18+!

you know that whole “141 hunkering down at one of their nearby flats when desperate on a mission” trope that ends in them meeting reader they didn’t know about?

yeah well, simon reluctantly bringing the team back to his flat when they need a place to lay low. and simon doesn’t warn them about the sweet thing he’s got waiting back home for him

and they just gawk when you creep out into the living room, his shirt barely covering your ass when you crawl into his lap to greet him. no shame from either of you as you greet each other with a sloppy, tongue-filled kiss

one hand groping your ass when he introduces you to the lads, side eyes shared between them because not one of then knew simon had a bird

sharing a cigarette together on the balcony before he sends you back to bed, since he’s still technically on duty. crawls into bed after setting the lads up in the living room, snuggling you back to sleep just for you to wake up alone in the morning

ramblings before bed

falls to my knees crying THAT FUCKING COUCH SNIPPET JM GOING TO EXPLODE

guys. I miss them. I miss harmless fun

I eat up harmless fun crumbs like nobody’s business

— puppy teeth 🦷 anon

I miss them too

(Last) Sunday supper 🐇

thinking about task force 141 during the roman empire but it’s reversed

you are the gladiator in the arena, someone made a wrong assumption, put you in, and you somehow make it out of the 26 person brawl ALIVE

after the fight is over, you lay all the bodies out in a traditional manner, arms crossed eyes closed; because even if they all tried to kill you and each other you think they deserve a proper resting place for having to go through this

the crowd at first was screaming, some cheering others were not at your win but it all settled into silence when they realized what you were doing

the emperor was impressed with the fight and your compassion so you’re treated like a true winner; a line of 4 men standing to be your ‘spoils for the night’ you deserve it the translator had said after realizing you didn’t understand their language.

so as to not upset the emperor, you take all 4 beefy and broad men; all of them undressing, but your quick to stop them. motioning that they don’t have to do this and you just want to sleep in the bed that’s big enough for all 5 of you.

they spoke together later that night, all agreeing that you would never go into the arena again.

it is kind of funny that Neil played Soap as a pretty laid back but straight laced, normal macho soldier type, and we all decided that hmmm nah that's a creepy weirdo pervert that has heart eyes for pussy and dick and can't be normal to save his life

soap the type of guy to pretend to give u backshots if u lean over a counter

So I’ve been staying at a hotel lately and running out of clean clothes, so I’ve been sleeping in the hotel robe, which inevitably doesn’t stay closed and exposes my tits at some point in the night.

Anyways. Imagine sharing a room with Soap.

The whole time he’s been playing up how normal it is. Sleeping in the same room. Leaving the bathroom door open. Seeing each other’s weird habits. Cause you’re best mates, so it’s not weird. You’re one of the guys, a member of the team— you’ve been together through thick and thin. You’ve slept in closer quarters than this on deployment.

Until you’re sleeping and your robe opens up, and suddenly he’s reminded that you’re his best mate with the soft, inviting body of a girl.

And he’s just a man, bonnie. Cannae be blamed for what happens next, y’ken?

• I love this trend sm!! 💫

I’ve made a diagram

Thinking about how when you’re drunk—and I mean really drunk—you get it in your head to catcall men. They could use a little harassment. When you reach that point, your friends immediately know it’s time to cut you off, acting like the Secret Service as they usher you out of the bar and towards the Uber. But they couldn’t anticipate the group of men standing outside the bar swapping laughs and smoking.

Of course you pick the scariest one of the lot and:

“Hey!” you shout, half giggling. “Hey—you, in the mask!”

The man turns. You can’t see his mouth with the surgical mask in place but you can tell his eyebrows are raised. He’s fucking huge, towering over his counterparts (who are nothing to sniff at), thick and strong. His head cocks in silent question.

“Can I get your number?” you shout, licking your friend’s hand when she slaps it over your mouth. All your friends rush to brush the guy off, but he’s already ashing his cigarette under his boot, slipping his hands into his pocket, and crossing the street quietly.

He stays a healthy distance away, aware of how it looks: a man his size approaching a group of young, inebriated women. You think he’s come to harass you in return, or maybe just to mock you—either way you are stunned silent, mouth agape, eyes wide. He’s so much taller up this close.

“Got a pen?” he asks.

He only approaches then, shoulders hunched to make himself appear smaller and innocuous. He takes your hand in his own and writes his phone number on your forearm.

When you wake up hungover the next morning, his number is there on your arm along with a reminder that you hadn’t been able to see in the dim lighting of the parking lot: XXX-XXXX—S. Drink water.