a small step back, clearly thrown off. His eyes widen slightly beneath the mask, and for the first time, you see him falter.
"Bloody hell," he mutters, his voice muffled but tinged with something between exasperation and disbelief. He shakes his head slowly, one gloved hand lifting to his face as if trying to compose himself.
"You’ve got some nerve," he says, his tone softening into something almost amused. "But I’ll give it to you—that’s one way to end a bloody argument."
He steps closer, his movements slower now, less rigid. "Alright, love. I’m done. You win. But don’t make a habit of it, yeah? I’m not sure my heart can take it."
Removing his mask and gloves, he revealed the rugged softness beneath his hardened exterior. His large hands gently cupped your breasts, his touch both firm and tender. Leaning in close, his voice dropped to a husky murmur, “Let’s continue this in the bedroom, yeah?”
Johnny "Soap" MacTavish
Soap is pacing around the living room, his hands flying in animated gestures as he tries to make his point. His thick Scottish accent makes his words spill out quickly, his frustration clear but not overbearing.
"All I’m sayin’ is you’ve got to stop and think! You can’t just go runnin’ into—"
You cut him off mid-rant, pulling up your shirt without a word. The sudden, bold move catches him completely off-guard. His hands drop to his sides, and he stares at you, his expression frozen in a mix of shock and disbelief.
"What the—?" he finally stammers, his voice trailing off as a grin spreads across his face. A second later, he’s doubled over, laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the back of the couch.
"You’re bloody insane, you know that?" he manages between fits of laughter, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "Here I am, tryin’ to have a serious conversation, and you pull this? Unbelievable."
When he finally catches his breath, he steps closer, cupping your face in his hands with a look of pure adoration. "Alright, love. You win. I can’t argue with someone who’s clearly lost the plot." His tone is teasing, but the warmth in his eyes says everything he doesn’t.
He pulled you closer, his hand gently gripping your throat, his other hand cupping your breast with a possessive yet tender touch. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, his harden cock pressing against you through the denim of his jeans. Leaning in, his voice was low and rough, filled with a mix of challenge and desire. “You’ll have to finish what you started, lass.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Gaz leans against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed as he looks at you with a mix of concern and frustration. His voice is calm, his words measured as he tries to reason with you.
"I just need you to understand where I’m coming from," he says. "This isn’t about being right or wrong. It’s about making smarter choices."
You meet his gaze, letting the silence stretch before you make your move. Slowly, deliberately, you lift your shirt, breaking the tension in an instant.
His reaction is immediate—his eyes widen, and he straightens up, a surprised laugh bubbling out of him. "Wait—what? Did you seriously just—?"
He shakes his head, his laughter growing louder as he leans back against the counter, clearly caught off-guard. "You’re unbelievable," he says, his grin stretching ear to ear. "I don’t even remember what we were arguing about anymore."
He steps closer, still chuckling as he wraps an arm around your waist. "You’ve got the strangest way of shutting me up, you know that? But it works, so I guess I can’t complain."
His expression softens as he kisses the top of your head. "Next time, though, maybe just say you’re sorry instead of… well, whatever that was."
His hands roamed over your body, one gently cupping your breast while his thumb teased your sensitive skin, sending shivers through you. A soft groan escaped his lips as you slid your hand down, slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans to touch him, feeling his growing cock. His breath hitched, and his grip on you tightened slightly, his voice low and laced with need as he murmured, “You really know how to test my control, don’t you?"
Summary: After six years of marriage to Simon “Ghost” Riley, you’ve learned to navigate his temper carefully, but today, you’re done playing it safe. What begins as a frustrated outburst over his bad habits quickly spirals into a charged confrontation, where tempers flare, boundaries are tested, and passions ignite. As the tension between you and Simon peaks, one thing becomes clear: he always knows how to handle you, even when you’re determined to push his limits.
Warning(s): P and V pentation physical restraint, including choking, pinning, dominance, power dynamics, punishment, consensual rough intimacy, emotional intensity, teasing, role-specific, minor injuries during physical interactions, Aftercare. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED
Reblog’s and feedback are appreciated. 18+ minors do not interact
After six years of marriage to Simon “Ghost” Riley, now 40 and still serving in the British SAS, you’ve learned to tread carefully around his temper. At Mid twenties, you’ve always been mindful not to push his buttons. But today? Today, you’d had enough.
It started innocently enough—his boots. Always in the way. You tripped over them for what felt like the hundredth time, and this time, the frustration boiled over. He was sitting there, unmasked for once, watching TV as if everything in the world was perfectly fine.
You snatched up his boots and hurled them toward him, voice sharp with irritation. “For fuck’s sake, Simon! Stop leaving your damn shoes everywhere. I keep tripping on them!”
His head turned slowly, disbelief flickering across his features as he rose to his full height. His imposing frame towered over you, and his voice, low and deliberate, sent a shiver down your spine.
“Did you just throw shoes at me?” he asked, stretching as he stepped toward you, his tone more curious than angry.
You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down. “Yeah, I did,” you shot back, your words laced with sass and defiance, despite the undeniable power he radiated.
He moves swiftly, his hand wrapping around your throat as your back meets the wall with a sharp thud. Your head connects with the surface, leaving a dull ache, but his thumb brushes against your bottom lip in a startlingly gentle contrast.
"You better be careful what you say next," he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "If it’s not an apology, I don’t want to fucking hear it." With that, he releases you, his hand falling away as if daring you to challenge him.
Glaring up at him, you rub the back of your head, fury bubbling to the surface. “You literally made me hit my head on the wall,” you snap. “Fuck you, Simon.”
Spinning on your heel, you stomp toward the stairs, heart pounding. You make it halfway up when you hear it—the quiet, deliberate sound of him following you. His footsteps are almost too soft to detect, but you know him too well.
“Oh, shit,” you mutter under your breath, the realization sending adrenaline coursing through your veins. Without thinking, you break into a run, bolting up the stairs as fast as your legs will carry you.
You barely made it a step past the doorway to your shared bed when Simon closed the distance between you. With swift precision, he tackled you—not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to bring you down to the floor.
“Simon, stop it!” you protested, your palms landing on his chest in an attempt to push him away. But he didn’t budge.
“You want to be a fucking brat? Fine,” he growled, his voice low and steady as he pinned you effortlessly. His muscular legs straddled your hips, holding you firmly in place. “Then I’ll show you how brats are punished.”
Before you could protest further, his hand captured both your wrists, bringing them above your head in a single, controlled motion. His grip was unyielding but not cruel, a balance of dominance and restraint.
“Let me go!” you shouted, your legs kicking out instinctively, but it was no use. He was stronger, his weight and precision leaving you at a clear disadvantage. You glared up at him in his brown eyes, heart pounding as adrenaline and frustration warred within you.
Simon’s grip tightened just enough to make his point, his voice calm but unyielding. “I’ll let go when you stop acting like a child and throwing fucking shoes at people,” he said. With a swift motion, he rolled you onto your stomach, keeping control as he got to his feet, now towering over you.
You stayed there, catching your breath, until his next words broke the silence. “Take off your pants,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Why?” you shot back, twisting your head to look at him.
His gaze was steady, unwavering. “Do it, or I’ll do it for you.”
Reluctantly, you complied, fumbling to unbutton and slide them off. Before you could ask what next, his voice cut through again. “Panties too.”
You hesitated, but the look he gave you made it clear he wasn’t asking twice. Sighing, you obeyed, sliding them off before he snatched both garments and tossed them down the hallway, the sound of fabric landing echoing faintly in the quiet room.
Without warning, his hands gripped your sides, lifting you effortlessly by your armpits. “Simon, what the hell?” you protested, but he ignored you, carrying you over to the bed.
He positioned you carefully, ensuring your body lay across the edge of the mattress, your hips and butt perfectly displayed for him. His grip was firm yet controlled, a calculated dominance that left you breathless. You squirmed, but it was no use—he had all the control.
Simon reached for his belt, pulling it from the dresser with a deliberate motion that made your breath hitch. He folded it over in his hands, the leather snapping sharply as he tested it.
“You’re going to count to 26,” he said, his voice calm but commanding. “And you better not forget what number you’re on. If you do, we start over.”
Before you could respond, the first strike landed on your bare cheeks with a sharp crack. A startled scream tore from your lips as the sting spread, your fingers instinctively clutching the sheets beneath you.
“...One,” you managed to gasp, voice trembling.
“Good,” he said, his tone almost approving, before bringing the belt down again. The sound and sensation mingled, sending a rush of heat and embarrassment through you as you clenched your fists.
“Two,” you whispered, bracing yourself for the next strike.
The pattern continued, each snap of the belt prompting you to grit your teeth and call out the next number, your voice growing steadier as the count rose. His measured strikes and unrelenting focus made it clear—he wasn’t stopping until you finished, no matter how much you squirmed or protested.
By the time the 26th strike landed, your body trembled, and tears streamed down your face, soaking into the sheets beneath you. The sting of each strike blended together, leaving you raw and overwhelmed. Between sobs, the apology tumbled out of you, sincere and desperate.
“I’m sorry, Simon,” you choked, voice shaky but genuine. “I’m so sorry.”
He immediately set the belt aside and knelt down beside you, his hands warm and steady as they guided you up into his arms. His chest was solid, comforting, as he wrapped you in his embrace. One hand gently rubbed your back, the other cradling the back of your head as he held you close.
“Shh,” he murmured, his tone soft now, the sharpness of his earlier discipline gone. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
His words soothed you as his touch anchored you, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you in the moment. He stayed with you, murmuring quiet reassurances until your tears slowed, your breathing evened out, and the tension began to melt away.
As your breathing steadied and your tears finally subsided, Simon leaned back slightly, his hand brushing gently over your cheek to wipe away the remnants of your tears. His voice softened, a teasing edge creeping into his tone.
“Do you want your reward now?” he asked, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver through you.
You blinked up at him, still catching your breath, his words cutting through the lingering haze of emotion. His thumb traced soothing circles on your shoulder, waiting patiently for your answer.
You nodded, the weight of the moment leaving you breathless. Simon didn’t hesitate. With practiced ease, he lifted you in his strong arms, carrying you to the middle of your king-size bed. He laid you down gently, his hands lingering on your sides as his eyes searched yours for any hesitation.
Pulling his shirt off in one smooth motion, his toned chest and arms were on full display, the raw strength in his movements evident. He reached for your legs, guiding them open as wide as they could go, his touch firm but careful.
Then, without warning, his mouth found your core, warm and commanding. The open-mouthed kiss sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, your back arching slightly as a soft moan escaped your lips. Your fingers instinctively tangled in his messy brown hair, gripping it as the sensation overwhelmed you. He hummed in response, the vibrations sending waves of warmth through you as he worked with unrelenting focus, every movement designed to unravel you completely.
Between gasps and the waves of pleasure coursing through you, a laugh bubbled up, light and breathless. You tugged gently at Simon’s hair, your fingers still tangled in his locks as you managed to speak through a moan.
“This is one of the reasons I married you, Si,” you said, your voice a mix of amusement and bliss.
He paused for a moment, glancing up at you with a cocky smirk, his lips glistening. “Is that so?” he teased, his voice low and rich, the warmth in his tone matched only by the glint in his eyes. “Guess I’ll have to keep proving you made the right choice.”
Before you could respond, he resumed his focus, his touch and attention reminding you exactly why you’d fallen for him in the first place.
As your body trembled under his touch, your voice came out in a breathy whisper, the words tumbling out between moans.
“Another reason is… you’re so good to me,” you managed, your fingers tightening in his hair as the tension in your body coiled tighter. “Even though I’m a brat sometimes… you still love me.”
Simon’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, a soft, almost tender smile playing on his lips even as he kept his focus. “Always,” he murmured against your skin, the vibration of his voice sending you closer to the edge.
His words, paired with the intensity of his actions, sent you spiraling, your climax crashing over you in a wave that left you breathless and utterly undone.
Simon stood, his movements deliberate as he shed his pants and boxers in one swift motion. His toned physique, now fully bare, radiated strength and confidence. His eyes roamed over your body, taking in every curve and detail as he leaned down, tugging your shirt off in a fluid motion, leaving you completely exposed beneath him.
Hovering over you, his warmth enveloped you as his lips captured yours in a deep, heated kiss. The intensity of the makeout session sent your head spinning, your hands exploring his firm chest before sliding down, wrapping around his sheer size. Your touch elicited a low groan from him, the sound rumbling against your lips as you slowly pumped him, feeling his weight and heat in your grasp.
Breaking the kiss, his mouth moved lower, finding your tightened nipple. He flicked it with his tongue before sucking gently, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine. At the same time, the head of his cock teased your folds, sliding along your sensitive skin in slow, deliberate strokes, building anticipation with every movement. The combination of his touch and his skilled attention had your body arching toward him, craving more.
As the teasing continued, the overwhelming need to feel him took over. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, trying to pull him closer and push him inside you yourself. The desperation in your movements made him chuckle low in his throat, his tone dripping with amusement.
“So impatient, love,” Simon said, shaking his head slightly as a playful smirk curved his lips. His hand moved to your breast, delivering a firm yet playful slap that made you gasp, the sting mingling with the pleasure coursing through you.
“You’ve got to let me enjoy this,” he teased, his voice low and husky as he leaned down to brush his lips against yours again. “I’ll give you what you want, but only when I’m ready.”
Simon took his time, exploring every inch of your body with a precision that left you trembling beneath him. His hands, lips, and tongue traced over your skin, drawing out sounds you didn’t know you were capable of making. He seemed to revel in your every reaction, taking his sweet time, teasing and testing you until your body was wound so tight it felt like you might snap.
What felt like hours later, when you were on the edge of begging, he finally positioned himself at your entrance. Without warning, he thrust into your core in one smooth motion, filling you completely. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your back arching as the overwhelming sensation took hold of you.
“Finally,” you managed to whisper, your hands clutching at his back, nails digging into his skin as he stilled for a moment, letting you adjust to the sheer intensity of him. His eyes locked onto yours, a mix of satisfaction and desire flashing in his gaze.
“Worth the wait, wasn’t it?” he murmured, his deep voice sending another shiver through you as he began to move, setting a rhythm that left you breathless.
Your hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping him as you locked eyes with him, his big brown eyes dark with intensity. Your voice came out low but firm, trembling slightly with anticipation.
“Now choke me, Si,” you whispered, the request hanging heavy in the air between you.
His movements paused for just a moment, his gaze narrowing as he studied you. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, the edge of dominance returning to his expression.
“You really are a brat, aren’t you?” he murmured, his tone teasing but laced with that familiar authority. His hand moved up, brushing against your throat before settling there, firm but controlled, his thumb grazing your jaw.
“Say the word if it’s too much,” he said, his voice dropping lower, the weight of his care evident even in his commanding tone. When you nodded, his grip tightened just enough to leave you breathless, amplifying the sensation of everything else as he moved with unrelenting purpose, his eyes never leaving yours.
Simon’s grip on your throat tightened just enough to send a rush of heat through your body, amplifying every sensation. Without hesitation, he began thrusting into you rough and fast, each movement deliberate and powerful. The sudden intensity had you arching beneath him, your hands clawing at his back as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.
Your cries and screams filled the room, raw and uncontrollable, mingling with his low, guttural groans. The overwhelming sensations blurred the line between pleasure and pain, leaving you trembling and completely at his mercy. Tears streamed down your face, not from distress but from the sheer intensity of the moment, your body responding to him in ways that left you utterly undone.
“Look at you,” Simon growled, his voice thick with desire as his hand on your throat loosened slightly, his thumb brushing against your jaw. “Screaming for me like this… you’re perfect.”
His words only heightened your arousal, your body tightening around him as the pleasure built to a breaking point. You could feel the tension coiling in your core, ready to snap as he continued his relentless pace, determined to push you completely over the edge.
Your second climax hit like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as the release came with a splash. Simon pulled out briefly, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the sight—your release coating his thighs, cock, and the bed beneath you. A proud, satisfied smirk spread across his face as he ran a hand along your trembling body.
“You really are full of surprises, love,” he murmured, his tone filled with a mix of amusement and desire.
Your body trembled uncontrollably, your mind still hazy from the intensity, but he didn’t give you a moment to recover. Without hesitation, he pushed back into you, filling you once again as he resumed his relentless movements. His pace was just as intense, if not more so, driving you higher despite the overstimulation.
“Not done with you yet,” Simon growled, his voice low and commanding as his hips snapped against yours. His hands gripped your waist, anchoring you in place as he continued to take you apart, determined to wring every last ounce of pleasure from your shaking form. The overwhelming sensations left you gasping, your mind spinning as he pushed you toward yet another peak.
Your body gave in entirely to the overwhelming sensations, trembling uncontrollably as you couldn’t stop squirting with each relentless thrust. The bed beneath you was soaked, your cries filling the room as overstimulation consumed you. Tears streamed down your face, the intensity leaving you shaking and gripping onto Simon like a lifeline.
Your nails dug into his back, leaving red trails and even drawing blood in your desperation to ground yourself amidst the overpowering pleasure. He didn’t seem to mind—in fact, your reaction only spurred him on. His groans grew deeper, rougher, as he chased his own release, his movements becoming erratic.
Finally, with a guttural growl of your name, Simon thrust deeply one last time, his release surging into your womb. His weight pressed against you as he buried his face into your neck, his breathing ragged and heavy. The warmth of his release filled you, and he stayed there for a moment, letting the intensity of the moment settle.
Still trembling, you clung to him, your body utterly spent. His arms wrapped around you protectively, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispered softly, “You’re incredible, love. Always.”
Your trembling arms wrapped around Simon’s neck, holding onto him tightly, as though letting go might make the world fall away. Your body shook with aftershocks, your breath uneven as you clung to him, seeking comfort in his warmth and strength.
Simon’s hands roamed over your back, soothing you with soft strokes and murmured reassurances. “It’s okay, love. I’ve got you,” he said gently, his voice low and comforting as he pressed a kiss to your temple.
Carefully, he shifted, pulling out of you with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the intensity you had just shared. A soft whimper escaped your lips at the sensation, but he was quick to gather you into his arms, cradling you against his chest.
“Shh, you’re okay,” he whispered, holding you close as he ran his fingers through your hair. His other hand rubbed soothing circles on your back, grounding you as he kept you wrapped in his embrace.
You buried your face in his neck, unwilling to let go, the scent of him and the steady beat of his heart calming the storm inside you. He stayed there with you, his presence steady and unwavering, letting you come down at your own pace, his love and care wrapping around you like a cocoon.
Simon held you close for a moment longer before his voice broke through the haze, soft but firm. “Love, we gotta get up,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “I need to clean you up… and we need new sheets,” he added, his gaze drifting to the mess between your thighs and the soaked bed beneath you.
You groaned softly, nuzzling into his neck, reluctant to let go. “Can’t we just stay like this a little longer?” you whispered, your voice still shaky.
He chuckled, the sound warm and reassuring as he gently stroked your back. “As much as I’d love that, we’re not exactly in the best condition to keep lying here.” His hand moved to your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “Come on, love. Let me take care of you.”
With a soft sigh, you nodded, though your arms stayed loosely draped around his neck. He kissed your forehead before carefully helping you sit up, his hands steadying you as your trembling body adjusted. “Let me grab a warm cloth and something for the bed,” he said, placing a reassuring hand on your knee before moving to take care of things.
You stayed where you were, your legs still open, trusting him completely as he knelt in front of you with a warm, damp cloth. His touch was gentle as he began to clean you up, his focus intent on being as careful as possible.
A small whimper escaped your lips as the cloth brushed over your sensitive skin, and you looked down at him, your voice trembling. “Si, careful… I’m so sensitive.”
He glanced up at you with a soft, apologetic smile, his brown eyes filled with tenderness. “I’m trying, love,” he said gently, his voice calm and soothing as he continued his careful work.
His free hand rested lightly on your thigh, a grounding touch meant to steady you as he moved the cloth over you with deliberate precision. Despite your sensitivity, his care and attention helped you relax bit by bit, his patience and love evident in every motion.
“Almost done,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh before finishing, ensuring you were comfortable and clean before setting the cloth aside. “There we go. All taken care of,” he said, his voice filled with quiet satisfaction as he stood, leaning down to kiss your forehead.
Simon froze mid-step, his eyes widening as realization struck. “Oh, fuck me,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
“What?” you asked, suddenly alarmed, your body tensing at his tone.
“Johnny,” he said, his voice tinged with exasperation. “He was supposed to be here an hour ago.” Grabbing his boxers, he quickly pulled them on and strode to the bedroom door, which had been open the whole time. Your stomach sank as you watched him leave.
In the living room, Simon stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted Johnny sprawled on the couch, his face a mix of mortification and sheer disbelief.
“Johnny,” Simon began, his voice low and cautious. “What did you hear?”
Without missing a beat, Johnny’s eyes darted to Simon, then quickly away, his ears turning bright red. “Everything,” he said, his voice flat and tinged with awkwardness.
Simon groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced over his shoulder toward the bedroom, then back to his visibly uncomfortable friend. “For fuck’s sake, Johnny. You couldn’t knock or announce yourself?”
Johnny shrugged, clearly struggling to maintain eye contact. “Didn’t think I’d need to, mate. Thought I’d be welcomed like usual—not treated to… that.”
Simon pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath, “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”
Annoyed that Simon hadn’t come back, you walked out of the bedroom, forgetting—or not caring—that you were still completely naked. The moment you stepped into the living room, Simon and Johnny’s heads whipped toward you, both sets of eyes widening in shock.
“Bloody hell!” Johnny exclaimed, immediately covering his face with his hands, though the damage was clearly done.
Simon’s reaction was instant and instinctive. Without saying a word, he bolted toward you, his expression a mix of frustration and protectiveness. In a flash, he scooped you up, throwing you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.
“Si!” you yelped, your fists lightly pounding his back in protest as he made a beeline for the stairs.
“Not a fucking chance I’m letting Johnny get another second of this view,” Simon growled, his voice low and clipped. He carried you back into the bedroom, kicked the door shut behind him with a firm thud, and set you down on the bed with an exasperated sigh.
“What were you thinking, love?” he asked, hands on his hips, though his tone was more amused than angry.
“I was wondering why you didn’t come back,” you replied with a shrug, though a flush crept across your cheeks.
“I wanted more cuddles, Si,” you say, pouting as you sit on the bed, watching him with big, pleading eyes.
Simon sighs, a soft smirk tugging at his lips despite himself. “You’re unbelievable, love,” he mutters, walking over and pulling you into his arms. “But I’ll give you all the cuddles you want—after I deal with Johnny.”
Simon strides back into the living room where Johnny is still sitting, clearly trying to process everything he’s just witnessed. Simon waves a hand dismissively. “Sorry about that, Johnny. Do whatever you want—I need to get back to Y/N. She wants more cuddles.” Without waiting for a reply, he turns to head back upstairs.
“Uh, LT,” Johnny calls out, his voice laced with concern and disbelief. “Your back is bleeding. What the hell did she do to you?”
Simon glances over his shoulder, smirking slightly. “It’s part of the territory, Johnny,” he says nonchalantly before disappearing upstairs, leaving Johnny sitting there, dumbfounded and speechless.
Summary: the members of Task Force 141 find themselves captivated by the sight of you wearing their shirts
A/N: I’m sorry I had to make Gaz a gentlemen he’s so sweet and cute in my opinion
Word Count: 941
Warning(s): Suggestive and cursing.
Reblog’s and feedback are appreciated. 18+ minors do not interact
Captain John Price
The soft cotton of Price’s shirt drapes loosely over your frame, the hem brushing against your thighs. The scent of his cologne clings to the fabric, warm and woodsy, like a campfire on a chilly night. He’s seated on the edge of the bed when you walk into the room, his signature cap resting on the bedside table.
His gaze lifts, and he pauses mid-puff of his cigar. A slow smile creeps across his face, his blue eyes crinkling. "That mine?" he asks, voice low, tinged with amusement.
You nod, tugging at the collar absentmindedly. “It’s comfy.”
Price leans back, resting on his palms as he lets his gaze wander appreciatively. "Looks better on you than ever on me," he murmurs. When you step closer, he reaches out, pulling you between his knees. His hands find your hips, fingers brushing the bare skin beneath the oversized shirt.
“You’ll steal my wardrobe at this rate,” he teases, but his voice softens as he looks up at you. “Not that I mind.”
He presses a kiss to your stomach through the fabric, his beard tickling you slightly, and when he looks up, there’s a glint of tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart stutter.
"I really want to fuck you in my shirt," he murmurs, his voice low and rough as he scoops you up effortlessly, laying you down on your back with a look that leaves no room for doubt.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
The oversized black shirt with the skull logo on the chest feels like it belongs to you now. Ghost had tossed it on the chair in your room after a mission, and you couldn’t resist slipping it on. The faint scent of gun oil and something distinctly him lingers on the fabric.
When Ghost steps into the room, his balaclava already pulled off, he freezes in place. His dark eyes sweep over you, taking in the sight of his shirt hanging loosely over your frame. His expression softens, though his brows knit slightly.
“That’s mine,” he says simply, his voice a low rumble.
You shrug, tugging at the hem. "Finders, keepers."
His lips twitch, almost forming a smile. “Looks better on you.”
He steps closer, towering over you, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. The warmth of his palm lingers as he cups your cheek, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw.
“Keep it,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “I like seeing you in it.”
When his lips meet yours, the kiss is unhurried, almost reverent, as if he’s memorizing the moment.
As his fingers slide under his shirt draped over you, he discovers bare skin, no bra, no panties. Simon pauses, his breath hitching before he mutters, his voice husky and laced with desire, "You're going to be the death of me."
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Gaz’s shirt smells faintly of soap and the lingering musk of his cologne. It’s worn and soft from years of wear, the material brushing against your skin as you lounge on the couch. The logo of a football club you’ve never heard of stretches across your chest.
He notices the moment he walks in, carrying two mugs of tea. His dark eyes light up, and he sets the mugs down with a grin. “Oi, is that my shirt?”
You smirk, leaning back. “Looks better on me, doesn’t it?”
Gaz chuckles, shaking his head as he comes to stand in front of you. “Cheeky, aren’t you?” he teases, leaning down to place his hands on either side of you. His face is close, his grin infectious. “Gotta admit, though, you pull it off.”
He straightens up, grabbing one of the mugs and handing it to you before sitting beside you. His arm finds its way around your shoulders, pulling you against him. As you sip your tea, he presses a kiss to your temple.
“Guess it’s yours now,” he murmurs, the warmth in his voice wrapping around you like a blanket.
Johnny "Soap" MacTavish
The shirt you’re wearing is unmistakably Soap’s—a faded band tee with a rip at the hem that he swears adds “character.” It smells like his body wash, fresh and slightly citrusy. The fabric is soft, clinging to your shoulders while hanging loose everywhere else.
When he walks in and spots you, he stops dead in his tracks, eyes widening. A slow, mischievous grin spreads across his face as he crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe with Soap's now visible boner evident.
“Well, aren’t ye a sight for sore eyes,” he says, his accent making the words sound even more teasing. “Didn’t think my old shirt could look that good.”
You roll your eyes, but the warmth of his gaze makes your cheeks heat. "It was the first thing I found," you reply, feigning nonchalance.
"And clearly, you love seeing me in it," you tease, gesturing toward the unmistakable evidence of his reaction.
Soap steps closer, his grin softening into something more genuine. He hooks a finger under the hem of the shirt, tugging lightly. “You can keep it, bonnie,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Looks like it was made for you.”
His hands settle on your waist, and when he pulls you close, his lips find yours in a kiss that’s equal parts playful and tender. “Now I’m gonna need another excuse to see you wear my clothes.”
Simon stands in front of the mirror, adjusting his belt, his imposing frame reflected back at both of you. His broad shoulders and calm confidence fill the room as he catches your gaze in the reflection.
“So,” he says, his voice deep and teasing, “is it big enough for you?”
You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you meet his eyes. “Considering how I was walking this morning, I think you already know the answer.”
The faintest smirk appears beneath his mask, his eyes crinkling slightly. “That so?” he rumbles, turning slightly to face you. “Guess I don’t need to ask, then.”
You step closer, your voice playful. “Nope. But maybe I’ll need a reminder tonight—just to make sure.”
He chuckles low in his chest, his voice a soft growl. “Careful what you ask for, love. You’re the one who’ll be feelin’ it tomorrow.”
John Price
The bathroom is warm with lingering steam as Price leans against the counter, towel draped loosely around his hips. His blue eyes catch yours in the mirror, and he smirks, running a hand through his damp hair.
“Well?” he asks, his voice rough with amusement. “Is it big enough for you?”
You glance at him, arching a brow as you recall the events of the night before. “Didn’t I already answer that last night, Captain?”
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Aye, you did,” he says, turning to face you fully. “But I like hearin’ you say it.”
You step closer, leaning against the counter beside him. “Then let me remind you,” you say, your voice dropping. “You more than handled your mission. But next time, try leaving me with less bruises.”
His grin widens, and he leans in slightly, his voice a playful growl. “Can’t make any promises, love. You’re the one who keeps comin’ back for more.”
Johnny "Soap" MacTavish
Johnny stands shirtless in front of the bedroom mirror, his hair sticking up in messy spikes as he adjusts the waistband of his sweatpants. His grin is impossibly cheeky as he glances at you through the reflection.
“Y’know,” he says, his voice full of playful confidence, “I’ve been meanin’ to ask… is it big enough for you?”
You snort, shaking your head as the memory of last night flashes through your mind. “You mean after how you nearly broke the bed last night?”
He bursts out laughing, turning to face you fully, his blue eyes alight with mischief. “What can I say? You bring out the best in me.”
You smirk, walking up to him. “You better hope that bed holds up next time, or you’re the one replacing it.”
“Aye, fair enough,” he says with a wink, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer. “But admit it—you’d miss my handiwork if I didn’t go all out.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Kyle adjusts his gym shorts in front of the mirror, his toned frame catching the sunlight streaming through the window. He glances at you with a playful grin, his brown eyes glinting with mischief.
“So,” he says casually, his tone light but teasing, “is it big enough for you?”
You roll your eyes, remembering the heat and intensity of the night before. “Considering I was begging you to slow down last night, I think you’ve got your answer, Kyle.”
He laughs, turning to face you fully, his hands resting on his hips. “Begging, huh? Funny—I seem to remember you telling me not to stop.”
Your cheeks flush as you step closer, poking him lightly in the chest. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Oh, it’s already there,” he fires back with a smirk, leaning down so your faces are inches apart. “But I wouldn’t mind hearing you say it again later tonight.”
Alex Keller
Alex stands in front of the closet mirror, tugging on a pair of jeans with an easygoing smile. His blue eyes catch yours as he adjusts his waistband, his tone light and teasing.
“Alright,” he says, tilting his head slightly, “is it big enough for you?”
You arch an eyebrow, recalling the way he had you gripping the sheets last night. “Pretty sure I screamed the answer last night, Alex.”
He grins, stepping closer and resting a hand on your hip. “You did,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “But I wouldn’t mind hearing it again. You know, just to make sure I’m keeping you satisfied.”
You smirk, running your fingers along his chest. “Oh, you’re keeping me satisfied,” you reply, your voice soft and teasing. “But if you’re fishing for more compliments, you’ll have to work harder tonight.”
His laugh is warm as he leans in, brushing his lips against your ear. “Challenge accepted, sweetheart.”
Phillip Graves
Phillip stands in the garage, leaning casually against the hood of his truck. His sharp blue eyes catch yours in the windshield’s reflection, his Southern drawl dripping with confidence.
“So,” he says, his voice low and smooth, “is it big enough for you?”
You can’t help but smirk, remembering the way he had you gasping for breath last night. “After what you pulled last night, I think the real question is: can you handle me again?”
His grin widens, and he pushes off the truck, closing the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. “Oh, darlin’,” he drawls, his voice a quiet rumble. “You know I can handle you. Question is, can you keep up with me?”
You meet his gaze, refusing to back down. “Guess we’ll find out tonight, won’t we?”
He chuckles, his hands sliding into his pockets as he leans in slightly. “Sweetheart, you’ll be feelin’ it tomorrow. Just like you are today.”
Summary: you were craving pickles and could open the jar your husband came to the rescue.
Warning(s): pregnant reader, a bruise ego lol
Simon “Ghost” Riley
You’re standing in the kitchen, glaring at the stubborn jar of pickles in your hand. You’ve tried every trick—banging the lid, using a dish towel—but it won’t budge. Frustrated, you mutter under your breath and raise the jar as if to throw it on the ground.
Just as you’re about to let go, a gloved hand catches your wrist.
“Easy there, love,” Ghost’s voice rumbles softly behind you. He takes the jar from your hand effortlessly. “You’re going to scare the baby with that temper.”
He pops the lid open with a quiet grunt and hands it back to you, his skull mask tilted slightly as if he’s amused.
“Next time, just call me. No need to go full demolition squad,” he teases.
You huff, biting into the pickle almost immediately. “I did call you. You didn’t hear me because you were too busy cleaning your guns.”
His eyes soften, and he sets the jar down before placing his large hand over your belly. The contrast of his rough glove against your soft skin is stark, but his touch is gentle.
“Alright, fair enough,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a soothing tone. “How’s the little one doing? Driving you mad with cravings already?”
You lean into his touch, your frustration melting a little. “Yes. And apparently, I’m going to fight every jar in the kitchen before this is over.”
He chuckles, rubbing small circles over your belly. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle all the jars. You just take care of our little troublemaker in there.”
John Price
You stare at the jar of pickles, practically vibrating with frustration. The cravings are too strong to ignore, and you’ve had enough. Raising the jar above your head, you prepare to smash it on the kitchen floor.
“Oi, what do you think you’re doing?” Price’s familiar voice stops you mid-swing.
You whirl around to see him standing in the doorway, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. Without waiting for an answer, he strides over, takes the jar from your hands, and examines it.
“Pickles, huh?” he says, chuckling under his breath. “Alright, let me help.”
He pulls out a bottle opener from his pocket, using it to break the seal on the jar. The lid pops off with ease, and he hands it back to you with a smirk.
“There you go. No need to destroy the house over it,” he says, ruffling your hair affectionately.
You take a pickle, glaring at him through your first bite. “I wouldn’t have to destroy the house if you didn’t leave me alone to fend for myself.”
He raises a hand in mock surrender, his expression softening. “You’re right, love. My bad. I’ll stick closer from now on. Though I’ll admit, watching you wrestle a jar of pickles was quite entertaining.”
Before you can retort, his hand finds its way to your belly, resting gently over the curve. “And how’s my little troublemaker? Giving you a hard time already?”
You glance down at his hand, your irritation softening. “Your little troublemaker is the reason I was about to smash that jar. Pickles aren’t just a craving—they’re a need right now.”
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Well, you’ve got me now, love. Pickles, chocolate, whatever you need. I’ll keep you and the little one happy.”
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish
The jar of pickles refuses to open, and you’ve had enough. You stomp your foot, raise the jar above your head, and—
“Whoa! Lass, what are you doing?” Soap’s unmistakable Scottish accent rings out as he rushes into the kitchen.
You freeze, jar in hand, and give him a look of pure exasperation. “I can’t open it! I need these pickles, Johnny!”
He bites back a laugh, stepping closer and gently taking the jar from you. “Alright, alright, no need to go smashing things. Let the professional handle it.”
He grips the jar dramatically, flexing his biceps as if the task is monumental. “Prepare to witness a MacTavish miracle!” he declares, twisting the lid.
The jar opens with a loud pop, and he grins triumphantly. “There! Crisis averted!”
You grab a pickle, grumbling, “Show-off.”
He laughs, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Admit it—you’d be lost without me.”
You glare at him but can’t hold it for long. “Lost? No. Hungry, maybe. But if you don’t keep this up, I will learn to open these jars myself, and then what would you do?”
His grin widens as he wraps an arm around your waist, his hand settling over your belly. “Guess I’d have to find another way to prove I’m worth keeping around. How’s the wee one, anyway? Demanding more pickles tonight?”
You roll your eyes but smile despite yourself. “Yes, and apparently, you’re the only one who can keep up with these demands.”
He smirks, gently rubbing your belly. “That’s because I’m a man of many talents, love. You and this little one are in good hands.”
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
The jar sits stubbornly on the counter, mocking your efforts. You grip it tightly, ready to hurl it at the ground when a hand stops you.
“Whoa there, love. What’s going on?” Gaz asks, stepping in and gently prying the jar from your hands.
“These stupid pickles! I just want one, and it won’t open!” you practically wail.
He chuckles, giving you a sympathetic smile. “Alright, let me have a go.”
Gaz tries twisting the lid, grunting slightly. When it doesn’t budge, he narrows his eyes. “Alright, now it’s personal.”
He grabs a spoon, tapping the edge of the lid a few times before trying again. With a satisfying pop, the jar opens, and he hands it back to you with a grin.
“Teamwork makes the dream work,” he quips, leaning down to kiss your forehead.
You take a pickle and glare at him as you chew. “Teamwork? You weren’t even here five minutes ago when I was fighting for my life.”
He grins sheepishly, stepping closer and placing a hand over your belly. His fingers are warm and reassuring as he rubs gently. “Alright, I’ll give you that one. Next time, I’ll be here faster. How’s my little pickle monster doing in there?”
You glance at his hand, smiling despite yourself. “Your pickle monster is why I almost destroyed the kitchen tonight.”
He laughs softly, pressing a light kiss to your belly. “Well, I’ll make sure the kitchen survives next time. You and this little one are priority number one.”
Summary: the members of Task Force 141 find themselves captivated by the sight of you wearing their shirts
A/N: I’m sorry I had to make Gaz a gentlemen he’s so sweet and cute in my opinion
Word Count: 941
Warning(s): Suggestive and cursing.
Reblog’s and feedback are appreciated. 18+ minors do not interact
Captain John Price
The soft cotton of Price’s shirt drapes loosely over your frame, the hem brushing against your thighs. The scent of his cologne clings to the fabric, warm and woodsy, like a campfire on a chilly night. He’s seated on the edge of the bed when you walk into the room, his signature cap resting on the bedside table.
His gaze lifts, and he pauses mid-puff of his cigar. A slow smile creeps across his face, his blue eyes crinkling. "That mine?" he asks, voice low, tinged with amusement.
You nod, tugging at the collar absentmindedly. “It’s comfy.”
Price leans back, resting on his palms as he lets his gaze wander appreciatively. "Looks better on you than ever on me," he murmurs. When you step closer, he reaches out, pulling you between his knees. His hands find your hips, fingers brushing the bare skin beneath the oversized shirt.
“You’ll steal my wardrobe at this rate,” he teases, but his voice softens as he looks up at you. “Not that I mind.”
He presses a kiss to your stomach through the fabric, his beard tickling you slightly, and when he looks up, there’s a glint of tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart stutter.
"I really want to fuck you in my shirt," he murmurs, his voice low and rough as he scoops you up effortlessly, laying you down on your back with a look that leaves no room for doubt.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
The oversized black shirt with the skull logo on the chest feels like it belongs to you now. Ghost had tossed it on the chair in your room after a mission, and you couldn’t resist slipping it on. The faint scent of gun oil and something distinctly him lingers on the fabric.
When Ghost steps into the room, his balaclava already pulled off, he freezes in place. His dark eyes sweep over you, taking in the sight of his shirt hanging loosely over your frame. His expression softens, though his brows knit slightly.
“That’s mine,” he says simply, his voice a low rumble.
You shrug, tugging at the hem. "Finders, keepers."
His lips twitch, almost forming a smile. “Looks better on you.”
He steps closer, towering over you, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. The warmth of his palm lingers as he cups your cheek, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw.
“Keep it,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “I like seeing you in it.”
When his lips meet yours, the kiss is unhurried, almost reverent, as if he’s memorizing the moment.
As his fingers slide under his shirt draped over you, he discovers bare skin, no bra, no panties. Simon pauses, his breath hitching before he mutters, his voice husky and laced with desire, "You're going to be the death of me."
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Gaz’s shirt smells faintly of soap and the lingering musk of his cologne. It’s worn and soft from years of wear, the material brushing against your skin as you lounge on the couch. The logo of a football club you’ve never heard of stretches across your chest.
He notices the moment he walks in, carrying two mugs of tea. His dark eyes light up, and he sets the mugs down with a grin. “Oi, is that my shirt?”
You smirk, leaning back. “Looks better on me, doesn’t it?”
Gaz chuckles, shaking his head as he comes to stand in front of you. “Cheeky, aren’t you?” he teases, leaning down to place his hands on either side of you. His face is close, his grin infectious. “Gotta admit, though, you pull it off.”
He straightens up, grabbing one of the mugs and handing it to you before sitting beside you. His arm finds its way around your shoulders, pulling you against him. As you sip your tea, he presses a kiss to your temple.
“Guess it’s yours now,” he murmurs, the warmth in his voice wrapping around you like a blanket.
Johnny "Soap" MacTavish
The shirt you’re wearing is unmistakably Soap’s—a faded band tee with a rip at the hem that he swears adds “character.” It smells like his body wash, fresh and slightly citrusy. The fabric is soft, clinging to your shoulders while hanging loose everywhere else.
When he walks in and spots you, he stops dead in his tracks, eyes widening. A slow, mischievous grin spreads across his face as he crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe with Soap's now visible boner evident.
“Well, aren’t ye a sight for sore eyes,” he says, his accent making the words sound even more teasing. “Didn’t think my old shirt could look that good.”
You roll your eyes, but the warmth of his gaze makes your cheeks heat. "It was the first thing I found," you reply, feigning nonchalance.
"And clearly, you love seeing me in it," you tease, gesturing toward the unmistakable evidence of his reaction.
Soap steps closer, his grin softening into something more genuine. He hooks a finger under the hem of the shirt, tugging lightly. “You can keep it, bonnie,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Looks like it was made for you.”
His hands settle on your waist, and when he pulls you close, his lips find yours in a kiss that’s equal parts playful and tender. “Now I’m gonna need another excuse to see you wear my clothes.”
Reblog’s and feedback are appreciated. 18+ minors do not interact
Captain John Price
The door slams behind you as you stomp into the hallway, adrenaline coursing through your veins. “Fuck you,” you mutter under your breath, loud enough for Price to hear.
You don’t make it far before his voice calls out, firm but calm. “Stop right there.”
You freeze, the authority in his tone sending a shiver down your spine. Slowly, you turn to face him, your anger colliding with his piercing gaze.
“I don’t care how angry you are,” he says, stepping closer. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t if you didn’t treat me like some fragile thing!” you snap, your voice shaking. “I can handle myself, John.”
His brows furrow as he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I know you can. That’s not the point.”
“Then what is it?” you demand, frustration boiling over. “Why do you keep shutting me out? Why do you act like I don’t belong in your life when things get tough?”
His expression softens, the walls he’s carefully built around himself beginning to crack. “Because I’m scared, love,” he admits quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “Scared that one day, I’ll come back, and you won’t be here.”
The vulnerability in his words takes the fight out of you. “John…”
He steps closer, his hands gently cupping your face. “You mean too much to me, Y/N. I’m trying to protect you, but I’m doing a bloody awful job of it.”
You place your hands over his, your anger melting into something softer. “I don’t need you to protect me. I just need you to let me in.”
For a moment, he studies you, his eyes searching yours. Then, without a word, he leans in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s both tender and desperate.
As you slowly drop to your knees.
Simon “Ghost” Riley
Your heart pounds as you pace back and forth in the small living room, replaying the argument in your head. “Fuck you,” you’d said, your voice dripping with frustration. You hadn’t expected him to follow you home after that, but the knock on your door tells you otherwise.
When you open it, Simon is standing there, his mask in place but his eyes intense. “Can I come in?”
You cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Why? So you can tell me how I’m overreacting?”
He exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I didn’t come here to fight, Y/N.”
“Then why are you here?” you ask, your voice softer now.
“Because I can’t leave things like this.” He steps closer, his presence filling the doorway. “Not with you.”
Your resolve wavers as you step aside to let him in. He removes his mask once he’s inside, revealing the weariness etched into his features.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low. “I didn’t mean to push you away.”
You sigh, your anger fading as you look at him. “You can’t just shut me out, Simon. I’m not some stranger who doesn’t care about you.”
His gaze meets yours, and for a moment, he’s silent. Then he steps forward, his hand reaching out to gently touch your cheek. “I know,” he murmurs. “And that scares the hell out of me.”
“Why?” you whisper, your heart aching at the vulnerability in his eyes.
“Because you’re the one thing I can’t lose,” he admits, his forehead resting against yours. “And I don’t know how to handle that.”
Your breath catches as his lips brush yours, tentative at first, then deeper, as if he’s trying to say everything he can’t put into words.
“Please, Simon,” you whisper, your voice thick with need, fingers curling into his shirt as you tug it upward. “I need you.”
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish
The words are barely out of your mouth when you see Johnny’s expression change. He doesn’t look angry—just hurt. “Fuck you, Johnny,” you’d snapped, and now you’re regretting it as he stands there, silent.
When you try to walk past him, he catches your wrist gently. “Wait,” he says, his voice softer than you expect.
You stop but don’t turn to face him. “What?”
“Do you really mean that?” he asks, his thumb brushing against your wrist.
Your shoulders slump as the fight drains out of you. “No,” you admit quietly. “I didn’t mean it.”
He tugs you gently, coaxing you to turn and face him. When you do, his blue eyes are full of concern. “Then what’s goin’ on, lass?”
“I’m just… frustrated,” you say, your voice trembling. “You’re always risking your life, and I’m stuck here, not knowing if you’re going to come back.”
Johnny’s expression softens as he steps closer, his hand cupping your cheek. “I know it’s hard, love. But you’ve got to trust me. I’ll always come back to you.”
Tears prick at your eyes as you look up at him. “You can’t promise that, Johnny.”
His thumb brushes away a stray tear. “Maybe not. But I can promise I’ll fight like hell to make it home to you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache, and when he leans in, you meet him halfway, his lips warm and reassuring against yours.
Johnny lifts you effortlessly, his hands firm yet gentle as he pulls your panties to the side. His movements are slow, deliberate, and teasing as he slides himself into you, leaving you breathless in his grasp.
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
The tension in the room is unbearable after your outburst. You can see the hurt in Kyle’s eyes, even though he’s trying to hide it. “Fuck you,” you’d said, and now the silence between you feels insurmountable.
He finally speaks, his voice quiet but firm. “You didn’t mean that.”
You look away, guilt gnawing at you. “I was angry.”
“I know,” he says, stepping closer. “But that doesn’t make it okay.”
You swallow hard, your arms wrapping around yourself. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just… I hate feeling like I don’t matter. Like you’d choose your job over me every time.”
His eyes soften as he reaches out, his hands gently resting on your shoulders. “Y/N, you matter more than anything to me. But this job… it’s not just a job. It’s who I am.”
“I know,” you say, your voice breaking. “But it doesn’t make it any easier.”
Kyle pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly. “I know it doesn’t,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry for making you feel that way. But you’re the reason I fight. You’re the reason I want to come home.”
You bury your face in his chest, letting his warmth and steady heartbeat soothe you. When you look up at him, his lips find yours, a soft yet passionate kiss that feels like a promise.
“Please, Kyle,” you murmur, your voice soft and pleading as you look up at him. “Take me to bed.”
Number one fine guy (im writing their long ass names in your dreams no way)
AHHH 😝😝😝😝😝😝😝🤞
9/10 no explanation needed
And the crowd goeeees- hold on is that jackie? (The ansan goofy)
All and all cute but eh...a good 6-7/10
Yall gon judge me but i got taejin war flashbacks cause he looks similar idk how to explain it....though the body ATTEEEEEE bro is SHREDDEDDDD...5/10 for the moosle and joker scar he looks a bit too bland needs drip
AHHHHHHH 😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝😝🤞²
Fine ass easy 9/10 love the bicep tattoo and his style pop off chrome hearts king
Told my bae that he looks like chill guys face guys ong...seems pretty cool tho 6/10
BONUSS🚨🚨🚨🚨🚨
This freaky fine mf...10/10 im investing in him...but i got one question....why...why he got the kanye grillz 🤨
Now all and all loved the chapter and the storline is awsommmme im definitely waiting to see each ones fighting style more hyped for that and they all have potential
ellievsbear
germansingergirl
titsay
pixelskylines
areudirty
amandla
blakekathryn
