but they all carry something.

simon has a hair tie on his wrist. black, cheap, the kind you buy in packs of fifty and lose all over the damn flat. it sits under the cuff of his glove, biting into his skin, reminding him exactly why he needs to make it home. it always smells like your shampoo for a bit before it starts to smell like his own sweat, he finds himself a new one on the bathroom floor before each deployment.

price wears a watch. it’s not the watch that’s about you, really. it’s that he started setting the second time zone to match yours. he checks it more than he should, especially at night when he can’t sleep and it’s three a.m where he is and eight a.m where you are. he’ll think: ‘she’ll be making coffee, i wonder what she wore to bed’ and that’s the closest he lets himself get to mixing you with work.

kyle wears a bracelet. it’s thin braided yarn, the kind of thing you learned to make as a kid at camp. you made it on a slow sunday afternoon while he was half-asleep on your thigh. he said ‘oh, that’s sick, darling. ta!’, put it on and hasn’t taken it off since. it’s absolutely filthy these days. and when it starts to fray, he simply keeps re-knotting it, sometimes johnny has to help get it tight.

"Oh! Kyle, grab whatever you want, I wasn't sure your preference!" You smile when he freezes in the doorway of the dining room. The table is full of food, and it sides and main courses alike. Ghost is already sat, rumbling happily to himself while he butters some rolls.

And that's the thing about all the food that kyle can't quite wrap his head around. It's all...unhealthy.

Or. Maybe not unhealthy? But certainly not anything kyle would have had growing up in his childhood home. Rolls slathered in butter, pasta with a thick creamy sauce, cuts of ham glazed in honey. You smile tightly at the way he seems frozen in indecision, and gently offer "if it's not okay, I can make you a salad. But...simon always tells me you stare at his lunch. I figured..."

That's enough to have gaz snapping out of hid stupor, realizing his mouth is watering.

He pushes down his mothers voice talking about carbs and fats and addictive sugars, loading up a plate with a bit of everything. He misses the smile you and simon share.

The first bite has gaz practically moaning before he catches himself, embarrassed at such a reaction.

You just chuckle, leaning over the table to serve yourself "simon is the same way. Don't forget to leave room for dessert, though!"

Gaz genuinely does cry at that. The casual mention of dessert, the easy acceptance of food between you and ghost. It feels impossible to imagine he lived years eating almonds and fruits and avoiding "bad sweets" like they'd kill him.

You and simon pretend not to notice, and you make sure to note down the dishes he seems to favor for next time.

That night, gaz experiences his first proper food coma on your couch, passed out and unsuspecting when he sat down not five minutes ago. While you and simon clean up, you whisper "I see why you like him, si. He's cute."

"Mhm." Ghost nods, bent over the sink and scrubbing dishes "think we bring it up after a few more dinners?"

"Tempted to just skip the dating and buy a ring now," you joke, catching the soft smile of your husband "yeah, I think a few more. Need to figure out what his favorite dish is so I can make it for the announcement, yeah?"

You’re on the couch with a green face mask on, hair clipped back, fluffy headband in place, cucumber slices balanced like you’re starring in a low-budget spa commercial.

Soap walks in.

He stops.

“…what the hell is that.”

You don’t even open your eyes. “Skincare.”

“It looks like you fell into swamp water.”

You slowly peel one cucumber off and stare at him.

Five minutes later he’s in a headband.

It happens fast. Too fast for him to react. You drag him down by the sleeve, Gaz laughing in the background like this is the best day of his life.

“Hold still,” you command.

“I will not!”

You smear clay across his cheek.

Soap gasps like you’ve shot him. “It’s cold!”

“Beauty is pain,” you reply calmly.

Gaz is filming. Traitor.

Then you turn to him.

“Oh no,” Gaz says, already backing up. “No, no, I’m just here for moral support.”

“Sit.”

He sits.

Soon he’s got under-eye patches sliding down his cheekbones and a lip mask that makes him look permanently pouty. Soap is wheezing. Gaz is trying to look dignified and failing miserably.

Price walks in mid-chaos.

He surveys the scene. Takes in the headbands. The neon masks. The fact Soap looks like a spa gremlin.

“…absolutely not.”

You just look at him.

Big eyes. Silent. Devastating.

Price exhales like a man surrendering to forces beyond his control.

“Five minutes,” he mutters.

He ends up in a charcoal mask. Arms crossed. Pretending this is beneath him while very carefully not smudging it.

Then there’s Simon.

He stands near the doorway like this does not concern him.

You approach cautiously.

He’s still wearing his little surgical mask underneath everything. Protective. Habitual.

“I’m not taking it off,” he says before you even ask.

You nod once. Respectful.

“Fine.”

He relaxes slightly.

That’s when you reach up and gently push his hood back instead.

Hair mask. Thick. Glossy. You work it in carefully while he stands there, stiff as a statue.

Soap makes a noise. “He’s being domesticated.”

“Shut up,” Ghost mutters.

You stick under-eye patches beneath his mask, adjusting them carefully so they sit just right.

There’s something deeply unserious about Simon Riley standing there with spa patches on.

Price is pretending not to look. He is looking.

Gaz is smiling softly. Soap is taking mental notes for blackmail.

You step back, proud.

“There. Hydrated.”

Ghost huffs. But he doesn’t move away.

An hour later, you’re all rinsed off, hair soft, faces clean.

Soap admits his skin feels “kinda nice.” Gaz is glowing. Price will never speak of this again. Ghost’s hair looks unfairly smooth and he refuses to acknowledge it.

Self-care night complete.

୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧

The first time it snows on base, you almost miss it.

It’s mid-November, the kind of cold that bites at your nose and creeps under the sleeves of your jacket. Everyone had warned you about winters here; how they’re brutal, gray, and endless..but no one mentioned the snow. Or maybe they did, in passing, the way people talk about things they’ve always known, assuming everyone else has too.

You grew up somewhere winter was just… colder rain. Frost on the grass if you were lucky. Ice on puddles you could crack with your shoe. Snow was something you saw in movies, on Christmas cards, or in pictures online.

Not something that just… fell out of the sky.

You’re halfway across the base yard when something cold taps your cheek.

You flinch, hand coming up instinctively, like someone tossed a pebble at you. But when your fingers brush your skin, they come away damp.

“…What?”

Another one lands on your sleeve.

Then another.

You look down.

Tiny white specks dot the dark fabric of your jacket. Soft. Delicate. Already melting into dark pinpricks.

Your brain takes a moment to catch up.

Your eyes slowly lift to the sky.

And then you see it.

Snow.

Not heavy, not the thick storms people complain about—just soft, drifting flakes, floating down lazily like feathers.

Your mouth falls open.

“Oh my god.”

You spin in a slow circle, watching them fall. Onto the pavement. Onto the parked vehicles. Onto the metal railings and rooftops.

“OH MY GOD!”

You drop the paperwork you were carrying without even noticing, hands stretching out in front of you like you’re trying to catch the sky itself.

Your gloves are off before you even realize what you’re doing.

Snowflakes land in your palm.

They’re so small. So light.

And they vanish almost instantly.

You gasp like someone just showed you a magic trick.

Across the yard, Soap is the first to notice you.

He’s halfway through lighting a cigarette when he pauses, lighter hovering in the air.

“…What’s she doin’?”

Gaz follows his line of sight.

You’re standing in the middle of the yard with your arms out like a kid in a cartoon, head tilted back toward the sky, spinning slowly while snow lands in your hair.

Soap squints.

“Is she… dancin’?”

Ghost, leaning against the wall nearby, glances up.

He watches for a few seconds.

You laugh—an unfiltered, breathless sound that carries across the cold air.

Then you shout.

“IT’S SNOWING!”

Soap blinks.

“…Aye.”

You whip around toward them like they’ve just confirmed the existence of aliens.

“IT’S SNOWING!” You repeat, just as enthusiastically.

Gaz snorts.

“Yes. That does tend to happen.”

But you’re already running toward them.

Actually running.

You skid slightly when your boots hit the damp pavement near them, breath puffing in white clouds.

“LOOK!”

You shove your hands out toward them like you’re presenting evidence.

Snowflakes land in your palms.

“They’re so tiny!”

Soap stares at you for a long moment.

“…Have you never seen snow before?”

You look at him like the answer should be obvious.

“No!”

Silence.

Soap glances at Gaz.

Gaz glances at Ghost.

Ghost is staring at you.

“…You’re serious..?” Gaz says slowly.

“Dead serious!”

Another snowflake lands on your nose.

You don’t even notice.

“I’ve seen it in movies! But it’s not the same, it’s like—” you gesture wildly upward, “—it’s actually falling!”

Soap lets out a sudden laugh.

Not mean. Just completely unprepared.

“You’re tellin’ me you’ve gone yer whole life without snow?”

“Yes!”

Gaz shakes his head in disbelief.

“Where the hell did you grow up?”

“Where it’s warm, Duh!” you say defensively, like that should explain everything.

Price steps out of the building behind them just in time to hear the commotion.

“What’s all the—”

He stops.

Looks at you.

Then at the sky.

Then back at you, practically vibrating with excitement while trying to catch snowflakes in your bare hands.

“…What’s she doin’?”

Soap wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.

“Never seen snow before, Cap.”

Price raises an eyebrow.

“You’re joking.”

You rush toward him immediately like he’s the next person who needs to witness the miracle.

“Captain, look!”

He glances down at the snow in your palm.

“…Yes.”

Your eyes are shining.

“They’re like little stars!”

Price exhales slowly through his nose, clearly trying not to smile.

Behind him, Ghost tilts his head slightly, still watching you.

You suddenly crouch down, staring at the ground where the snow is starting to dust the pavement.

Then you scoop some up.

Or try to…It’s mostly slush.

“Wait—hold on—”

You gather a small handful anyway, packing it together like wet sand.

“What are you making?” Gaz asks.

You stand up proudly.

“A snowball!”

It looks like a damp lump of sadness.

Soap grins.

“That’s the worst snowball I’ve ever seen.”

You beam anyway.

Then, without warning—

You throw it.

It explodes against Soap’s chest.

Everyone freezes.

Soap stares down at the wet smear on his shirt.

Slowly…

Slowly…

He looks up.

“Oh, you’ve made a mistake.”

You gasp.

Then you bolt.

Laughter bursts out of you as your boots slip on the wet pavement while Soap charges after you like an unleashed dog.

Gaz is already scooping snow off a railing.

“Captain, permission to engage?”

Price sighs like a tired father watching chaos unfold.

“…Go on then.”

Ghost watches the whole thing quietly as you duck behind a truck, shrieking when Soap nearly catches you.

Snowflakes collect in your hair.

On your shoulders.

In your eyelashes.

You look happier than he’s ever seen you.

You peek around the truck and lock eyes with him.

Your grin is immediate.

“Ghost!”

He already knows.

“…No.”

You scoop snow off the hood of the truck anyway.

“Ghost—!”

“Don’t.”

“You have to!”

“You’re not throwin’ that at me.”

Your grin widens.

Soap yells from behind you.

“DO IT!”

And you do.

The snowball barely survives the throw, breaking apart against his shoulder.

Everyone waits.

Ghost looks down at the melting snow on his jacket.

Then at you.

You suddenly look very small.

“…Sorry?”

There’s a pause.

Then Ghost bends down.

Scoops up a handful of snow.

And starts packing it slowly.

Your eyes go wide.

“Oh no.”

Soap howls with laughter.

Gaz claps you on the back as he runs past.

“Run.”

You run.

Your laughter echoes across the base yard as the first snow of the year falls gently from the sky.

Now, the Task Force finally understands why someone would get excited about snow.

can’t aim, no gamesense, the definition of dogshit. however, that’s how civilian!tf141 finds them in their free time.

simon, a chef by day and bouncer by night, finds you on one of his off days, playing a shooter. you’re always so interactive and goddamn charming towards your chat. he couldn’t help but smile to himself about.. how bad you are at these games. he became a frequent lurker in your chat, occasionally dropping donos and emotes.

price who’s just an old man living a quiet desk job discovers you through youtube where you post some of your clips. you were playing a simulator of some sort, cackling at whatever you did that caused the game to glitch out. that elicited a snort from him and he found himself hovering over the subscribe button.

kyle stumbled across you through twitch as well, finding you playing fucking rocket league of all things. you were missing the ball and laughing too damn hard at it, tears welling in your eyes from the joy. he found himself following and occasionally gifting you a sub.

johnny who got a kick out of watching you on tiktok cause who the fuck is that bad at a fighting game? you were getting your ass kicked in tekken by a friend and you weren’t even raging, you were just laughing and trying your best.

it was easy to watch you. easy to laugh and enjoy the game. they all met up occasionally, drinking and catching up. they were all in the military together but each of them left for different reasons. normalcy. rebuilding empathy. the works.

it wasn’t until they all got a notification at the same time while drinking at the pub. simon glanced at his phone, price ignored it and kyle simply kept drinking. it was johnny who flipped his phone open and grinned. “aye, my favorite bon is streamin’ again. mighty shite at games but clearly eye candy.” he stated, turning his phone around.

[reader’s stream name is currently streaming!]

simon’s eyes widened as he checked his phone. you were actually streaming. kyle choked on his drink and price simply raised an eyebrow. it was a late night stream.. not a part of your schedule. wonder what you were up to at this hour.

.

.

.

Gaz with Clumsy!reader | cw: 18+ mdni, fluff, sfw.

And he swore you must’ve been a cat the amount of times hes saved your life.

It’s actually how you two met, you had dropped your phone right in the street, you bend down to reach for it and you were immediately yanked back, falling into someone’s hard chest, a car immediately zooming past, crushing your phone. You look up, meat king a gorgeous pair of brown eyes, “Christ, you alright?”

You blink, once, taking in his obscenely handsome face, high cheekbones, pearly white teeth, you breathlessly say, “No.”

Your eyes widen as he gives you a raises an eyebrow at you, finally standing straightening yourself, “I mean, yes! Yes I am!”

Kyle couldn’t help but give you the most amused smile, you were cute little thing, literally fell into his arms. Saying so many apologies, even more apologies as he led you to the phone repair shop.

You two hit off from there.

It becomes instinct to fix whatever error that is unbeknownst to you. You trip, a lot, even over your own feet, and Kyle will catch you and fic you up right like nothing happened. He’s quick to catch glasses you don’t know you knocked over before they hit the floor. Leaving a curled pin or flexi rod (or the whole comb) in your hair? Kyle will silently take it out. Your sweater or jacket gets caught in the door, Kyle is quick to yank it out before it snags. A paper cut or a scrape on your elbow? Kyle now carries your favorite band aids, (the hello kitty ones) in his pants pocket. Dropped your keys on the ground without realizing? The picked them up and pocketed them till the end of the night when you get your front door and don’t even realize you don’t have your keys in your hands anymore.

The most perfect thing you did though— missing your face when you’re feeding yourself.

Most adorable thing he’s seen you do. Are you a messy eater? Maybe a little. Who knows. Just too focused on the conversation that you forget where your mouth is. Sometimes, Kyle will wipe it off with a napkin, other times with his thumb, making sure to suck off whatever remnants is there. Your eyes meet when he does it, audition you shy away, making a smirk grow up his plump lips.

“Just helpin darlin, don’t worry.”

It makes you get all hot and flustered, suddenly fixing your posture, squirming in your seat.

Perfect.

You were taking a nice stroll in city, the sun shining, perfect 70 degree weather. Kyle’s hand never leaving your waist, ever admiring your beautiful face and skin in the sunlight. you’d decided to get a couple of scoops of your favorite ice cream to share. Of course, he let you eat your share.

He’d get his share from you too.

You’d missed your mouth, again, but before you got the chance to wipe it off, Kyle lifted your chin in his hand. Letting his tongue glide along the spot of melted ice cream on the corner of your mouth before stealing a kiss from your soft lips. You almost dropped the ice cream completely mid kiss, but he catches it, properly setting the cone back in your hands as you look at him in daze.

He chuckles, kissing your cheek “It’s pretty sweet, don’t you think baby?”

Whoever (m) x BlackFem!Reader

~°463 words, fluff, baby talk, your daughter trying to get you to understand her, etc°~

The late afternoon sun was streaming into the living room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

He was settled cross-legged on the floor, stacking bright wooden blocks into a tower, while Alma—a solid, determined little chunk of a toddler—sat opposite him, deeply engaged in a serious discussion.​

Alma, whose vocabulary consisted mainly of "Mama," "Dada," and a rapidly expanding collection of elaborate, highly expressive nonsense syllables, was speaking with great conviction.​“Bah-boo-da! Geee-wah!” she pronounced, gesturing emphatically at the collapsing block tower.​

Her dad nodded gravely, leaning in conspiratorially. “Oh, I see. The structural integrity is compromised by the load-bearing pillar at the base, which is simply unacceptable for the proposed trajectory of the intergalactic satellite, isn’t it?”​

“Bah-booo! Ye!” Alma agreed, nodding vigorously.​

You watched from the sofa, scrolling on your phone but smiling into your screen. You loved the completely serious, lengthy, and utterly fictional conversations he would have with his daughter.

Alma then scrambled onto the sofa beside you, grabbing your knee. She patted your cheek with a damp, sticky hand and leaned in close, her brow furrowed with urgent information.​

“Mama! Goo-wah bah-bop!” she stated, pointing back toward the catastrophic block tower.​

You looked down at her earnest face, tilting your head. You caught the important part, but the rest was lost to the wind.​

“Hi, sweetie,” you said, reaching up to stroke her cheek. “I love your little face. But I honestly don't know what you're saying.”​

She froze. Then frowned at you, pulling back slightly as if you'd just failed a crucial pop quiz.​

“Bop-wa?” she repeated, slower this time, clearly trying to simplify the critical message.​

“I know ‘Bop,’ but I don’t know ‘wa,’ honey,” you confessed with a light chuckle. “You’re too smart for me.”​

Alma’s lower lip jutted out, and she looked immediately over at her dad on the floor, her little face a picture of confusion and betrayal. Her eyes seemed to say, Why isn't she getting the urgent intelligence report?​

Her partner, still on the floor, immediately chimed in, leaning forward, winking at you.​

“She said, ‘Mama, the structural integrity of the base is compromised, and the fire truck is needed for immediate reinforcement!’” he translated, his voice low and serious.

“You missed the whole point of the mission brief, sweets.”​

You laughed, shaking your head at his commitment. You leaned down and kissed the top of Alma’s head. “Alright, alright. Go tell the structural engineer you need reinforcements, then.”​

She beamed, instantly vindicated by his father's translation. She scrambled off the sofa with renewed purpose, grabbing the red fire truck and barreling straight back toward him, ready to rejoin the complex, secret world only they understood.

Could you write one imagine with just pure cute, domesticated fluff? Like married life/life w kids or smth with TF141. I'm up for anything haha. It's okay if u don't want to ! 😄<33

I did have someone request domestic fluff not too long ago, but I couldn't help myself. I had to jump on your ask, anon, and write some more domestic fluff!! You can read that other domestic fluff imagines fic here. I incorporated some dad!141 here with Ghost and Price. The whole thing is just softness and sweetness. Enjoy!!

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

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: domestic fluff, dad!Price, dad!Simon

Word Count: 800

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