#cod gaz

[yooo-lets-go]

Guys, he’s not kidding

[amaranthinespirit]

t141 + könig and their reaction to sleeping on the couch after an argument

—price when you banish him to the couch, he could be one of two ways—mature and forces you to talk it out nicely or toxic, flat out refuses, and fucks you back to your senses. the first way, when the words spill from your mouth, his shoulders slumped with dejection as he steps from the room. no point in arguing when you're worked up. after stewing in your anger for thirty or so minutes, he returns—armed with food—and talks it out with you. the other way, he flat out refuses to sleep on the couch. i could see him manipulating you with the "I paid for that bed, and I'll sleep in it." you're stubborn, muttering something about you sleeping on the couch then, which is how you end up getting your brains fucked out.

—soap I imagine soap just pushed your buttons way too much that day. you know how he is sometimes—over the top, hyper, and an all-around instigator. he was looking for a reaction, and he found it—just not the one he wanted. immediately pouts, acting like a dejected child before he goes on to try and convince you to change your mind. real annoying about it too, doesn't give up until you're at your breaking point.

—kyle the only one that I see actually accept his banishment with stride. he knows he made you upset, respects the boundary you placed with him and doesn't take it to heart. there's also a big possibility that, by the end of the night, you end up talking it out anyways like mature adults. he knows you needed to get it out of your system, and you serving punishment to him did just that.

—simon the second the words leave your mouth, he shuts down. you see the moment he deflates, doesn't try to reconcile, and just accepts it. he doesn't want to upset you further or make you more mad than you already are. simon doesn't respond well to domestic conflict. the second his back hits the cushions? he's tossing and turning. he barely fits the couch to begin with, and you both learn you need each other to sleep—bonded like a pair of cats.

—könig he's not fitting on the couch, and that's what makes it more satisfying. maybe he was being too persistent about his horniness, hands wandering too far until you snapped and threw your finger to the couch you know he can't fit. he whines about it for sure, trying to whip you with puppy eyes and convince you to change your mind. he apologizes until you're sick of hearing it, allowing him back in bed just to get him to shut up.

[welshj03]

Free time

+ An animatic idea is haunting me but it’s not gonna be fun

[softsnarl]

cw: none

Simon stands frozen in the corridor outside the break room, coffee mug forgotten in his hand.

Inside, you’re laughing with Gaz and a couple of the intel girls, voice bright and careless.

“You can all keep your nonchalant men,” you say, stirring sugar into your tea with unnecessary violence. “I want a chalant one. Someone who texts back fast, who stares too long, who gets excited over nothing and tells me about it. I’m so bloody tired of guessing.”

Gaz snorts, arms crossed casually. “Good luck finding that in this unit.” Meanwhile, Simon’s ears are already burning under the mask. Of course, Gaz has to talk shit now in that smooth London–accent of his.

Simon has spent the last four months being meticulously, painfully nonchalant.

He times his arrivals so he’s already at his desk when you walk in with the morning briefings (never early enough to seem eager). He limits himself to one greeting per day, gruff and quiet. When you wear the burgundy skirt that hugs your hips so perfectly, he stares at the computer screen so hard the pixels blur.

Simon deletes half the texts he types to you before sending (the ones that say things like you looked nice today or missed your presence in the briefing).

He once almost asked if you wanted to grab coffee after work and instead muttered something about ammunition counts and walked away.

He thought he was being careful. Respectful. Professional.

Turns out he’s been doing the opposite of exactly what you want in a man.

Simon’s heart—old, rusted thing that it is—starts hammering like he’s twenty-five again and spotting a pretty girl across the mess in Hereford for the first time in years.

He retreats to his office, shuts the door, and spends ten full minutes staring at the wall.

Existential crisis is too small a word. It’s a full-system reboot.

By 1700 hours he’s still there, mask off, running a hand over his jaw, rehearsing sentences in his head that sound nothing like the Ghost anyone knows. At 1712 he gives up pretending to work, and he finds you at your desk in the outer office, packing up for the day.

You look up, surprised to see him lingering.

“Captain wants the revised sit-rep on his desk by 1800,” he says harsher than intended. It’s a lie. Price is off-base until tomorrow.

You nod, already reaching for the file. Simon clears his throat. Once. Twice. Swallowing too thickly both times.

“Actually,” he says, voice still embarrassingly rough, “I was wonderin’ if you’ve eaten yet.”

You blink.

“Because I haven’t,” he continues, the words tumbling out before he can stop them, “and there’s a decent Indian place fifteen minutes away. If y’like curry. Or if you don’t, we could find something else. I don’t mind. I just—I’d like to buy you dinner.”

He stops, mortified at how loud his pulse is in his own ears.

You stare at him for a long second, lips parted. Then your face softens into the kind of smile that makes his chest hurt like he’s been stabbed.

“I love curry,” you say quietly, and Simon exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months. “Good,” he manages awkwardly. “That’s... good.”

He hovers while you grab your coat, hands flexing at his sides like he wants to help but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

As you two walk past Gaz (who just happens to be there) toward the door, the Sergeant grins into his fresh cup of coffee, murmuring: “Took you long enough, sir.”

Simon shoots him a swift glare and follows you out, ears still burning, but for the first time in years the silence around him feels hopeful instead of deafeningly safe.

Fuck nonchalance.

× next

[ ᴄᴏᴅ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ]

[tojisteddy]

Gaz who smears his cum on your pussy

cw: 18+ mdni, smut

You told him you couldnt cum anymore, and tonight he- he actually went along with it.

Well kinda.

Let his cockhead all shiny from your mixed fluids plap, plap, plap against your sensitive heat. Through your sopping folds, his pre painting your messy pussy down to your hole, then back up to your pulsing clit. Not even bothering to give your desperate hole any action, letting the vein of his cock brush against your Pearl, circling his cum around it your body is bucking for more, your hand going to grip his hip that he swats away. “Juuuust this baby, said you couldn’t take anymore, didn’t you?”

You let out a frustrated whine and moan, “that-mmm- I was just- I needed-“

“You want t’ really stop or take a break for the night you use your words with me. But if you wanna fake out, ahh- I can help with that love. I’m really good at it.” He gives you a satisfied look, watching your body wither under him when he pulls the crown of his cock away from yoru clit just as your about to cum. Kyle spreads your legs apart, other hand stroking his rock hard length, “See? Givin you exactly what you asked for.”

You let out a shaky breath, chest rising and falling, pussy aching as you eye the handsome man up, past his dick, to his model like physique, his chiseled face, fresh haircut that had you drooling when you saw him. You pout, “You’re the fuckin worst Ky!”

“I don’t think your pretty pussy agrees with that, does she?”

Gaz slips two digits in, just to his first knuckle, feeling the way your tight walls try to pull him in, your hips grinding into his hand for more, gasping his name, before he slips them out and sucking your juices off his fingers. He slaps! His cock against your cunt again, smirking down at your needy and withered state.

“Think you’ll just have to work for tonight my love.”

and then he makes you watch him jerk himself off, wraps his larger hand around yours and takes his time fucking your hand, tells you just how perfect your pussy feels, just what he’d do to you that’d make you really cry, till he spurts cum all over your pussy and stomach.

Brats don’t get rewards.

a/n: we all jumped up

[gloomwitchwrites]

Too Hot, Don't Touch

For the anon who asked for the 141 wanting to cuddle during a heat wave - and reader sleeps naked, shenanigans abound here. Enjoy!!

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

Task Force 141 x Reader (gender neutral & afab)

Content & Warnings (mdni): nudity, suggestive themes, established relationship, fluff, swearing

Word Count: 400

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

John Price

“This for me?” John saunters over to the bed, absently rubbing his hairy chest. “And above the sheets?”

“No,” you warn, because you know that look. You know what John is up to. “Don’t think about it. Not tonight.”

He cocks an eyebrow, all flirty mischievousness. “Have I done something?”

“No,” you repeat. “It’s hot. And you’re a furnace. You’ll get me sweaty.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

John dives at the bed, crushing you beneath him. “Doesn’t have to be a cuddle, love. Could do something rigorous.”

You twist, evading a kiss. “Stop poking me with your dick.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

You and Kyle lay on your backs, staring at the ceiling. Overhead, the ceiling fan whips up a breeze but offers little to alleviate the heat. Worst heat wave in the last decade. That’s what they’re saying.

“I know,” you reply. “I hate it, too.”

The pillows are gone, bed stripped down to the fitted sheet. Both of you are freshly showered and naked, and still you’re sweating. Kyle’s arm shifts, the side of his hand brushing against yours. Your index fingers connect, hook around each other. Sweat immediately accompanies it.

Kyle reaches for his phone. “I’m ordering another fan.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Johnny,” you grumble, half-asleep.

His hand pauses on your bare hip. “Can’t touch you?”

“Too hot,” you mumble. “How are you not hot?”

The bedding is tossed aside, pushed to the edges of the bed. It’s the middle of the night but feels like the middle of the day. Has been for weeks. A goddamn heatwave.

Beside you, the bed shifts. “Not even a hand?”

“No.”

“What about a finger?”

“No.”

Johnny sits up onto his elbow. “A tit?” You open one eye and glare. “A quick squeeze?”

“Fine,” you mutter, relenting. “But only one tit. And only one squeeze.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Sleeping naked under the covers isn’t an option. It’s disgustingly hot out. If you just lay here, on your stomach and above the covers, naked, unmoving, you’ll cool off. You just can’t move. You can’t—

A hand comes down on your ass in a sharp, stinging slap.

You bolt up, startled. “What the fuck, Simon? I’m trying to sleep.”

Your husband stands next to the bed, hand still raised like he’s aiming for another. He shrugs. “Couldn’t help myself.”

You roll your eyes but Simon is settling beside you anyway, handsy as always.

“It’s too hot for this,” you grumble.

[evolbones]

Little ‘Renevos’ doodle, get more access to COD sketches and comics on Patreon!

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[codthrow]

my reaction to the mw4 trailer.......

where's gaz???