#And Gaz and Price will be there too

[starlightvld]

Bait & Switch, pt. 5

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 >>

Based on "I wasn't in that tunnel."

Call of Duty, soapghost // CW: angst, Hurt/Comfort, boys kissing, MWIII spoilers

---

Johnny is floating. For the first time in forever, he feels safe.

Held.

Warm.

He stays in limbo as long as he can, eking out every ounce of comfort from the rare good dream. He knows soon enough he'll wake to an ice-cold cell. Perhaps someone will come to torture him. Or perhaps they'll leave him alone long enough that he'll starve.

Until then, he basks. Digs himself deeper into the warmth pressed against him.

"Easy, Johnny. You've got too many wires pokin' outta you to move around so much."

That voice. He knows that voice.

Soap's eyes pop open to a wall of hospital gown fabric and a sliver of pale skin. Familiar warm arms curl around him a bit more tightly, and his heart stutters.

"G-Ghost?"

"I'm here."

Everything comes rushing back — "waking up" from his drug-induced haze with a knife in his hand, Ghost's initial distrust and coldness, and the revelations about his own actions and the years of his life and bodily autonomy stolen by Makarov...

He remembers Ghost's sudden apology, his vow to help Soap figure out what was going on, and his gentle arms surrounding Soap just like he remembered.

It's a dream. It has to be. Some trick by Makarov.

And yet Ghost is so warm. So strong.

He can't bear the thought of going back now.

"Simon." His voice shakes as the panic sets in, thrashing around inside him and threatening to shred him to ribbons from the inside. "Don't let him take me back. Promise ye'll kill me if ye have to. I can't... I can't... I can't—"

The sob that had been stuck in his throat when Simon first curled strong arms around him and held him close rises up to choke him, but his eyes remain stubbornly dry. He coughs and gags, and Ghost's hands stroke down his back as he murmurs soothing words in Soap's ear.

It doesn't matter. The tears won't come. Crying was weakness to Makarov and especially to his goons, punishable by the worst kinds of torture. As he's done hundreds, maybe thousands, of times before, he begins to float away, dissociating from the pain on instinct, but Simon's hard tone slams him back into his body.

"He'll never come near you again," Simon growls in his ear. "Not as long as I'm alive."

"You... believe I'm me?"

"Your DNA matches the records for John MacTavish. That's good enough for me."

He doesn't have time to process the shock of that revelation before then next one hits him fast and hard.

"And it's good enough for us, too."

The additional voice is so wobbly, Soap barely recognizes it. He lifts his head to find wide, watery brown eyes under a familiar blue hat staring at him over Ghost's shoulder.

"Gaz?" Soap whispers in disbelief.

"Hey-ya, bruv. I brought someone else with me, too."

Gaz steps to the side, and a familiar mutton chops and boonie hat come into view. Price's eyes are dry, but there's a deep sadness his ice-blue gaze as he reaches over Ghost to lay a loose hand on Soap's shoulder.

"Soap... I don't really know what to say beyond I'm sorry. It's good to see you again."

The emotions rise up too high. He feels himself detach from the moment, and without the strong emotions to cloud his mind, all he can think to say is, "Why? Why are ye here? I tried... Ghost said I tried to kill you."

"We're here because it's you, Soap," Gaz says in a gentle but confused tone. "Even if you were still trying to kill us, we'd be here doing our best to figure out how to save you. I just wish..."

"We didn't know," Price says as Gaz trails off. "We should've tried to harder to capture Agent Zero. If we'd known it was you, we would have—"

"Not important," Ghost interrupts. "We're all here now, and we're not lettin' the brass get their hands on you."

"Ghost—"

"No Laswell. He's been through enough. Talkin' is one thing, but no interrogations."

It's too much. The words thrown around Soap devolve into mutters and hums as he detaches from the moment. After his time with Makarov, the dissociation comes naturally. He floats away, and...

This moment is everything he ever dreamed about in those dark days under Makarov's thumb. But it's also overwhelming for someone who hasn't felt a kind touch in literal years. He's so glad Price and Gaz proved him wrong, but it's just... 

So. Much.

"—nny? You awake?"

Ghost's voice calls him back, and like always, he can't resist. Doesn't want to. He flutters his lids, the dryness of his eyes letting him know he'd fallen into himself with this eyes open. No wonder the fingers gripping his back feel a bit desperate. He closes his eyes without meeting Ghost's gaze.

"Aye," he whispers. "Here."

"I think we should let Ghost and Soap rest," Price says with a soft, sad smile. "You've both got a lot of healing up to do."

*

Laswell does what she can, but the brass still insist on sending someone to "evaluate" Soap, whatever that means. The evaluator in question, some Major or another, is set to arrive in three days, and Ghost has already made it known to Laswell that he won't be letting Soap out of his sight.

Normally, Soap would be concerned and might even start down the path of spiraling into a panic attack, but he finds he can't be bothered when he wakes up on his second day in the hospital in a pool of his own sweat. Shivers run up and down his spine, and he groans as the body aches slam into him like a tank. Only Ghost's presence and warmth keeps him from panicking at the too-familiar symptoms.

"They're weanin' you off the drugs," Ghost explains in a calm tone, his hands gently rubbing over Soap's damp back. "Tell me if I'm hurtin' you."

"Doesnae hurt," he slurs. "Feels nice."

Ghost's hands are a lifeline, the touch grounding him to the present. There's no way his brain could concoct such an elaborate dream.

Right?

The beeping of the heart monitor picks up its pace. One of Ghost's hands slides up to smooth over his buzzed hair.

"Johnny? Hey. You're alright, love."

"Is it real?" he gasps as his vision begins to darken. "Are ye real? Please..."

Arms tighten around him. Ghost's lips brush over his temple.

"I'm here. I'm real. Breathe with me, Sergeant."

The title rings through Soap's body like a bell as Ghost takes a deep breath, his chest rising under Soap's cheek. Soap takes a strangled breath, too, desperate to follow his Lt's directions. Desperate to make sure Ghost stays.

"That's it. Another."

They breathe together, and eventually, the darkness fades.

"Sorry," he mumbles into Ghost's chest.

"No reason to be sorry. I'd be more surprised — and worried — if you didn't have a screw loose after everythin' you've been through."

Soap huffs a weak laugh. "Thanks, I think."

"You're already doin' better than I was in your place, though it was only months for me, and not..."

Ghost trails off. He's never really talked about his time with the cartel in Mexico. Soap knows the basics — caught, tortured, escaped — but he doesn't know the details.

Doesn't really need to anymore. 

"I get flashes of stuff here and there," Soap says with a shrug, "but I only remember those first few months clearly. Right up until Makarov started pumping me full of these fucking drugs."

As if on cue, another shiver wracks Soap's body. He can feel the sweat building between them as his body attempts to deal with the withdrawal. And yet he's still so fucking cold.

"Sorry I'm such a scabby bastard right now," he mumbles even as he tries to scoot closer to Ghost's warmth.

"Nowt to worry about. I'm no spring flower myself. They're gonna let me shower today, I think, so I'll make 'em let you, too."

Ghost continues rubbing his hands over Soap's damp back, and his lips press into Soap's forehead. The hands and lips remind him of better times, when they'd steal a few hours whenever they could to learn and relearn each other's bodies while desperately chasing release. Soap dares to lift his hand from between them and curl it around Ghost's waist.

"I missed ye so fucking much."

The words slip out unbidden, barely more than a whisper, but there's no way Ghost doesn't hear them. His hands pause for a moment before moving again to press Soap closer.

"I felt dead without you," Ghost whispers back.

A heaving gasp punches through Soap's lungs. "Ghost—"

Ghost gently pushes Soap back enough that he can look into his eyes. "I mean it. The thought of killin' Makarov was the only thing keepin' me movin'... until now."

Soap can't help himself. He knows he's gross and dirty and was trying to fucking kill Ghost a couple of days ago, but he's desperate for the familiar comfort.

He surges up and presses their mouths together.

It's like a flipping a switch — Ghost goes from gentle and calm to ravenous in a split second. His fingers dig into Soap's neck, pulling him closer, while his other arm crushes Soap around the waist. Their mouths meld together, and Soap clings to Ghost just as hard, yearning to climb inside him and never come out again.

God. God, he wants to never leave the safety of Ghost's arms, his presence, his warmth.

The kiss ends as quickly as it began. Ghost pulls back and presses his lips to Soap's cheek and then his brow, panting breaths wafting across Soap's clammy skin.

"I... fuck Johnny. I'm sorry."

"Why're you sorry? I kissed ye first."

"Because you're not feelin' good."

Soap frowns. "Yer the one with the gunshot wound."

Ghost huffs a breathy laugh. "And I'm feelin' it, too. You should sleep more."

"So should you."

Ghost grunts his agreement. They settle down, and Soap listens as Ghost's breathing evens out. It's a comfort, and he lets himself fall into the rhythmic sounds.

The longer this goes on, the less Soap questions whether it's real and the more he begins to worry about the future.

Soap is pretty sure the higher ups will never send him back to England. They'll wait until Ghost's back is turned, and they'll take him somewhere far away where he can be locked up and interrogated the proper way. Or perhaps they'll try to draw out Makarov by sending him somewhere as bait... along with enough C4 strapped to his back to blow up a building.

Or maybe they'll just kill him outright, deeming him too much of a risk for any of that.

He'll fight it, of course. But he's only one man against the might of the British military. And despite the 141's trust in her, Laswell is the type of person to sacrifice her personal feelings for the greater good. He doesn't want to think she'd give him up, but if sending him in means finally ridding the world of Makarov, he has to accept that, for her, it might be worth it.

Except... Soap can't stop thinking about Ghost's admission. That the goal of killing Makarov was the only thing keeping him moving. And he fears what will happen when he disappears without warning.

And he will disappear. Of that he has no doubt.

So he tightens his grip on Ghost's waist, presses a soft kiss to Ghost's scruffy chin, and basks in the warmth and safety of his lover's arms for as long as he can.

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 >>

[buttdumplin]

yeah simon is the one to scare people away when they get too close you, using his size and movement to intimidate, simultaneously shielding you behind him

yeah soap is the one barking loud, creating a spectacle and calling people out, and warning them away

yeah kyle is the one humiliating people, mocking offenders until either their own actions dawn on them or they finally recognize the venom in his eyes

but price is the one that launches into swinging. there is no warning, no hesitation. taking a step, even a single word against you, warrants immediate action in his mind. it's no laughing fucking matter. you are a top fucking prize, his prize, the best the world has to offer. john is rabid in his protection, bearing tooth and boot and claw and fist. there’s no point in talking to him or trying to negotiate, an offense is an offense and he won’t meet it halfway. someone looks at you the wrong way? they won't be able to see out of swollen eyes after headbutts them, crushing their nose. someone whispers something nasty about you? good luck even eating with that jaw wired shut. god forbid someone touches you, the other three boys can barely hold him back. john will break countless bones in every way he knows and beat his knuckles bloody if your smile starts to drop. 

[ghostedbunnie]

mmm my brain is buzzing with an idea of knight! ghost stumbling upon a carriage getting robbed late at night. appearing like a monster that mothers warn their kids about when they misbehave, mask covering his face and after the bloodbath finishes and no one is left standing but him, he let's out a sigh before making his way to the carriage, one of the window is broken but the heavy curtains are drawn.

when he opens the door he doesn't expect to have the curtains thrown in his face and an absolutely feral maid trying to cut him with the shard of the window held so tight in her shaky hand that the other side cuts deep into her palm. something clicks in place for ghost in that moment, this little cornered thing protecting her mistress with ferocity of a tiger but with fear oozing out of her every pore.

with something that resembles a snort he knocks the shard out of her hand and pulls her out by the scruff as if she truly is just a little kitten showing her claws and he is finding it extremely amusing. the mistress is less of a fighter, he finds, it took one look at him all bloody and dark a picture straight out of nightmares and she passed out on the spot.

with the maid fighting him every step of the way he manages to bring them to his master, his king. turns out the mistress is a princess that was travelling to marry the king and for saving her life, he deserves a gift. anything of his choosing. anyone.

the maid could feel a cold sweat drip down her back when for the first time since they travelled together she heard his voice (she believed his vocabulary was made up of grunts and growls) when he pulled her in with his heavy gloved paw on the back of her neck, "I'll take 'er."

edit: full fic here

[guhbwuh2]

based on this

[goatgoesmbe]

You're a medic at Taskforce 141.

Except. you're still in medical school, at the final year, and must complete an elective rotation.

You applied for a specialized field elective, which is why you're here.

So expect more stress and sleep deprivation. finals. thesis. reports. all that on top of your work.

No time to care about yourself, messy hair, crumpled uniform worn to sleep, eyebags.

Of course, you work under supervision- a decent man really. He was just doing his job, but it pissed you off how he diminished you sometimes- making you feel like you can't do your job with many stuff on your plate already (which is true I guess, but- come on, you're here for the experience)

Fortunately, there are an odd four that somehow always made your day better.

Like how the Captain stepped in every time your supervisor not acknowledging you.

Or a certain sergeant with a mohawk who for some reason always needed something to patch up. He's probably just wreckless- but you like to think it's because he wanted to see you

Another sergeant- which was the kindest of the bunch. Will sometimes get you a cup of coffee how you like it, even accompany you during lunch- handfeeding you as you are busy studying for finals.

And the lieutenant cared about you in his own way.

Like that one time you were proof-reading your thesis late at night (or early morning) in the rec room..

"Your methodology is weak."

You jumped so hard that your laptop nearly toppled over.

Lieutenant Ghost stood behind you, arms crossed over his broad chest, silent as a ghost as he glanced at your screen, unimpressed.

"What-"

He ignored the question and nodded at your laptop. "You're making assumptions about patient stabilization times. Your sample size is too small. And your survival rate data is incomplete."

You frowned, feeling offended. "Excuse me-?"

Ghost exhaled, the closest thing to a sigh you'd ever heard from him.

He reached over, scrolling through your document with annoying precision, stopping at a paragraph.

"Here. You said field tourniquet applications reduce fatality rates by 60%, but you didn’t specify by mechanism—exsanguination control or delayed shock treatment?"

You stared. Not at the screen. At him.

This man—this cold, intimidating, emotionally-unavailable lieutenant—was critiquing her thesis at one in the morning.

"You… you read this?" You asked, incredulous.

He didn’t look at her. "You left your notes unsecured last week. I glanced through them."

"Glanced? You just ripped apart my entire methodology!"

He finally met your eyes, gaze sharp, unwavering.

"If you’re going to write a thesis based on field medicine, do it right. I won’t have you publishing half-baked conclusions based on incomplete data."

You blinked. Once. Twice.

He straightened, arms still crossed. "Rewrite them all tomorrow, get some sleep, or you’ll make more mistakes."

And just like that, he turned, heading toward the exit.

You called after him. "Lieutenant."

He paused.

"…Thanks," You mumbled with a smile.

He said nothing, but in the dim light, you swore you saw the faintest blush at the high of his cheeks- peeking behind his balaclava. And then he turned to walk away, disappearing into the night.

i like making reader to be miserable but loved, so- because let's be real, we read fics because we're miserable and wanted to be loved

[rejectedbytheempty]

one bed trope w the 141 (except it’s not romantic)

price sleeps with his arms folded over his chest, hat tucked over his eyes. weirdly, it seems like he doesn’t move at all when he sleeps, and maybe you would think he was dead if not for the horrendous snoring he does.

ghost doesn’t sleep well, and he certainly doesn't like sharing beds with anyone. he’d rather sleep on the floor or just disappear for the night, coming back at the ass crack of dawn to stand ominously at your side of the bed with a cup of coffee for you.

gaz has a whole bedtime routine, especially when he has access to running water and a single person bathroom. finally gets to bed after an hour of skincare and hair care, but he smells so good you can almost forgive the fact that he almost pushed you off the bed in the middle of the night.

soap is a crazy sleeper, and that’s a fact. he’s all over the bed, one second he’s hugging you like some kind of oversized teddy bear and the next he’s somehow turned himself around and his feet are in your face. even worse, he snores almost as bad as price. no one wants to sleep with soap.

[whateveriwant]

How the 141 Fuck

18+ only, GN!reader

Price

Right off the bat, let’s get one thing straight. John Price doesn’t fuck, he makes love

He has a very “it’s a marathon, not a sprint” kind of mindset towards sex. His work life is so fast paced, high adrenaline, always go-go-go-go, so in the bedroom he likes to really take his time and slow things down

Unhurried, powerful thrusts that let you feel every inch of him as it pushes into you

Likes a hands-on mouths-on approach – tugging your nipple between his teeth, teasing your earlobe with the tip of his tongue, tasting your mouth as he’s deep inside you

Once he finishes, don’t think he’s going to pull out any time soon. After all, you wouldn’t want his cock to get cold throughout the night, right?

Gaz

Kyle likes to tap into the intimacy side of sex. As such, he often falls into ritualistic tendencies that heighten this sensation – sultry music, mood lighting, showering together before/after, etc.

He fucks you steadily, with smooth rolls of his hips, like the sure motion of a wave gently flowing back to shore

Loves prolonged eye contact. It doesn’t matter who’s going down on who or who’s under who, he wants your eyes on his always

Though he’s fairly delicate with you, he’s not afraid to get a little rough when the occasion calls for it (like seeking out his treasured eye contact, for example)

Will pull you back by the hair or grab you by the jaw to make you turn around and look at him. And if the position is too difficult to easily maintain your gaze, well, that’s what mirrors are for

Soap

Johnny is a freak in the streets AND the sheets and there’s no way you can convince me otherwise

For starters, he is mes-sy. Sex always ends with you both covered in a healthy mixture of lube, spit, and cum

He has an erratic quality to the way he fucks – jackhammering into you one moment as hard and fast as possible before he’s stopping completely, holding himself still inside you because he likes to feel you squirm on it

Always does a little too much in bed. Things like slipping a vibrator in his ass as he’s got his mouth on you or bucking up into you as he has you ride and choke him are not out of the ordinary

I hope you don’t get tired easily, because he is never ever ever satisfied after just one round

Ghost

I think realistically, Simon is not super adventurous in the bedroom, but what he does, he does very well

Sharp, staccato thrusts. Deep, breath-punching thrusts. Bed creaking, headboard rattling, having your neighbor angrily banging on the wall kind of thrusts

He prefers to be on top, lying flat against you as he fucks you into the mattress. He does this not because he craves control or wants to smother you or something; he just wants to be as close to you as possible

Goes out of his way to ensure you’re always having a good time. Nothing gets him harder than hearing your loud, enthusiastic consent

Don’t be surprised when you find yourself stumbling around like a newborn deer the morning after. That just means he did his job right the night before

[kortac-sweetheart]

thinkin abt: classic “traitor” sergeant you and tf 141, except you have a different trauma response

cw: angst no comfort (yet), mentions of torture and physical harm, derealization, reader believes they deserve their torture (honestly selfship coded sorry) shout out to hedgehog’s dilemma one of my favorite dilemmas, very VERY canon divergent, no use of (y/n)

pt 2 with kortac maybe? as they slowly rehabilitate you and you learn to open up again

for as long as you can remember you’ve been an outsider. never quite fitting in with your classmates or even your “friends”. your two acquaintances (more like) in elementary school would drag you along, like a glorified pet, wherever they went. only to turn around and ignore you, chatting happily with each other as if you weren’t there.

and when you were older, you didn’t have any friends in class. always electing to sit by yourself and disturbing nothing and no one. fading into the background, like a shadow.

eventually you wind up joining the military, efficiently climbing the ranks until you land sergeant in task force 141. for the first few years of you joining, it’s much the same. that feeling of being other always lingering in the back of your mind, only amplified when observing the others in the team.

how soap easily makes gaz and price laugh, and even coaxing a chuckle out of ghost. how effortlessly they talk to each other, to the way tackling one another in a bear hug in the base halls was no big deal. almost envious at how openly they interacted with each other.

witnessing it makes you feel like you’re in school again. forcibly reverts you to the younger you that endured your so-called friends ignoring you.

but you don’t bring it up. ever. being here and fighting alongside them is already treading thin ice in your mind. already impeding upon their well established relationships. an intruder. an outsider. a stranger. a nuisance.

you linger behind them in hallways, erring from their side and sight around base. sitting far from the others during briefings, eating alone during mealtime. absent from post mission celebrations.

you keep them at arms length despite them being your teammates. it’s not their fault, it’s yours.

if i let them in, it’ll only hurt again.

but they break down your walls slowly, oh so painfully slowly. johnny now jokes besides you in the break room and during meal times, conversation is always pleasant with kyle, whilst simon looks out for you, very, very quietly. and john isn’t afraid to tell you of the good work you do on field, ruffling your hair like a proud dad.

things seem to be looking bright for you.

until they aren’t.

you fall asleep peacefully in your bed only to wake up strapped to an uncomfortable metal chair in the base’s interrogation room. a mole, unbeknownst to the rest of the team had planted evidence framing you and accusing you of betraying them. taking advantage of the thin fault line in your relationships, vulnerable and unsteady, compared to the stalwart trust they already had in each other. then, subsequently tearing that fault wide open, in order to break the team from the inside out.

your tenuous and fragile relationships finally blooming, only to be crushed under heel in a single night.

the light strains your eyes and the tight ropes dig painfully into your flesh, back aching and head throbbing as you await your fate.

three sets of eyes that only started to gaze warmly at you are now long gone. replaced with a plethora of emotions, betrayal, ire, resentment, bitterness, distrust.

you try to plead your case, that you have no idea what’s going on or what they’re talking about. you’ve never heard of any of these people in your life, nor have you ever heard of that operation at all.

but all of it is futile. you can see it clear as day in their eyes. they glare at you with such distain, it’s akin to what they gave their enemies on the field; except much much worse. this time it’s personal, someone they thought they knew.

they don’t believe you.

you realize that quickly. and after that you become borderline unresponsive. shutting down, physically, mentally, retreating into your mind, a desperate attempt to keep yourself safe from your allies-turned-tormentors.

you no longer scream your protests, all cries of agony quieted down until there wasn’t a single peep from you. although your tears never cease.

it angers them. they yell in your face, demanding answers to questions you haven’t the ability to answer. why were you being so difficult? if you’d just answer it’d be easier on you and them.

they subject you to a whole torrent of horrors. the restraints tightening and digging into your flesh, blood seeping into the rope. ghost slashes a knife up the side of your face, from your jaw to above your eyebrow bone. your eye just barely making it out unscathed because you shut it in time. then they start to rip your nails out, painfully, one by one. each time you don’t answer them, another one is torn out.

(they remember what you said offhandedly. that you didn’t like others being pushy, that you valued your autonomy highly. and what better way to break you than to rid you of it? stripping you of your nails, slashing at your muscles, tightening the ropes until you bled. anything, everything to ruin what little sovereignty you had left.)

despite being swathed deep in the recesses of your mind, you can still hear them. their voices muddied and muffled, as if underwater and you’re left unable to discern who’s words are who’s. not that it mattered anyway. the venom in their tone remained the same no matter who spoke.

“disgusting fucking traitor.”

“you’re such a pathetic piece of shit.”

“aww, cry some more.”

“should’ve never trusted you.”

“what an utterly worthless burden. only served to drag down the team.”

their words seep into your mind like poison through blood. it leaves you doubting, frantically questioning all moments you’ve shared with them. leaves you spiraling deeper and deeper into the dark abyss of your mind. your safe haven, and your cold prison.

did they always think this?

did they always hate me?

what did i do wrong?

i must’ve done something wrong to deserve this.

i deserve this.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

i’m sorry.

you still remain motionless, and they scoff, looking down at you as they ash their cigarettes on your bruised skin. you don’t react. soap, frenzied, aggravated and wound up, lands a hard punch straight in your jaw. your head flying back with a sickening crunch before hanging low over your lap, face obscured.

gaz violently yanks your hair back, revealing your battered face. the lighting of the room casting long, tired shadows across it as he forces you to look at them. and you do, but not quite at them.

you don’t stare at them. you stare through them. like they aren’t there, like YOU aren’t there. they see nothing behind your eyes. it was like you were already dead. and maybe, at this point, it would’ve been better if you were.

hours blend into days and days possibly into weeks. your life has been nothing but torment and agony for who knows how long. never allowed a moment of rest or respite, being violently slapped awake if you’ve ever got lucky enough to grasp at increasingly ephemeral shut eye. time slips away into nothingness when your whole life has turned to pain.

they’re starting to grow more desperate for answers; despite everything they’ve thrown at you, you still haven’t “cracked”. and so they turn to more.. permanent methods of harm.

by the time price barges through the door, alarming everyone that you were innocent and you were falsely framed by a mole, your pinky is already severed and falling to the floor.

as if it were only a cruel nightmare, everything ceases immediately. and you pass out as you’re rushed to the base medics.

you’re awake once again, but you’re not quite all there. still safely tucked away in the depths of your mind. everyday is still a blur as your battered and beaten body tries to heal, ignoring the pity in passersby eyes’ and forced to rely on the kindness of base medics for hygiene. as if it wasn’t humiliating enough to end up in such a state.

even in your semi lucid state you still recognize them, the weight of their gait and their footfalls against the floor. always bracing for further injury whenever they draw nearer, clenched eyes, hunched posture, and a deep grimace. turned away out of fear for an impact you can’t ever guarantee is truly gone.

you silently reject their help, withdraw in on yourself to a state they’ve never seen before. you stop talking to them entirely, stop talking to everyone for that matter. whenever they try to sit next to you, you always flinch before scooting away from them, or most times you hobble away from them entirely. they never stop you. and you never look back.

(they wish you would yell at them. slap them, lash out at them, anything would be better than your numb indifference towards them now. with your anger they know for sure that you’re still in there, but, now. now it’s like a wraith is haunting the halls, more of a ghost than the man fool himself could ever hope to be.)

you return to the field as soon as you can. and everyone is surprised that your performance hasn’t suffered as much as they thought it would, considering… everything.

you’re already burdening everyone enough. if your performance were to decline then they would surely toss you aside, and everything would be for naught.

but the higher ups can see the mental toll it takes on you. to be besides them, as if this never happened. everyone can see the way they inadvertently hurt you more, can see the writing on the wall if you continue to work with them.

and so, they set up a transfer. to kortac.

you certainly have no complaints, but your ex-tormentors undoubtedly do. up in arms about the whole thing until they’re told to stand down. to follow orders.

just like they did before.

things were the same in the days leading up to the transfer. you avoid them, taking different hallways around base. never interacting more than the bare minimum, efficiently finishing missions without small talk or celebration. and always rejecting their offers of help with a faraway look and shake of your head.

and on the day of the transfer, they still try to plead for you to stay. to apologize for what cannot, and can never be undone.

you’re fed up with all of it.

clearing your throat and murmuring just loud enough for them to hear,

“forgive me if i’m speaking out of line, but who was the one to call me quote, “an utterly worthless burden?” was it lieutenant riley or sergeant mactavish? perhaps it was sergeant garrick? well… it doesn’t matter anyway. you’ll be better off without a detriment dragging down your team.”

they look heartbroken, stammering out apologies after apologies, but it all sounds so empty to you. until johnny whimpers out “god, we’re so sorry. you didn’t deserve what we did to you, not at all. we’d— we’d do anything to take it back!” he’d go on and on until you cut him off.

“didn’t deserve it? of course i deserved it, i must have done something worth punishing. otherwise… otherwise…” you were trembling, your hands painfully clutching your arms. your head bent over and face obscured from your hair, eerily similar to when you were being tortured. the sight of you so battered and broken burned into their mind.

foolishly, someone reaches out a hand towards you and you jerk back violently, as if burned. hyperventilating and quivering as you dig your painfully throbbing fingers into your arms, eyes wide like a frightened animal. the sight of them, looking at you so concerned, the sight of your missing pinky and your bloodied fingertips, it’s all too much. the room in spinning, the floor is collapsing underneath you and your head feels like it’s underwater, “don’t— don’t touch me!”

your voice feels like it doesn’t belong to you, and you can’t take it anymore. blindly rushing out the door as fast as your feet can carry you. running away from the room— away from them, they don’t move to stop you, rooted firmly in place.

they knew they fucked up immensely, but it was only then that they understood the magnitude in which they ruined you. unintentionally led you to believe that you deserved the hell they put you through, only confirming and fortifying your feelings of being an outsider.

unworthy, burdening, all of those hurtful notions you held about yourself that they had once tried to erase, back a thousand fold.

and they had no one but themselves to blame for it.

(they nearly buckled under the weight of their actions. realizing that they’d never get the chance to even attempt to atone for what they’ve done. that you’d leave forever believing that they had hated you the whole time. and that you hate them now, too.)

pt2

[gengangare]

Group shot 📸

[mausinly]

i wanna see these big scary men get all flustered, give em a taste of their own medicine

Thinking about cod men with the most s/o of all time that is just so so tender with them and is so soft and kisses them so so good just like they deserve.

Thinking about cod men with an s/o that doesn't hesitate to tell them how pretty they are and will hold and caress them in a heartbeat, watching as their big bad military man melts in their arms.

Thinking about cod men that feel tears brim their eyes as their darling cups his head in their hands, their thumbs ever so gently brushing over his cheeks as they pepper kisses all over his face.

Their s/o makes sure to kiss every scar, every blemish and imperfection, everywhere but his lips until he murmurs how much of a tease his darling is. Only for their lips to meet in the most tender, passionate kiss he's ever received in his life, followed by loving whispers in the dark of night only for him to hear.

[gomzdrawfr]

Casual Intimacy

[lxvvie]

Heyyy girliee

I don’t know if you have already done that but I really love your writings and I was thinking about how would the cod guys act like if they were drunk?

For example I can totally see Graves forgetting that we are dating and just trying to get our numbers or Soap having a mental breakdown over everything lmaoo

The Cap'n is mushy. Defenses down. Grinning like he won the jackpot. Quokka cheeks red and prominent. He can't take his eyes off you. He's John Price the man, and John Price the man wants you to know that you're beautiful and the best thing that's ever happened to him. You let him be human for just a moment. You let him forget about the bullshit he faces on a daily.

A drunken Gaz is a sleepy Gaz, and drunk Gaz is tied with drunk Ghost in the clingly koala department. Drunk Gaz can't really sleep without you in his arms, darling, and so when you're in the bed, he's holding you like his life depends on it, your face is buried in his glorious chest, and he'll kiss the top of your head and sleepily murmur how much he loves you, darling. Also tends to think the house is haunted for some reason, so he's holding on to you to protect you? Thanks, Kyle...

Drunk Soap is the mad lad who excitedly tells everyone you said yes to going on a date with him even though you two have been together for a minute. May or may not have started a fight brawl or two with another bar patron for drunkenly hitting on you; the one who'll also take you away snickering while everyone else is still fighting because lmao. Drunk Soap goes to sleep thinking you're in his arms but it's always the dog who’s snoring in his face.

Drunk Ghost is in love with you. Pathetically in love with you. Down bad. So mushy it's disgusting. And cute. Disgustingly cute. Lets his guard down like the Cap'n, and all you see in those dark eyes is you. Everything comes out and it's all YOU. Ghost lets you have your way with him. Cover him in art, sure thing, luv. Color his tattoos in? Why the fuck not? Raspberries on his tummy? What's stopping you, sweetheart? Just... consumed by you, all with a chuckle, a ciggie dangling from his mouth, and you in his arms. He revels in the fact that you love him as much as he loves you. Tells you such in so many words, too. Ghost just fuckin' GLOWS, okay?

Phillip Graves is drunkenly serenading you and telling you all these plans he has about y'all's future together. From the bathroom. While pissing the longest piss known to man. The one who'll also croon 'Darlin'....' and kiss your cheeks a lot because it just does something to him. Just so damn affectionate. He can sing like no one's business, too. He loves to croon Marvin Gaye, Barry White, or the Isley Brothers in your ear. All with that goddamn southern twang. 'Cause he loves his darlin' so MUCH.

König is cackling like the gremlin crackhead he is and you're wondering if he'll ever realize that he's actually hugging and loving on the bedpost and not you. In true troll fashion, though, you record the whole thing and show it to him later, to his mortification. Drunk König also likes to be the little spoon.

When drunk, Horangi gets hot really quickly, and will take his clothes off. ALL his clothes off. And then he's all over you like a cat. He really likes it when you run your hands over his body, though. Goes double if your hands are cold.

Keegan is just fucking needy. Don't leave him, baby. What do you mean you gotta go to the bathroom? What do you mean you need to get a refill? The one who's out getting drunk with the other Ghosts, and he's texting you how much he loves you, how much he needs you, and then proceeds to reveal to you so many things about him, so many things that he thinks would make you leave him, but the things he reveal aren't even secretive or horrible at all (yeah, sure, of course you'd leave him because he and his friends wore the cheerleaders' outfits and he was on top of the pyramid while said cheerleaders played flag football in highschool during homecoming) so what the fuck, Keegan?

Adler is also a sleepy drunk. A sleepy, snoring drunk. A sleepy, snoring drunk who loves to sleep under your plushy throw blanket that he talks shit about when sober because your scent is on it and it helps him de-stress.

[temeyes]

sick bois

[ramvur]

raise crows and they'll gouge your eyes out

[shittalkerxox]

The 141 have a ridiculous run of inside jokes that is continuosly ruining their lives, such as;

1.) If someone says, "You love it really," to you, you immediately have to agree with them, no matter what the circumstances. Otherwise, you lose the ability to do it back. This has resulted in many weird fake confessions, including one time in which Soap got fed up with people making your mom jokes at him and went on a rant about it. Ghost glanced at him in front of a room full of cadets and just went, "You love it really, though," and Soap almost died as he sadly nodded and replied, "Yeah, I do."

2.) If something even remotely sexual sounding is said about you, you must always say, "You're damn right I do/am/will," back. This backfired once when they were in a defreif and Price said something about Gaz "coming through the back door" and Gaz, without think, winked and replied "You're damn right I did," In front of everyone and got in trouble for mild insubordination. (The others almost died laughing as he realised what he'd done, who he'd done it to, and who he'd done it in front of (aka Price's bosses))

3.) When talking about Roach, they will always act like he's died. He hasn't, but none of them can stop the joke, and it always makes all of them crack up, even Roach. This once caused major panic, as once when Ghost was discussing their latest mission with Laswell, he said, "It was fine because Roach - God rest his soul -" and Laswell had about two minutes where she thinks Roach has dropped dead and she didn't fucking know.

4.) They will always make up bad stories for how they met Ghost, if anyone ever asks. It doesn't matter what the truth is, or who they're speaking to, when asked, all three of them will reply with some made up, overly dramatic or down right boring story on how they met. These stories ranged from Ghost, saving them from a shark attack (Gaz), Ghost selling them assorted drugs as a teenager (Roach), and most devastatingly is when Soap told a distant relative of his that he met Ghost after "finding him with my older brother, behind his wifes back" he does not have an older brother, and so there is no wife.

5.) They always reference the "Malibu incident." None of them have ever been to Malibu. Nothing bad has ever happened there, but now they've created a whole conspiracy in the British Army about a coverup that happened in Malibu. Price knows about this one and finds it endlessly funny, so he goes along with it, never directly mentioning it but refusing to deny it when someone asks. If anyone ever asks about the details of it, they just give a deadpanned look as if the other person should already know and say; "Don't make me say it." There are rumours. Like, a lot of rumours.

6.) Roach claps every time someone says, "I'll be there for you" because once he clapped at the wrong time during the friends intro and had been paying the price ever since. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes you'll just hear him clapping - not even in the tune to the friends theme. Just random clapping. If any of the others hear it, they almost always reply with "That's a fuckin' joke" in a really disappointed tone. It's confused a lot of people.

[meowpupp]

Hi , im here with a thought, i can just imagine puppy reader crying to price about what kyle did and how she was just curious and she didnt really wanna disobey and to please not get rid of her and stuff like that , so kyles punishment is eating the reader out just exactly as price wants , price i feel like is more aggressive and less forgiving towards kyle compared to reader , i feel like price has that "nothing is your fault ♡" attitude for his sweet pup

pt1

owner!price x chubby!puppgirl x pup!kyle

tw//: p in v, oral (fem reciving), hybrid receiving, collars, rough sex, slight mention of overstim, fem reader, collars, probably my most filthy smut yet

prices heart breaks as you cry into his chest, clinging onto him tightly. in all his time with you, hes never seen you so distraught. your body is almost shaking, tail low and ears pulled back as you sob and babble. he just holds you tight, rubbing a big hand firmly up and down your back. “Shhh, s’okay pup. Talk t’me when youre ready, okay?” 

It takes almost ten minutes, tears still spilling down your face as you pull back to look up to him. “please, m sorry captain. i didnt mean t’break the rules,” your words are interrupted by uncontrollable hiccups and stutters, hands gripping his shirt tightly, “please sir, please don get rid of me. i promise ill be good!! wont ever break the rules again, please!!!” you break down into a fit of sobs again, whimpering into his chest as he holds you tight.

He easily lifts you up, your body melting into his as he sits you ontop him. you now straddle his lap, burying your face into his neck. its almost sweet, how youre so desperate for his comfort despite your expectation of rejection. price just holds you tight, hands firm and secure on your body, breath steady and soothing. once you calm, he slowly pulls the story out of you. every little detail. 

he tries to hide the way his face darkens as you speak, his eyes narrowing as you explain what kyle had done. once youre done, he sighs, hands still rubbing circles on your back. he glances over your shoulder, eyes lingering on the garage door. 

“stay here, okay? Be a good girl f’me and strip. kyles gonna say sorry for bein so mean.” with a kiss on your forehead, he lays you down on the couch, leaving you to follow his instructions. 

within ten minutes he returns, not even glancing at you as he enters. his eyes are trained on kyle, watching him closely. a leash is clipped to his sprenger collar. a new addition. 

he forces the other pup to kneel at your feet, hands forceful and grip rough. kyle is huge, broad-shouldered and muscular, looming over you between your spread legs, his eyes trained on your pretty cunt. you can almost see him drool, licking his teeth as he looks over your exposed body as if wanting nothing more than to grip onto plush waist and bury himself 9 inches deep. 

youre snapped back into reality as price tugs harshly on kyles leash, making the collar dig into his neck. “Speak, mutt.” the tone of his voice almost makes you curl into yourself. he sounds vicious, angrier than youve ever seen him. 

kyle eyes meet yours for the first time, “im… sorry.” he mumbles half-assed. you can tell hes itching for your soft body. its almost torture having you spread out for him, yet denied the permission to touch. 

price almost growls as he tugs the leash harder, causing kyles eyes to widen for a moment. “fuck, im sorry, i swear.”

price lets out a huff, pushing kyles head down, making him come face to face with your pretty cunt. “Show her, mutt. Apologise properly.”

its almost instant the way kyle buries his head in you. his hands wrap around your thighs, pulling you flush to his face. his nose bumping your clit as drinks in your slick. its perverted, the wet noises that fill the room, the way he groans as ruts into the couch as he devours you. 

price doesnt allow him an inch of space, denying him reprieve from your drooling cunt. his voice cuts through the mix of moans, directing kyle exactly what to do. telling him how fast, how slow, whether to suck your clit or thrust his tongue. hes almost cruel, tugging kyles collar harshly each time he doesnt listen, leaving angry red marks around his neck. 

but to you? well, how could he ever be mean to his sweet girl? a calloused hand cups your cheek, his low, growly voice talking you through your nth orgasm. he kisses your forehead, letting you hold his free hand tightly as your legs shake and your hips buck, your voice filling the room as you cry out. 

its only once kyles face is completely covered in your slick that he lets the pup pull away. hes panting, cock straining against his pants as he aches for release. kyles eyes meet prices, desperate and needy. “Captain, please, fuck,” his hands twitch as they hold your thighs, resisting the urge to pull your twitching cunt closer, “let me fuck her, ill make her feel so fucking good, have her screaming for you-” 

hes cut off, eyes wide as price harshly grips his jaw. “When are you gonna learn?” price reaches down, palming kyles growing tent, making the pup whine, “shes not yours to fuck.” he lets go, pushing kyle to the ground, denied and throbbing. 

price makes him watch as he gently picks you up, pulling you once again into his lap. your back presses to his chest, legs hooked around his knees, forced to spread. Price is quick to unbutton his pants, sinking you down on his fat dick. you can feel his hot breath tickle your neck as he laughs, finding amusement in the way your back bows as he forces himself deep inside you. 

his hands trail up the curve of your waist, coming up to cup your tits. he squeezes the fat, grinning as it bulges between the gaps of his fingers. you can both hear kyles whines, eyes trained on you as price starts to toy with your nipples for a moment. “moan for me pretty girl, let him hear how good i stretch out your tight fuckin cunt, how your pretty body belongs t’me.” his beard tickles you as his lips brush your neck, “bounce f’me pup, show kyle what hes missing out on.”

the roll of your hips is hypnotising, kyles eyes wide as he drinks in the sight. your tits slightly jiggle each time you come down, your thighs spread wide as price shows off your swollen cunt. “see that kyle? how she takes me?” price reaches out, gripping kyles arm and pulling. he lands with his cheek pressed against the soft pudge of your tummy, able to feel as price fills you with each thrust, “feel that?” price fucks up harder into you, making your body jolt as you squeak, “thats only for good fuckin pups.” 

he pushes kyle away again, leaving him to fall onto the floor, cock throbbing and aching as he watches your pretty cunt get ruined by your rightful owner <3