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Hhh soap and gaz groping at eachother, half grinding and making out while they fantasize about you.
You, the sharp as hell receptionist who doesnt flustered or shy away from their flirtatious. You meet them at their level and push right back, a mean grin when you tell them to fuck off teasingly.
Soap is reaching a hand into gazs joggers and muttering "fuck- you think she'd take control? Lead?"
"Of course she- ah! Like that- of course she would-" gazs hips buck into soaps warm palm, leaning down to bite along the Scots neck. "Probably be real mean about it too."
Soap hums his agreement, shoving his own pants down just far enough to free his cock. He holds them together while gaz let's drool spill down to slick movements. "Would love to see her ride ye, have- mh- you moaning an' stupid-"
"She'd look better- oh fuck- riding your face. Finally put your mouth to good use" gaz starts to cant his hips, hand son soaps shoulders for leverage.
They go back and forth like that until soaps hand is covered in cum where it keeps them pressed together, both thinking of you pressed between them.
God, if only they could convince you to have them.
Gaz who downright refuses to let price ever meet his partner.
Sure, he trusts price with his life, would follow the man through hell. But- but gaz remembers. He remembers being thrown headfirst into missions with price, teetering on the edge of the greater good and cruelty. He remembers the gun.
Price handed it to him, but it was gaz who pulled the trigger. Would he have done it again the second time? Gaz still wakes up at night, chased by the fading cries of that mother and her child. With price, gaz was the kind of man who would have pulled the trigger as many times as price wanted. If price knew about you, he would eventually make gaz choose.
It scared him, to know what he would do. So, gaz never tells price about you. He keeps you tucked close to his chest, determined to keep the war out of your home.
It finds you anyways.
A vacation he had to skip, a sudden hostage situation, and you. You, with your hands ziptied together and a bomb strapped to ur chest. You look like the man from Piccadilly. Will you be the same? Would gaz do it, if price asked?
obsessed with the idea that gaz isn't actually all that suave or debonair, he's just cyberstalked you to the point that he knows exactly what you want to hear
lbr, he's read everything you've bookmarked on ao3 at least twice and made an excel spreadsheet about the tags listed in each of the fics, with little asterisks by the tags in the (so-called) privated ones that indicate you feel a shy about liking it
Hello there! For the 141 imagines and what if how about them seeing the reader for the 1st time in a dress, maybe while on a misson and they need to attend a party undercover or something like that. I like to think they would all be shocked after seeing reader mostly in uniform
hehe, omg anon, I'm giggling over here. From teammate to soulmate in a matter of seconds. (And totally one-sided.) They're all thirsty and horny in this one.
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Task Force 141 x Tf141 Female Reader
Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, dirty thoughts, jealousy, possessive behavior, pining, crush at first sight
Word Count: 800
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series
John Price
Sweat clings to John’s back, causing his camo to stick to his skin. It’s bloody hot in the safehouse. The stand fan on the table only pushes the air around.
He’s not alone. The rest of Task Force 141 along with Colonel Vargas, Sergeant Major Parra, and several Los Vaqueros linger in recline, waiting for you to emerge from behind the three-panel partition.
“You nearly done?” he calls out, striding toward the panel.
There is a muted mutter, and then you emerge. “You couldn’t find something longer?” you complain, pulling on the hem of the sequin body dress.
Fucking hell.
This is a far cry from fatigues and uniforms. The body dress hugs every dip and curve, leaving nothing to the imagination. Your hair is done, makeup flawless, and fuck—there were breasts under there all this time.
Blood rushes to his dick, and John discreetly adjusts himself. It’s a terrible fucking reaction to be having, especially for a subordinate. But you’re gorgeous, and John is just a man.
“Eyes up here, captain,” you tease, snapping at him like he’s a dog.
You’re enjoying this far too much.
John clears his throat, averting his gaze. “Get in the damn vehicle.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
Johnny smooths the front of his tuxedo and puts on an air of authority. Tonight, he’s parading around under the guise of hired security. His only job is to walk, to stand, to observe, and to listen. But he’s not alone. Somewhere, you’re lingering amongst the gala attendees. Johnny knows this, yet he hasn’t spotted you.
“How do I look?”
Your voice startles him, drawing his attention away from the crowd. The only word that comes to mind is stunning. Johnny has only ever seen you in uniform or dressed down in workout attire. This is elegance made real, and his mouth waters as he gazes over every scrumptious inch of you.
“Like a flaky scotch pie,” blurts Johnny.
You laugh. “A what?”
Johnny clears his throat. “You look nice.”
“Thank you, sergeant,” you murmur, glancing down demurely.
That one movement ruins him. By the end of the night, if you’re not going home with him, he’s utterly failed. To hells with the fucking mission. He needs you naked and on your back. Heels on.
“Keep an eye on me, yeah?” you croon, tossing a wink his way.
“Ever your guardian, lass,” he whispers as you disappear into the crowd.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Jealousy is a fickle creature. Simon hardly knows the flavor. It’s bitter. Acrid. A subtle coating that ruins everything around him. The two of you are on a mission but his focus is utterly obliterated. It’s a fucking stupid reaction, and Simon doesn’t understand where it’s come from. There is no reason for him to feel this way about you. You’re a teammate. Nothing more.
Yet he’s furious—wanting to slice off the hand of the man touching you. He squeezes your bare thigh and laughs with a lecherous air. You flutter your eyelashes and place your hand on the man’s chest. It’s feigned affection. Simon knows this. But it doesn’t change how he feels.
Before the two of you left the safehouse, you walked out in a barely there dress and pencil thin heels. With hair and makeup done, you were transformed, and Simon was transfixed. It took all his self-control not to reach out and touch you during the transfer—to draw you into his lap and make you beg for him.
Simon swallows down the rabid urge.
It’s fake. Fucking fake.
Just a few hours, and Simon can make a move.
He can make you want him.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Post-mission drinks always cut the stress, tearing away at the remaining bits of spiderweb-thin tension. Kyle sits at the high-top table with a pint in front of him, the remnants of the foamy head clinging to the sides of the glass. Johnny is perched on a stool next to him and Simon sits across, his gaze on the rugby match playing on the television. Price is playing pool with Laswell and Nikolai in the corner, the three of them engaged in animated conversation. And you? You’re nowhere. Haven’t even arrived.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Your breathy voice is a soft caress; a tone Kyle has never heard from you before. With a turn of his head, Kyle’s gaze falls upon a stunning woman. He’s seen you in uniform and fatigues, even fucking working out clothes, but never in a dress, and never with your hair done and makeup immaculate. You’re certainly posh. A fucking diamond.
“S’all right, love,” he replies automatically.
Love. As if you’re something more to him.
Your eyebrows rise in surprise, and Kyle silently swears. It’s a slip up, but he can play it cool. Always does.
Kyle pats the empty seat next to him. “Saved you a seat.”
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what if the 141 men were with reader who could not lock in before sex, like they’re out here spewing FILTH and reader is unable to do anything but giggle and hide their face- not wanting it to stop, but also having no idea how to respond without their cheeks hot enough to light a flame
What a delicious prompt, anon. Sometimes you just need something a little naughty and this one hit the spot. Thank you for sending it in!! Enjoy!
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ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series
John Price
“You hiding from me?”
You sink further into the cushions of the sofa, hiding your face from your husband. “I can’t,” you giggle, cheeks flaming.
“Thought you wanted to ride my dick until I look like a prune.”
“John!”
His tone becomes sultry. The sofa sags under his weight as he traps you beneath him. “Let me breed you. Fill you with my cum. You can lay on your back. I’ll do all the work.”
John’s large hands find your knees, spreading you wide as he settles between. You refuse to look at him. One peek and you won’t be able to control yourself.
He grinds himself against you, his hardness stiff and apparent. “How wet are you for me? What will I find if you allow me a touch?”
You attempt to wiggle away, but John is much stronger, and far more determined. As you twist away to claw yourself out from under him, John grasps your wrists and pins them to the cushion. He grinds his erection against your ass, and this time you gasp through the giggles.
“I’ll turn that laughter into moans, love. Just spread those legs for me.”
Your cheeks flame hotter with the promise.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Wrapping you up in his arms, Johnny lifts, and then he body slams you into the top of the bed. It’s not rough or breath stealing, more like a weighted blanket falling on you that might be a bit heavier than you expected. You’re completely smushed beneath him, unable to wiggle out from under him. Johnny’s erection pokes the curve of your ass, his need apparent and insistent.
“Johnny!” you laugh, as he starts to aggressively hump you.
Johnny nips at your ear, then your throat, growling with an over-the-top snarl which only sends you further into hysterics.
“Gonna fuck me now, lass?” he asks as you stifle your giggles with the duvet.
“Stop,” you chuckle, even though you don’t want him to.
Johnny turns from humping to grinding, all the silliness in his body leaving as he expertly rocks himself against you. “Could take you like this. Face down.” Johnny’s hand comes down firmly on your butt. “Ass up.” His palms squeezes, comes down again. “Could tie you up this time. Use the spreader bar.” Your face grows even hotter. “Eat your pussy like that for hours.”
You’re unable to look at him, embarrassment and desire clashing within you.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
You don’t hear the shower door opening. You aren’t even aware Simon is there until his hands fall on your hips.
“Si—” His name on your lips is cut short as he halts your attempt to turn around.
Simon presses you up against the shower wall, his muscled body a weight you cannot escape from. His hands roam downward, and then inward to between your thighs.
“Teasing me on purpose?” he asks with a hint of a growl. “Scrubbing your body down in full view of me. Touching your breasts, tempting me with glimpses of your cunt.”
Every naughty word heats your cheeks. It might be sexy as fuck but you can’t help yourself—the flustered giggle emerges unbidden.
“So you do want to fuck me,” croons Simon, grinding his dick against your ass. “Could take you up against this wall.” He lifts one leg, opening you slightly. “Or fuck you like this. Wash away the cum after. Put it all back once we get out.”
“Simon,” you hiss, smacking his arm, face heating to new heights.
“Wet,” he whispers, dipping one and then a second finger into you. “Warm.” He pumps. Once. Twice. Thrice. “And all fucking mine.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
His strong hands are vices on your hips, guiding you backward until you bump against the edge of the kitchen countertop. There is no escape. No running from Kyle when he’s determined to make you melt in his arms. The kiss is languid and slow, sending heat through your body.
“Should I take you right here? On the counter?”
It’s the devilish smirk that bites you. Already, you feel your cheeks flaming bright hot and scorching.
“Or,” he continues, “I can bend over the kitchen table. Fuck you senseless until you come around my cock.”
“Kyle!” you laugh, shoving at him, burying your face in his chest.
But Kyle isn’t done. “All that cum dripping down your thighs and onto the floor.”
The image is luscious, but his words are sending you into a giggle fit. It’s too much too fast, and though you enjoy his words, you’re unable to control yourself.
You place your hand over his mouth, and you feel his mouth form into a smile. Kyle presses in, holding your gaze. The words repeat in your head, over and over until you’re itching to run from him.
Your hand slips and Kyle makes his move. “Bend over.”
you can't tell me this doesn't happen with gaz, too.
like seriously. he'll be home on leave or something. hands absentmindedly squeezing the skin of your shoulders and stomach as the two of you take a little longer to slink out of bed this morning.
"eat out tonight?"
"what, love?"
"we should eat out tonight," you repeat, pressing a few pecks into his cheek. "for dinner."
you pull back with furrowed eyebrows at the pout that sprouts across his face. "we don't have to if you don't want, though."
"no. no," he hurries out with a shake of his head. "it's just... do we, uh, do i really have to wait that long? was kinda lookin' forward to get a taste of this mornin'."
"oh. like order breakfast or something?"
kyle blinks again. taking a moment to sit in his confusion before swallowing down his embarrassment with a sheepish grin.
"yeah," he nods, rubbing a palm against his growing stubble, and holding back an embarrassed laugh. "yeah, love. that's fine with me."
kyle watches you as you watch him back. it only takes you a total of seven seconds to figure out why he can't look you in the eye.
"kyle garrick!"
"what, lovie? can't lie in bed next to me lookin' like that and expect me to think about fuckin' food."
"...i think you've been spending too much time with johnny."
“mmm, so good…” Simon's hot mouth presses every word from your chin to belly button. His wet lips gliding across your skin and being infinitely kind, so much that you forget how hard he used to bite.
He is gasping for breath, impossibly beautiful in the blazing morning that dances on his skin — golden. His lightning-like scars get silver and more, and you are in love.
“I…I want you, Si.” you hush him, tangling your sweaty fingers in his equally tousled hair.
Golden threads coiled around.
Simon chuckles, it's breathy, then kisses the underside of your thigh, and nibbles softly along a sweet hum.
“Gud mornin', love.” Simon chuckles, his eyes are softer, and kinder in this light.
His hands are gentle around your legs, pulling at the flesh with tenderness only a bruise could carry.
He's sweeter in the morning haze, now and here.
“Simon…” you urge on, because you want him to devour you, you don't understand this sort of love which is...slow, and nice, and cool.
Because you want him to wreck you completely. You know him in sharp bites on neck, and rough hands on hip, and sweaty hot skin. Something...not this, something just as beloved.
Those sharp erratic slams of him inside you. His feral movements — hands digging and digging, sharper at your hips, in that euphoria where he can't be any more closer to you that one could be with the sun; the rapid push and pull, the urgent groping.
Harshened ways, calloused ways — unknown cartography of this simpler language such as making love in the bright summer morning, and not, and not fucking in dark.
“But yer so sweet my dove, lemme have a taste, huh.” Simon only says, his words sweet and honey like.
His nose tip tracing patterns at your delicate hipbone, mouth warm and curious and hungry.
He'll eat you whole, and he'll eat you softly.
Simon is so desperately lovely in this afterglow, and you're in love.
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series
John Price
“We can’t, John.”
“Just a quick look, love.”
Between two tall metal filing cabinets in the back room, Captain John Price has you expertly pinned to the wall. The stone is cool against your cheek, but John’s hands are warm and probing. Pushing your pencil skirt up to bunch at your hips, John nuzzles the side of your neck, his facial hair scratching against your skin before his lips steal a taste.
“Spread your legs a bit wider,” he groans, fingers toying with your lace underwear. “Want to see how wet you are for me.”
The pulse to obey is an unignorable instinct. With a whimper, you shift your knees outward, spreading as much as you can without straining your muscles. It takes John a single moment to guide your underwear to the side.
“We have to go back,” you gasp as he slides his finger over your pussy, spreading your lips until he bumps against your clit.
“They can wait a few minutes,” he growls, circling your clit until you’re clenching around nothing, a building need growing low in your belly. “Need to give my woman some attention.”
John nips at your earlobe at the same time he teases your opening with his finger. “Wet enough to fuck.”
Your hand falls away from the wall, reaching back to grasp his thigh. “John,” you breathe. His name is a protest—an urging to leave this room and return to work—but to your ears, it’s begging.
“Just the tip,” rasps John. “That’s all.”
You hear his zipper, feel the shift of his pants beneath your hands as he opens the fly. The two of you should leave. Laswell is waiting for those files. But you cannot say no to him. To indulge in him every chance you get is a privilege you won’t deny.
Going up on your toes, you angle your hips back, offering your pussy to him. The groan John releases is full of appreciation. He palms your ass, spreading your cheeks, and then the head of him rubs over your sex, sliding through your folds to coat it in your slickness.
“Just the tip,” you whimper as he starts to sink in.
“Fuck,” he whispers, but he doesn’t thrust forward, even when your muscles squeeze around the head.
John buries his face in the crook of your neck as he fists the base, jerking himself as he holds the head of his cock inside you.
“Just the tip, John,” you mewl, desperately resisting the urge to push back and take more of him.
He chuckles against your throat. “Doesn’t mean I can’t come inside you.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
“I’ve been a good boy.”
“Have you?” you purr, draping yourself over Johnny’s muscled form.
He’s on his back, naked and with a rock-hard erection. A pearly bead of semen weeps from the tip. You dip your head, tease it up with your tongue.
“And what does my good boy want?” you murmur as he shivers from your touch.
“Wanna be inside you,” he groans, fisting the base of his cock.
“Oh?” you ask, brushing your lips across his stomach. “Think you deserve that?”
Johnny reaches out with his free hand, caressing your thigh. “Just the tip. Please.”
It’s the please that does it, that spurs you to fall into a squat position over his dick. With just the slightest flex of your muscles, you slide onto his dick, stopping once you’re past the head.
“Like this?” you inquire, as if there is any confusion. Johnny’s hips flex, and more of him enters you. “No, no,” you tease. “You said the tip.”
His whimper is sweet, like the extra bit of whipped cream left on the plate after finishing pie. A treat to hear—to savor.
You engage your muscles, popping up and back down again. “Stay still for me,” you croon. “And if you’re good through the whole thing,” you place your hands on his chest, adjusting. “I’ll let you take my ass.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Everyone is asleep in the safehouse, at least, everyone but you and Simon. He is sharing space with you, hand between your legs, toying with your clit while Price’s muffled snoring fills the room.
“Let me in,” he whispers, the tip of his tongue grazing the curve of your ear.
You’re on your side beneath the blankets with Simon at your back. Soap is in front of you, chest moving slowly, head turned away.
“Not here.”
“Might be our last,” he replies, circling your clit in slow strokes that has you shivering.
Simon isn’t wrong. Danger looms, and having him inside you before things turn upside down sounds promising and welcome in the face of all that’s about to happen.
“Okay,” you agree, “but just the tip. Promise?”
Simon lightly bites your neck as the head of him teases your entrance.
“Simon,” you sigh, wanting him to say the word back to you.
He starts to sink in, pauses, shifts back, plunges in again. It’s easy for the head of his dick to slide in and out of you. All that attention to your clit has made you wet for him. Simon starts so slow, but as he continues to rock his hips and play with your clit, more and more of his cock slides in, stretching you further.
“No, Simon,” you mewl softly. “Just the tip.”
“Quiet,” whispers Simon, his lips pressed to your ear. “Or you’ll wake the others.”
Simon’s hand covers your mouth when another moan threatens to escape from between your parted lips.
“Just the tip” means nothing now, not when Simon is balls deep inside you. With his hand over your mouth to stifle your moans, you shift your leg, allowing him better access. It’s takes all but a few more thrusts and a muted grunt from him before you feel his release flooding your pussy. Your eyelids close as Simon holds himself taut, his face pressed into your neck as a shiver rattles through him. You snuggle closer, eyelids blinking slowly. Through your lashes, you notice Soap, and how his eyes are open, lips slightly parted with wanton need. Your pussy immediately clenches around Simon’s dick.
“Johnny needs some love,” murmurs Simon, lifting your left enough that he can drape it over Soap’s hip as the Scotsman slides over to you.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
The bass is a pounding rhythm that vibrates in your bones and blood, mixing with the alcohol in your system, sending you into the stranger’s arms without regard. Kyle is his name, but he’s unknown to you all the same. Handsome—with an easy smile, and a swagger that entices. It’s easy to drape your arms around his neck, to sway to the beat with him, to bring your mouth to his in sloppy, slow kisses.
Allowing him to take your hand and guide you off the dance floor is simple and clean, a euphoric stride that has you giggling and clinging to him, finding his mouth again once he pushes through the crowd and locks the two of you in a bathroom stall.
The two of you gasp and grab, not caring that there is a line and you’re occupying one and three stalls.
“Hey!” Someone pounds on the metal door. “I can see you fucking in there. People need to piss!”
Kyle groans. “Fuck off, mate.” He smiles at you, dashing and mischievous. “Ane we’re not fucking…yet,” he murmurs.
Heat rushes into your cheeks. “Here?” The idea of him turning you around and taking you from behind is luscious, but you don’t want your cheek presses to the wall of a bathroom stall.
“Fuck no,” he laughs. “I’m taking you home. Having you on every surface I can.”
You toy with his shirt, fingering the collar until his head dips. “But you could give me the tip.”
“Just the tip?”
“Just the tip,” you breathe, going in for a slow kiss.
Kyle accepts, and returns it with one of his own. “Then turn around,” he growls. “And lift that fucking skirt.”
You obediently do so, flipping it up and spreading your legs. You hear the clank of a belt buckle, and then pressure at your pussy.
“Oh, fuck,” you moan as Kyle grabs your hips and slides you down onto the head of his cock.
He moves you up and down, the tip sliding in and out of you with every squeeze of his hands. You’re lost in lust, urging him to take more as you rock back to meet him.
“We have to go,” he groans. Your answer is a whimper. “Need to take you properly.”
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John Price loves your fixation with his arms, the way your eyes train on the muscles of his biceps every time he walks by at base. He finds himself flexing them the moment he sees you, wanting to catch your reaction. In the gym, he purposely wears those shirts that cut off at his shoulders, the ones that drop on the sides and show a sliver of his chest, the ones that make your thighs push together and your teeth sink into your bottom lip.
John Price watches your gaze during briefings, trying his hardest to pay attention, but how could he when he would see your eyes drag down his face and land at his biceps. He’s started to wear shirts with tighter arms holes, that way they would fill out and get your attention. They still flex every time you look at them.
John Price who notices how much you seem to love his arms. Who notices the way you can barely control yourself anytime he’s around. So he puts you out of your misery, starting off with small and quick smiles, fading into lingering stares and wide smirks. He catches you alone after a meeting, the mission having ended the previous day. You stayed after in the conference room, gathering all your things slowly as he watches you, waiting for the room to empty out before speaking. His voice agonizingly slow and gruff, “Wanna keep staring at my arms or gonna let me fuck ‘ya?”
John Price who thrusts into you slowly, filling you as deep as possible as his arms cage you in, propped up on each side of your head. Your head falls back in pleasure, your words barely audible as gasps slip out between each word. “Faster,” you manage out. And who is he to deny you what you want, you’ve been so patient already, waiting all this time for his cock. So when he does speed up his pace, fucking into your warm cunt un relentlessly, your mouth opens wide as loud moans escape you. His own groans and words of praise egging you on, you dig your nails into his arms, almost drawing blood as he makes you feel so good. You drag your nails down, leaving scratches on his arms as he pushes you to your release.
John Price who gets loads of questions in the gym the next morning, wondering why he’s got bright red scratches visible where his sleeve cuts off. He just shrugs it off with a smile, “Got itchy.”
something something Ghost getting off on being called a pervert. not because he isn't one (he is) but because no one ever seems to have the guts to do it. so when you call him a pervert and a creep to his face after he started whispering dark and dirty in your ear at the bar, oh boy he is hard as a rock and already thinking of all the ways he can show you just how bad he is. maybe he should drag you into the bathroom and make you ride his face in one of the stalls, or take you to the alley and put you on your knees, or maybe he should just bend you over the bar and bully his cock into you. if you want to be mouthy he'll let you tell the whole room what they've been too scared to say. but that would lure certain other perverts out and Ghost... well he doesn't really share.
Before you and Simon were a thing, Simon acted like a new bride. His soft gaze casted off — trying to find you in a crowd just to hide from you.
His cheeks blasted pink when you just merely spoke to him, he barely ever replied back in anything that wasn't incoherent or mean or whispered long after you were gone with a fond eyeroll.
Simon who kept his crush on you so private (everyone knew but they just wanted to be one piece for he inevitable wedding) that he caressed your profile picture like committing war crimes in secret.
He considered everything clandestine.
Simon who couldn't handle even the most accidental or well aware touches, that big boy would slowly combust into flames, insides becoming confetti at your touch.
So it was really indeed insufferable when the same private LT became utterly, incandescently “my love” man for you.
He can't keep his hands off you.
He can't look away from you.
His fingers are always reaching out, mouth always having something to say, sweet words and simpler meaning, his eyes dancing over you like you carried the moon in your eyes, and the sun in your mouth, and star like moles.
The slow, mindless ways in which his hand rests over the small of your back.
The constant addition of you in his all of his conversation.
The lover he has become for you.
Like love had moved him completely, giving him words to speak, a language he entirely knew for you.
just quick moments of our lovely boys (tf141) with a camera-phobic girlfriend (based on this poll)
AN pt. 1: ok so John and Kyle are fun and casual and then i took a turn with Simon and Johnny. You can see the exact moment my writers block went away, but i didn't feel like redoing kyle's and john's bc i actually liked them, so...sorry for the switch up :/
AN pt. 2: Also, sorry this took so long to get up. volunteering literally killed me (im weak as hell and didn't eat before i went and it was literally 100 degrees outside and they had me carrying heavy ass tables and chairs????? hell no!!!!) im the only one that stayed to the end to help clean up :( my iron deficient ass was about to faint fr....
John:
You had finally worked up the courage to try and get a picture of yourself while you were on a date with John. Your hair was done, your makeup looked good, and you had a pretty dress on, so why not? Everyone was always saying they wished they had a picture of you to show people, and now is as good a time as any.
Except you aren't a big fan of being in front of a camera, so both you and John just sit in awkward silence as you smile stiffly in the seat across from him, waiting to hear that daunting click to tell you that he's taken the picture of you.
But you've been holding this pose long enough for your cheeks to hurt, and he seems to be tapping on the screen cluelessly with furrowed brows as you pinch your dress anxiously between your fingers.
"Did you take it?" You murmur through your clenched teeth, only finally relaxing once he grunts in satisfaction and hands you your phone with that signature quokka smile of his.
"Think so." He seems pleased with himself, so you let out a little breath of relief as you take the phone from him and open up the photos app. See, it wasn't so hard was it? Nothing too scary or-
You open the app, but there's only one new addition to the sparse collection of photos you have. Just one? Oh, well, ok...maybe he got a good one on the first try?
And then you click on it.
"John, honey...this is a video." A very awkward one at that. The camera shakes slightly every time John taps on the screen (to do what, you're not sure) and you and your posed smile are hardly even in the frame. "I'm not even-"
"Were you thinking dessert, darling?" But it seems he's moved on already, and he just meets your helpless expression with another unbothered smile. "We can split, if you want."
"I-" You take one more glance down at your phone, trying to decide how dedicated you are to capturing a nice moment - only to place it back down on the table with an awkward smile. "Um, sure."
"My gorgeous model deserves a little something, aye?"
"...Right."
Gaz:
"Kyle!" Your arms flop down beside you as you whine helplessly and turn your head away from him. "I can't do this."
"Love, you asked me to take pictures of you!" He laughs incredulously as he lowers the camera to give you a playfully exasperated look. "You've been begging me for this all week."
It's true. You had spent the past couple of weeks hoarding all kinds of videos showing you all the tips and tricks you would need to look like all of those girls you see online. But apparently it wasn't as easy as the supermodel in the video made it look.
"Well, I don't want to anymore!" You feel a pang of guilt when he lets out a sigh of disappointment and turns off the camera, and you speak up again defensively as you fidget with your purse (the prop you couldn't quite figure out how to hold casually like the girl had said to do). "I just didn't realize it would be so hard."
"There's nothing hard about it, my love." As if to prove his point and put you at ease, he turns the camera back on and flips it around to aim at himself. A flash of light and a shutterclick later, he's showing you the screen only for you to be faced with the most beautiful, modelesque picture you've ever seen in your life. "See?"
You've been standing here for nearly an hour, forcing him to keep taking mediocre picture after mediocre picture - you were sweating all of your makeup off at this point and your hair was a complete mess - and he just....takes a picture of himself. And he looks like that.
And of course he looks like a lost puppy when you let out a huff and snatch up your, now watery, iced coffee and begin to storm away from him to go back to the car.
"Love? We done taking pictures now?" He calls after you, still standing like an idiot with the camera hanging by a strap around his neck as you whip around to glare at him. "Right, right, right...ok, love. I'm coming."
Simon:
You and Simon were curled up on the couch - donned in hoodies and sweatpants as the two of you talked about anything and everything. Well, you always did most of the talking, but Simon says it helps him relax to hear your voice, so you didn't feel too guilty about yapping his ear off.
And now you're caught up talking about how you wish you could have pictures of yourself - some kind of tangible memory you could look back on or share with other people - but you were too caught up in your insecurities to get over your fear of cameras.
"I just hate taking pictures, you know? I look so bad in them every time." You murmur quietly into his chest as you toy with the string of his hoodie, twirling it around your finger over and over again until his hand comes up to curl around yours to halt your movements.
"No you don't." His gruff tone echoes through his chest, making you soften further into him as the vibrations of his voice soothe you.
"How would you know? We never take pictures." You giggle softly as you intertwine your fingers with his. "I don't think you've ever even seen a picture of me-"
"I've got pictures of you." He says it so casually, like it's normal, but you can feel him tense up slightly beneath his nonchalant exterior. The same way he does whenever he's nervous about something.
A beat of silence. Then, you're sitting up straight so you can turn to face him fully with a guarded look.
"What are you talking about?"
His heart begins to race in his chest at the look of trepidation gracing your face, because he finally gets to show you all the pictures he's taken of you that he loves so much. He finally gets to show you how he sees you - stunning in every moment. He swears he can feel his hand beginning to shake with some boyish nervousness as he clicks through his phone, excited to show off the very thing that keeps him going during all those hard missions.
"See?" He says quietly, tilting his phone screen towards you to reveal his hoarde of secret pictures - you asleep in bed, you brushing your teeth while half-awake, you mid-sentence as you excitedly point at the monkey on your one trip to the zoo (he hasn't taken you back since because you cried the whole week about how you felt bad for the animals being so far from their real home) - every opportunity where he could capture you without you noticing, he took it.
And he feels his heart sink in his chest when he watches your features contort in horrified embarrassment as you push his phone away while covering your eyes. "Oh my god, Simon, get rid of those!"
"Why?" He tilts the screen back to himself with a confused frown. Was he missing something? Did he capture you in a vulnerable moment without realizing? His eyes trail over the pictures quickly, trying to assess what the problem is when your voice breaks through with a whine.
"Simon! I look horrible!"
Horrible? Now his eyebrows furrow to join his other confused features, furrowing slightly as he tries to pull your hands away from your face. "No you don't. Just look at them, love."
He can see how red your cheeks are when you reluctantly drop your hands to glance over at the screen, and your face morphs like you're in pain when he scrolls through them.
"Why did you even take those?"
He can't figure out why you seem so disgusted to look at yourself in the pictures, and he also doesn't understand why he feels like he's in pain from seeing your reaction. His expression looks guilty as he shrugs his shoulders, keeping his gaze cast down on your face on the tiny screen of his phone. "Jus' thought you looked pretty, love. Wanted to save it."
If you weren't so caught up in your embarrassment, you'd be able to see how hurt he looks from your reaction. But you're still feeling defensive, so when you stand up from the couch and mutter a quiet, "Yeah, well...the camera doesn't exactly pick up the 'pretty' you see, does it?", you don't notice how his eyes trail after you sadly as you walk away.
And when you hole yourself up in the bathroom, shutting the door behind you to try to block out the embarrassment you're feeling, you miss the way he looks back down at his phone with soft eyes. His gaze trails over one of his favorite pictures of you - you sprawled out on the grass with your eyes closed and the sun beating down on you. It was a bit blurry, and Simon had taken it from inside through the window, like a stalker, but the peaceful look on your face always calmed him down whenever he snuck a peek at it during his missions.
"...I think it does..."
Johnny (our winner!!):
You were in that sweet state of limbo, falling in and out of sleep in your favorite armchair as Johnny sat on the couch across from you. You could hear his pencil scratching against the paper of his journal as he drew quietly. It lulled you further and further down into the thick haze of sleep that threatened to pull you under. Down, down, down, until-
click.
Your eyes snap open, a pang of anxiety rushing through you as you look over at Johnny. You barely see it, but you swear he jerks the phone down when he realizes his sound was on.
"Did you just take a picture of me?" Your sleepy voice is riddled with tension as you watch him fiddle with the buttons on the side of his phone to turn his sound off, but once he's done with that he just plops his phone back down on the couch and picks up his journal again.
"Hm?" He hums as he tilts his gaze up, a picture of nonchalance as he shakes his head slightly. "Mm-mmm. Just screenshottin' somethin', lass."
"Oh." You can feel the blood rush to your face to heat your cheeks as you sink back down against the armrest. You're just being paranoid. God, you'd think you were being held at gunpoint with the way your body panics at the thought of taking a picture. "Sorry. It's just...you know...."
But he just cracks a light, easy smile as he begins drawing again, even chuckling softly when he sees the way you relax once you realize you're 'safe'. "Nah, dinnae worry, bonnie. Ah ken ye don' like pictures."
"Okay..." You yawn quietly, curling your fist around the corner of your blanket to tuck it up closer to your chest. You can feel the weight of his stare as you begin to fall asleep once more, but it comforts you more than anything.
Once you're finally asleep, Johnny picks up his phone again to pull up the picture that he did, in fact, take of you.
Soft afternoon light filtering through the curtains to shine on you in your tuft little armchair. You look like an angel all curled up with your fuzzy blanket and your hair splayed around your head like a halo. Johnny nearly feels his heart skip a beat as he admires the picture, silently wishing he was good with color just so he could capture the warm, yellow light enveloping you.
But he settles with his pencil and his journal, propping his phone up in his view of you so he can take in the real thing while he copies what he's captured with his camera - erasing and redrawing until everything is perfect and his hands are coated with graphite.
Of course, he'd never tell you that he had an entire secret folder in his phone dedicated solely to the sneaky pictures he takes of you. He knows you'd have a heart attack if you ever found out, but he can't help himself. He always thinks you look beautiful, but when the light is hitting you just right and the angles are perfect, how can you blame him for wanting to keep that vision forever?
Oddly enough, you don't seem to mind when he draws you. He can see the way your cheeks still heat up in mild embarrassment whenever he shows you, but he can also see a little glimmer of something in your eyes that he doesn't get to see very often - a sort of self-admiration that you always pass off as you admiring his ability to draw.
Cue the conversation he has with you when you finally wake up from your little catnap. You shuffle your way over to him on the couch, curling your warm body and blanket around his back as you glance over his shoulder to see what he's working on.
"I think I look prettier in your head." You mumble sleepily against his shoulder, making him tilt his head to press a kiss to your forehead.
"Dinnae ken what yer on about, lass. Ye always look pretty." He murmurs softly in return as he bows his head back down, thumbing at the drawing to smudge the shadows beneath you.
"It's just...you're very lenient when you draw me, you know? Your drawings are a lot kinder than a camera." He feels your lips press against his cheek in a show of gratitude, and his face warms even as his stomach sinks from your words. "You always make me look pretty."
He almost wished he could whip out his photo collection just to show you that it's not the drawings that are beautiful - it's you. He had drawn you just the way you looked, not moving a hair on your head, and yet you thought all your potential lied in his hands.
But he would never reveal his secret. He knows you'd never fully relax around him again, and he'd probably never be able to get another picture of you, even if he tried. So, he settles for what he's got now, even though it kills him a little inside everytime you put yourself down about how you look.
"'S not hard to do, bonnie. Yer my favorite model."
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Your eyes find his, you head resting on the bed just watching him. Or more specifically, his dick. You can't explain it but watching his soft cock get hard turns you on like nothing else.
"Mm fine, just wanna watch you...." You sigh out and watch at his dick twitches.
"Ah ken ye like watching, love yer eyes on me." His fingers comb through your hair, "Could probably cum just from you lookin at me like that."
You smile, "Don't waste it, gotta be in me." Aannd he's hard as a rock. You give a laugh as he pulls you to him with a whine.
some bad traits i think the cod men would have are:
if price is in a bad mood, you know it. like cannot for the life of him play it off or tamper it down. and he’s not mean to you but he’s definitely in a mood. like slamming the cabinets a little too hard, stomping across your house, grumbling about not being able to find shit. (even though it’s right in front of him)
he loves his men but goddamn can they stress him out. and unfortunately sometimes he takes it home.
simon is stingy with money. but to a point where it is excessive. always telling you, s’okay, we got tha’ at home. comes from a good place, but like let a girl buy what she wants, you know?
it truly stems from him trying to be resourceful, man’s hasn’t had an easy life or an easy upbringing. money was tight. but his jeans and shirts and shoes have tears or holes in them and he refuses to buy himself more things because it’s too expensive.
gaz (not always but) can be really close-minded, stubborn. knows he’s wrong but just won’t admit it. doesn’t gaslight you but is trying to prove why he thinks he’s right (even though you both know he’s wrong!)
and won’t really drop it unless you decide to agree to disagree. it irks you especially if it’s something trivial because it’s like you can be wrong sometimes. but you’ve come to realize it’s hard for him to accept any mistakes on his end, because a mistake out in the field can cost him and his boys everything.
and johnny is messy. especially after returning from a mission. which is why it’s a bit harder because you get used to having a clean, organized house and now you come home to dirty clothes strewn on the bedroom floor or bathroom floor.
dishes piling up and dirty. you’ve literally seen him go to the kitchen, grab a cereal box and decided to not want to eat it but instead of putting it back in its place, will leave it on the counter.
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