What kind of sleeping position does each of the 141 members have? Are they more "Victorian Damsel in Distress" or "A Victorian Child Dying of Scarlet Fever"?
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.
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.
hiii! for your tf 141 imagines & what if, can you do this trend where the reader told them they can't pay the mortgage? this is my first time sending ask lol, sorry for my bad english, not netive. really love your works, btw (i always reread them 🫠)
here's the link: https://vt.tiktok.com/ZShU9qHur/
Oh my gosh, I've seen those videos all over TikTok. Some are super sweet and some are not it. But you know what? This is the 141 we're talking about. I can make them any way I want. And in this, they can be sweet and silly, but also a bit naughty. Enjoy!
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
“Kyle. Baby.”
Kyle hums softly, his arm draping around your waist to pull you against him. The man is focused only on you. “Yes, love?”
You gently stroke his exposed chest. “Can’t pay the mortgage this month.”
His lips turn upward in amusement. You don’t pay the mortgage. Your income covers groceries and smaller bills.
“Sounds like I’ll need to find a second job,” he muses, grasping your hips.
“We need to take this seriously,” you giggle, but you’ve lost. Kyle could care less that you’re being funny. His hands are descending. Squeezing.
“I am,” he groans, seizing a kiss.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Draping your arms around Johnny’s neck from behind, you rest your chin on your bicep, glancing over his shoulder as he looks over the monthly mortgage bill.
“I can’t pay that,” you murmur.
“Pay what?”
“The mortgage.”
Johnny snorts, turning just enough to stare at you. “Aye. Ya can’t. Don’t have a job.”
“Exactly. What are we going to do?”
“We?” laughs Johnny. “What are you going to do?”
A little coil of desire blooms in your stomach. Your hands descend, fingers sliding under waistband to grip the thing you’re desperately aching for. “Find another way to pay.”
Johnny grins.
John Price
“John.”
“Hm.”
“Honey.”
“Yes?”
You crawl, coming to a stop above John’s outstretched legs. He’s reclined on the couch playing Wordle on his phone.
You lower your voice as if you’re telling him a secret. “I can’t pay the mortgage.”
“You can’t pay the mortgage?” he repeats slowly as if he hasn’t heard you correctly.
You add a twinge of worry to your voice. “What are we going to do?”
John nods like he understands. “You don’t pay the mortgage, sweetheart.”
“But—”
“Hush,” he murmurs, tapping the tip of your nose. “Let me play the daily Wordle in peace.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley
You said you couldn’t pay the mortgage. Simon found it funny. So funny in fact that you’re currently bent over, ass in the air, legs spread, taking his cock like you’re working for the extra income.
This always happens when you tease him about nonsense. You don’t contribute to the mortgage. Never have. That is all on Simon’s shoulders. And when you try to pull one over on him, this is the result.
“It’s a lot of money,” he grunts between thrusts. “Might take a few rounds before you earn your keep.”
You grin madly against the sheets. Perfectly content.
