#141 as a family

[natelia-aldelliz]

Gaz & Soap, joking that Price kidnapped them for the 141 Task Force :

Price : I didn't kidnap Soap. I went to all the right channels, I asked all his superiors, he's legally mine.

Soap : Will you tell me about my birth superiors one day, dad?

Price : You're a child.

Soap : Well yeah, that's the point of this whole joke, captain

Price : Anyway, as I was saying, I didn't kidnap Soap, but I sure did kidnap Gaz. In the middle of his investigation. To take him straight to Urzikstan. Got some choice words from the SAS for that one. But to be fair, I did text someone I knew that I was taking him so it's not like they didn't know.

Gaz : Damn. That's like my origin story. Maybe one day I'll see my family again.

Price : I don't like when you're both annoying at the same time.

Gaz : To be fair you already had me and you decided on your own to take Soap as well, you knew you'd never know peace again, sir.

Soap : What about Ghost, did you kidnap him as well?

Price :.... Well to be honest I have genuinely no idea. I asked him if he wanted in, he said yes, and then he was here. I haven't asked anyone else but no one complained so...

Ghost : Because if they complain then they have to admit that they know I'm not dead and they're keeping me on the field despite my very obvious ptsd. They don't want that kind of news to get out.

Price : Yeah.

Ghost : Soooo... Am I your son too, then, is that how that works?

Price : Oh my god Simon please not you too.

Ghost : =)

[3amfanfiction]

You know what one of my favorite tropes is?

When reader starts dating someone in the 141 and quickly finds out that they’re a package deal.

The first time you meet the rest of them (very early on) they’re hovering around the edges, just waiting to be let into the group, like a pack of shy dogs wanting attention and to be loved but scared of demanding it, scared of frightening you away.

And then you look at all of them, truly look—at this captain who always has to be right. If he’s not right 100% of the time then people he cares about get hurt.

At this lieutenant, already chewed up and spit out by the world. More scars than skin at this point. You wonder how many people only see the scars and not the shivering body underneath it, waiting for a soft touch.

At this handsome sergeant, with the weight of the world on his shoulders, trying to follow in his captains footsteps, but the steps are so large he scrambles behind, always feeling like he’s never going to catch up.

At this energetic sergeant who has been shooed away again and again, never finding the person with the patience to deal with his attention. Always loud, always restless, looking forward to the next thing.

And you’re standing there looking at them—deciding if you want to let them into your home, into your life.

Because they are a unit, and you can pull one out for a short time but they will end up wound back into the twisted rope before the end.

So you do.

You let them in.

But they are dogs through and through. Pack animals to their core and you’re part of them now.

No going back from here.

[stellewriites]

soap

[moongreenlight]

Have you ever seen that corny ass skit where it’s the girl talking to her husband asking him to fix things and he says “I’m not a plumber” “I’m not a carpenter” bla bla bla and then one day he comes home and the girl’s like “oh yeah I had the neighbor come over to fix the things you wouldn’t” and the neighbor says she can either bake him a cake or sleep with him as payment so the husband asks “so what kind of cake did you bake him?” And the girl says “I’m not a baker?”

Very much Neighbor!Price x stay-at-home-mom!reader coded :)

Mdni. Nsfw below cut.

Neighbor!Price who’s found a quiet little cul-de-sac to settle in when he’s got some time off. It’s a little neighborhood, mostly older people who’re thrilled to have a man like him around to help bring out bins and offer to mow their lawns or rake their leaves or shovel their drives when he’s around.

But somehow he’s found the only other younger family in the area living directly next to him. Parents are a few years his junior, and they’ve got two young kids. He assumes the boy, the older one, is early elementary age- sees you herding him into the car in the morning with a pack lunch and a backpack that’s nearly the same size as he is to and from the house in the morning and afternoon. And the girl, the younger, must be in pre-k, because she’s only out for half the day and doesn’t get the same pack lunch her brother gets.

He’s gotten to know you pretty well. When he’s around, the two of you will chat while you’re tending your garden and he’s working in his garage carrying out some odd project or another. He thinks you’re sweet. Likes the way you wear overalls with a little top when you’re planting flowers in the beds out front. How when you bend over or stand at the right angle he can imagine you’re not wearing a top at all.

He hates your husband. He’s crass and rude and never waves hello to any of the neighbors- odd for such a friendly little community. Leaves for work early and comes home late and leaves you to fend for yourself all day. Doesn’t know how to interact with you or your kids. And Price is almost certain he doesn’t fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked because his bedroom window looks over your living room and he’s caught you on the couch with your hand down your pants more times than could have been coincidence.

He’s known to be the neighborhood handyman. Got a little workshop set up in his garage and a general knowledge about nearly everything, so it’s not uncommon that he gets a knock on the door a few times a week. Usually it’s some of the older neighbors popping over to see if he can fix their TVs or help their grandkids connect to the Wi-Fi, but it’s a pleasant surprise when you turn up on his porch mid-morning.

You’re scrunching the ends of your soaking wet hair in a towel. Apologizing as soon as you hear him turn the deadbolt. Feverishly going on about how you must have blown a circuit in the bathroom trying to dry your hair and you’d usually be able to manage but your husband shoved a bookshelf in front of the breaker and you can’t get through to it.

He’s sweet about it. Always is, but especially for you. Follows you over to your place and promises you no less than ten times that it’s really no trouble. He’s happy to help. It’s a quick fix, but he drags it out as long as he can. Insists on following you up and down the stairs from the basement to the top floor twice to make sure everything’s working properly.

He notices that the bathroom door sticks and that the fire alarm in the hallway is chirping from a low battery. You apologize for the toys in the living room and the clean laundry pile on the couch and the state of your house. Say that your husband is racking up a hefty to-do list with a small laugh that’s just a bit too forced.

He’s thrilled to tell you that he’s got some free time later in the week and says he’ll come over if only to help out your husband. Makes some backhanded remark about how your husband is clearly a busy lad. You refuse- of course- sweet thing that you are, but he turns up the next day after you’ve taken your kids to school anyway.

He tails you up the drive so there’s no way you can shut him out. Shushes you when you try to apologize for one reason or another and takes off to fix not only the sticky bathroom door and the fire alarm batteries, but also the dripping kitchen faucet and the garbage disposal that’s been broken for months.

You try to stay clear of whatever room he’s working in, chirping short responses to whatever nonsense question he asked in an attempt to lure you over. It was only when he was about to head out and he saw you leaning on the dryer to keep it shut that he saw his golden opportunity.

You were clearly trying to hide it, but even with a small load of clothes in, it sounded like you’d thrown a pair of boots into a tin garbage pail and shook it hard as you could. You tried to shoo him off, but he wasn’t having any of it.

There’s enough skirting around the subject to give you chance to turn down his advances, but when he realizes you’re not outright telling him to go fuck himself, he’s essentially taking it as a challenge to see if he can’t push you to that point.

Hoists you up on the still clanging machine and pushes between your legs on the weak pretense of needing you there to keep the door shut while he works. The machine shook the straps of your top down off your shoulders and made him acutely aware of the fact that you hadn’t had the time to put on a bra yet. It made his pants near painfully tight on the crotch.

He’d try and make idle chat. Your kids and plans for the day, but it’s entirely too hard for him to focus on anything other than the way your thighs are pressing together as the dry cycle started to bang the machine around more. He makes a light comment about how he’s not sure how you get anything done around the house with the dryer in this state. Your laugh is breathy.

And when he leans over you to reach to the back of the machine, he can feel the way your soft panting breaths fan his neck. Confirms his suspicions.

“Alright?”

You’re chewing the inside of your lip while you nod. Clearly starved for stimulation if all it takes is a dry cycle to get you off. Poor thing.

It’s stuffy in the laundry room. Adds to the appeal. Makes your shorts ride up and stick to your legs. Your thighs are dewy and glide together when you shift under his gaze.

“You sure, doll?”

The two of you are almost nose-to-nose. You’re leaned back, caged in by his big arms that look even bigger in his almost obscenely tight shirt. He’s smiling. Letting his eyes wander to your collarbones. The way your throat bobbed when you swallowed.

Before you could choke out your answer, the dryer stopped. Chimed the alert and slowly stilled. You took a shaky breath and nodded once more, looking like you couldn’t decide whether to be disappointed or relieved. He backed off, stretched out his hand to help you down.

You lead him to the kitchen. Ask if you can get him anything. Tea or food. He declines. You say something about stopping to get cash when you’re out picking up your daughter in a couple hours. He declines again.

“John, really, I appreciate your help. You have to let me get you back.”

You’re filling the kettle with water anyway, leaned just slightly over the sink. He knows it’s impolite to stare, but he’s never had very good manners when it came to things like that.

“Bake me a cake or somethin’, then. Sleep with me. Won’t take your money, though.”

You whirl around and end up sloshing some water down your front. Doesn’t seem to phase you. Your eyebrows are damn near at your hairline.

“I don’t know if that’s appropriate, considering…”

He snorts a soft laugh. It’s kind- not at all suggestive. Like he’s playing off a clever joke.

“What? Baking me a cake?”

You purse your lips and set the kettle on the stove.

“Never been a very good baker.”

He about hurdles the kitchen island like he’s running track.

“That right?”

You make a thoughtful sound before clicking on the burner. He can see you biting back a smile. You finally turn to face him. Leaned back on your hands with your head cocked slightly to the side.

“I just don’t know that it would be appropriate given our- my- situation.”

It’s his turn to hum and nod. Take a few steps forward, slow and slinky like a predator stalking toward its prey.

“Sure.”

You chew your bottom lip. Try to find some resolve in fussing with your wedding ring. It’s horrible. Small. He can’t help but think about how he’d be able to get you a much better one. He takes a few more steps forward.

“It’s complicated, John.”

Your voice is mousy now.

“I know.”

A few more steps forward and he’s back nose-to-nose with you. Pinning you against the counter.

“I just-“

“Then tell me to go home.”

The button of his jeans grazes your groin and sends sparks up your spine. You recoil slightly, but he’s got his massive hands on your wrists to keep you in place.

“My husb-“

“Don’t. S’not what I said. Tell me to go home. Tell me to go home, and I’ll leave. S’easy as that.”

The coarse hair of his beard brushes along your jaw. Visible goosebumps rise all the way up your neck and down your arms.

“John, he-“

A throaty growl from him.

“He’s not getting a lick of you.”

And then somehow he’s got you on your back on the couch. Shoved off the pile of laundry and pushed you down. His eyes are near pitch black and hungry. Ravenous. He tears off your shorts. Doesn’t wait for you to hoist your hips, just yanks so hard that you’re a little worried you’ll get thrown off the couch with them.

He is wretched. Planting wet kisses from the inside of your knee all the way up to your sex frustratingly slow. Big hands splayed over your hips to keep you from bucking up into his mouth. He’s got this maddeningly smug smile on his face like he’s waiting for the perfect moment to say I told you so. Like he knew this was going to happen from the start, you were just too stupid to see.

Your underwear is embarrassingly wet from your little go on the dryer. Your pussy puffy and sensitive underneath. You whine when he kisses over the damp spot. Laves his tongue over your folds without pulling them to the side. He makes some comment about the state of you that borders on snarky, but you choose to ignore it.

When he finally does rid you of your panties, there’s a moment of clarity where you realize what you’re doing. You push up on your elbows and try to roll out from under him, but he gives your clit a mean slap that forces you back onto the couch and ends your protest. Sends you to that liminal, clouded headspace where all you can focus on is how desperately you need to come.

It’s clear he’s savoring the moment. Running the point of his tongue through your folds. Teasing at your hole. Artfully swirling around your clit, but never close enough to give you the friction you’re so desperately craving. Planting hot, wet kisses on your inner thighs. Leaves a few love bites in his wake like he’s boasting; so certain your husband wouldn’t get close enough to notice that he had no problem decorating you as he pleased.

You’re a mess. Being taken apart stitch by stitch. Panting and whining and begging for more. Your orgasm is coiling tight under your belly without him having to do much. Any other time you’d have felt a little pathetic, but you were too preoccupied to care now.

He finally brings his hands up and you think he’s about to stuff you full, but he only lets his fingers drag slowly along your sensitive sex. Collects some of your arousal and pulls it up toward your naval. Watches the goosebumps form under his touch.

He rucks your shirt up with his free hand and immediately wraps his lips around your pebbled nipples. Tongues at them. Lets his teeth graze teasingly over them. And whatever one he’s not got currently in his mouth, he’s working his fingers over. Pinching and flicking until you’re teary eyed and squirming under him.

And then finally, fucking finally, he ducks back down and fixes his mouth on your clit. Sucks gently on the swollen bud for just a moment and then companies his mouth with two fingers bullying their way inside you.

The stretch is almost uncomfortable in its suddenness, but you quickly get used to it. The pleasure is blinding. Forces you to throw your head back against the cushion and screw your eyes tightly shut. A string of high, needy moans float through your gaped lips.

He’s sweet, Jesus, is he. Hums and groans with his mouth still on your bundle of nerves. Pulls away just enough to tell you how pretty your pussy is taking him before going back to work on your sensitive clit. You want to scream. You think you may actually come entirely undone on this couch if he doesn’t stop.

And then your orgasm coils so tightly within you that it explodes outward. Tears through you and leaves every square inch of your skin sizzling. He doesn’t let up. Pins you down by the stomach with his forearm and continues down his warpath. The sounds his fingers make when they sink into you are so pornographic that it makes your face hot.

You eventually find it in you to warble out something that sounded like please, too much. And he pulled off, still with that smug grin pulling his lips now surrounded by glistening slick caught in the hair of his beard.

He gives you one last kiss. Lewd and wet and so searing hot you’re worried it will actually blister the sensitive flesh of your cunt. He’ll sit back on his haunches and fuss with the button and zipper of his jeans before saying something horrible and cheeky like

“C’mon, doll. Thought you were set on payin’ me back.”

[kalivodas]

listen i just had to i have such a fundamental feeling for that bear of a man

part 1

warnings p in v nasty nasty talk he calls you kiddo but come on now

IT’S YOUR FAULT. at least that’s what he tells you, coos into your ear as the wet of his mouth finds refuge against your throat. his beard tickles, but his tongue sears.

“you started it, kid,” he grumbles to the fever-ridden air between you. his truck was hot, fog pilled on the windows. (jesus, you were fucking in the parking lot of a home goods.)

he places a palm on your back, arches it up nice and pretty for him, and teases the head of his cock against you. you hear his breath hitch when he meets nothing but wetness.

“please,” you whine, and you feel goosebumps prick your skin at the rawness of your voice.

“beg for it, lovie,” he urges.

your hips buck, grinding into him aimlessly as he pulls away from you. a man who would stick his dick in you in the back of a shopping plaza, but a man with restraint, nonetheless.

somewhere between the high-pitched whimpers of oh, fuck you and god, please please please just put it in and fuck me, john, please baby, need you bad (it was absolutely this one), he bottoms out inside you.

you feel his hips shutter against you. your lungs fall empty, a pathetic, breathless thing falling from your mouth. when you find your air, catch his cock in a vice, he completely draws from you.

“stop being mean,” you grit, bite at him, and your back heaves when his teeth sink into your shoulder.

he grins. you feel it. “why dontcha’ just be quiet honey? just-“ he jams his length into you, face splits impossibly when he hears a squelch. “let her talk for a little bit, shut that pretty fucking mouth.”

before you get to rebuttal, or a form a decent thought in the mush that was your head, his palm finds the fat of your hip. he squeezes there, hums when you whine, and places a hefty palm on your ass. he lets the other hand snake around, enveloping your mouth.

“fat babies, huh?” his pelvis all but snaps against you, and you bite against his hand when his balls slap your clit. he feels you squeeze him, like a fucking vice, he says, and one of his hands slide to your shoulders.

he pushes you down, cheek flat against the leather of his backseat, and pistons down into you like he got paid by the damn hour.

“i’ll give you a fucking baby.” his chest shudders, you swear you feel the hair of it prick your back. your bear.

“fill you the brim, jesus, i’m gonna make you a mama,” he grunts, and you can hear the brute of him shatter. his words come out slurred and broken, lungs taking in air almost viciously.

your hips lock beneath him, and you paw the hand on your mouth away. “knock me up,” you beg him. “please, gotta be— fuck, gotta be full.”

you’d put twenty bucks on the bet that he whimpered.

“i’m gonna’,” his hands find the pudge of your thighs and he tightens his fingers on you like you might slip out of them. “gonna’ make you all fat and pretty, kid.”

he cums then, hot spurts of him filling your tummy. he peels himself away from you, and has to bite away a smirk at the spent, sweaty state of the two of you.

“no more house shopping for you, mr. price,” you coo up at him, but your body hasn’t moved. in fact, it sounds like your fighting your lungs to breathe.

he laughs. “yeah baby, that’s the problem.”

a / n dedicated to @pricegouge only ur tags awakened something

[giotanner]

🧼: «So how'd ye become 'The Ghost'?» 💀: «I saw a ghost, once»

New tiktok available (yes, it's about Ghost 09 backstory, Roba and Found Family)

Please support me with a REBLOG to be in Call Of Duty circle here on tumblr, thank you!

ko-fi

[hunterbunter3000]

Price, answering his phone: Hello?

141Sweetheart: Hey Cap! Just wanted to call and tell you that Ghost made it to the med bay.

141Sweetheart looking at Ghost:

Ghost, eyes closed and not moving:

141Sweetheart, crying: HE'S D E A D

Ghost: I WAS JUST RESTING MY EYES

[baohanhanesel]

Do you mean like fic recs to draw or just ideas?

For fic recs: The Road To Hell (Is Paved With Good Intentions) by @sunshowersanddandelionwine

And for ideas: Ghoap dancing in the rain!

Okay so I am forever grateful for you. I decided to just do both of your recs. Dragon Soap and his hoard. That fic is one of my favorites btw 😭 Hope @sunshowersanddandelionwine sees this 🤷

[bigassmoonchild]

night team here

can we request ghost with a daughter that is the mini verison of him like soap thinks shes gonna be sweet and nice and she bullies him worse than her father does

bonus points

price already knew ghosts daughter was a complete savage but soap annoyed him that morning and price decided the consequences of his actions was being brutally roasted

(daughter is gonna be leaning teens just bc i said so. also, thank you so much for the request!! love the night team 🫶🫶)

soap wasn’t supposed to know. this wasn’t something anyone was supposed to know, but simon was decently okay with price knowing. price knew to keep secrets, hell, price had his own.

but simon accidentally let it slip.

‘i’ve gotta get home, early morning,’ he’d told the 141 when they wanted to go out for drinks after a successful mission. they gave him odd looks (one of them was a knowing one, but he’d ignore price being offered to come watch a recital).

soap didn’t let it go, no he didn’t. ‘got the missus waiting back there?’ and simon was exhausted, it was a long mission and all he wanted was to sleep in his own house.

‘kids got a recital,’ he’d muttered and had walked away. what he didn’t expect was to find a huge amount of messages from soap the next morning. most consisted of the same things.

kid??

who’d have a child with you??

what’s the mother look like?

what’s the kids name?

son or daughter?

maybe i wanted to come watch too

i’m technically their uncle

and simon had to leave, collected you from your grandmother and took you to the recital. you were beautiful, the pride and joy of his life. someone he’d never thought he’d ever had, someone he never knew he could love more than anything.

it took months for simon to wear down enough ti even allow any of them to see a picture of you, let alone know your name.

‘beauty, that one is. you sure she came from you?’ simon shoved soap off the chair for that comment. soap continued to rave about being an ‘uncle’ and as much as simon didn’t want it, he had to tell you.

you looked at him weird when he admitted he’d spoken about you to the 141. you knew, generally, what he did but you didn’t get details.

‘ok and?’ you’d asked. ‘what’re they gonna do? it’s not like they’re gonna do something behind your back, not like price has said anything,’ and he worried. maybe he coddled you a little, but you were his girl.

and you’d agreed to meeting them, but told simon you didn’t want to know when. ‘i’ll be thinking about it too much,’ you told him.

simon finally dropped a few names for you, late one night when he’d finally relaxed with some whiskey (he didn’t mention the watered down taste).

‘what kinda name is soap? he drop it or something?’

it took some time before simon had grown any sort of comfortable letting anyone but price be around you. it wasn’t common that you stayed by price when simon was out on a mission, but the occasion happened when it was possibly a fatal one.

it was early morning when you’d sent a text to simon, he hadn’t meant to go to the compound at all that day but had made a lunch. it was a picture of the lunch, still sitting in the fridge with the caption ‘you forget something?’

and he’d groaned, mentioning to price in passing that he forgot his lunch at home. soap and gaz had been there, and a little smile came from soap.

‘just have the lass bring it ‘round, i’m sure she’s dying to meet her uncles,’ price gave a little grimace. ‘what? she’s probably a sweetheart, i cant imagine a girl like her would turn out like ghost,’

you’d relented to bring it around, especially after price messaged you about soap not being able to shut up about meeting you.

he’s pressing me for information. -john

if you bring the food, i’ll give your dad an extra day of leave. -john

please, i’m about to make him run. -john

you always laughed a little when he signed off after each text. it was his own little thing, and you secretly enjoyed having a fatherly figure text you more than three words.

when you got to the compound, you found price waiting outside for you and you waggled the bag of food at him. he let you in, guiding you through the halls to where simon and the others were.

‘try not to forget it, next time,’ you told simon. he gave you a small grunt, one that sounded like his ‘thank you’.

soap walked up to you, giving you a cheeky grin and swinging his arm around your shoulder. ‘how’s it been, lass?’ he asked you and you shook his arm off.

‘you know it’s not the 80’s anymore, right?’ he blinked at you. snorting softly with an eye roll, you sat down in the nearest chair. ‘mullets back in style, you know. might fit you better,’ you commented.

soap was left with his mouth open, gesturing faintly to you then to simon. ‘she can’t be like you,’ he nearly hissed.

‘don’t act so surprised, she said damn near the same thing to me,’ price lamented, thinking back on his first time meeting you.

‘you from the 1800’s? christ, i haven’t seen anyone willingly have that beard,’ you’d told him oh so long ago.

you looked around, leaning towards him. ‘who else am i supposed to be like? i’m pretty sure he’s my father,’ you hissed back.

all soap could do was blink. a little ghost? no, he couldn’t believe it. he saw simon give you a little fist bump, almost saw a few dollars being passed between you two.

simon pulled his mask off to eat and you looked at him closely. ‘you get a haircut?’ you asked, squinting your eyes suspiciously.

‘nope,’ he responded. ‘got ‘em all cut,’ and you snorted a short laugh. soap couldn’t do much but watch the interaction, realization slowly settling in.

‘that’s why you tell those shitty jokes?’ he announced. ‘you’re actually a father telling dad jokes,’

you gave a little smile and he could see the admiration in your eyes. god, you were just like your father but the confidence came off of you so easily.

‘yknow he came to my parents job show and tell once,’ you told everyone and simon stared at you. almost daring you to finish. ‘he didn’t take the mask off and had to leave, he scared too many of the kids,’

you spoke so fondly of him.

‘but he’s a prick, so he just left,’ simon lightly kicked your leg and you made a big show of it. you might be his kid, but you had your own personality in there.

and simon would be dead before anyone took that from you.

[remiebear]

Prices hat extends out to a sunhat trust

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Graves and the Shadows take the piss out of Price, Gaz and Ghost - "fawkin' 'ell, guv'nur, up those apple and pears" - and Soap comes in fists flying, because only he is allowed to rib his pet Englishmen about their dorky fuckin' accents, Graves and his yankee doodle dandies can get tae and sit their flat arses doon.

[itacats]

Operation 141: The Family Business

FT: TF141 x gn!reader - Mafia AU

Warnings: mafia themes, stalking, use of the name "sweetheart", please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

A/N: Welcome to the underground, where secrets are currency and alliances are as fragile as glass. Part 1 of our Mafia AU story is here, ready to pull you into a world of shadowy deals, unexpected loyalties, and high-stakes drama. Step carefully, but don’t look away—you won’t want to miss a thing!

Read Part 2 Read Part 3 Read Part 4 Read Part 5 Read Part 6 Read Part 7 Read Part 8 Read Part 9 Read Part 10

Part 1: The Hidden World

The dim lights of the bar flickered, casting a soft amber glow across worn wooden tables and well-worn stools. The low hum of the jukebox played in the background, mingling with the clink of glasses and the steady hum of conversation. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, a constant reminder of the bar's gritty charm. This was no high-end joint — just a dive, a haven for the forgotten and those who preferred to keep their lives in the shadows. For years, you’d been part of that rhythm, the steady beat of routine keeping the world at bay, making you feel just detached enough to avoid the spotlight.

And then they walked in.

Members of the 141 Mafia.

For months now, they’d come in like ghosts slipping through the shadows — deadly, enigmatic, and utterly out of place in the world most people knew. To the outside eye, they looked like any other patrons, but the air around them was charged, like a storm perpetually on the horizon. The kind of tension that made you realize they weren’t just men who had seen an unspoken battle, but men who carried it with them, like a weight that could never be set down. But to you, they were just regulars, faces who blended into the dim light like anyone else. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

John "Soap" MacTavish was the first to break the ice. His boyish grin and easy banter disarmed you from the start, making you forget, if only for a moment, that he was part of something darker. He’d sling a joke your way or toss a casual flirtation across the bar, a half-finished beer in hand. His carefree nature seemed almost out of place, but when you caught the flicker in his eyes — a fleeting darkness — you knew there was more to him than the easy charm. He often asked you to stay after closing for a drink, and though you’d laughed it off the first few times, lately, you found yourself lingering a little longer, drawn to the mystery behind his laugh..

Then there was Simon Riley — Ghost. Silent as a shadow, he would plant himself in the farthest corner of the bar, a hood pulled low and that eerie skull-patterned mask always hiding his face. No one dared approach him unless invited, but his eyes, constantly scanning the room, missed nothing. His mere presence sent shivers down your spine, though not from fear — it was something else, something deeper, as though he carried the weight of a hundred lives on his shoulders. Whenever Soap got too close, Ghost’s gaze would darken just a shade, his silent watch never breaking, as though ensuring nothing more than words passed between you two.

John Price was different — a man who exuded authority and a weariness that came with a lifetime of hidden battles. He’d sit at the bar nursing a tumbler of whiskey, sharing stories that sounded more like fiction than fact. 

And then there was Gaz. He brought a breath of fresh air to the heavy atmosphere. His laid-back attitude, the way he could light up the room with a joke or a quick challenge to a game of darts, made it easy to forget that he too was part of this group of regulars. He’d always laugh at your terrible aim, encouraging you despite the fact that you’d never win, but that was the charm of it. He had a way of making you feel like you were in on the joke, like you were part of their world, if only for a moment.

But tonight was different.

The bar, usually bustling at this hour on a Friday night, had grown unsettlingly still. Midnight had come and gone, and the usual hum of late-night laughter and drunken banter was absent. You were meant to take your break, but something gnawed at the back of your mind, keeping you anchored behind the bar. There was a heaviness in the air, a stillness that made you feel like you were standing on the edge of something you couldn’t quite see.

You wiped down the counter, deciding that it’d be better to call your boss and close up  instead of standing around, casting a glance toward the door. Nothing. No one. Even the regulars had slipped away without you noticing. The quiet was unnatural, as if the bar itself had exhaled its last breath. The jukebox continued its soft, haunting melody, the only sound left in the deafening silence. As you reached for a bottle to busy yourself, your fingers brushed against something cold.

A folded piece of paper.

It sat there on the counter, exactly where an afternoon patron had been sitting earlier. Your heart thudded in your chest as you unfolded it, the jagged handwriting making it somewhat hard to read:

"I’ll see you later, sweetheart…"

Read Part 2

Part 1 just scratched the surface of what’s to come! Thanks for taking this first step into the underworld with me. The stakes are only getting higher, and Part 2 will be here before you know it!

[cluelessatthispoint]

A Dragon's Horde

Pt.2

(Inspired by bluegiragi and docdudo)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The walk back to wherever the hell the hybrid has in mind is tediously frustrating. Each time you think you feel space enough in his strong hold to wiggle yourself free, the tighter his grip becomes. It's not like it hurts or anything, it more so only hurts your pride at being teased in such a manner. One minute there's a gap between his arms and his hold grows lax. Then the very second you deem it safe to move, he tightens his grip. Over and over he does this. Gritting your teeth in anger, your palms resume slapping his forearms.

"Calm down now treasure, I'm not going to hurt you."

Just hearing the way his grumbling voice rumbles so close to your ears makes you shiver. His arms tightening and jostling you gently to adjust you in his arms. The feeling of his unnaturally warm exhales ghost over your scalp rhythmically. It's warmth reminiscent of a hot summer's day. Or the day you got sunburnt so badly that even sleeping was painful. With a scowl etched on your lips you can't help but bite out a snarky retort.

"Going senile old man? I'm not treasure! So let go!"

With a burst of energy you flail your arms and legs once more. Your legs kicking widly as you do your best to kick backwards to hit any part of him that would spur him to release you. Undeterred however, the hybrid lets out a soft growl. The sound almost akin to a mountain lions chuff and a warning hiss of a jaguar.

"Keep still you naughty hatchling."

He says with no real venom in his words. Not that he needs to say anything more with with tone of displeasure lacing his words. His massive tail swinging back and forth in amusement as he once again adjusts his hold on you as if holding a misbehaving hatchling. His right arm taking the bulk of your weight as his left arm secures your limbs to his chest.

"Cheeky lil thing aren't you?"

He says with a quick glance down at you. You can see how his eyes twinkle with satisfaction.

"Hatchlings are supposed to behave."

His voice as grumbling as it is is laced with a mirthful purr. Your words not having offended him in the slightest only confirmed to him that you've been on your own for far longer than he initally guessed.

"Not me, I'm human not a hatchling."

Your retort bouncing off his eardrums as if he never heard you in the first place, his mind seemingly already made up. His piercing eyes roaming over your small form for only a moment or two before he settles his gaze ahead of him, eyes fixed on a trail only he can see.

Passing by low hanging branches, and gnarled trees, the air in this part of the woods feels drastically different compared to how it felt near the city's walls. The air feels heavier, the silence more oppressive. The only thing breaking it at the moment being the dragon hybrid’s heavy, even footfalls. Practically being suffocated against the creature's broad, muscular chest. You can feel bitter tears gathering, almost threatening to spill over from frustration.

"John."

Blinking owlishly up at the hybrid’s weathered face. You almost miss what he said.

"What?"

The look of confusion on your face surely present, must have spoke volumes as the hybrid pulled you closer.

"Name's John."

Pouting up at him heavily, you nod in understanding, you could honestly care less about the name of your kidnapper, but it was a good thing to know, you reckon. Introductions were never your strong suit. Always too quiet, too meek or to awkward. Blinking away tears, too tired to do much else. You relax once again against the hybrid’s strong chest. The body heat he gives off soothing your weary limbs.

"Don't got much of a name..."

The sound of your high pitched voice almost sounds grating to your ears as it cuts the silence. It was meant to sound tough, nonchalant. But instead it sounds so small, so tired. A flash of heat rises to your face, the tips your ears turning red from embarrassment at how young and small you sound. Compared to his low, grumbling tone, you sound even younger than your actual age.

"Well now, I can't have a nameless treasure now can I?"

Whipping your head up to face him, you can see the way his beard bristles when he talks. How there's a spot on his throat that glows from under his skin. The veins, both small and large showing faintly from where his dragon's fire lies dormant in his neck.

"Almost home."

John says with a relieved grin as he catches sight of you staring at his neck. Such a small thing as you, all bundled up and held closely to his chest makes his dragon instincts flare with pride. It's been far too long since he's had a hatchling of his own to care for. Lost on thought. He misses how you shiver once he crosses the threshold of his lair. His nostrils flaring as he takes in the scent of home. His safe haven, far away from the prying eyes of humans. And filled to the brim with riches. Most humans would tell the tale of dragon's guarding their horde of gemstones and jewels. As soon as he spots his nest a soft purr rises from his vocal chords. The sight and scent of his mates all laying together and relaxing warming his heart. In the middle of his nest is a beautiful harpy. His wings wrapped around the others shoulders as they sit around him. His deep brown eyes lighting up instantly as he sees John in the nesting room.

"Jesus John, we were worried about ya."

The harpy says with a relieved grin. His eyes now settled on the small creature against his mate's chest. The others a wraith and a werewolf perk up at the sight of a small child nestled against Price's arms. The werewolf almost vibrating with excitement at the sight. His tail wagging furiously, almost hitting the harpy everytime.

"Who's the wee bairn for John? We all did so good you're letting us eat a tender thing like tha."

Stilling instantly at the werewolf's words, you narrowly miss how the wraith slaps him upside the back of his head. The warning look that John sends the werewolf has you shrinking smaller. For almost a moment. However fleeting, it was as if all these hybrids were just human. The way they interacted with one another seemed human enough. But the way Price's eyes glowed ominously at the werewolf, it broke whatever allusion to human normalcy there once was.

"Soap, Gaz, Simon...say hello to our new hatchling."

John says warmly as he sees how Soap visibly deflates just a bit before his excitement returns full force. No doubt excited at the prospect of raising a wee one once again.

"A hatchling? Cannae go a single century without a wee one."

Gaz smiles softly, a mix of worry and tenderness traced on his expression. Soap's words only spurring him on. Immediately setting to work he moves about the nest making sure a corner of it will be comfortable for their new family member. Grabbing Johnny by the scruff, Simon drags him back to bed as the Scotsman looks on at Price and you with a loving gaze. His tail wagging softer now as he's led by the scruff by Simon.

As John makes his way to the nest. He groans tiredly as he sets you down in the center of the nest. Rather than being made of sticks and hay as birds would make it. The nest is made of the finest silks and cottons one could buy..or steal. Plush pillows line the edges of the nest and layers upon layers make up the foundation so as the hardness of the floor wouldn't be felt from underneath. As John settles down into the nest, his mates all gather closer. The sight of a small human child in their nest almost amusing to them. But seeing the scared expression on your face, they resolve to simply lay around you and John. The hope being that their combined warmth would lull you to sleep. The wraith; Simon, presses up closely against John's back, carefully so as to not disturb spot where his partner's missing wing would be. The werewolf; Johnny, curls up by your feet, your eyes wide as you tuck your feet in. The comment he made about eating you sticking in your mind like glue. The harpy; Gaz, at your side. His wings tucked in against his back as he coos quietly. Feeling overwhelmed and frightened, you curl up tightly and grasp at John's front with all your strength until eventually your mind starts drifting and your thoughts become quieter. The heavy hand of sleep overtakes you in a matter of minutes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's hard trying to write so many people all at once. But now the 141 is all together. :)

~~~~~~~

[lennadanvers]

His Home

Johnny Soap MacTavish x Ace!Reader

A/N: I'm a day late to Ace Week, but I really wanted to post this. I'd love to see more ace representation in fanfiction, so I'm doing my part. Plus, this kind of relationship has always been my favorite- there's something about undefined love that makes it perfect. I really like this one, so much that I wrote it while studying for my History exam. I hope you love it too, happy belated Ace Week!

Ghost is the first one to ask about it.

About you.

It’s late, you went to bed an hour ago, and Johnny offered him a beer. They’re looking at the empty front yard, a normal street in a normal neighborhood- a rare sight for soldiers of their kind. The food you and Soap made for the occasion sits warm in their bellies. The air smells of quiet and night.

Simon has known Johnny for a long time- and he has known him well. He didn’t know about this, though. He heard about you, of course. The first time Soap wasn’t sure if he’d make it back home, it was your name he mumbled. Instructions were clear: his dog tags were for you to receive. Along with everything else in his barracks. Ae dinnae care aboot all the rules. Ye gotta take me home tae ‘er.

Ghost knew you weren’t married- he would have seen it in his sergeant’s paperwork. He decided you were his girlfriend, then.

Until someone flirted with Johnny at a bar, and he happily told them he was single. Single. It didn’t lead anywhere, anyway; he came back to base with the rest of the team that night. Maybe he didn’t have a bird at home anymore, thought Simon.

But then there was the roommate. Soap was always talking about the roommate, how she would always leave hairs in the shower, how the laundry detergent smelled like flowers back home. It was said with fondness, the kind of affectionate jab one develops with family or very close friends. Ghost supposed you might be a childhood friend, then. Someone who had always been in Johnny’s life.

Come the end of their last mission, he had nowhere to stay at. His apartment was waiting for him, of course, but it was as empty and cold as any hotel room. His sergeant invited him home- tae meet ma girl. His girl. That was not a relationship status- no friend, no sister or girlfriend. Just girl, his girl.

He had to say yes.

Then there were you. Johnny’s age, bright eyes full of affection when you saw him. Small, soft hands ruffling the mohawk, saying it was getting out of hand. Nodding when he asked for another trim, bonnie, aye?

You hugged him around the neck, face under his chin. Ghost feared you would suffocate his sergeant. But Johnny’s face was pink, relaxed for the first time since before the mission. His arms were at your back, hands rounding your waist- they were used to that place. His nose deep in your hair- Simon felt like he was overstepping, like he wasn’t meant to see that. No one was.

Until you gave a step back- soft smile, soft eyes, soft Johnny- and welcomed him to your home. You called him L.T., like you knew him. Simon suspected you did. You didn’t try to shake his hand or- God forbid- hug him hello. You didn’t even risk a step into his personal space. He didn’t think it was out of fear- you didn’t blink twice at the black surgical mask. You just smiled and gave him a tour of the house.

That was another thing, the house. Tiny and tidy, cozy. Ghost didn’t have much experience with homes, but that’s what it looked like to him. A place lived in, well loved. A place with a past. Even more intriguing, a place with a future. By the way you talked, he gathered you weren’t renting. This place was owned. Something for the long run.

When you got to the hallway, though, you pointed to the last door. That’s my room! You can knock if you need anything, I’m a pretty light sleeper. Then to the one before that: That’s Johnny’s. Then the guest bedroom and the bathroom.

So you don’t sleep together.

Which would have been an answer to his curiosity, if it weren’t for the kitchen. After he left his stuff- a half-empty duffel bag- in the guest room, Simon went back to the small but charming space that is- all in one- your kitchen, living room and dining room. He was still in his soldier headspace, which means his steps were quiet. When he stepped into the kitchen, neither you nor Soap noticed him there.

You were laughing, hand on his bicep, eyes closed. Johnny was smiling. His shoulders down, his face soft. He grabbed your hand and brought you closer in a weird hug. You swayed together, and Simon almost heard the music you were dancing to. It went on for a while. Johnny went to grab a knife and you’d already placed the cutting board in front of him. You grabbed the oven mitt and he opened the oven.

You two are the perfect machine, always knowing where the other is going next. The smiles never falter. For the first time in years, Simon feels like he’s in a home. It’s confusing and startling. How come Soap has this waiting for him? How is he even able to go on deployment, knowing he might not have the chance to dance around you in the kitchen again?

The thought sparks memories. Soap’s sketchbook, a gleaming eye peeking from the page. His tactical jacket, jasmine perfume as they march through a field. A hair tie in the keychain. Gunpowder hands buying a bracelet in a faraway country. Making flower crowns while waiting for the target to show up. Dodging bullets with blue fevered eyes. Take me home tae ‘er.

He cleared his throat, and you handled him the plates to set on the table.

After dinner, you said goodnight. Johnny kissed your cheek; I left some beers in the fridge. Another kiss on the forehead. You waved at Simon, sweet and tired. Soap’s eyes followed you through the hallway.

Out in the cool night air, Simon asks.

“Tha’ ‘er?”

Soap flinches in his seat. The bottle in his hand twinkles under the stars. Doesn’t seem willing to reply. Maybe he doesn’t know how.

“The one from yer drawings?”

The nod is soft.

“Aye.”

Interrogation is an art. Ghost knows many ways to get information out of people. None of them work better on his sergeant than silence. The man has a need to fill empty spaces.

So he waits until Johnny takes the bait.

“A’v always known her.”

Another silence. Simon doesn’t need to ask the question out loud.

“We arenae datin. She isnae ma girlfriend. Or wife,” Jhonny’s voice is warm and liquid. “She's the love o ma life.”

Curiosity bubbles again. How does this life fit with the man out in the field? How come a cozy little house is home to a demolition expert?

“How’s tha’ work?”

Soap’s shoulders tighten, preparing for a defensive stance.

“She doesnae want sex.”

That’s not quite an answer, so Simon waits. Johnny’s back relaxes slowly, as if relieved by the lack of a reaction.

“But ‘a dinnae care aboot all that stuff. She's here whan ‘a come home, an she takes care o’ me. A tak care o’ her. Thare's nothin more than that.”

Nothing more he could ask for. Nothing more he’d ever want. His eyes glow blue, melting ice in the night. Ghost wonders, surprised, how he never saw it. How he didn’t realize.

After that, he doesn’t ask any more questions. There’s nothing else he’d need to know, really. When the bottles are empty and the air a little too cold, they retreat to their rooms.

The next morning, Simon stays in bed a little longer than usual. He listens to your soft steps in the hallway, the little knock on the door and Johnny’s raspy laugh. He hears the sheets and the whispers, the way he tells you stories about their last deployement- some true (only the lighter ones), the rest made up, with a handsome, Scottish hero. He pictures you tucked in Johnny’s side, his hand in your hair, easy smiles lighting up the room. And he understands. Once again, his sergeant’s words sound in his head.

A dinnae care aboot the rules. She’s ma girl, L.T.

[hatsheep]

CALL OF DUTY ; TASKFORCE 141 and DAD TIKTOK TRENDS

Note. these aren’t meant to be serious!! this is gn reader (with only one mention of daughter) and meant to be silly. this also isn’t my writing acc but if u guys have a request for platonic tf 141 content go shoot.

CAPTAIN john price

- you sent him many tiktoks and reels, which he always begrudgingly watched during his deployment (mostly because he did miss you)

- he always sends back questions since he dosent understand some slang

- “yap???” “i’m sorry, what does cap mean?”

- when hes home, he was happy to help video you when you were out or when you wanted to do a trend

- but making HIM do a trend?

- it took you forever to convince your dad to do so…but it was worth it

- he would do trends like the “dad lore trend” with him being videoed in x2 speed as he pretended to talk

- “pov: your dad drops the craziest lore on a random tuesday” because he really genuinely does

- or the home depot one…

- “my dad when he sees someone fixing an airplane when we’re about to board our flight” and it’s just him with his hands behind his back or crossed while he watches the repairmen.

- in the end, he enjoys doing these trends with you. but god, if you keep on trying to prank him, he’s actually going to go crazy.

- everyone thinks he’s hot by the way. you have like 50 single/divorced moms in your comment section commenting about him every tiktok he’s in. sometimes people your age.

- “honey, what does beekeeping age mean?”

LIEUTENANT simon “ghost” riley

- you send him many tiktoks that contain silly puns. he on the other hand, only uses reels. either way, he sends you the dumb ones

- or the ones that are like

- “when your teenager is driving and narrowly avoids a tragic accident” or “me i ask my teenager who they’re going out with and it’s still the same group of people since middle school”

- as a dad, he’s honestly very protective over you, but he’s loosened up a bit over the years. he dosent want to be too strict, nor does he want to be too lax.

- he was terrified of becoming like his father.

- either way, if you thought you had to beg price to let you make tiktoks, you’d have to beg hard for your dad to

- simon won’t let you take tiktoks with his face in it, so he’s always his chest and below….or a mask, sunglasses, and a cap.

- surprisingly sentimental! the one tiktok he agreed to was

- “do i always have to kill spiders in your room?” “ofcourse you do, you’re my dad!”

- he teared up a bit

SERGEANT john “soap” mactavish

- boy, he loves doing tiktoks with you

- he loves sending them too!! a nice way for you guys to bond while he’s away is him sending you the really stupid tiktoks that the people of your generation would more commonly send

- he DOES now some slang! he….does NOT know some others though, skibidi toilet confuses him slightly

- he took the sigma male thing seriously for a bit because he thought it was a positive thing. he loves protecting his family and being strong

- sadly stopped when you broke the news to him that it was in fact, maybe not the best thing in real life.

- either way, such a good dad to do tiktoks with

- you can do those really silly ones with the tiktoks audios

- “when my dad finds out i get offended when people say i have my dads accent” with the regina george soundtrack

- “regina wait i didnt mean for that to happen!!” “do you know what everyone says about you?!?!”

- he loves doing them with you, he wouldn’t trade quality time with you for the world

- “be honest, do you really not like the accent????”

SERGEANT kyle “gaz” garrick

- more of a calm dad, but like simon, surprisingly sentimental

- he’s the one from the 141 who’s has the most morality issues, especially doing his job, so he always felt it was best to teach you important values

- he’s drilled into you to never change your ideals for others

- …which leads to him sending motivational quotes or those hopecore videos

- either way, he actually can be pretty silly and he’s the type of dad to get you watermelon every other day for the rest of your life if you say you like it once

- he can be a little blunt with you sometimes though, bless him

- “pov: my dad if he didn’t have me” (i’ll put my helipad over there…my olympic sized swimming pool, OVER THERE!!)

- you do these tiktoks with him (disregard gender because no matter what, he’d make you help)

- this is how poc parents be, pls understand

- you sent him this reel while he was on deployment and he couldn’t stop smiling

- “love you too, pumpkin. remember to take out the dishes”

- “did u have to remind me”

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

Run Free

art by me!

Price, Gaz, and Ghost visits the MacTavish Estate baring the news.

Word Count: 2.1k words Warning: Major character death, angst and comfort. Note : I wrote this fic a few days after I finished the campaign. I've always thought it weird why the 141 boys had Soap's ashes when I've always seen Soap as someone with a family and a had good relationship with them, especially since it's canon that Soap's cousin brought him to the SAS base several times as a kid. Here's my interpretation of that fact, on how Soap's urn ended up with the boys.

Price, Gaz, and Ghost wore their dress uniforms from head to toe, finding themselves in front of the MacTavish Estate in Glasgow. It was… big, to say the least. Soap’s family was known not only because a number of people from the family are serving in the British Royal Armed Forces, but also the fact that they are 7th generation furniture company - MacTavish Furnitures. Lots of members of the family are veterans turned businessmen, carpenters, or woodworkers. It is a common cycle of life for them.

As Ghost and Gaz stood, Price climbed the stairs and wore his beige beret, breathing deeply through his nose before letting the air out to prepare himself, lifting his hand to knock on the wooden door. The captain heard faint noises of multiple footsteps from multiple people and some voices of heavy Scottish accent from inside the house. He waited for a moment, until the door finally opened, but he found no one in front of him. 

“Who are ya?”

A little voice spoke from under him, prompting Price to look down. He found a little girl with blonde hair no taller than his knees. She’s absolutely drenched from head to toe in a blue swimming attire and had to bend her neck so high to see him. He bent down to his knees to match her height, before saying,

“Hello. I’m… My name is John.” 

“John? Like Uncle Johnny?” Her little voice said, face gleaming with happiness at the name.

“Yes. Like Uncle Johnny.” Price smiled, chuckling lightly. The girl grinned at his smiling face. “May I see your dad? Or mum?”

“Phoebe MacTavish! Get your wee feet here before I pick your legs off of that floo–! Oh, Hello there.” A new voice came from in front of him, revealing herself to be an old woman with dark brown hair, though with white strands and the same quizzical brow that reminded Price of Soap. She looked strong, nonetheless, wearing a green shirt and knitted vest with a towel hanging from one of her shoulders, obviously to dry the little girl after a session of swimming in their estate’s pool. 

Price stood back up, greeting the lady. “Mrs. MacTavish.” 

The old woman looked at his attire up and down, and Price swore that he saw the gears rotating inside her mind. She looked down at the girl and gave her the white towel, “Phoebe. Go inside and dry yourself. Find your Da, Aunt Rachel, and Uncle Hugh, too. Tell them to meet me at the front door, yeah?” The little girl nodded and ran inside, disappearing into the house as Price heard a faint yelling from the same child, calling for the stated family members. 

Now, the lady in front of him walked closer to the doorway, face to face with him. She’s undoubtedly no taller than 5’7”, a height that might have been receding as time went by, but you could spot a proud MacTavish wherever you see one. Price offered his hand for a handshake as she accepted. “Captain John Price from the 22 SAS Regiment.” 

“Joan MacTavish.” She replied. Price noticed the name as the name on Soap’s file as his guardian, with the relation being marked with ‘Aunt’. “What brings you here, Captain?” Her face looked neutral like it wasn’t the first time a soldier with a full dress uniform knocked on this wooden door. 

Just before Price could say what he wanted to say, a deep voice called to her. “Mum?” One woman and two men with a frame similar to him showed up from inside the house. One man was around Ghost’s age, one was around his age, while the woman in a bun looked older than him, though looking very vibrant and professional. All of them had the same thick eyebrows – Family traits, he supposed – and clearly looked like honourable but firm Scottish people. Upon seeing Price, though, their faces changed from confusion to realization. 

Price remembered that Soap was not the first MacTavish in the SAS. In fact, there was another member of the family, Oliver MacTavish, who died in the line of duty a decade ago. Price remembered the way Soap had told the story of Ollie, his cousin, bringing his little arse to the SAS base  - however unpermitted it was – and how Price had busted Soap multiple times for applying with a fake age. 

“Rachel MacTavish.” The eldest one spoke.

“Hugh MacTavish.” The elder man said, followed by the younger.

“Scott MacTavish. That was my daughter, Phobe.” They all shook hands with Price. 

He repeated his greeting, before Rachel started,

“I've seen the likes of you before. I recognize that beret even from a mile away." She said firmly. "Out with it."

The captain's breath hitched as he cleared his throat, preparing himself to deliver the news. And so, he began.

"On November 21st, our target had placed an active bomb inside the underwater tunnel that connects the UK and France. During our attempt to defuse the bomb, the target sneaked from behind our line of sight…"

The whole family's face changed, Joan's eyes looked glassy with tears seeming like she knew of the incoming words.

"And I regret to inform you… that Sergeant John MacTavish has died in the line of duty."

Ghost, without his mask and black face paint around his eyes, and Gaz with their dress uniforms and beret could only stand from the base of the stairs, watching and hearing as Joan's cry of anguish tear through the morning sky. 

"Oh Lord. Johnny. Johnny. My baby, Johnny." Joan repeated his name like a chanting to the sky. "Why must You take him so soon? Why must he join Ollie so soon?"

The whole family hugged their mother as she wailed, her knees looked like it was giving up. Gaz gritted his teeth to strengthen himself, not wanting to break down to cry himself. 

As the family cried, Price could only stand still, letting the news sink in for the family. His job as the leader of the team was done, at that point. He delivered the news to his family. 

"The bomb…Did he defuse it?" Hugh questioned in the middle of his sobs. 

"He–" Price swallowed, remembering the way Makarov had killed him. "We were both defusing the bomb, John guiding me along the way as he was the demolition expert."

"He protected me, Sir. Our target was about to shoot me, before John stopped him - and got killed instead. The target ran away, but me and Sergeant Garrick managed to defuse the bomb thanks to his prior guidance, saving thousands of lives underneath the 30-mile underwater tunnel." Price answered as Rachel looked up at his face, anger and denial filling her in an instant. 

She raised her hand in such a way that Price knew that she was about to slap him. Price still opened his eyes, fully welcoming the slap before her hand stopped. 

Rachel bit her lips so hard that it might bleed, lowering her arm.

"...Why does it have to be Johnny? Why do you get to live and he doesn't?" She barely whispered in a shaky voice, going back to wiping her face again. “Why Johnny…?”

And Price asked that question every single hour ever since his death. 

Why Soap, and not him?

—

The MacTavishes requested for Soap's body to be sent to Scotland, where they held a memorial at the MacTavish estate to which they promptly honoured. The number of family members participating was not that many, considering only the immediate family attended. Price, Soap, and Ghost joined them, and even escorted the family as they travelled to the crematorium.

After the whole procession finished – that took the entire day – the family finally had possession of the urn containing Soap's ashes, and they invited the three back to the estate, where they now sit inside the guest room and tea in front of them with Joan and Rachel, his urn placed on a table beside Joan.

That was the day they learned that Soap was actually the son of Joan's late husband's younger sister. Soap's mother – her sister-in-law, died when she birthed Soap, while Soap's father died during an accident in a factory before his own birth. 

Soap had been raised by his uncle's family since his infancy, growing up in the MacTavish house as a strong and firm Scott under the wing of the eldest brother, Oliver. 

"He's always wanted to be like Ollie, that wee kid," Rachel told them after holding a photo album containing photos of Soap when he was a baby in his late uncle's arms, a photo of him and his older cousins playing with mud, photos of his graduations from school, and photos of him passing the test to be a part of SAS along with his cousin, Oliver. "Said he didn't want to go to school. Just visit the army base every day. It's what he dreamed of."

Ghost, still in his dress uniform, felt the most vulnerable in that room - Without his mask, in front of Johnny's family. He also had been in agony for the past day, because he'd failed to cover Johnny's back. He had one job at that time, and he failed, catastrophically. He only sat there with his hands joined in his lap, not daring to look at the family in the eyes. 

"We're very thankful for John's service with us. He was the best there is." Gaz spoke, "John's memory will live with us."

"Thank you, Sergeant Garrick." Joan smiled as she looked up. "I heard you share the same quarters with him in the barracks. I hope he wasn't too much of a naughty boy."

The sergeant chuckled lightly at that, "Well. Soap wasn't someone who could stay away from mischief too long, but I assure you that he's an absolute joy and inspiration to be around." Hearing Joan's laughter cured a little part in Gaz, as the only thing he'd heard from her was the sound of her cry. He could at least pride himself in knowing that he could share Soap's merry nature.

As they share memories, Price finished his tea before he stood up from the sofa, followed by the other two. "Well. We must take our leave, Ma'am. Thank you for the tea."

"Anytime." Joan spoke as the soldiers started to leave the sofa, heading towards the main room and front door. 

"Which one of ya’s is ‘LT’?"

Rachel’s voice stopped the men in their tracks, particularly Ghost’s. All three men turned around, finding the woman holding Soap’s urn in her hands. Price saw how Ghost's face turned to that of a deer in a spotlight, so he put his hand behind Ghost’s back to lightly push him towards Rachel, but Ghost’s hesitancy was apparent in the way he slowly walked. 

“...That would be me, Ma’am.” Ghost’s deep voice rumbled softly as he looked down to Rachel’s height. The lady herself observed him up and down with a negative face that she could convince him that he was standing there naked. 

“Yer tryin’ so hard to make yourself look small for such a big man. It’s almost dreading.” She started, her hips shifting. “I’ve been the CEO of MacTavish Furnitures since my da’ passed away and Ollie decided to go to the army, and I read people like a book. For someone whom Johnny admired the most – and repeatedly spoke about – you don’t look like the LT I heard from him.” Ghost was starstruck at the statement. Soap, talking about him to his family? “I expected you to be cocky and exude pride in your steps, but all I’m seein’ is just a pathetic, sad bloke.” 

Ghost stood still at those comments. No one practically had ever roasted him this badly in front of his teammates. He wondered if he showed up in his other attire, she’d dare to say all this. But then again, if someone got to do it, he was glad that it came from an honourable woman of the MacTavish bloodline. 

What caught him off guard was her hands stretching towards him, holding Soap’s urn in front of his chest. Ghost looked down at the metal container, looking confused as he looked up again to face Rachel. He thought the MacTavishes were going to hold on to Soap’s urn, and they get to keep Soap’s dog tags. However, clearly, the current head of the family had other wishes.

“Take Johnny with ya. Being trapped inside this urn for eternity in this old house would be the last thing he wanted.” The woman started with a shaky voice, her eyes starting to brim with tears again. Seeing Soap’s character, Ghost could understand that completely. 

“He’s… the proudest he could ever be when he’s with ya’s." Rachel continued. 

"So I ask you, as our brother’s comrades, to hold on to Johnny – and free him.” 

Ghost’s eyes opened wide in surprise, still couldn’t fathom how fondly Soap must've talked about his teammates, especially him, to his family that they’d give him his ashes. Ghost lifted his hands to carefully receive the urn. 

After breathing deeply, Ghost stood straight, holding Soap firmly. 

“We will, Ma’am.”

—

The three of them walked towards the car parked just outside the MacTavish estate with Ghost holding Soap’s urn in his hands. They all took off their berets and entered the car, Price the designated driver, Gaz riding shotgun, while Ghost sat in the backseat. 

“So what do we do with him, Sir?” Gaz rotated his body to look at Soap’s urn on Ghost’s hands, same as Price.

Ghost contemplated in his mind, staring at the metal urn, before speaking, “Where’s Johnny’s place of birth?” 

Price answered immediately as he’s the one who took care of Soap’s documents. “Isle of Skye.” 

“Soap said there’s a beautiful cliff where he and his cousins used to go to play. Endless sea where the eyes could see.” Gaz added.

“Then that’s where we’re goin’.” Ghost spoke with finality. “And then we’ll let Johnny go.”

Price and Gaz nodded to each other. "Alright, Soap. Let's get you home." The captain started the car and stepped on the gas, beginning their journey towards the Isle of Skye.

---

I'm not okay. Thank you for reading! (T_T) reblogs and comments of your thoughts are much appreciated!