#cod bf blurbs

It was all over TikTok—women testing out pheromone perfumes to see how their boyfriends reacted.

Naturally, you had to try it.

The moment you spritz it onto your pulse points, a sultry, musky scent wafting through the air, you know you’re in trouble.

i can’t remember if I posted yesterday or not, but here’s todays :)

Captain Price – "like you want somethin’, sweetheart"

Price is lounging in his chair, reading the paper like some kind of distinguished gentleman, when you enter the room.

His nose twitches slightly. His brows furrow.

You strut past him, not saying a word, but the scent follows you like a sinful little trail.

His voice is low. "What’s that, love?"

You shrug innocently. "Perfume."

Price sets the paper down, leaning forward slightly. "New?"

"Mmhmm." You tilt your neck slightly, just enough to let the scent linger around him. "You like it?"

He doesn’t respond immediately.

Instead, he watches you like a predator. His gaze sharp, assessing, as if he’s figuring something out.

Then, slow as molasses, he stands.

You don’t realize you’re backing up until your spine meets the wall.

"John—"

"What’s in it?" His voice is dangerously calm.

Your heart hammers. "Just… a mix of things."

He hums. Steps closer. His chest brushes against yours, the heat of his body pressing into you.

"Smells different than your usual." His nose skims along your throat, inhaling deeply. "Smells like you want somethin’, sweetheart."

You shudder. "Maybe."

His fingers trail up your arm, slow and teasing. "That right?"

"Mhm."

Then, just as you start melting—

He pulls away.

You gape at him as he smirks, picking up his paper again like nothing happened.

"John!"

"Careful what you start, love," he murmurs, eyes twinkling over the top of the paper. "Or I’ll finish it."

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick – "sit in the freezer.."

Gaz doesn’t notice at first. He’s scrolling on his phone, lounging on the couch, completely unaware of the trap you’ve set.

Then—

He sniffs the air.

Freezes.

Looks at you.

"Babe."

You arch a brow. "Yes?"

"What the fuck is that smell?"

"My perfume."

His pupils blow wide. "What—why do I—" He rubs his face aggressively. "Why do I feel weird?"

You bite back a laugh. "Weird how?"

"Like I need to put you on my fuckin’ lap, that’s how."

"Oh?" You saunter closer, watching the way his hands tighten into fists. "That bad?"

"YES."

"Huh." You lean down, bracing your hands on either side of his head. "What are you gonna do about it?"

Gaz swallows hard. "I dunno, babe, but it’s gonna involve you on my lap, so you better back up before I—"

You giggle and step back. "Relax, it’s just pheromone perfume—"

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" Gaz bolts upright. "YOU DRUGGED ME?"

"Oh my God, Kyle—"

"I NEED TO GO SIT IN THE FREEZER, I SWEAR TO GOD—"

He flees to the kitchen, frantically fanning himself, while you wheeze with laughter.

Simon "Ghost" Riley – “notice anything different?”

You know Simon. He doesn’t react to much.

So when you walk into the room, drenched in your secret weapon, you expect some reaction.

You get nothing.

Not even a twitch.

"Hey, love," he murmurs, flipping through a book.

You pout. "You notice anything… different?"

He hums. "New hair?"

"No."

"New dress?"

"No!"

He finally looks up, blinking at you. "What, then?"

You step closer, letting the scent wrap around him. "Smell me."

Simon gives you a slow, measured look. Then, like he knows exactly what you’re up to, he sighs and leans in.

The moment he inhales—

He freezes.

His hands tighten around the book, his jaw going tight.

"Oh." His voice is dangerous.

Your stomach flips. "Oh?"

He slowly closes the book. "You have no idea what you just did, love."

You gulp. "I—"

Then, lightning fast, he grips your waist and hauls you into his lap.

You squeak. "Simon!"

"You wanted a reaction, sweetheart?" His hands slide up your back, firm. "Now you’re gonna deal with it."

"It was just a prank—"

"Not anymore."

You die.

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish – "make me feral."

You spray the perfume on your wrists, grinning like a devil as you enter the room. Soap is at the table, scrolling on his phone.

The moment you walk past him—

"What the fuck is that?"

You smirk. "Perfume."

His nostrils flare. "That’s perfume?"

"Mhm."

Soap leans in.

You immediately realize your mistake.

His eyes darken. "What’s in that?"

You gulp. "Just… y’know. Stuff."

"*Stuff.**"

"Uh-huh."

Then, faster than you can blink, he’s out of his chair and chasing you.

"JOHNNY—"

"NO, LASS, YE STARTED THIS SHITE—C'MERE!"

You squeal, sprinting down the hall, but he grabs you, effortlessly scooping you up like you weigh nothing.

"Oh, ye think ye’re funny, huh?" he growls, throwing you over his shoulder.

"IT WAS A JOKE!"

"Aye, well, now I’m gonna show ye what happens when ye make me feral, sweetheart.*"

Your giggles turn into breathless shrieks as he carries you straight to the bedroom.

(You regret nothing.)

Moral of the Story:

You thought you were being slick.

Turns out?

i was spat on and essentially physically threatened by a man over a foot taller than me today, and if my husband was with me i know i would’ve been safe because NOBODY does shit to me and gets away with it when it comes to him and it got me thinking about how the tf141 boys would act in situations like this soooo I typed all of this with one hand (still in a splint) because I needed some fictional comfort even in the arms of my husband

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE: "A fuckin' death wish!"

He’s parked just across the lot, watching you through the windshield like always—cool, relaxed, unbothered—until he sees some lumbering fucker square up to you.

You don’t even get a word out. The guy spits on you.

And John is out of the truck like a shot.

Door doesn’t even fully close behind him. He’s marching, beard twitching, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the guy like a trained predator.

"Oi," he barks—sharp and low enough to stop everything in the lot. "You got a fuckin’ death wish?"

The guy barely turns before Price grabs him by the front of the shirt and slams him against the nearest wall. Calm. Efficient. Terrifying.

"You spit on her?" he asks. Real quiet. Real dangerous. "Call her that again. Go on. I dare you."

You don’t even realize you’re shaking until he’s at your side, big hand cradling the back of your neck, checking you over like he’s memorizing you from scratch.

"Y’alright, sweetheart?"

You nod, watery.

He kisses your forehead. "Get in the truck. I’ll be right behind you."

You don’t ask what he does next. And you don’t see that man in town again.

KYLE 'GAZ' GARRICK: "shitting enamel for a week!"

He’s in the truck FaceTiming Soap when he sees it—your walk, that cute little bounce in your step—and then?

Spit.

Your whole body flinches.

And Kyle goes silent.

Just disappears from the screen.

You don’t even see him until the man’s being yanked backwards and shoved hard into a parked car.

"You wanna say that shit again, bruv?" Kyle growls, barely keeping his voice low. "You think you're hard, spitting on a girl half your fuckin’ size?"

You’re frozen, arms crossed, tears stinging.

"Move," he snarls. "One more step near her and I'll knock your teeth so far down your throat you’ll be shitting enamel for a week."

The guy stumbles off, humiliated.

Kyle turns to you, jaw tight, eyes scanning you top to bottom.

"You okay, love?"

"Y-yeah—"

"No," he murmurs, pulling you into his chest, hand on the back of your head. "You’re not. But you will be. I’ve got you."

And when you slide back into the truck, his hoodie ends up on you before you can even buckle in.

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY: "BURY YOU"

He’s in the driver’s seat, hood up, skull mask pulled down, watching the door like a hawk.

He sees the guy step in front of you. Hears the shout. Sees the spit.

He doesn’t even blink.

You try to sidestep and the man blocks you.

But then—

A voice. Right behind him.

"Back away from her."

Simon’s just there, looming, deadly, still as a statue. The man turns and sees death staring him in the face.

"Move. Now."

The guy scoffs.

Simon grabs him by the collar, yanks him off his feet, and slams him into the pavement so fast the air leaves your lungs.

"You ever even look at her again," he says, low and gritted, "I will bury you where you stand."

He turns to you like nothing happened. Gently takes your shaking hands, pulls you into him.

"You alright, lovie?"

You nod, but the sob breaks free anyway, and he just wraps you up in those massive arms, silent, safe.

You ride the rest of the way with your seat leaned into him and his hand on your thigh the entire time.

JOHNNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH: "SHES FUCKIN' MINE!"

He’s parked up front, phone out, ready to record a stupid TikTok with you and Gaz about your sauce order, when he sees it go down.

Spit. Words. Your whole body freezing.

He’s already out the door and sprinting before your brain even catches up.

"Oi!" he roars. "You fuckin’ DAFT?!"

The guy has no time to react before Johnny’s got a fistful of his jacket and slams him into the side of the building.

"You touch her? You spit on her?!" His eyes are wild. Voice cracking. "She’s fuckin’ mine!"

It takes Gaz and a stranger to peel him off.

He’s still breathing heavy when he rushes to you, hands everywhere, checking your cheeks, your arms, your eyes.

"You okay, bonnie? Did he hurt you? Say the word and I’ll go back over there—"

You just shake your head and throw yourself at him, and he catches you like he was born for it.

His voice breaks a little when he whispers into your hair, "Nobody does that to you. Not ever. Not while I’m still breathin’."

Your boyfriend gets cocky and agrees to try one of those period cramp simulators with you. Except what he doesn’t expect is for you to be completely unbothered. Chill. Unflinching. Meanwhile, he’s gasping like he’s been shot. And the longer it goes on, the more he realizes: this is your normal.

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE — “Do I look like a man who taps out at level five?”

It started as a joke.

You were in one of your chaotic TikTok moods—messy bun, oversized hoodie, devious little grin—and John should’ve known something was up when you said, “Baaaaaabe… you love me, right?” while setting up the simulator on the coffee table.

“Not a chance in hell,” he said immediately.

You pouted. You begged. You reminded him of that time you made him a steak dinner and didn’t film him falling asleep mid-bite like a Victorian grandfather. He sighed. “Fine.”

You strap the simulator to both your stomachs, grinning like the demon you are. He glances at the controller like it’s a live grenade.

“Ready?” you ask sweetly.

He nods, all masculine pride.

Level 1: Nothing.

Level 2: Still nothing.

John smirks. “S’not bad.”

Level 3: He shifts in his seat. “Alright. Bit of tension.”

You’re completely chill, sipping your iced coffee.

Level 4: His eyebrow twitches.

Level 5: He lets out a grunt. “Okay. Now it’s… yeah, alright, it’s uncomfortable.”

You glance at him. “You wanna stop?”

He glares. “Do I look like a man who taps out at level five?”

Level 6 hits and he flinches hard. “Bloody—fuckin’ hell, that’s not tension anymore, that’s a punch.”

You’re still sitting pretty, scrolling on your phone.

Level 7.

He jolts. Actually jolts.

“Jesus CHRIST—" He’s gripping the edge of the couch, sweat beading at his temple. “What the hell is wrong with this machine?”

You: “That’s my Monday morning, babe.”

Level 8.

He growls. Growls, like he’s in a firefight. One eye closed. Breathing through his teeth. “How are you—how the fuck are you still—talking?”

You shrug, smirking at him a little bit. It was oddly satisfying watching your big strong man experience the things he and most of society brushed off as normal pain that you and billions of other women were forced to continue to live life through without acting like it bothered you. “I usually get nauseous around this point. Sometimes I puke.”

He blinks. Stares at you like you just told him you walk on glass every day for fun.

Level 9.

He rips the strap off. Rips it off. Slams it on the coffee table and stands, breathing heavy like he just ran a 5K.

You're really not shocked. “That’s your limit?”

He looks at you. Then slowly sits back down beside you, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

“You go through that. Every month?”

You nod. Shrug.

He just stares for a second.

Then leans over, presses his forehead to your shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

You kiss his head. “It’s okay. Now go fold the laundry while I bleed in silence.”

He does.

With extra snacks.

KYLE 'GAZ' GARRICK — “i'm seeing god, she's mad at me.”

Kyle thinks he’s tough.

He’s run half-marathons. Rucked uphill with a 70lb pack. Taken hits in training and grinned through them.

So when you say “Let’s do the period cramp simulator,” he laughs. Laughs.

“Easy win, babe. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

You just smile, quietly connecting the pads to his lower abs, and flip on the app. You’re both in sweats on the couch, your phone filming the whole thing. You press start.

Level 1: He shrugs. “Tingles. Cute.”

Level 2: “Okay, it’s a little weird.”

Level 3: He winces. “Bit stabby.”

Level 4: He clutches the throw pillow. “Okay—wow. That’s... that’s actually rough.”

You’re beside him, not even blinking, watching the show.

Level 5: He yelps. “Wait. People live like this? On purpose?”

You: “Not by choice, babe.”

Level 6: His eyes widen.

Kyle: “Oh my god. It’s like a cramp. Inside a cramp. And it’s angry.”

Level 7: “BABE I’M GONNA PUKE.”

You laugh a bit. “That’s normal.”

Level 8: He keels over sideways, curled on the couch, gasping.

Kyle: “I’m going to pass out. I think I’m hemorrhaging.”

You arch a brow at him. “Want me to go up another level?” You wiggle your eyebrows, teasing him.

He doesn’t respond. He just lifts a single finger like he’s drawing his final breath.

Level 9: He rolls off the couch entirely and lays on the carpet.

“I’m seeing God. She’s mad at me.”

You turn it off, having a good giggle to yourself as you watch him. "You okay down there baby?"

Kyle lays there a minute.

Then, very quietly asks “...You go through that every month?”

You nod. “Since I was thirteen.”

He blinks. Looks at the ceiling. Then at you.

“I don’t know if I wanna fight you or hug you.”

You: “Why not both?”

He crawls back onto the couch, pulls you into his arms, and whispers, “I’m buying you a heating pad and a Costco pack of chocolate tomorrow. I swear to God.”

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY — “That's internal combustion.”

Simon sits down like it’s nothing.

“You sure?” you ask, raising a brow.

He scoffs. “How bad can it be?”

He’s seen combat. Been tortured. He thinks he’s built different.

Level 1: “Huh. Feels like static.”

Level 2: “Bit annoying. Like pins and needles.”

Level 3: “Okay, bit of a pinch.”

Level 4: “...Starting to think this is a trap.”

You’re relaxed beside him, arms folded.

Level 5: His leg twitches.

Simon: “Did the setting change?”

“Mmhmm.” You munch on a cracker from the small bowl sitting next to the couch.

Level 6: “What the fuck was that? That’s not a cramp. That’s a curse.”

Level 7: He sits up straighter. “Nope. Nope. That’s internal combustion. That’s demons.”

You, sipping water respond calmly. “That’s ovulation cramps combined with regular ones.”

Simon looks at you like you’ve been suffering war crimes in silence.

Level 8: He rips the velcro off and tosses the simulator like it insulted his mother.

“Turn it off. We’re done. That’s it.”

You almost laugh. “Tapping out, pookie?”

He stares. Hard.

Then his voice drops low.

“You go through that. Every month. And still do everything.”

You nod slowly.

Simon doesn’t speak. He just walks out of the room.

When he returns, he has a blanket, painkillers, and a hot water bottle.

Then he pulls you into his lap and wraps you up.

“You ever need anything—anything—you tell me. No questions.”

JOHNNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH — “That's a dragonslaying cramp!’”

Johnny’s too confident.

“Piece o’ piss, lass,” he says, strapping the pads on. “I’ve dislocated my shoulder before, can't be any different. I’ll be fine.”

You smile sweetly. “Ready?”

“Bring it.”

Level 1: “Tickles.”

Level 2: “Okay. Weird. But nothing wild.”

Level 3: “That was a twitch. Did it twitch? Or was that me?”

Level 4: “Aight. This is... it’s makin’ my leg bounce.”

Level 5: “HOLY HELL.”

You watch him start shifting like a toddler who has to pee.

Level 6: “SWEET FUCKIN’—WHAT IS THAT?!”

You’re laughing. He’s grabbing your hand.

Level 7: “That’s not even funny anymore, babe. That’s a dragonslaying cramp.”

You: “It lasts 6–8 hours, minimum.”

He stops. Eyes wide.

Level 8: He’s wheezing, clutching his stomach like he’s giving birth.

“I—can’t—I need—a priest.”

You turn it off.

He flops sideways, panting.

Then lifts his head, looking at you like he just saw an angel of death.

“You deal with that every month?”

You nod.

He stares.

Then bursts into a fresh round of whining. “I AM SO SORRY. I’M BUYING YOU FLOWERS. I’M BUYING YOU A NEW CAR. I’M—I’M NEVER ASKING FOR SEX AGAIN IF YOU’RE ON YOUR PERIOD I SWEAR.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. “You said that last month.” You take yours off too. "I'll take you up on that new car offer if period sex can still be on the table..helps sometimes, with the cramps.."

He whimpers.

Then crawls across the couch and kisses your stomach gently like an apology to your uterus.

“Yer a fuckin’ warrior. My warrior.”

You forgive him for all the times he's dismissed your pains before, or asked why you hadn't put on real clothes, or why you were crying when nothing happened to make you cry..

But only after he does your chores for a week and buys you that new car like he said.

MORAL OF THE STORY:

hello loves, how was everyone’s weekend? we were safe? did we have fun? what did we do? i say my big butt on my couch and snuggled w my baby + made some yummy food

The boys had seen it—the viral TikTok trend where men would stomp into the kitchen, hit their girlfriends with a “What’s for dinner, bitch?” and wait to see how they reacted.

Naturally, TF141 had to test it out.

Some of them loved what happened.

Others?

Yeah… they might’ve just traumatized themselves.

Captain Price – "Watch Your Fuckin’ Tone, Johnathan”

Price knew exactly what he was doing, he was nervous, yes, but he was curious more than anything. The boys had been showing him this video, a guy walks into the kitchen and talks to his girlfriend in a rude way..he’s upset when she just takes the way he was talking to her. John knew you were fiery, knew you weren’t a shit taker.

And he wanted to see what you’d do about it.

So, after a long day of working out in the summer sun with the boys, building you that back deck on the house that you asked him so prettily for, he strolls into the kitchen, leans against the doorframe, and—

"What’s for dinner, bitch?"

Instantly, the entire room drops ten degrees. He hears one of his men suck in a breath from the living room.

Your head slowly turns, spatula still in your hand.

Your eyes narrow.

"…The fuck did you just say?"

Price, smirking: "You heard me, love—"

SMACK.

The spatula whips through the air like Thor’s hammer and collides with his arm.

"OW—BABY—"

"WATCH YOUR FUCKING TONE, JOHNATHAN."

Another smack.

Soap and Gaz—who had been watching from the living room—IMMEDIATELY LOSE THEIR SHIT.

"OH, SHIT, SHE GOT HIM—"

"BLOODY HELL, PRICE, SHE’S BEATING YOUR ASS—"

Price is grinning like a madman, dodging another swing. "ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, LOVE, I YIELD!—"

You stop. Squint at him.

He’s smiling. Amused. Proud.

"You liked that, didn’t you?"

He chuckles, rubbing his arm. "Didn’t say I didn’t, sweetheart." He grins at Simon hovering in the doorway, watching on in case you went ballistic and his captain needed help. “Feisty lil bugger ain’t she?”

You open your mouth to start in on him again and he just laughs, large paw grabbing you by the back of the neck to bring you in for a slobbery, noisy kiss. He releases you with a dramatic “mwah!” and a fat smack to your ass, leaving you dazed and confused as to what just happened as you turned back to the stove, ass stinging.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick – "Kyle, fix it."

Gaz had seen the videos. The lads has shown them to him, said that they were going to try it on their girls too, see how they reacted. He thought it was cruel in a way, especially if your girl was sensitive. You..you were usually a fiery blaze of rage and sarcasm and ‘i wish a bitch would’. The idea for the best is him.

He wanted to see what you’d do.

It was team dinner night, the mandatory one night a week that everyone sat down together and had dinner, like a family in a way. they weren’t allowed to talk about work, only their civilian lives. It was..normal..a way for them to be normal after everything they had to go through. It was Kyle’s night to host, and ever the doting girlfriend, you shoo him and his friends into the living room, a rugby match on and some beers on the table.

Soap had started talking about how he wanted to try this prank on his girlfriend, he showed his phone to the lot of them and at first, when all the others grumbled about how they’d get their rears kicked, he thought about how it seemed mean..but then the curiosity got the better of him, and well, you know what they say about curiosity and the cat right?

So he walks into the kitchen, leans on the counter, and—

"What’s for dinner, bitch?"

And then—

You freeze.

The air shifts.

And his heart fucking drops.

Because instead of snapping back at him, instead of telling him to watch his damn mouth—

Your lips quiver.

Your eyes drop.

And then, in the smallest voice he’s ever heard from you—

"Um… I was just making your favorite… but if you don’t want it…"

Gaz immediately regrets every single life decision that brought him to this moment.

"Baby, NO—"

He scrambles, moving faster than he ever has in his life, cupping your face.

"BABY, I WAS JUST PLAYING—OH MY FUCKING GOD, LOVE, NO, YOU DON’T JUST TAKE THAT—"

Soap and Ghost are peaking around the doorway in the living room, watching in horror, jaws slack.

"Bro, you just fucking TRAUMATIZED HER—"

"SHE LOOKS LIKE A KICKED PUPPY, KYLE, FIX IT—"

He hears John shift in the arm chair he had taken custody of, see’s the shadow of his body coming into view along the face of the fridge, hears his gasp.

Gaz tilts your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

"Listen to me, yeah? You never let anyone—especially me—talk to you like that. Ever. You hear me, baby?"

You nod shakily.

"No, say it." His voice is firm, but so gentle.

"I… I won’t let anyone talk to me like that…"

He kisses your forehead, still holding you close as fuck. "Damn right, you won’t." Deep down he wondered what had happened to you in the past to make you fold in on yourself like that, you were a completely different version of your typically sassy and bossy personality in that moment and it made him sad.

Simon "Ghost" Riley – "Beat the shit outta Soap."

Ghost didn’t think much of it. You were good at telling him to go fuck himself when he did dumb shit like this. How was this going to be any different?

You were always fiery, feisty—he wanted to see what you’d do.

So, after training in the garage with the guys, he walks into the kitchen with Johnny and Kyle not far behind him, leans against the fridge, and—

"What’s for dinner, bitch?"

Instantly, he knows he fucked up.

Because you flinch.

Your shoulders drop.

And then—

You just… nod.

"…I-I can make something else if you don’t like what I made…"

Ghost stares.

Gaz and Soap, are shuffling down the hall from the living room: "Oh, he’s GONNA HATE THAT—" Soap whispered.

And he’s right.

Ghost’s soul leaves his body.

He crosses the room in three steps and tilts your chin up. "Baby. No. Don’t ever let me—or anyone—talk to you like that."

You swallow, realizing now that he hadn’t meant it seriously. "But… but it was just a joke—" You were embarrassed to have responded like that, the question bringing out memories of a past you thought you had suppressed.

"Don’t care." His voice is low, firm, but so goddamn gentle. "Even as a joke, you don’t take that. Ever. You understand me, love?"

You nod quickly.

He wraps his arms around you, holding you so damn tight, and you melt.

From the doorway, both boys are crowded together in it as they stare at the scene.

"HE’S TRAUMATIZED, LOOK AT HIM—"

"BRO, HE AIN’T GONNA SLEEP TONIGHT—"

Ghost, glaring at them and grumbling into your hair: "I’m gonna beat the shit outta Soap for making me do this."

Soap: "Wha—I’M NOT EVEN THE ONE WHO DID IT FIRST—"

Ghost: "Don’t care. It’s your fault somehow."

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish – "Aye, do it again."

Soap was ready.

He had seen the TikToks.

He knew you were fiery as fuck.

He wanted to see you get pissed, show the boys his girl was as fiery as the sun.

He had seen them all go first, seen what they’d done to their girls, or what the girls had done to them in some cases and he was ready to show off his menace of a woman.

So he saunters into the kitchen, drops his gym bag on the floor, and—

"What’s for dinner, bitch?"

Soap is on the floor within 0.5 seconds.

You slap the absolute SOUL out of him.

"THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME, JOHN MAC TAVISH?!"

Ghost jumps in shock, bag dropping to the floor as he comes through the back door, hot on Johnny’s heels. "HOLY SHIT—"

Gaz, sobbing with laughter behind him, shit eating grin on his face. “SHE SLAPPED HIM SO FAST—"

Soap is grinning like a lunatic from the floor, rubbing his cheek.

"FUCK, THAT WAS HOT."

You tower over him, spatula in hand. "You think that was hot?"

"Aye." He grins up at you. "Do it again, lass."

You stomp off, fuming.

Soap just sits there, still on the floor.

"Babe, please, I love you—" He reaches after you dramatically before rolling to his knees, looking up at his friends with the most smug mug he could muster.

Gaz wipes away a tear. "She put the fear of God in you, mate." He made a mental note to ask you for take down move tips later when you were calm and not in the mood to aim weapons at anyone’s heads.

They thought they won.

After terrifying you with fake break-ins, kidnappings, and other various scare tactics, TF141 had spent the last few days walking around like undisputed champions of the prank war.

But what they didn’t know?

You were about to end their entire legacy in one night, you were coming for him. and his stupid lil friends too.

The Setup

They were all in your house tonight—your bf and his lil buddies—because they had an early deployment in the morning and they all needed to arrive on time and together.

So, naturally, they had taken over your living room, sprawled out on couches and armchairs, drinking, bullshitting, and talking about their last great victory over you, teasing you (even though you distinctly remember winning, but who’s keeping score, right?)

The fools.

They had no idea what was coming.

You had spent the last twenty minutes slinking under the bed like a goddamn cryptid, phone in hand, camera rolling.

You knew exactly what was going to happen.

Sooner or later, your boyfriend would come into the room, strip off his gear, sit on the edge of the bed, and—

Grab. His. Ankle.

It was perfect.

Captain Price – "I oughta throw you out the window"

Price was the last to go to bed, the sounds of his team snoring away in your living room came through when he opened the bedroom door, slinking in quietly. You had made it look as though you were curled up on the bed asleep already, which was believable as he’d fucked your brain loose not too long after dinner when the boys went out to rough house and play some football to work off their bloated bellies full of your warm food.

He let out a deep, tired sigh, kicking off his boots before sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples.

It was time.

You reached out, grabbing his ankle with the coldest, deadest grip possible.

"WHAT IN THE BLOODY—FUCKIN’ HELL?!*"

PRICE STRAIGHT UP PUNCHES THE FUCKING WALL.

He jumps so hard that his knee collides with the nightstand, knocking his phone off. His entire soul leaves his body for a full three seconds.

"FUCKIN’ JESUS—"

The door bursts open, Ghost and Gaz standing there with their guns drawn, Soap behind them.

"WHAT HAPPENED?" Gaz shouts.

"SWEETHEART, ARE YOU OKAY?!" Soap yells, looking at the lump you formed under the bed.

Price is panting. Hands on his knees. Looking like he’s about to have a stroke.

And then—

You cackle.

From under the bed.

Price immediately knows.

"YOU FUCKIN’—" He grabs your arm and yanks you out from under the bed.

You are crying with laughter, camera still recording. "JOHN, YOU JUMPED SO HIGH—"

Price glares at you. "I oughta throw you out the fuckin’ window, sweetheart."

Soap, dying laughing now that he sees there’s no threat. “SHE GOT YOU GOOD, MATE."

Ghost, shaking his head as he takes his finger off the trigger of his gun, sliding it into the waste of his pants. "That might’ve actually taken years off your life, old man."

Price grumbles, rubbing his chest. "I felt my fuckin’ soul leave me, love."

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick – "you fuckin dick"

Gaz strolled into the bedroom after lunch like nothing was wrong.

His phone was in his hand, scrolling through some dumb video, completely unaware that you were camped out under the bed, ready, waiting for him to be off his guard so you could finally get your revenge.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, letting out a relaxed sigh.

And then?

You grabbed his ankle.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!?"

GAZ LEAPS STRAIGHT UP LIKE A FUCKING CARTOON CHARACTER.

His entire body leaves the bed.

HE LANDS ON THE NIGHTSTAND.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—"

"KYLE?!?" You hear from the living room, loud footsteps thundering across the house,

"The fuck just happened—" Ghost burst into the room, gun raised as he checked the corners and behind the door.

Gaz fucking scrambles BACKWARD onto the bed, staring wild-eyed at his feet, leg still twitching. You can see it all in the floor length mirror in front of your bed, typically used for other shenanigans.

Soap is next into the room, John not far behind him, the latter looking more mildly annoyed than concerned about his comrade.

"SOMEONE GRABBED ME! SOMEONE FUCKIN’ GRABBED ME—"

And then—

You laugh.

From under the bed.

Gaz goes silent.

You peek out from underneath, wheezing. "Gotcha."

"BABY, YOU FUCKING DICK—" His head slowly comes over the edge, fear still evident in his eyes.

Soap falls over laughing. His gun is still in his hand as he clutched his stomach. "BRO, SHE GOT YOU."

Ghost is wheezing. "He looked so scared, mate—" He grabs your hand, pulling you from under the bed with a gentle tug, letting you pull and push on him as you climb back to your feet, you’d been under there for a while, your joints sore.

Gaz throws a pillow at you. "I hate you so much, I swear to fuckin’ God—" You cackle all the way to the kitchen, headed for the dessert you’d made as a little reward for your menace behavior.

Simon "Ghost" Riley – "prank war babe!"

Ghost is calm when he enters the room.

Like, unnaturally calm. And granted you should have felt bad for ruining that peace, for putting him on edge in that moment, and a small part of you did but you also knew you’d make it up to him later, probably on your knees, probably with tears streaming down your face.

He doesn’t even look at his surroundings, just unholsters his gun, places it on the nightstand, and starts unzipping his jacket.

He sits on the edge of the bed, sighing.

And you grab his ankle. And you stare at the mirror, phone recording as you watch him.

Ghost freezes.

Like, FULL STOP.

His head snaps downward, staring at his foot.

For a full five seconds, he doesn’t move.

Then—

He grabs his gun, standing up with it pointed at the foot of the bed.

"WHO THE FUCK—" He unlocks the safety in one movement, and you hear a round click into the chamber, watch his finger clench around the trigger, you panic.

You scream.

"WAIT—IT’S ME—" And try to clamber backwards, trying to avoid the area he was aiming incase he did fire.

Ghost gets down on his knee, perks under the bed and sees you in the shadows, next thing you know, he yanks you out from under the bed like a goddamn horror villain.

The second he sees your face, he squints, trigger finger relaxing.

"Baby… what the fuck."

You wheeze. "PRANK WAR, BABE—"

Ghost sighs so deeply that it sounds like he’s reconsidering his entire life again.

"Jesus Christ, love."

Meanwhile—

Gaz and Soap are fucking LOSING IT in the doorway, having come running when they heard your scream.

“YOU ALMOST GOT SHOT, SWEETHEART—" Soap sounds just as horrified as you were, his hand on his chest. He glared at Simon. “The fuck were you thinking, LT!”

Gaz sighs stepping into the room to help you up off the floor. “Gave her a right fright, Ghost-” He tugs your hand gently, helping you up right.

John has joined Soap in the door, sighing as he looks at the situation. “Best be making that up to her later.” He chuckles as Gaz brushes the dust bunnies off of you.

Ghost just groans, tossing his gun onto the bed. "I knew you’d fuckin’ pull some shit like this eventually."

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish – "ready for a snooze"

Soap is humming to himself as he walks into the bedroom, stretching, yawning. He’s ready for a nap, you wore him out this morning before the crew had arrived, and preferably he’d like to take the nap wrapped around you.

“BABY, YA READY FOR A SNOOZE?” He yells, slipping his shirt over his head and tossing it onto the floor.

He plops onto the bed, completely unaware.

Until—

You grab his ankle.

"FUCKIN’ HELL—"

HE SCREAMS LIKE A FUCKING CHILD.

Johnny FULL-BODY FLAILS, tripping over his shirt and landing on the floor, trying his best to scramble backwards towards the door. KICKING HIS FEET SO HARD THAT HE ACTUALLY KICKS YOU IN THE FACE.

"AHH—FUCK—" Your voice is muffled, your hand cupping your face to staunch the blood flowing from your nose.

Soap, FREAKING OUT flips onto his belly, eyes wide as he takes in the visual of you."BABE?!? WAIT—BABY?"

You roll out from under the bed, clutching your fucking nose. "OW, WHAT THE FUCK—"

Soap, horrified, replaces your hands with his own and you’re almost positive that there’s tears in his eyes, a different kind of fear in them. "OH MY GOD, BABY, I FUCKIN’ KICKED YOU, I’M SO SORRY—"

Meanwhile—

Ghost, Gaz, and Price are on the floor around you, you don’t remember hearing them move in, silent on their feet.

Ghost is removing Johnny’s hands, practically having to slap his hands away "He got you good, doll, I think it’s definitely broken—" He’s gentle in his touch, but you his when he brushes his thumb over the ridge of your nose. “Want me to set it for you? Gonna hurt like a bitch and your eyes are gonna be blacked tomorrow..but it’ll get the job done..”

Gaz is laughing silently, clapping Johnny on the shoulders. "She’s gonna kill you—"

Soap, holding your face, after pushing Simons hands away. “BABY, PLEASE DON’T BE MAD—"

You glare at him, though you know it’s your own fault. “I WAS GONNA PRANK YOU, BUT NOW I’M GONNA KILL YOU.” You shout, wincing as pain flares through your face. “No head tonight, or little videos when you’re gone..I was gonna give you the sloppiest fucking top as a goodbye present in the morning too-“

Soap is on his knees, head in his hands, actual tears flowing "NOOOOOO—"

John sighs, helping you up off the floor as Kyle consoles your boyfriend. “Right lass, you’re okay aside from the nose?” Yoh nod as he leads you to your bathroom, where he knows there’s a first aid kit because Johnny keeps one in every bathroom and the kitchen. “Good. Might be crooked when it’s healed, but you’ll be no less pretty, love.”

Moral of the Story:

The prank war is never over.

And now?

You had it coming.

After weeks—months, even—of pure chaos, unhinged pranks, and emotionally distressing text messages, your boyfriend and the rest of Task Force 141 finally decided it was time for payback.

And when they team up against you?

Yeah. You're fucked.

Captain Price – "hate all of you"

You were getting ready for bed, hair up, pajama shorts on, about to relax after another beautiful day of causing chaos.

Then—

A crash downstairs.

You freeze.

Your heart stops.

Your phone is across the room, out of reach. The only thing you have? A baseball bat by the door.

You tiptoe toward the hallway, bat in hand, when you hear it—

Heavy footsteps. A low, gruff voice muttering, "Spread out."

You panic.

No hesitation. No thinking.

Just action.

The moment a shadow rounds the corner, you let out a battle cry and SWING—

BANG!

“FUCKIN' HELL, SWEETHEART—"

John hits the floor. Hard.

You stand over him, panting, bat raised, fully prepared to cave his head in until—

"SURPRISE! PRANK, BABY, PRANK—"

Soap, Gaz, and Ghost leap out of hiding, dying with laughter.

You stare, still panting. "I hate all of you."

Price groans, clutching his definitely bruised ribs. "Jesus fuckin’ Christ, love. When the hell did you get so quick?"

You glare. "When you taught me to take out a target before they take me out, John."

Soap, wiping tears: "Taught this one right, sir, she did it so well!"

Ghost, nodding approvingly with Johnny’s thought. "Genuinely impressed."

You flip them off and stomp away.

Price groans again. "Right, lesson learned. Don’t fuck with the missus." The boys help him up off the floor, snickering when he grabs his ribs and winces.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick – "baby it’s me!"

Gaz thought he was so fucking smart.

Late at night. Dimly lit street. You walking back from your friend’s place.

The perfect setup.

Soap and Ghost wait nearby, cameras rolling, as Gaz sprints toward you from behind, gloved hand reaching for your arm.

Then—

CRACK!

Gaz eats a fucking fist to the jaw.

He stumbles back, eyes wide, a "holy fuck—" leaving his lips.

But you’re not done.

You grab his wrist, pivot, and slam him against the nearest wall.

Gaz groans. "BABY, IT’S ME—"

You freeze.

Blink.

"Kyle?"

"YES."

You look up—Soap and Ghost, cackling their fucking lungs out, recording everything.

"What. The. FUCK." You shove him for good measure.

Kyle, still dazed: "Okay, maybe—ow—maybe we took this too far—"

Footsteps come shuffling out of the shadows, his partners in crime showing themselves. "SHE FUCKIN’ ONE-PUNCHED YOU, BRO."

Ghost drops a meaty arm around your shoulders, you state up at him as he squeezes you like he’s a proud father despite the glare on your face. "Respectfully, I think she owns the competition now, you’re a deadman, Gaz."

You storm off. "I hate you all."

Gaz just leans against the wall, rubbing his jaw. "I think I saw God for a second."

Simon "Ghost" Riley – “live this life now"

Ghost doesn’t scare easily.

But when you scream like you’re about to commit a murder, he flinches.

Which is a problem, considering he was the one trying to scare you.

It had been perfectly planned—dimmed lights, a low growl in the dark, creeping footsteps…

Then?

BAM.

You launch yourself at him, tackling the motherfucker to the floor.

Your knee slams into his gut.

Your elbow connects with his face.

Ghost groans. "Bloody hell, love—"

"STAY DOWN, FUCKER—"

"IT'S ME—"

"I KNOW IT’S YOU, SIMON, BUT I LIVE THIS LIFE NOW—"

Soap and Gaz start to die laughing in the background, recording all of it. You growl in anger, vowing silently to get them all back.

Ghost grumbles, rubbing his side. "Jesus, you fight like me, love."

You glare. "You taught me this shit."

Soap, wheezing as he clutched the back of your couch. "Bro, she fucking bodied you—"

Ghost, sighing as he brings himself upright. "Yeah, yeah. Next time, I’m taking the piss outta her."

You roll your eyes. "Just wait till you let your guard down."

Ghost suddenly regrets everything.

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish – "kicked me in the soul"

Soap’s plan? Simple.

Hide in your closet.

Wait for you to walk by.

Jump out.

Scare you.

Have the boys film it, visiting under guise of watching a football match.

Easy, right?

Fucking wrong.

Because the moment he jumps out, screaming—

BAM.

You scream right back and kick him in the fucking balls.

Soap collapses.

Like a fucking ragdoll.

His entire life force leaves his body.

Soap wheezes in pain, clutching himself tightly. "AGH—FUCK—"

"WHAT THE FUCK, JOHNNY?"

"WHAT THE FUCK, ME?? YOU FUCKING KICKED ME IN THE SOUL."

Meanwhile, outside the doorway Gaz and Ghost are FUCKING DYING.

"YOU KICKED HIM IN THE NUTS??" He had the phone in hand, his only job,

Ghost was bent over, hands on knees laughing at his friend, his only job to stop you if things went too far. "I CAN’T BREATHE."

Soap groans, curled into the fetal position. "Babe, why—"

You cross your arms. "Serves you right, dumbass."

"I THINK I SAW JESUS."

Moral of the Story:

TF141 thought they were getting revenge.

Instead?

They just got their asses kicked.

And now?

hey y’all ❤️ sad news, i had an appointment with my ortho specialist today, and unfortunately im going to remain in my immobilizer for at least 6 weeks, im not supposed to be doing any computer typing/positioning or lifting of more than a pound when I do take it off during the next few weeks (for working it out, showering etc..), so once I get through my drafts, which are mostly just blurbs ill be on a small hiatus. my fingers are essentially stuck and we have to unstuck them during the next month or more, if that makes sense (there’s a video on my page with an explanation of exactly what happened for those that are curious).

You’ve seen the TikTok trend—girlfriends dressing in their skimpiest, barely-there outfits before “going out with the girls” just to see how their boyfriends react.

Naturally, you have to try it on your man.

…And, uh, you might not have fully thought through the consequences…but then again, do you ever?

Captain Price – "lookin’ like a wet dream..."

You take your time getting ready—black lace top barely covering your chest, a miniskirt so short it might as well not exist, and heels that add just enough height to make your legs look miles long.

When you finally step into the living room, Price is sitting on the couch, one arm draped over the back, lazily sipping his whiskey. He glances up—

And freezes.

His glass halts mid-air. His entire body goes rigid.

"Sweetheart." His voice is slow, measured, dangerously calm.

You smile sweetly. "Yes?"

"Where the fuck do you think you’re going dressed like that?"

"Girls’ night!" You twirl, the hem of your skirt lifting dangerously. "Do you like my outfit?"

Price slowly sets his glass down. "Come here."

You take a step closer, biting back a grin.

He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes dragging down your body, taking in every scandalous inch of exposed skin.

Then, firmly: "You’re not leaving this house."

You blink. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He straightens, his entire presence shifting into something dominant, possessive. "You think I’m lettin’ you walk out that door lookin’ like a fuckin’ wet dream?"

"John—"

"No."

"It’s just—"

"No, sweetheart." His voice drops, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you into his lap before you can react. "You’re staying’ right here."

You shiver. "s’just playin’, baby."

"Mm-hmm." He kisses your throat, your jaw, the corner of your lips. "Good. Now go change, or you’re stayin’ in for a different kind of night."

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick – "crime against my sanity.."

Gaz is waiting by the door, checking his phone when you step into the hallway.

"Alright, babe, I—" He glances up.

And his brain short-circuits.

"…The fuck are you wearin’?"

You bat your lashes. "My outfit!"

"That’s not an outfit, baby, that’s a crime against my fuckin’ sanity—"

He stands up so fast, his phone nearly slipping from his fingers as he scans you—slowly, thoroughly.

"Ohhh, no, no, no." He shakes his head, gripping your waist before you can slip past him. "You’re not leaving the house like that."

"Why not?" You blink innocently. "It’s just clothes."

"Baby, if you walk out like this, I’m gonna end up in prison," he mutters, hands tightening against your hips. "What the fuck is this little… little… scrap of fabric you call a top?"

You giggle. "You don’t like it?"

"Oh, I like it, alright," he groans, dragging a hand down his face, "which is exactly the fuckin’ problem..”

"Kyle, it was a prank!" You can’t hold back your laughter anymore. "I wanted to see how you’d react!"

Gaz scoffs, then grins—sharp, dangerous. "Oh, babe. You’re in for it now."

You yelp as he scoops you up, carrying you back to the bedroom. "No, no, wait—"

"Nah, sweetheart. You wanna tease me? Let’s see how long you last before you start beggin’."

(Whoops. You played yourself.)

Simon "Ghost" Riley – "You’re Fucking Joking."

Ghost is in the kitchen when you walk in, pouring himself a cup of coffee, ready to go over the safety rules for the night, including demonstrating that you know how to properly (and safely) use your safety security keychain (it has a taser!), something he kept sharp and properly charged/filled for you.

"Alright, love, you ready to—" He turns.

His mug nearly slips from his fingers.

His grip tightens around the handle, eyes dragging slowly, dangerously down your body.

Silence.

Complete.

Utter.

Fucking silence.

"What?" You feign innocence. "You don’t like it?" It was a dress in a satin, rosie pink with black lace around the breasts, which had your tits generously on display with how low it was cut, it fell to just below your ass, leaving hardly anything to the imagination. It may or may not have been part of your massive lingerie collection, a piece he hadn’t seen yet..

Ghost stares. "You’re fucking joking."*

"Nope!" You adjust the straps that are holding your scrap of fabric on your body. "I’m going out! See you later, baby!"

Before you can take one step, a hand wraps around your wrist—firm, unyielding.

Ghost tugs, pulling you flush against his chest.

"Love." His voice drops, low, gravelly. "You step outside in that, and I will have to kill someone tonight." Only because he would never blatantly tell you to change, and would instead follow you in the shadows, ensuring creeps kept to themselves..

Your breath hitches. "…It was a prank."

His fingers tighten around your waist. "Was it?"

"Mmhmm." You swallow hard. "Didn’t think you’d react this badly—"

Ghost chuckles darkly. "Oh, sweetheart." His lips ghost over your jaw. "You wanted a reaction. Now you’ve got one."

(You have never feared for your ass cheeks more in than in this moment, knowing you won’t be sitting properly tomorrow..or for the next few days probably)

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish – "a bra with attitude!"

Soap whistles as he buttons up his jacket, turning toward you. "A’right, love, ye ready to—"

He stops dead in his tracks.

His jaw drops.

"The fuck is that?"

"My outfit!" You spin, the tiny fabric lifting way too much. "Cute, right?"

"Cute? BABE, IT'S A FUCKIN’ BRA WITH ATTITUDE!"

You bite your lip. "So you do like it!"

"Lass," he grabs your waist, "I’m seconds from cancelling your plans.”

"Why?"

"BECAUSE I AM NOT LETTIN’ YOU GO OUT THERE LOOKIN’ LIKE A FUCKIN’ SIN!"

You giggle. "But, Johnny, it’s just an outfit—" You drag out his name, whining it just the way he likes, and for a moment you think it might work, you see his eyes squeeze close, his head shake and his fists tighten, that tick in his jaw gets to going too..

"NO, LASS, THAT WAS A FUCKIN’ TRAP!" His hands grip your thighs, pinning you against the wall. "Ye knew what ye were doin’, minx. Now ye gotta deal with the consequences."

Your breath catches. "Johnny, wait, it was a prank—"

"Not anymore, it ain’t, love."

(You. Played. Yourself.)

Moral of the Story:

You thought it’d be funny.

Instead?

You and your friends have spent way too much time on BookTok, watching those ridiculously hot tropes in dark romance novels—the hand on the throat, the deep growl, the Book Boyfriend Lean™ that makes your knees weak.

So, naturally, you have to test it on your boyfriends.

Bad idea.

Captain Price – "need a breather "

"You sure you wanna do this, love?" Price’s voice is already a little too amused as he watches you set up your phone.

"Yes," you say, trying to act nonchalant, but the second you meet his gaze, your stomach flips.

This is John Price. A man who can command an entire squad with a single look. A man whose voice alone could probably send people to their knees. And you’re about to ask him to do BookTok trope behavior on you?

Yeah. You’re already regretting it.

"Alright," he sighs, setting his whiskey glass down. He moves toward you—slowly, like a damn lion closing in on its prey.

You gulp.

His chest brushes against yours as he leans in, his scent—whiskey, cedar, and something just him—invading your senses. He tilts his head slightly, bringing his lips to your ear, his breath warm.

Then, the voice. That voice.

"That what you want, sweetheart?"

You die.

Like, literally combust on the spot. Your brain short-circuits, your legs wobble, and you slap a hand over your face because holy shit.

Price leans back, smirking. "Think you need a breather, love."

You squeak, flapping your hands at him. "AGAIN."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Didn’t even make it through the first one."

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick – "You asked for it"

"You’re not gonna be able to handle it," Gaz warns, grinning like he already knows the outcome.

"Yes, I will!" you huff, pointing at him. "Just do it!"

He snickers, rolling his shoulders before stepping forward. "Alright, princess, you asked for it."

Before you can react, he leans in. His hands plant themselves firmly on either side of you, caging you against the counter. His dark brown eyes drop to your lips, then slowly, so painfully slowly, back up to meet yours.

His voice is a low rumble, damn near dripping with amusement. "This what you wanted, love?"

Your brain blue screens.

Your entire body betrays you.

One second you’re standing, and the next, your knees just give out. You have to catch yourself on the counter before you collapse completely.

Gaz’s eyes go wide. "Babe—"

"I TOLD YOU TO GO EASY ON ME!" you wail, slapping at his chest.

Gaz throws his head back, laughing so hard he nearly chokes. "You—You literally asked for this!"

"AGAIN!" you shout.

"You just FOLDED!"

"I DON’T CARE! DO IT AGAIN!"

Simon "Ghost" Riley – "Did you just die?"

"You good, love?" Simon asks, watching you set up your phone with shaking hands.

"Yes!" you lie.

He tilts his head slightly. The mask is off, leaving you to stare at his sharp jawline, the way his lips twitch just slightly in amusement. You have a horrible, horrible feeling about this.

"Alright," he murmurs, his voice so deep you can feel it in your bones.

Then, before you can process it, he steps forward.

One hand grips your waist—tight, possessive, just enough to make you feel small. The other moves up, fingers sliding gently along your throat, not squeezing, just resting there. His thumb brushes over your pulse, and you know—you know—he can feel how erratic it is.

"You alright, sweetheart?"

You make a noise. A very embarrassing, strangled noise.

His grip tightens just slightly.

And then, he does it—the growl.

A deep, throaty rumble that sends a full-body shudder through you.

You panic.

Your arms flail. Your brain completely short-circuits. And before you can stop yourself, you just—

—collapse to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

Simon blinks down at you. "...Did you just die?"

You slap the floor, face burning. "AGAIN."

He grins. "You sure you can handle it this time, love?"

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish – ""Too Easy""

"You’re gonna break me," you whisper, already regretting this.

Soap smirks, stepping forward. "Aye, bonnie, probably."

His big hands slide around your waist, tugging you close until your chest is pressed against his. His head dips, lips ghosting just above your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine.

"This what y’been dreamin’ about, hmm?"

You spaz.

Like, full-body flinch, hands shaking, brain completely fried.

Soap notices.

He chuckles darkly. "Oh, lass, yer too easy."

"I hate you," you gasp, pushing weakly at his chest.

"Do ye?" he teases, fingers tilting your chin up so you’re forced to meet his gaze. "’Cause I think ye quite like it."

You go feral.

Your hands slap against his chest. "AGAIN."

Soap grins. "Ye didn’t even last two seconds—"

"I DON’T CARE, DO IT AGAIN."

Moral of the Story:

You were supposed to be the one testing the BookTok trope.