#POV kyle gaz garrick

[mrspasser]

Sweeping the room

Call of Duty fanfic Read it on A03

It all started relatively innocently. They pull pranks on each other all the time and retaliation is part of the deal. So when Soap taped Kyle’s niftily constructed shack (not a Jack Shack - he’d been pulling night shifts that whole week and when sleeping in a bunk room with ten other soldiers you had to get creative to get some sleep) completely shut last month, forcing Kyle to cut himself out with a knife and ruining a perfectly good sheet, he knew he’d find a way to get back at the guy. He hadn’t gotten a chance while they were shipped out, but now they were back at their own base he had every means at his disposal. 

So that’s why he’s leading a small unit of soldiers down the hall towards Soap’s room, all armed with the contents of the broom closet around the corner. Kyle commandeered an old fashioned wooden broomstick for himself, letting the cadets divide up the flimsier plastic ones. One cadet ended up with a mop.

It’s perhaps a bit unfair that Kyle enlisted the help of his training unit for this prank, but again: all is fair in love and war. And he loves to pull pranks on his friend. He’s also fairly certain Soap won’t hold it against the guys too much; at worst he’ll make their practice drills a little harder, or something. The cadets that signed up for this little job are all aware of that risk and willing to take it.

It’s about an hour before lights out and most people at the base are either hanging out in the common rooms or chilling in their own bunks. The 141 task force has the luxury of private rooms; they’re about the size of a shoebox, but it certainly beats having to listen to your bunkmate’s snores. Soap’s room is squat in the middle of the hallway, one of few closed doors at this hour. Kyle knows his friend is in his room, he’d texted him before to ask him what he was doing and the answer was ‘watching a movie’.

He directs his small unit towards Soap’s door in near silence, using hand signals and whispered commands to get them in the right position. The cadets are playing along nicely, holding their broom sticks as if they’re real rifles and sticking to the walls for cover. Kyle considers pulling his phone out for a moment, to film the whole thing, but he’s been with the 141 long enough to be wary of possible security breaches. He’ll just engrain the whole - hopefully hilarious - event to memory. If anything, it’ll make for a funny story the next time they’re going out for a drink.

The broomstick armed unit plays their role perfectly, directing curious soldiers that they encounter along the hall back into their rooms with harsh whispers and pointed broomsticks. There’s some laughs and token protests, though everyone falls in line pretty quickly. As they reach Soap’s door, the soldiers line up according to regulation. One to open the door and provide cover, two cadets on each side, ready to breach and Kyle and the other two remaining cadets for additional cover and assistance. 

The cadets look back to their sergeant for the signal and Kyle counts down from three on his fingers. On his ‘go’ signal the first soldier opens the door with a shout and he points his broomstick at the entrance. The room is quite dark, Soap must not have turned on the overhead light for his little movie night. He might even be asleep already. 

The two other soldiers move in, mop and broom at the ready. Despite their awkward ‘weapons’, they move fluently and had this been an official training exercise, Kyle could’ve ticked off some boxes with a positive result. 

At that point, multiple things happen at once. There’s shouting from within the room, mostly from the soldiers that just breached the door. There’s a scuffle, presumably from the soldiers surprising a prone Soap on his bed. And out in the hallway, Kyle has to order a couple of privates to put away their phones, because their little stunt has gathered an audience by now. 

The noises from inside the room turn worrying, because there’s more than one pained grunt audible. Kyle hurries to the door, bumping into one of the cadets that suddenly steps back from the doorway with an audible ‘Oh shit’. Before Kyle can ask why the man is backing away, the answer presents itself when he gets an unobstructed view of the room.

Oh shit, indeed.

“Gaz! Ye radge wee shite! Is this your doing?!” At the back of the room, only his bottom half illuminated by the light coming in from the hall, is Soap standing, dressed in gym shorts, socks and a hoodie, his handgun pointed straight at Kyle. 

Being held at gunpoint by his fellow sergeant isn’t what worries him, though. No, he’s more scared of the sight on the floor between him and Soap. 

Because to one side, half underneath the small desk that takes up valuable floor space, is one of the cadets that breached the door. The poor guy is looking out of it, the stick of his mop weapon broken clean in two and strewn over his prone form. There’s a thin trail of blood running down his forehead that might explain his dazed look and the broken mop handle. However, he might be the lucky one, because the other cadet is getting strangled with his own broomstick by none other than their resident fright, Ghost.

Ghost, who has the neckline of his T-shirt pulled up over his nose, because apparently they caught him without his mask. A rare occurrence.

Ghost, who effectively pins the poor cadet to the floor with one knee placed right besides his groin and two large hands holding down the broomstick over his throat. 

The room is silent for a beat, just the sounds of the cadet struggling for breath to be heard.

Then Soap steps forward, putting his weapon away in the waistband of his shorts and placing a hand on Ghost’s shoulder. “Stand down, Lt,” he urges in a quiet voice.

The effect is instantaneous: Ghost lets go of the broomstick and surges to his full height, impressive as it is. The lieutenant holds one hand up to his face, fixing his makeshift mask into place. It doesn’t diminish his menacing stare. 

Yeah, Kyle is man enough to admit he fucked up on this one.  He lowers his broom and straightens his back. “I’m sorry, sir.”

The room is silent.

“I didn’t know you were back already,” he adds, resisting the urge to drag his hand across his face and draw in on himself. He’s a battle hardened soldier, for fuck’s sake.

“Aye, and where is my apology?” Soap stands half behind their lieutenant, the room not big enough for the two men to stand next to each other. Still, he crosses his arms across his chest and puts on an impressive glare. “Why does he get a nice ‘sorry, sir’ and I don’t?” 

“Because you’re not my superior officer,” Kyle shoots back. And because you have just your standard bag of army induced issues, he thinks, nothing like the flaming bag of dog shit the other man carries with him. He doesn’t have the security clearance nor the kind of trust he needs to know all about Ghost’s horrid past, no matter how much they trust each other with their lives on and off the battlefield. Kyle doubts there are people besides Ghost himself who know the full story. Price might come close. Soap probably too. All Kyle knows is not to touch it with a ten foot pole. And now he went and hit it with a broomstick. Yeah. He’s fucked.

“And because you couldn’t stop fucking about with my sleeping arrangements,” he adds.

Soap grins widely, the anger disappearing completely. “Your Jack Shack!” 

“It was not a Jack Shack! No matter how many signs you made to call it that.” At some point Soap had even unearthed Christmas decorations from somewhere to decorate Kyle’s bunk with. It was just a shame he used the tinsel to spell out Jack Shack in large letters across the sheet that hid the bunk away from daylight. With their shifts at the Mexican base alternating off each other, Soap had had ample time to mess with his friend’s sleeping quarters, until Price finally ordered him to knock it off.

“Ah, sirs?” One of the cadets on the floor finally found the courage to speak up. With the way Ghost is still glaring, the poor man might even deserve some chest candy for his bravery. The trickle of blood on his forehead is dried up, smeared across his eyebrow. 

Ghost levels the man with one look. “You’re dismissed, Pradhan,” he says in a low, icy tone. “Take private Wen with you and get yourself checked out by medical.”

The poor cadet quickly nods with a ‘sir, yessir’ and scrambles to help his colleague off the floor.  

So much for the soldiers hoping Ghost didn’t recognise them. 

Kyle might have to apologize to them later, for leading them on a mission with faulty intel. It’s one thing to help prank your jovial, Scottish superior; pranking the Ghost is a whole other ballgame, with much higher stakes. For now, all he can do is move away from the door so the cadets can enter the now suspiciously empty hallway, taking their misused cleaning supplies with them. 

He watches them disappear through the double doors at the end of the hallway, wondering what they will tell the nurse on duty. He’s sure they won’t be mentioning the name Ghost. But what will they tell? It’ll be interesting to sort out that paperwork. However, that’s for tomorrow-Kyle. Today-Kyle still has to face his superior officer.

“I’m sorry, Ghost,” he says again, turning back to the room. The man has dug up his balaclava from somewhere in the room and is once again covered up. The tousled blond locks from before are hidden from sight. “We were just trying to get the jump on MacTavish.”

“And look whatsit got ya, ye fuckin’ bampot,” Soap mutters from where he’s sat back on his bed shaking his head. He’s winding the cord of his headphones around his fingers, the white cord having come loose from the laptop that still lies on the floor. It’s laying on its back, the keyboard side sticking up in the air. On the screen the movie is paused on a scene with flashy cars. Kyle guesses it’s one of the The Fast & The Furious installments. The use of headphones might explain the reaction of the officers, if they didn’t hear their ‘assailants’ coming.

“When did you get back, sir?” Kyle tries to spark up some semblance of a conversation, anything to get past the awkwardness of this situation.

“This afternoon.” He takes the short answer he gets as a good sign. Surely if Ghost was truly mad, he wouldn’t even answer. From his bed, Soap follows the conversation, keeping his eyes trained on Ghost’s back. There’s a slight pinch to his look, a sign of worry perhaps.

Ghost had been off on a solo mission, having left at some point before Soap and Kyle came back from Mexico three days ago. He doesn’t know any details, just that the lieutenant was shipped out to somewhere in the Middle East. “Good mission?”

A short grunt from behind the mask, Ghost’s eyes staring at the wall behind Kyle. “Job’s done.” 

Kyle catches Soap’s gaze, who jerks his head minutely towards the hallway. He takes it as the sign it undoubtedly is to leave the two men alone. Something he should’ve done from the beginning. “Right. Well, I’ll leave you guys to your evening. Good night, sir,” he says to Ghost. “And once again: I’m sorry for what happened.”

Ghost predictably doesn’t react. From behind the big guy, Soap mouths ‘kiss ass’ at Kyle. Also predictable. 

Kyle leaves the room and closes the door behind him. He sets course to the on base med bay, meaning to check up on the two unfortunate cadets. On his way, he wrecks his brain for ways to make it up to Ghost. He might have to consult Price on that one, something he’s not very much looking forward to, especially not combined with tonight's paperwork. 

He’s not too worried about Soap, resigning himself to be on the lookout for another horrible prank coming his way sometime soon. It might do well to come up with some ideas to retaliate. Just to be prepared.

[sigh-tofm]

if you wear glasses …

… price

- makes sure you always feel beautiful, especially if you’re just starting out or feel insecure with them on. kisses the bridge of your nose and your forehead. wears his own reading glasses when he’s working on reports or just puttering around the house. sits with you on the veranda, hand in hand, reading quietly while the sun sets. both of you wearing your glasses.

… kyle

- forgets you wear them and sometimes kisses you so fervently that your combined breath fog them up. you giggle as he picks them off your nose and neatly deposits them on a free surface. you continue kissing him and to make it fair, kyle turns off the lights so he too needs to rely mostly on touch the rest of the evening. turns out touch is all either of you need.

… johnny

- has broken them on more than one occasion. he’s cracked the glass and bent the frame, and it has happened both during playful wrestling matches and, uh, intimate wrestling matches. visiting the optician to pick out a new pair becomes a bi-annual afternoon date for you two. johnny always pays and isn’t even ashamed to admit out loud what he’s done while your cheeks heat and you look anywhere but at the optician.

… ghost

- always makes sure they’re clean. once you take them off to sleep, shower or just rub your eyes, he steals them away (sometimes right from your fingers or even nose if you’ve managed to get something on the glass while cooking). first uses an alcohol wipe and then dries them off with a soft linen cloth bought especially for that purpose. does not let you clean them yourself. likes to make your life easier when he can.

[mindie-arts]

Join him? 🍜🌱✨

[mothmothmothmothmothmoth]

@angel-eyes-and-devil-hearts

Doodles for On the Run!!! It's taken up so much space in my brain recently <3

[reds-skull]

Bringer of Demise - Chapter 1

[MAKAROV'S FATE COMIC] [AO3]

When I say I've been thinking about this ever since finishing part 1...

I'm very excited to start a new multi-chapter story, doubly so with revenant AU! I'm not sure how long this will be, but I have a feeling it will be longer than part 1 :)

For those that skipped the side-stories, some details in this chapter refer to them, they're not a must-read to understand, but I heavily encourage it! You're also welcome to read the comic, it shows Makarov and Fate's reactions to the events of part 1...

Now, before I start rambling again... Chapter 1: The Labyrinthine Design of Fate

He always had a sort of scorching at his chest. A never-ending flame, bugs beneath his skin. As if he was burning alive.

As if he never escaped his self-made grave.

Even now, he could feel it, little legs of burning moths climbing up and down his arms, an overwhelming sensation that hasn’t left him in six years-

Except… There, a hand slides over his. Cool, a running river between his fingers. A breath of the void in a world so loud.

Soap smiles. Simon.

“Finally awake, Johnny?”

He buries his face into the pillow, hiding his growing grin. The hand continues to hold his, and that’s all the reasons he needs to continue sleeping.

“Gonna be like that, hm?” the voice hums thoughtfully, “I went to a zoo last month. Wouldn’t recommend, all they had was some dog.”

Soap frowns. He isn’t going to…

“It was a shitzu.”

He groans. “Ye didn’t…” Soap cracks open an eye, staring unimpressed at Simon’s crinkling eyes.

Simon pulls at his hand, making him sit up, “should be honored you’re waking up to my wonderful jokes.” he lets go of him, turning back to his desk. Soap notices the half-filled reports covering it.

Even several weeks later, the 141 is practically sinking under the mountain of paperwork that dropped on them as soon as they returned to the UK.

Soap flops back onto the bed, “rather be sleepin’ than hearing that shite.” Simon doesn’t give him a response, his pen gliding once again on the paper. “Is this one above my clearance as well?”

“No. Just forms to apply for changes in our Revenant documents, again.”

“You’d think they’d figure it out by now…” he turns to stare at the ceiling, an odd feeling in his chest.

The day they met… Lumity, Soap was ecstatic. It was a proof of his and Simon’s eternal connection, breaking the final barrier between them, showing that even the Reapers themselves couldn’t keep them apart.

He’s still glad of that, mind. He would never ask to be separated from Simon. But…

But it’s not something they could hide. As much as Price and Laswell cover for them, to conceal the existence of a whole new Reaper was beyond them.

It’s that uncertainty that scares him. The higher-ups haven’t done anything with them yet, the whole taskforce grounded until the dust settles, but Soap is sure it won’t pass by quietly.

When it comes to him, nothing ever does, it seems.

He turns his head to stare at Simon again. The man he was fated to kill. The way he looks when they’re like this, hidden away from the world and the realms beyond it, when they’re just Johnny and Simon, never stops to mesmerize him. He thinks, if they were perhaps a little different, maybe this would’ve been permanent.

Then again, were they any different, they’d likely be dead by now.

The question ‘why did it choose me?’ is usually screamed in his mind when phantom blood covers his hands, when the answering thought is often ‘it shouldn’t have’. Soap asks himself again, but with curiosity.

How much does Fate know?

“You’re not sleeping again, are you?” Simon asks with a smile in his voice.

Soap gets up, stretching his back, “nothin’ else better to do, is there?”

“Could always help me with reports.”

He side-eyes Simon, “like I said, nothing better to do.”

Simon scoffs, and Soap opens his mouth to goad him to another round of bickering, when a sort of buzzing goes up his spine. Simon’s shuddering back tells him he felt it as well.

“Our Reapers-” Simon locks eyes with him, when the world melts away.

When Soap comes to, the realm is dark. Cold. Words he’d never use to describe his Reaper.

Speaking of… where are they?

“S-Simon?” Soap looks around, finding him a few paces away, his head tilted up. His brows furrow, and he follows his line of sight.

Soap stumbles back, his heart pounding, “what- Buanaiche…?”

Lumity hangs above them, their body twisted, features broken by dark red. Pulled in different directions by the strings, it is as if something was trying to rip each limb apart, as if to separate… Ladder-like patterns and moths weave around the trapped being, light itself bound by crimson lines.

“What happened to you, Reaper?” Simon whispers, fear evident in his voice.

“FATE…… The invader… IT DARED ENTER OUR REALM…”

“Fate did this to you?” Soap’s eyes follow the red strings, where they disappear in the dark fog of Lumity’s realm.

Lumity’s head twitches, and gleaming white light drips from their neck. Soap asks himself, absentmindedly, if Reapers can even feel pain.

“LISTEN CLOSELY REVENANTS… Fate is plotting against us… Against your allies…”

A deafening sound cracks through the still air, making both Soap and Simon clutch at their ears. One of the strings snaps, only to loop back around one of Lumity’s many arms.

“A man with two faces will approach you… He will be an agent of Fate… YOU MUSTN’T FOLLOW HIM.”

“B-Buanaiche…” Soap winces when Lumity lets out a sound no words in any human language can describe, “what is Fate doing to you?”

“I will not bow down to it… I WILL NEVER BOW DOWN TO IT… This is nothing but a show… A petty show…”

Simon pulls at his sleeve, and takes his left hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Be vigilant, revenants… Fate is not alone…

IT IS NOT ONLY US THAT GAZE UPON YOU NOW…”

Before Soap could take another breath, Lumity’s realm swirls, and the only thing left is that which holds his hand, shaking with the same terror as him.

They collapse to the floor, Soap’s breath hitching in his throat. Simon grunts, bringing a hand to his ear to check if it’s bleeding. He looks up at him, and shakes his head minutely.

“We…” Simon starts, swallowing thickly, “we need to find Price and Gaz.”

Soap nods, pushing himself up to stand on numb legs. His mind feels like it’s pulled apart like his Reapers, thoughts forming only to dissipate.

He follows Ghost out of his barracks, his steps loud and sure, even if his fists still tremble at his sides. The hallways are silent, most soldiers out training at these hours. Ghost directs them towards the fields now, where Gaz should be supervising recruits.

As they get closer, a few of them run into the building, their faces red with exertion and heads swiveling around. 

Soap spots Cooper, one of the FNGs he often trains, and calls out to him, “what’s going on with you lot? Why are ye not in drills?”

“Sergeant MacTavish! Lieutenant!” Cooper shouts, the words leaving his mouth in one hurried breath, “They- the revenants on base, they’re all-”

Another recruit butts in, “they all just stopped moving, they’re not reacting to anything!”

Ghost scoffs, pushing between the soldiers to get to the doors. The rookies snap their mouths shut, staring with wide eyes at them as they exit to the training grounds.

Soap didn’t want to believe them, hoping to dismiss their worry off when seeing it himself, but it was exactly as they said.

Most soldiers are moving, gathered around still figures. He can see Gaz from here, his face slack. The few other revenants on base, the majority of them belonging to the Reaper of Flesh, are as motionless as him. 

“They’re all…” Soap mutters.

Ghost’s eyes narrow, “in their Reaper’s realm.”

“Think Fate got them too?” Soap walks towards Gaz, Ghost right behind him.

The recruits surrounding Kyle part for them, Ghost glaring at the ones that tried to shake Gaz, “no, but it can’t be a coincidence.”

Gaz stares at the horizon unblinking. The sight unnerves Soap, even if he knows he looks exactly like that when his Reaper summons him. He can’t recall if he’s ever seen a revenant in this state.

A movement catches his attention, and Soap takes a step back when Gaz’s hands start twitching, his body floating a few inches off the ground, muscles taut. One soldier from the small crowd around them asks, “i-is that normal?”

A moment later, as if an invisible cable snapped, Gaz falls to the ground, knocking the hat off his head trying to dig his fingers into his scalp.

Soap instantly crouches in front of him, noticing in his periphery how the rest of the revenants come to as well, “Gaz? Ye alright?”

Ghost snatches his hand when he goes to place it on Gaz’s shivering shoulder, and addresses Kyle, “Garrick, give me sitrep.”

Gaz shakes his head, a few muted sobs escaping him. “My… My Reaper…” he heaves, “it told me to c-choose.”

“Choose?” Soap prompts him.

“Between Fate and Lumity. Between Makarov… and you.” Kyle finally looks up, his eyes red and tearful, pupil blown, “I chose you. I would never- but my Reaper…” his face contorts, “it was… furious, or not- I don’t know-” he lets out a frustrated huff, “all I know, it wasn’t happy with my choice.”

Ghost offers Gaz a hand, and helps him up. He then turns to the rest of the recruits and snarls, “what are you standing ‘ere for? Get the fuck out of my sight!”

Their little crowd disperses like a flock of birds. Soap picks up Gaz’s baseball cap, brushing the dirt off and handing it to him, “the Reaper of Pull never did like Destruction… You think that’s what the other revenants were asked?” he asks Ghost.

Ghost lets go of Kyle, making sure he can stand by himself, “... Price knows more about how Fate operates than anyone else on base.”

Price’s thoughts leak far before his office even comes into view. They’re nothing but a jumbled mess of images and emotions, and none of them make the rising dread within Soap lessen.

Gaz hasn’t stopped shaking, his steps heavier, like he’s pushing himself towards the earth in an attempt to stay steady. They haven’t spoken a word on the way here, Ghost’s eyes darting around tensely.

Soap himself can’t make heads or tails from this. That buzzing sensation under his skin, that usually forebodes his Reaper pulling him to its realm, hasn’t left. His fingers burn brighter, flames trailing far behind him as they walk.

Ghost doesn’t bother knocking, swinging the door to Price’s office wide open and ushering Soap and Gaz inside before locking it behind them.

Soap looks at their Captain for a few moments, his head in his hands.

“... Price?” Kyle is the first to break the silence. Price lets out a shuddering sigh, and looks up.

The Captain removes his hat, gripping it tightly until his knuckles turn white, “it asked you to choose, I presume?”

Gaz nods, “Mine did, yeah, but… I don’t know about Ghost and Soap-”

“No.” Price cuts him off, tone devoid of any emotion. “Lumity isn’t in a position to ask, are they?” he studies them with narrowed eyes.

Soap stares back, feeling Price’s mind prob at his, picking apart what he saw in Lumity’s realm, what they told them. The warnings, Fate’s strings wrapping around light like spiderwebs.

“I met Makarov once, over a decade ago.” Price explains as he retreats from Soap’s thoughts, “we didn’t know it was him, at the time. But he knew we were coming.”

“He showed me what his powers can do, a fraction of his Reaper’s. In all my years, I’ve never read a mind quite like his.”

“What did you see?” Soap can’t help but ask, fear warring with curiosity. Makarov is an enigma, one they only know one thing about.

The Revenant of Fate is always several steps ahead.

Price closes his eyes, hands coming up to message his head, “he showed me my own fate. Showed me people I haven’t even met yet, dead at my feet. We were lucky, according to my Reaper, until now. Fate didn’t have much interest in Humanity.”

Something dreadful seeps into his gut, and Price doesn’t open his mouth when the next words appear in their brains.

“Now, it saw something that caught its attention.”

“IT IS NOT ONLY US THAT GAZE UPON YOU NOW”

… What have they done…?

Price fills Gaz in, about Lumity’s warning. They speak among themselves in hushed voices, debating on who could possibly be a traitor, what can be done to weed them out. Talking aimlessly, as they don’t know enough about the situation to figure anything out yet. Anything is better than the suffocating silence, though.

Soap found himself staring at the grout lines of the tiled floor, thoughts such a jumbled mess even Price stirs clear from his mind. Ghost isn’t deterred, however, and has been a constant presence by his side. As he has been, for the last few months.

Soap thinks he would’ve had an easier time accepting this if he was the one destined to die. But Ghost? He’d never regret not killing him.

It angers him, to the point he has to keep his entire focus on minimizing his flames - who gave Fate the right to decide who he kills?

How much power does Fate hold? Is it the one that decided who becomes a revenant, and who doesn’t?

If Fate can capture a Reaper, there’s no limit to what it can do to them.

Cool fingers wrap around his left hand, white fire heedless of the scarred skin. Soap looks up at Ghost, humming a question.

“Remember our promise.” is all Ghost says, and somehow that’s all Soap needs to take a mental step back, and breathe in deeply.

Soap echoes his words from weeks ago now, spoken under the warm glow of a fancy restaurant, with the same hand in his.

“Together.”

They hear a throat clearing after a few minutes, Price motioning for them to sit next to his desk.

“Before… This happened, I was planning on notifying you of something.” Price starts, his eyes locked onto Ghost’s, “Laswell and the higher-ups consulted Doctor Novikov about Lumity, and have come into the conclusion you two need to redo your revenant tests.”

Ghost scoffs, leaning back in his chair to sneer, “what is he going to tell us that we don’t already know? He didn’t know a bloody thing about Void before it merged, doubt he has any new revelations he could share with us.”

The Captain sighs heavily, and Soap gets the feeling this isn’t the first time a conversation of this sort happens between these two, “it’s part of the protocol, Simon. Or at least as much protocol that can be salvaged in your case.”

Soap leans in to half-whisper in Gaz’s ear, “ye know this… Novikov? The fuck’s he a doctor fer?”

Gaz blinks at him for a second, before reeling back, “you- you don’t know Novikov??”

“No???” Soap frowns, turning around to see Ghost and Price stopped arguing. “How do ye know him?”

“He’s been the head Spiritulogist of the SAS for the last… what was it, ten years, Price?”

“Over a decade, been here since before I was Reaped.” Price says incredulously, “I know your file’s been redacted to hell and back son, but don’t tell me you never even been through your basic revenant testing?”

Soap shakes his head, “they never sent anyone to examine me… I assumed they didn’t need to check my limits, with…” the words die on his tongue, and Price redirects his thoughts before they can go down a dark path.

“I worked with Novikov for as long as I’ve been a revenant. He’s good at what he does.” the Captain says, ignoring Ghost’s growl.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never met a Spiritulogist, mate.” Gaz gently elbows him with a small grin.

Soap sneaks another glance at Ghost, noting his stormy eyes, before answering, “I did, never about my own powers. Don’t think any o’ them had clearance.”

Ghost murmurs, “saved you several headaches.”

“Well,” Price slaps his knees, getting up from his chair, “there’s always a first for everything. Novikov got cleared by Laswell, so I assume he has enough information to assess you. He’s due to arrive at any moment, let’s take it to the tarmac.”

They follow him out of the office, Ghost walking ahead, irritation practically fuming out of him. Whatever past this Novikov has with Simon, it can’t be good. Then again, Ghost seems to dislike him more based on his profession, than the man himself.

The tarmac isn’t as hectic as it usually is. Soap attributes that to the earlier revenant incident, he personally knows at least three technicians bearing the revenant status working here. There are some gruesome ways to die dealing with aircrafts, that’s for certain. He gets reminded that of the day Gaz told him the story about his Reaping.

Soap hated the blank stare he had back then, guilt a mirror image of his own. Felt an instant connection to him, and hypocritically wanted to tell him he has nothing to be guilty of. Well, maybe not so hypocritically. Gaz would never do what he did.

The helo carrying Novikov has already started descending by the time they arrive. Ghost is a menacing shadow at his side, anger not subsiding in the short walk to here. Soap had to stop himself from asking about it multiple times. He doesn’t think he’ll get more than a grunt from Ghost at this state.

Price approaches the helo as it lands, probably greeting Novikov with his powers. When the loading ramp lowers, Soap watches a short, plump man walk down to shake hands with the Captain.

The first thing Soap clocks in from the man is that he has never been in an active war zone. There’s a lack of awareness the Doctor emanates, his focus not straying from the person in front of him, despite being surrounded by several SAS soldiers, and one very disgruntled, skull-faced revenant.

Price eventually returned to them with Novikov and several other people Soap can only assume are his assistants. Ghost steps closer to him, practically gluing himself to Soap’s side. He leans in to nudge his arm, silently asking him to relax, if only for a moment.

“Lieutenant Ghost, Sergeant Garrick, it is good to see you.” Novikov greets, Gaz reaching to shake his hand. The Doctor offers it to Ghost as well, but all the masked man does is glare at him.

Novikov seems undeterred by the Lieutenant’s hostility, and turns to Soap, “Sergeant John MacTavish,” Soap finally places his accent as Russian, “I don’t believe we’ve been acquainted yet.”

Soap shakes his right hand in the air, momentarily extinguishing its flames, before shaking the Doctor’s hand, “we haven’t.”

Novikov’s grip tightens, and he lets go of Soap’s hand, “I will be honored to be the one to test your powers for the first time, Sergeant. It is not common for revenants to skip those, as you can imagine.”

There’s an almost bitter note to his last sentence. Soap doesn’t like that he feels like Novikov has been waiting for this opportunity for a long, long time.

The words of Lumity have been etched to his heart, burned a hole in his consciousness, began a downward spiral nothing, not even the memory of Ghost’s hand in his, can stop.

Soap watches the Doctor leave, not before a promise to test them first thing in the morning, tomorrow, and he wonders.

He wonders if this, too, is part of the labyrinthine design of Fate.

[cod-thoughts]

Day 22 of 31 days of COD

Words: 2k

Relationships: Team as family

Tags: 3+1, some hurt but mostly comfort.

Ghost stared, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. Soap had his own bloody room. Why in hell was he here, in Ghost’s bed, of all places? OR Three times Ghost found someone from the team in his bed and the one time he found them all there. Keep reading under the cut or on AO3

Simon "Ghost" Riley had always preferred working alone. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his team—Soap, Gaz, and Price were the best of the best—but there was a clarity that came with solitude. No distractions. No banter. Just the mission. His mask had become more than just armour; it was a barrier between him and everything else. It was easier that way.

Tonight was no different. The task was a simple extraction in the dead of night—in and out, no complications. Ghost moved through the facility like a shadow, his presence only marked by the silence that followed in his wake. He was efficient, methodical, and above all, unfeeling. The op went smoother than expected, and within hours, Ghost was on his way back to base, already pushing the mission from his mind.

The safehouse was quiet as Ghost returned, the familiar weight of exhaustion settling into his bones. He had done this so many times before—returning silently from another successful mission. He never expected anything to change. But as he pushed open the door to his room, something had changed.

Lying in the centre of his bed, sprawled out like he didn’t have a care in the world, was John Mactavish. One arm was hanging over the edge, his face half-buried in Ghost's pillow, his breathing slow and deep. He was fast asleep.

Ghost stared, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. Soap had his own bloody room. Why in hell was he here, in Ghost’s bed, of all places?

For a moment, Ghost considered waking him up. A sharp nudge and a few choice words, and Soap would stumble back to his own bed with a cheeky comment about Ghost being too soft. But as Ghost stood there, something stopped him. Soap looked… peaceful. More at ease than Ghost had seen him in a long time. 

With a quiet sigh, Ghost closed the door and moved to the far side of the room. He grabbed a spare blanket and tossed it onto the floor, settling down without a word. The mattress would’ve been better, but he wasn’t about to climb into bed with Soap there. No way.

The room was dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight seeping through the curtains. As Ghost lay down, he found his mind lingering on the oddness of the situation. Soap must’ve been knackered to crash here, but something about it didn’t sit right. Soap wasn’t careless—not like this. 

Ghost pushed the thought aside, too tired to dwell on it. Tomorrow, he'd confront Soap, maybe take the piss out of him for mistaking Ghost’s room for his own. But for now, the steady sound of Soap’s breathing lulled Ghost to sleep.

The next morning, Ghost woke to a crick in his neck from the hard floor. Soap was already gone, the bed neatly made, leaving no sign he’d been there at all, save for the faint indentation on the pillow. Ghost found himself staring at the bed, wondering if he’d imagined it all.

He never mentioned it. Not yet. It was probably nothing. Just a one-off thing.

But as Ghost moved through the day’s briefings, the image of Soap asleep in his bed stayed with him. It gnawed at the edges of his mind, a quiet reminder that maybe something was shifting. Maybe it was Soap. Maybe it was Ghost. Maybe it was the whole team itself.

Ghost had been on countless solo missions, but after the last one, something was different. Soap’s presence in his bed had left a lingering unease Ghost couldn’t quite explain. He hadn’t mentioned it, nor had Soap. Ghost assumed it was a one-off, but part of him wondered if it might happen again.

This mission was tougher, the stakes higher. Ghost was sent deep into enemy territory, operating alone for days on end. The isolation didn’t bother him—it was how he worked best—but as he moved through the op, his thoughts drifted back to the team more than he was used to. The memory of Soap asleep in his bed stuck with him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

When the mission finally ended, Ghost returned to base long after midnight, exhaustion pulling at him. As he entered the safehouse, he expected to slip back into his usual solitude. But when he opened the door to his room, he froze once more.

Gaz was in his bed.

Ghost stared, his breath stalling for a moment as he took in the sight. Gaz was lying on his side, tucked neatly beneath the covers, his arm resting on Ghost’s pillow. He looked far more composed than Soap had been, his breathing slow and steady, as if he’d been waiting for Ghost to return.

“What the hell…” Ghost muttered under his breath.

It wasn’t like Gaz to make such a mistake. He was meticulous, careful. Ghost considered waking him, his hand halfway raised, but then he stopped. This didn’t feel like a mistake. This felt… deliberate.

Ghost’s hand dropped to his side as he stood there, trying to make sense of it. Twice now. Twice, he had returned from a mission to find someone in his bed. It couldn’t be coincidence. 

With a soft sigh, Ghost grabbed the spare blanket once again and settled onto the floor. The hard surface wasn’t any more comfortable than it had been before, but as Ghost lay there, listening to the quiet rhythm of Gaz’s breathing, he found himself more at ease than he had been in days.

The next morning, Gaz was gone before Ghost woke, leaving the bed as neatly made as Soap had. But this time, Ghost didn’t dismiss it so easily. Twice was a pattern. Something was happening here, something unspoken.

And as much as Ghost tried to ignore it, a part of him—the part that usually stayed buried beneath his mask—began to wonder what it meant.

The third mission was different. This time, Ghost was sent deep behind enemy lines with no comms, no contact, and no backup. The op stretched longer than anticipated—weeks passed with no word from Ghost, and the silence weighed heavily on the team.

By the time Ghost finally returned, he was battered and bone-tired. The mission had been brutal, pushing him to his limits. His body ached from weeks of strain, and his mind was frayed from the constant tension. He wasn’t sure what he expected when he returned to base, but he wasn’t prepared for what he found when he opened his door.

Price was there.

The captain was sitting on the edge of Ghost’s bed, his hat tipped low over his eyes, his posture tense but relaxed enough to show he had been waiting. He didn’t look up when Ghost entered, but his voice cut through the silence.

“Long time, Simon.”

Ghost didn’t respond right away. He was too tired to speak, his body heavy with exhaustion. He crossed the room and sat down beside Price, the familiar weight of the captain’s presence grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“You were gone too long,” Price muttered, his voice softer now. “Had us worried.”

Ghost’s chest tightened at the words. He hadn’t thought about the team while he was out there—he couldn’t afford to—but hearing Price admit that they had been worried stirred something deep inside him.

Without saying anything, Ghost leaned back against the headboard, letting his eyes drift closed. Price didn’t move at first, but after a moment, he shifted, pulling his hat lower as if to settle in for the night.

For a long time, they sat in silence, the weight of the mission slowly slipping away. Price didn’t need to say anything more—his presence was enough. He was there, just like Soap and Gaz had been before him, and Ghost couldn’t deny the quiet comfort that brought.

The unspoken message was clear: they had his back, even when he was alone out there. They cared.

And for the first time in a long time, Ghost let himself lean into that.

This last mission nearly killed Ghost.

The op had been one of the most dangerous he’d ever faced, even for Ghost, it had gone wrong in every way possible. A brutal firefight had broken out, and Ghost had fought harder than ever to get out alive. His shoulder throbbed where an old bullet wound had reopened, and the exhaustion pulled at him like a weight he couldn’t shake.

By the time Ghost made it back to base, he was barely holding himself together. His body ached from days of strain, and his mind was clouded with the memory of how close he had come to not making it back.

When he opened the door to his room, Ghost stopped dead in his tracks.

All three of them were there.

His entire team.

They were all crammed into his small bed, somehow managing to fit together, though it was a wonder they hadn’t all fallen off. Soap was sprawled across the foot of the bed, one leg dangling off the side, snoring softly. Gaz was curled up on the left, his arm draped over Ghost’s pillow. Price was propped up near the headboard, his arms crossed over his chest, his hat tipped low over his eyes.

Ghost blinked, staring at them in stunned silence. He hadn’t expected this. Not all of them. But there they were, waiting for him, fast asleep, as if they couldn’t rest until they knew he had come back.

For the first time, Ghost didn’t feel confusion or irritation. He didn’t feel the need to question why they were there, or why they had all chosen his room, of all places. He knew.

They were his team. His family. And they weren’t just there on the battlefield—they were here, waiting for him. Every time.

Ghost stood there for a long moment, his throat tightening as the weight of the moment settled over him. They had been waiting for him. Every time he returned, they had been there. And now, after the hell he’d been through, they were here again.

Something inside Ghost cracked.

He wasn’t used to this. To anyone caring this much. To anyone waiting for him. But the sight of all three of them, crammed into his bed, hit him harder than any mission ever had. And before he could stop himself, he felt a tear slip down his cheek, soaking into his mask.

Silent, as usual and barely noticeable.

Ghost took a shaky breath, reaching up to tug off his mask. The cool air hit his face, but it did nothing to stop the quiet emotion building in his chest. He wasn’t sure what to do with it—wasn’t sure how to let himself feel this—but he couldn’t push it down this time.

He moved toward the bed, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn’t care that there wasn’t enough space. He didn’t care that it would be cramped. He just wanted to be near them.

Careful not to wake them, Ghost slipped into the small space between Gaz and Price. Soap stirred as Ghost settled in, shifting to lie across Ghost’s legs, his head resting against Ghost’s thigh as he mumbled something in his sleep.

Ghost let out a quiet breath, feeling the warmth of his team pressed against him. Gaz shifted slightly, his arm brushing against Ghost’s side, and Ghost could feel the steady rise and fall of Price’s breathing beside him. It was messy, cramped, and imperfect, but Ghost didn’t care.

He lay there in the dark, feeling the silent tears slip down his face, each one a reminder that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t alone. Not out there. Not here.

They had been waiting for him. And they would always be waiting for him.

Ghost closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the too-small space, his body aching but his mind finally quiet. He wasn’t just surviving anymore.

He was home.

[temeyes]

drew a new Gaz dp <3

[sabrielmoose]

Why hasn’t anyone done a COD x Marvel crossover??!

Everything is the same (BUT NO MW3), the 141 and military is exactly the same. Idk which timeframe it would be set in Marvel. (Definitely before civil war because I want a full team of Avengers.)

The 141 have more leeway and operates internationally since they don’t really belong to a specific government. (I mean they’re SAS but their CO is Laswell). So maybe a bit of rivalry between Specgru and Shield.

[This AU will not be very superhero friendly though.]

No character bashing, (or well, not that much), but I will probably project a lot of my opinion about superheroes and their flawed black and white views/ morals on there. I hate superhero logic.

Veterans like 141 would have completely different morals or views to heroes which are darker and more gray And the older soldiers don’t really like heroes, especially since they understand the darker side of the world and having to always clean up messes and die in secret while the ‘supers’ get revered.

ANYWAY, 141 x Avengers team up and maybe argue and dislike each other and a healthy dose of outside perspectives into the stuff 141 have to do and them. (Because I love outside povs).

And NATASHA AND GHOST FRIENDSHIP!!!

#heroes duties

#codxavengers

[softcrow]

finding a family masterlist

ghost isn't unfamiliar with regression, he's seen both johnny and gaz regress but that can't be him. they're so happy and good and he's just... broken. no matter how much he craves the cuddling and hugs and care he sees the others get, he isn't good enough for that and he doesn't deserve attention especially when it would take away from them.

after a difficult mission ghost is alone and struggling in ways he doesn't understand. thankfully price is observant enough to see that something is wrong and he and the rest of the 141 work together to show ghost that he has a family who cares for him no matter what

call of duty. found family. hurt/comfort

regressor!ghost (0-3), regressor!gaz (5-10) regressor!soap (4-12), caregiver!price, caregiver!laswell

cw: vague allusions to past abuse, ghost regresses without knowing what is happening

main fic

part 1/?

drabbles

initial 'simon unknowingly regresses' idea

gaz and soap regressing

gaz and soap as ghost's older brothers

[appleciderp]

he needs better friends. (Ghost POV)

Day 8 of Soap in Kilts for @empresscirque

EMP WROTE THE FIC

Soap: so I sent him a nude… Gaz: (three laugh crying emojis) Gaz: wait, youre not joking… did he respond? Soap: nah, left me on read Gaz: you could say… you could say he… he… Gaz: ghosted you Soap: die gaz

[yallneedtherapytbh]

POV: you get hurt in a mission

Taskforce 141:

Ghost: Is there beside you kneeling and holding you the moment you fall to the ground begging you to stay with him he will yell at everyone who comes near you until the medics come

Price: Sees you across from him he sprints towards you calling a medic as well and holds your hand as the medics try and patch you up also whispers nice things in your ear as the medics patch you up

Gaz: is absolutely horrified and stands there for a second before he yells at everyone to get a medic anyone in front of him he will tell he then will hold you hand as the medics patch you up

Konig: will panic immediately quickly grabs the medics and he as well holds your hand while absolutely panicking if the wound is lethal he could also have a panic attack

[charm6997]

NEW PART UP NOW  Chapters: 4/? Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: König (Call of Duty)/Original Character(s) Characters: Simon "Ghost" Riley, König (Call of Duty), John "Soap" MacTavish, John Price (Call of Duty), Alejandro Vargas, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Gary "Roach" Sanderson, Rodolfo Parra Additional Tags: Gay Male Character, Task Force 141, Points of View, Gay Sex, POV Original Character, POV Alternating, POV Multiple Summary:

You know how twins have one really really outgoing boisterous twin and then one that's calmer ? Well that is how people can describe John "Soap" McTavish and his Twin Brother Jaimes "Pyro" McTavish

[cod-thoughts]

Day 18 of 31 days of COD

Words: 1.4k

Relationships: implied poly141

Tags: outsider pov, dog tags

Harper had seen tight-knit teams before, but 141 was something else entirely. They didn’t just operate like a well-oiled machine; they were like parts of the same organism. And it wasn’t just the battlefield efficiency that marked them as different. It was in the small moments, the in-between times, when their connection became most apparent. Keep reading under the cut or on AO3

Lieutenant Harper had been stationed at the base for nearly a month, long enough to get a feel for the ebb and flow of life there, but it was Task Force 141 that continued to draw his attention. He’d heard of them long before he’d ever set foot in this place—their reputation preceded them. Whispered stories of impossible missions, tight escapes, and a level of camaraderie that no other unit seemed to replicate. But seeing them in person was different. It was the way they moved together, the way they seemed to communicate without words, as though they were always on the same wavelength.

Harper had seen tight-knit teams before, but 141 was something else entirely. They didn’t just operate like a well-oiled machine; they were like parts of the same organism. And it wasn’t just the battlefield efficiency that marked them as different. It was in the small moments, the in-between times, when their connection became most apparent.

He first noticed it during a routine briefing. Captain Price stood at the front, his gravelly voice delivering tactical orders in that steady, confident tone of his. Harper watched as Ghost, Soap, and Gaz stood behind him, their eyes fixed on the map projected on the wall. But it wasn’t their attentiveness that struck Harper—it was the way they moved. Price would point to a location, and before the next word was out of his mouth, Ghost would already be preparing to leave, knowing exactly what Price was going to say. Soap glanced at Gaz, and a silent understanding seemed to pass between them. They didn’t need to be told twice. They didn’t need to ask questions. They just knew.

It wasn’t until later, when they were packing up their gear, that Harper noticed the dog tags.

Every soldier had them. They were essential, a grim reminder of who you were, should your identity ever need confirmation under the worst circumstances. Most soldiers had two tags on their chains, one to stay with them and one to be removed if needed. But Task Force 141? Each of them had four.

It was subtle, something that might’ve gone unnoticed by others. Harper only saw it because he was standing close enough to hear the distinct *clink* as Ghost shifted his gear. At first, he thought it might be some strange tradition, or maybe a memorial to fallen comrades. But the more he observed, the clearer the picture became. They weren’t wearing the tags of the dead; they were wearing each other’s tags.

Harper couldn’t say for sure when he realised this, but once he did, the significance became impossible to ignore. Each man carried the weight of the others around his neck. They didn’t talk about it, didn’t draw attention to it, but Harper understood. It was a vow. A silent promise that no one would be left behind, that even in death, they would belong to one another.

He wasn’t sure if anyone else on the base had noticed this. It was the kind of detail that most wouldn’t think twice about, but to Harper, it spoke volumes about the bond between them. This wasn’t just about loyalty. It was something deeper, something unspoken. Harper had seen soldiers form close bonds in war, but this felt different. This wasn’t just camaraderie forged through fire. It was almost as if there was something more, something intimate, though what it was, Harper couldn’t tell—and frankly, it wasn’t his place to figure out.

The more time he spent on the base, the more he noticed these small moments. In the mess hall, for example, Soap and Gaz often sat together, their banter easy and familiar. Harper had watched as Soap nudged half of his tray over to Gaz without a word, offering the food like it was the most natural thing in the world. Gaz didn’t hesitate. He just took it with a muttered, sarcastic thanks, but the smile that flickered at the edge of his lips said more than words could.

Then there was Ghost. He was an enigma to everyone else on the base, the kind of man who could make a room go silent just by walking into it. But with 141, Ghost was different. Harper had always assumed that someone like Ghost—a man who kept himself wrapped in silence and shadows—would shy away from touch. But Soap would often clap Ghost on the shoulder after a mission, or Gaz would lean into him slightly during a briefing, and Ghost didn’t flinch. In fact, he barely seemed to notice. As if this kind of casual touch was expected, maybe even welcomed in its own quiet way. 

Harper had seen Ghost sit beside Price in the mess, their shoulders nearly touching, both men quietly focused on whatever conversation was happening around them. There was a sense of ease in their posture, the kind of comfort that came from years of trust. They didn’t have to speak to be understood. They didn’t have to ask if the other was alright. They just knew.

One evening, Harper was making his way across the base when he caught sight of them again, gathered in a quiet corner near the barracks. It was dark, the shadows lengthening as the sun dipped below the horizon. Ghost, Price, Soap, and Gaz stood close together, their conversation low but animated. Soap was laughing, his hands moving wildly as he told some story, while Gaz shook his head, smirking in that quiet way of his. Price had a cigar between his fingers, his face mostly obscured by the smoke, but there was a relaxed air about him that Harper rarely saw when the Captain was around anyone else.

Ghost stood a little apart, his arms crossed over his chest, but Harper noticed the way his body leaned just slightly toward the others. It was subtle, so subtle that most would have missed it. But Harper had been watching long enough to know that Ghost only ever let his guard down around them. It was in these quiet moments, in the dim light and hushed voices, that Harper saw the truth of it. They weren’t just soldiers. They weren’t even just a team.

They were something more.

Harper had caught himself thinking it more than once. He couldn’t say if it was friendship, brotherhood, or something deeper, something more intimate. But the bond between them was undeniable, and it wasn’t something that could be easily explained to an outsider. It was in the way they touched, the way they looked out for each other, the way they carried each other’s dog tags. They moved like parts of the same whole, each one connected to the others in ways that went beyond anything Harper had ever seen.

In the weeks that followed, Harper continued to observe them, though he made sure to keep his distance. It wasn’t his place to interfere, and frankly, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to know the full extent of what tied them together. Whatever it was, it worked. He could see it in the way they returned from missions—battered but whole, each one always looking out for the others, ensuring that they all made it back. They never said it aloud, but Harper could tell by the way they moved, the way they positioned themselves in the field, that losing even one of them was not an option.

One day, Harper was heading out for a mission of his own when he passed them in the corridor. Price was talking to Ghost, their voices low and serious, while Soap and Gaz hung back, discussing something in quieter tones. As Harper walked by, he couldn’t help but glance at the chains around their necks. The dog tags clinked softly with every step they took, four tags for each man, each one a reminder of who they were fighting for.

Harper never asked them about it. He didn’t need to. The answer was in their every gesture, every look. They were more than a team. Whether it was love, loyalty, or something else entirely didn’t matter. To them, it was just how things were. They carried each other—literally and figuratively—and that was all there was to it.

As Harper turned the corner, leaving Task Force 141 behind, he found himself thinking about their bond, about the quiet understanding that seemed to pass between them. He’d seen many teams in his time, but he knew he’d never see another quite like them. Whatever it was they shared, it was unbreakable, a tie that ran deeper than the battlefield, deeper than blood. And maybe that was the real reason they always came back alive. Because no matter what, they had each other.

[quarterlifekitty]

Masterlist!

Warning: I dabble in dark content. I reblog/create posts that contain potentially upsetting content such as dub-con, noncon, piss kink, fauxcest, graphic violence, etc. these will be tagged, but peruse at your own risk.

Limit list (non exhaustive list of weird things I will/will not write about)

Call Of Duty

character tags:

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Johhny "Soap" Mactavish

John Price

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

König

Nikolai

Simon "Ghost" Riley Masterlist

Johhny "Soap" Mactavish Masterlist

John Price Masterlist

König

Hunstman!König Part 2 Being his healslut Midsommar Warrior and Goddess part 1 | part 2 Pyrenees and Sheep Part 2 Centaurs Kortac Sniper Letterboxd Happy Ending Clingy Again

Silkmoth!Reader

sleepy what happens when his leave is over laying eggs silkmoth threesome stretching Original expansion

Nikolai

Late Bloomer Lunar New Year School Uniforms

Multiple Characters/Misc:

Haunting Ground!AU Scary GF Anal Manicure Massages smoking weed silkmoth threesome Nik and Price sharing a wife Praise kink CBF!Soap Scent Kink Getting a Dog Second Baby Pickup Lines Conidtioning (Graves) Baby trapping them Stealthing Baby Trapping Part 2 Sneezing Insomniac Heartbroken Hookup just the tip Slasher overwatch Video Girl!AU

Selectively Mute: Ghoap x Reader

Simon getting her notes tattooed They leave notes for each other Dealing with Simon's trauma Ghoap eats you out How Simon Met her Soap joins in (official) Why Soap and Simon weren't already together When Simon gets injured on an op When you start opening up to Soap Simon fingering you in front of Soap The original post Soap hearing you moan for the first time Overstim Modes

Mermaid AU: Ghoap x Reader

When Soap discovers you How do mermaids fuck? When you return to the sea Soap's POV The original post

Weaknesses Series

Baby Photos Period Stuff Lactation Massages Birthday Present Complexes Dress up stop everything treat em mean Original

CamGirl!AU

Bidding war tips original post

Resident Evil

Luis Serra

Failed bioweapon

[k6tzie]

cod characters and their fav porn categories hcs

⭐ featuring: johnny 'soap' mactavish, vladimir makarov, phillip graves, simon 'ghost' riley, kyle 'gaz' garrick, john price, könig, krueger, valeria garza, keegan p. russ, david 'hesh' walker, logan walker, thomas a. merrick, alejandro vargas, rodolfo 'rudy' parra

soap: mmf threesome , 'goth chick squirting' ☠ ghost: bondage, strip tease, gagging price: spanking, cream pie. nothing else needs to be said gaz: literally anything with big tits :'(, solo male makarov: overstimulation, bondage, breath play

graves: femdom, uniforms, pussy licking könig: public, free use, solo female, pov krueger: solo female, anal, double penetration valeria: tattoed women, strap on, overstimulation keegan: milfs, gangbang, squirting hesh: cosplay, cream pie, romantic logan: feet, orgy, toys merrick: cuckold, cumshot, big tits alejandro: rough, overstimulation, spit rudy: massage, cream pie, lace

just a filler post, feel free to leave any suggestions lovelies

[lay-z]

🍷 Day 8 – Dinner time

Synopsis: Kyle has gotten a rare, personal invite to spend Christmas Day over at Captain Price’s house and the young Sergeant is already looking forward to see you again. 

Pairing: husband!John Price x wife!Reader x Kyle Gaz Garrick 

Warnings/Info: NSFW, 18+ | Kyle’s POV; curvy!Reader (some physical descriptions, not a lot); smut; cussing; drinking/intoxication; objectification; voyeurism; male masturbation 

Word count: 2.9k 

↳ back to 🎅🏼 Masterlist ☃️

Kyle knocks on the dark cedar wood front door of the detached, two-storey brick house – or should he rather call it a mansion? Newly renovated, with its own idyllic driveway, extension double garage and, of course, the discreet yet high-tech security system overlooking the whole estate. 

He knows that his Captain spared no expense when he moved you out here after the wedding; to the address somewhere in the countryside near Liverpool that no one outside of Price’s most trusted inner circle knows about. 

Understandably.  

It was quite the surprise to Kyle, when Price had invited him over for Christmas, – “My wife misses ya, son. Ordered me to invite ya over for dinner and you know I can’t deny her anything. Be there at 1800 and bring some wine, aye? She prefers red.” 

And Kyle cannot disobey a direct, – or indirect? – order from his Captain. 

Now it’s 17:47 p.m. on Christmas Eve and Kyle brushes an imaginary piece of lint off his left shoulder before adjusting his fashionable long black winter coat once more as he waits for the door to open, his breath fogging up in the cold evening air whenever he inhales and exhales deeply. 

He doesn’t understand why he’s feeling so nervous all of a sudden, or perhaps he does but he won’t acknowledge that now. So, instead, he questions himself if the bottle of red wine, which he’s currently clutching in his left hand, will be to your liking while his stomach keeps clenching and unclenching repeatedly, nearly making him nauseous.  

And when the door finally opens to reveal you, a bewitching smile on your red-painted lips, wearing a classy black, formfitting cocktail dress with a cutesy Christmas-themed apron tied around your curvy waist, Kyle’s breath catches in his lungs. 

“Hello there, soldier!” You chirp happily and don’t hesitate to pull him into a welcoming hug, “It’s so good to finally see you again.” 

Kyle feels like someone punched him in the throat. He can feel your full breasts press up against his chest as you embrace him eagerly, arms lingering around his neck while he steals a quick whiff of your expensive perfume, and it’s torture already. All of it. 

When you pull back to smile up at him with sparkling eyes, Kyle clears his throat loudly, mentally screaming at himself to pull his shit together. 

“Good to see you, too, Mrs. Price,” he replies, his voice slightly breathless from the unexpected yet much needed hug, “Thank you so much for the invitation.” 

He tries to flash you a charming smile, the one that usually gets him anywhere, but he ends up looking strained and awkward, and feels uncharacteristically insecure – intimidated, even.  

You wave him off with a dismissive click of your tongue as you usher him inside and close the heavy door behind him, locking it with a string of numbers you tap into the small keypad with your manicured fingers.  

“Please, Kyle, no need for formalities with little old me, okay? As much as I love my last name and the man who gave it to me, it does make me feel much older than I actually am.” 

The soft chuckle that reaches Kyle’s ears, makes him smile more genuinely this time, “Yes, ma’am.” 

Kyle already feels more cared for than he has in the past couple of months, when he’d last managed to make himself go home on leave to be with his closest family. Then again, this still feels different, more intimate somehow. 

After you demand to take his coat and hang it up for him, Kyle is sent on his way towards the living room and immediately met by his Captain, standing by the floor-to-ceiling window front that leads into the spacious backyard, wearing a casual chic and terribly civilian outfit, a courtesy of your fashion sense, he assumes. Has to be.  

He has his meaty hands clasped behind his back like the proper old geezer he is as he watches the beginning snowfall outside while the massive, picture-perfect Christmas tree lights up the living room with its warm glowing fairy lights and colourful ornaments. 

By the way he is standing so broodingly, Kyle almost expects a lecture or worse, – a briefing. 

“Sir–” Kyle begins, “If I dare say, this is a mighty fine place ya got here for yourself and your missis.” 

Price hums in agreement, nodding along as he turns around slowly to glance over his shoulder at his guest, “Sometimes bastards like us do get lucky, son.” 

Kyle nods curtly with a tight-lipped smile, wondering briefly when it will finally be his turn, though he’s not thinking about a house or some fancy car.

“Good to see you, Garrick. Glad you could make it.” When Price approaches, he gives Kyle a sturdy trademark pat on his shoulder before brushing past him towards the liquor cabinet, “A drink before dinner?” 

Kyle glances down and lifts the bottle of red wine in his hand, the one he brought specifically for you, before watching how his Captain is already pouring bourbon into two tumbler glasses. 

“Sounds good to me, sir.” He agrees. 

When Kyle is eventually ushered to the dining room next, where the table has already been set with three sets of matching plates, glasses, cutlery and decor, his offered help in the kitchen is waved off by Price. 

“No need for that, lad. Just sit back and try to relax. The wife and I will take care of everything tonight.” 

So, Kyle doesn’t question it, tries not to feel uncomfortable of bad about being looked after like this without being able to offer anything in return, and he manages to relax after a first glass of delectable red wine on top of the whiskey he’d already consumed, though the slight buzz also makes it harder not to stare at your chest whenever you bend over the table to set down a plate of food or refill glasses. 

You’re so unrealistically kind, soft, sweet and nurturing – everything Kyle longs for yet never able to find in his countless acquirement of meaningless flings and hookups, that he briefly wonders if you’re even real. Everything he knows, is always rushed and unpersonal, a means to an end that leaves him unfulfilled and cold each time; loneliness sneaking up at him at night and choking him slowly. Nothing ever sticks and lingers; no one wants to keep him warm and happy; it’s never anything like his Captain has found with you.  

“God, I hope you’ll like it, Kyle,” you laugh coyly as you serve him a delicious-looking heavy plate of pot-roasted sirloin beef with vegetables and mashed potatoes, “I swear, if you don’t like it, then John has lied to me about my cooking skills all this time.” 

But Kyle is too focused on the way your plump tits squish together and nearly spill over the low neckline of your tight dress as he glances over the rim of his wine glass, taking a suspiciously large gulp of the ruby liquid.

He'd eat old, mouldy toast if it meant he could bury his face in your soft breasts afterwards, perhaps even suck and lick on your nipple a bit. And then he catches himself wondering what colour your nipples are, how large your areolas– 

Price chuckles gruffly and his chair scrapes over the hardwood floor as he adjusts it at the head of the table, “You know I would never lie to you about your cooking skills, love. Honesty was a big part in our vows.” 

“Is that why I can’t ask any questions about your job?” You quip, taking the seat across from Kyle, “Kyle, you need to back me up on this.” 

And Kyle’s dark lashes flutter as he blinks rapidly, coming back to reality, to his Captain engaging in playful banter with his dear wife. The woman Kyle is down bad – bad – for. He shifts in his seat, discreetly adjusting the front of his black chino pants below the table and clears his throat, “Uhm, I’m–I’m afraid I’ve signed too many NDA’s to be of service for this, ma’am.” 

Price snorts, shooting his wife a triumphant smile as he picks up his cutlery, “Good lad.” 

Despite an amazing, hearty dinner to soak up the liquor in his gut, Kyle ends up drunk after allowing both wine and whiskey glasses being filled up repeatedly in turns. He’s not embarrassingly shit-faced drunk, but too drunk to drive and definitely too drunk to argue with you and Price about taking a taxi back to the hotel instead of staying the night. 

“I’ve already arranged the guest bedroom for you,” you tell him with the tiniest pout, “– and no one has stayed in it yet, so do us the honour, Sergeant.” 

Price’s warm, heavy palm on Kyle’s shoulder is the nail in the coffin, “You’re spending the night, Garrick. That’s an order.” Another rough pat follows and Kyle slumps in his chair, nodding at his Captain. 

“Makes sense, sir. ‘m sorry for the–” 

“Nonsense,” Price interrupts him gruffly, then gives you a curt nod before you turn on your heels, leaving the living room at once, “Just let her take care of ya and you’re both gonna end up happy.” 

When Kyle furrows his brows in question and opens his mouth to ask for elaboration, his upper arm is already being grabbed, his impressive body lifted out of the comfortable armchair. 

“You have a lovely wife, sir.” Kyle mutters, speech slightly slurred as he sways with his steps next to his Captain, who’s wearing a knowing smile on his lips, “Aye, couldn't agree more, lad.” 

Pretty, plush thing. Ripe and ready to be plucked and consumed, yet utterly devoted to and patient for your dear husband. 

Price is the luckiest bastard in the world and Kyle can’t even blame him for hiding you away here, tucking you under his battered wing to make sure no harm ever comes to you the moment you’d foolishly agreed to become his wife, his to protect and cherish. No, the rough man has devoted his life to making sure that the filthiest dirt of this world never reaches you; determined to keep your beautiful soul pure and give up his own in return.  

Fuck, Kyle would gladly do that, too, if it meant he could so much as dream of someone like you without feeling guilty whenever he’s deployed to some shithole corner of this world, risking his life. 

He’s dragged into the guest bedroom; a large king-sized bed taking up most of its space, new and modern, with bedside tables on each side and the scent of the navy-blue bed sheets still fresh. Through half-lidded, glossy eyes, Kyle notices the white sideboard with a sleek flat TV, a matching tallboy dresser, and a small bookshelf with a plush armchair and standard lamp in the corner. 

“Can you wish your wife a good night from me, sir?” Kyle asks as he kicks his shoes off before struggling to unbutton his dress shirt, unaware of his Captain sauntering over to the armchair. 

Price lets out a deep, rumbling chuckle as he sinks down into the cushions, “Tell her yerself.” 

Still oblivious when the door to the room clicks shut, Kyle shrugs off his long-sleeved shirt before folding it haphazardly. 

“Do you need help with that, soldier?” 

It takes a brief moment for the soft purr of your voice to register in his foggy brain, but when it does, it causes Kyle instant heart palpitations, and it gets worse when he looks over at you, seeing you wearing a red, flimsy babydoll nightgown, a red silky bow adorning your full breasts.  

“My wife asked you a question, Gaz,” Price gruffs out from his seat in the corner, whiskey glass in one hand and cigar in the other, causing Kyle to question his sanity, because he clearly must be hallucinating right about now, “Answer her.”  

Perhaps he’s got alcohol poisoning and is already in a coma. He'd prefer that above... whatever this is. 

“I–I–I–” He stammers, watching as you approach him with sensual steps, a delighted twinkle in your pretty eyes and carrying a tall glass of water in your hand. 

“No need to be nervous, Kyle,” you coo at him and reach for one of his hands before pushing the cold glass against his palm until his fingers wrap around it, “Bottoms up. It will help with the hangover.” 

As the terrific soldier he is, Kyle does as he is told, lifting the rim of the glass up to his lips while his eyes flicker back and forth between you and Price, the latter puffing on his cigar, strong legs spread wide and– 

Kyle sputters and chokes on the last gulp, sobering up at once after noticing the clear outline of his Captain’s raging boner. 

You pat his back to help with his coughing and Kyle’s eyes are immediately drawn to the way your tits jiggle at the movement, making him bite back a groan as you speak so sweetly, “Hey–Hey, calm down. It’s okay.” 

“What the bloody hell is going on here?! Captain!” Kyle demands, his voice laced with a hint of panic as he squirms at the edge of the mattress, praying for the steady flow of blood rushing south to stop while his cock chuffs. 

Before you answer, you glance back at your husband, who gives you a slow nod. 

“John told me that you’ve been through a rough patch lately,” you say, dragging your teeth over your bottom lip as you clearly consider your next words, “– and he suggested that I could try make you feel better.” 

Kyle is momentarily stunned into silence, mouth gaping as the empty glass slips out of his grasp and onto the plush carpet on the floor, “Sir, you–you can’t be fuckin’ serious.” 

You bend forward to pick it up again and the short nightgown rucks up over your back, revealing your plump ass cheeks and the tiny matching red thong hugging your thick curves, and Kyle sucks in a sharp breath as he feels himself getting dizzy. 

“You want to fuck my wife, Garrick,” Price remarks, a plume of thick smoke curling up into the air as he exhales slowly, “Then go on and take her; just wrap it up and don’t be too rough. I’m the only one allowed to mark her up. Right, darling?” 

You nod eagerly, flashing a dazzling smile at your husband before placing the glass on the bedside table. 

“But–” 

Kyle’s objection is silenced when you cup his face and lean in to capture his lips in a deep, slow kiss that has his heartrate spike and his pulse thrum in his neck, even when you pull back again while he chases after your lips with a pathetic whine. 

“Just be a good boy and let me ride you, Kyle.” 

The way you ride his cock so eagerly, plump tits bouncing right in front of his face, your core squelching sloppily, squeezing him tightly with your feet planted flat on the mattress, has his brain go stupid and his initial restraint dissolve like candy floss in water, washed away by the steady current. 

And the noises you're making. Saccharine whines, hiccupped moans, and the way you utter his name so desperate and breathlessly. Oh... Lord have mercy on him... 

His head tips back against the plush pillow, long fingers digging into the fat of your plush hips, thick tendons protruding in his neck while his chest heaves rapidly and his full lips part with a guttural moan. It's warm, so bloody warm and wet and tight and he's losing himself in you so easily, tension coiling and pleasure mounting, up–up–up–up–  

"F-Fuck! Oh, fuck–! I a-ah–” 

Kyle's eyes snap open, staring at the ceiling and his whole body jolts, toes curling as he sits up, crying out in pleasure-pain while he folds forward as if being electrocuted, unable to control it when his balls throb while your perfect cunt sucks him in relentlessly, squeezing like a vice and stimulating his cock until he can't stop it. 

He comes so hard, his vision blurs and frails at the edges; spurt after spurt of potent cum spilling from his ruddy tip into the condom, making him fear it might overflow with it. 

In the corner of the bedroom, a rough groan and muttered curses are torn from the Captain’s throat as he spills into his own calloused fist, perfectly timed and skilfully edged; his milky cum dripping over his scarred, hairy knuckles.  

Maybe this is what peace truly feels like, a small piece of heaven that has been offered to him. All free, no consequences, but the fact that he's hooked now. 

“Mhmm, you didn’t even wait for me to finish,” you bemoan with a pout, your relentless fucking now slowed down to a sensual grind while Kyle quakes with aftershock. He wants to apologize, but his brain is mush, and you beat him to it, anyway. 

“You know... whenever that happens, John has me sit on his face.” 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Kyle is already moving in.