#POV kyle gaz garrick

[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? 🍜🌱✨

[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.

[sylvesterelle]

A few months ago I knew fuck all about Call of Duty. Then I saw one (1) TikTok of John Price, hallucinated an entire novel-length slow burn poly!141 fic on a 12-hour drive, then wrote the first 60k of it for NaNoWriMo. To get myself going again, I'll be posting chapters here as they're edited! Estimating 100-120k when complete and aiming for a chapter a week (though best laid plans of mice and men and all that).

ok love you enjoy

The Fallout Zone - Chapters 1 & 2

Poly!141 inc. Price/OFC, Gaz/OMC, Soap/Ghost, Price/Gaz/Soap/Ghost/OFC, and various other combinations within that

Images: X, X, and X

Sure, a murderous multinational network had very recently tried to bury them under a mountain, but lots of people had wanted to kill Price for some reason or another. He’d had the good pleasure of offing each and every one, and didn’t doubt he’d do the same here. The truth of the matter was that his boys were tired, he was tired, and this was the exact fucking break they needed. Heat off their back, a spacious—if fucking odd—safe house to shelter in, and a thoroughly enchanting enigma of a host he could already feel himself itching to take apart. A right bit of luck indeed, and John had long since learned to appreciate his blessings. Or: a poly!141/found family fic in which deaths are faked, hearts are healed, conspiracies are uncovered, and home is found in the most unlikely of places.

Chapters 1 & 2, 7.4k, general audiences (rating will go up), cw: canon-typical violence

Read on AO3 I Chapter 3 I Chapters 4 & 5

Chapter One - Price

John Price had had better days. 

The captain tugged his gloves off with his teeth and dug his thumbs into his aching temples. God, his fuckin’ head hurt. Maybe not a concussion, but his bell had been rung but good.

The drone of the rotor blades was the shit icing on a shit cake, but Price was too grateful for the chopper’s role in their escape to take it personal. 

Might actually kiss the old bird out of gratitude, really, delivering them from the apocalyptic shitshow they’d been stuck in. Definitely owed Nikolai a good snog for saving their bacon, Kate too—though she’d box his ears for trying.

The woman in question was currently sat up front, consulting a map and muttering directions in Nik’s ear. “Somewhere safe,” was all she’d said when he’d asked their heading, but that was more than enough for now. 

Price scrubbed a hand over his beard, letting out a low hiss when he prodded the split in his lip, the blood throbbing angrily below. Dove when he should have ducked and took it straight to the gob like a right fuckin’ muppet, as Ghost would say. 

The man in question was dead asleep between the bench seats; he’d collapsed from sheer exhaustion shortly before they’d boarded and it’d taken all three of them to heft his bulk on to the helicopter.

No one had gotten much rest in the past days, but Ghost least of all—the underground cave too much a reminder of things he’d rather forget. Three days they’d spent hidden away like rats under a peak in the Caucasus. Unsure if their desperate call for extraction had even made it through before running for the hills with a god damned army at their back, so many bullets in the air it looked like rain. 

The snatch-and-grab mission should have been a cakewalk, especially for a team like the 141. A separatist leader with ties to a global arms network they’d been tracing, lying low with his personal guard in a remote lodge. Small team, minimal support. In, out, extract the target, bring him to a nearby base for questioning. Nothing Price hadn’t done a thousand times before on less intel and worse odds. 

Maybe it was too easy, in hindsight. Maybe he should have expected a trap. But the 141 had been run ragged this past year, barely time to catch their breath and tend to their hurts between missions. No time to realize they’d missed the forest for the trees.

They’d been chasing their shadow network over five continents in nine months, with fewer successes than a man like John Price typically enjoyed. The enemy was diverse in their investments: funding a politically ambitious cartel leader here, facilitating a military coup there; illicit chemical and mining operations in half-a-dozen countries and a penchant for disappearing weapons transports that gave Laswell more than one sleepless night.

Wherever they went chaos followed, but for the life of him Price couldn’t figure out the pattern, the underlying goal. Every instinct told him there was a piece of the puzzle he was missing, something that would make it all make sense. 

So when Laswell called with lead on a target, one with exactly the kind of information they needed and tucked up in a secluded valley all snug for him, well. Like dangling a bone in front of a starving dog, wasn’t it. 

And so the trap had been laid, and laid well.

They lost comms the moment their boots touched ground, too swift and complete to be anything but planned. Took only a fraction of a second for Price to realize they were expected, a half-heartbeat more to shout a retreat, already ripping the emergency satphone from his vest. 

Could only hope that Laswell was listening as he bellowed their destination, the line going dead moments later. The rest was a little hazy. John’s head throbbed painfully when he tried to recall the grisly path they cut to the hills, each body seeming to be replaced by three more. 

A bloody fucking miracle they made it, in hindsight.

The 141 were built to be Hail Mary team. The knife’s edge was where they performed best, a unit uniquely suited to excel at the precise moment when all seemed lost. But their survival this time involved no skill, no strategy, no plan of mouse or man. This was a shitshow; this was a run for their fucking lives. 

The only reason the men of Task Force 141 were still among the living was a quirk of geology, a labyrinth of natural caves spiraling through the mountains of the Chechnyan border. They’d discussed the caverns as a contingency early in planning, but it was so far down the list of plans that it might as well have been another fucking alphabet. Not something they should waste time and resources LiDAR mapping, not on a mission as straightforward as this. 

It was a decision Price cursed repeatedly over the next three days, holed up in a dead-end tunnel close to the surface and waiting for a rescue that might never come.

Seventy-two excruciatingly long hours of near-constant shelling, nerves frayed to breaking and blood clotted with mortar dust from jagged rockfall. Small comfort knowing your enemy didn’t have your precise location when they seemed happy to level the entire mountain. In different circumstances, John might have been impressed.

As it was, by the first night he was seriously considering if death by gunfire wouldn’t be better than waiting for the hit that would finally bring the walls down on them. Certainly better than wandering the tunnels in the dark, just running out the clock until their bodies gave out.

If their faces were anything to go by, his men had been thinking much along the same lines. Ghost didn’t utter a single word the entire time they were underground, back pressed to a wall and eyes drilling holes into darkness—creeping in around the light of their rapidly-dying flashlights. Price spent most of his time sitting next to his lieutenant in silence, grounding him with a hand on his neck and a thigh pressed up against his own. Watched as Gaz paced a rut in the floor and Soap shadow-boxed violently against the wall.

Price had near made peace with the fact they were going to die in that hole when a faint whistle had come from one of the branching tunnels deep in the mountain. The three-note song of a wood thrush; a bird native to the eastern United States, just like someone else they knew.

They followed that sound like the salvation it was, squinting as they emerged into a too-bright twilight. Price was so sick with relief to see Laswell and Nikolai standing there that he didn’t pay much attention to the corpses at their feet. Wasn’t until Gaz made a strangled sound that he looked close enough to realize they wore familiar uniforms, no doubt lifted from their bags back at base. Hell, they’d even found a skull plate to complete the picture.

John was already pulling his dog tags up and off before they asked, his neck tingling with its absence. Wouldn’t be surprised if he looked down to see the letters seared into the shape of him, time-worn into his skin.

A few discrete charges was all it took to bring the tunnel down with sufficient force to disfigure the bodies, the sound blending with the chorus of shelling and camouflaging their takeoff. 

They’d been flying nonstop since, long enough that the dawn was creeping its tendrils over the horizon.

John groaned and stretched his legs out as far as he could, avoiding Ghost’s prone form. He could feel the weight of the past days in every aching bone, the lack of sleep burning acid in his veins.

God, he’d give his left bollocks for a cigar. Couldn’t even smoke it with his mouth all prettied up like this, but maybe the smell would steady his nerves, force down the acid in his gullet. 

Price had been in some truly shit spots in his life. It was a necessity of the job he’d been doing for nearly two decades and the job that would probably kill him in the end. So shit spots…well. He’d had plenty of those.

But rarely, rarely had John Price run away from a fight.

On this mission he’d felt like prey for the first time in his life, and it left him nauseous in his very bones.

In truth, they’d gotten lucky none of them were hurt worse. So lucky he’d call it divine intervention, the part of him that still believed in that sort of thing. 

Gaz got the worst of it: a dislocated shoulder yanked back into place on the cave floor, arm wrapped in a temporary sling. Ghost, like Price, had taken an unlucky blow to the head and bore a souvenir in the crack that spiderwebbed through his mask, threatening to shatter the whole thing. And Soap, well, Soap had been so soundly battered he looked like one huge bruise. But he was still breathing, snoring like a chainsaw into Gaz’s unhurt shoulder. 

Battered, but not broken. A bloody miracle by anyone’s count.

His moment of relief was interrupted when Ghost gasped into consciousness on the floor. His lieutenant jackknifed violently, his weight shifting the craft and sending John clutching at his chest like his granny after a good scare. 

Stunned into his own wakefulness, Soap moved faster than John could follow, gripping the back of Ghost’s vest and saving him from tumbling out into open sky.

“You daft, spooky bastard,” Soap yelled as he yanked the larger man back to safety. “Don’t go dying after we went through the trouble of haulin’ your carcass in here.” 

He settled the lieutenant against his legs, releasing his vest with an affectionate pat. 

“That’s no mean feat, ya ken. There’s a bloody lot of you.”

Price shook his head, amused in spite of himself. Soap was good for that; seemed to bounce back faster than the rest of them. Got into trouble faster, too, but it kept Price from getting too maudlin—no mean feat in itself, he could admit.

He reached forward and tapped twice on his lieutenant’s knee pad, gaze assessing. “You broken, son?” 

It took a worryingly long moment for Ghost’s eyes to focus on him, but the nod he gave was steady, and Price wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Laswell chose that moment to lean back, gesturing impatiently for them to grab the headsets off the wall. One arm out of commission, Gaz leaned over so Soap could slip the headset over his ears. Did the same for Ghost after, ignoring the man’s upraised hand and the little growl that followed. 

John donned his own, turning to the front.

“Hello Kate, good to see you, wish it was under better fuckin’ circumstances,” he greeted her, adjusting the mic. 

“You and me both, John,” she replied. “It’s good to see you boys mostly in one piece.”

Price snorted derisively. “In spite of all efforts to the contrary. You wanna tell me what the fuck that was? They were waiting for us with a fucking army, Kate. Four men against a bloody army.”He leaned forward with a finger punctuating his words, temper burning unchecked after the strain of the last few days. She’d understand. “You told us you the source was good, that the information could be trusted. You delivered us right into the mouth of the fucking tiger, Kate. What. Went. Wrong.” 

She ignored his accusing finger and met his gaze, serious and heavy with guilt. They hadn’t had much cause to apologize to each other, but he knew real regret when he saw it.

“I’m so sorry, John,” she said, “I had no idea the danger you’d be walking into.” 

“Danger, danger, she says,” Soap muttered beneath his breath, “more like a two-step with the grim bloody reaper.” 

Kate kept her eyes on John. “The orders came from above, cream-of-the-fucking-crop of actionable intel, or so I was told. But I confirmed it two days ago—the target was never there.”

She leaned forward, eyes intense. “It was always about you, John. They wanted to put the 141 in the ground.”

Price’s fists tightened on his knees, knuckles creaking painfully. He forced himself to take a breath, spread them out. Stay calm, stay clear for his men.

“Who gave you the intel?”

“The director himself, John. Told me it came from a trusted counterpart in another branch, asked me to put my best on it. The director, John,” Laswell said, “That’s not an order I can ignore.” 

“You think he’s in on it?” Gaz frowned. 

Laswell shook her head, certain. “He has no reason to get rid of your team—you’ve gotten us too many wins. Even if he did, this isn’t his style. I’m not going to pretend I like the man, but he’s not wasteful, and he’d never okay a plan that drew so much attention.” 

“So someone noticed the carpet bombing, then?” Ghost asked dryly, the grim humor a strangely reassuring sign.

John scrubbed his fingers through his scruff thoughtfully. “So we’re looking someone else. Someone high up enough that his intel wouldn’t be questioned. Someone who does have a reason to get us out of their way.” 

“You boys? Making enemies?” Nikolai chimed in from up front, “I can’t believe it.” 

John acknowledged the point with a low chuckle, “No shortage of enemies, but not that many with the power to call the director of the CIA to heel. That means top brass, someone protected. We’ll need to be delicate with this one, lads.” 

“Oh wonderful, your strong suit,” Laswell said wryly.

His two-fingered salute was instinctive and drew forth her usual laugh. 

“Delicacy takes time, which is a luxury we don’t often have,” Price said. “The stunt with the bodies—clever bit of work that—buys us time. We use it to rest and recover, to gather everything we know, then go at this with our heads on straight. We very nearly did not survive this mission, and that is on me.” 

John held up a hand, silencing the immediate protests from his men.

“That is on me. I know damn well I’ve been pushing too hard. Too set on the fucking mystery of it that I forgot the most important thing: we change no lives from the grave. I’m sorry, and I won’t make the same mistake again,” he promised solemnly to his men.

Soap opened his mouth to argue, but the bite of Ghost’s nails in his leg cut him off. “Oh aye, you’re just gonna sit there and pretend he’s not talking bollocks?” he said to Ghost, casting him a frustrated look.

Gaz’s elbow to his stomach cut off any further comment. Gaz gave his captain a solemn nod to continue.   

John hooked his fingers in his vest and leaned back against the wall. Let a little smile play at the corner of his mouth; something that might look friendly if you didn’t look too close. 

“Here’s the good part, lads: while we take our little holiday, fix all our broken parts, our enemy is going to deliver himself to us. The way I see it, all we need to do is lie low for a bit and see who gets a little bold in our absence. Who gets a little big for his britches, now he thinks mother isn’t looking over his shoulder.”

John let a little, pleased growl slip into his voice, already anticipating the pleasure of the hunt. Of the kill. “Maybe gets a little sloppy, our birdie. And there we’ll be, ready to clean up the mess.”

Even tired as they were, John could feel the energy shift in his men, hounds pricking up for the hunt. They would recover, they would recoup, and they would scorch earth on their return—that was a fucking promise.

“Alright boys,” Laswell said, “The more people we can convince that you died on that mountain, the more time we buy to uncover the whole rotten shape of this thing. That means you’ll have to go dark; lie so low you’re practically underground.”

“Too soon,” Gaz muttered under his breath.

“I’m taking you to stay at an old friend’s place—off the grid and not on any agency’s radar, as far as we’re aware. This is no crawl space safe house, boys, and I expect you to use every resource available to you. Whatever fight is coming, I’m going to need all of you at your best.”  

Up front, Nikolai tapped Kate’s shoulder, signaling their final approach. 

“Now, you boys ready to see your new home?”

Chapter 2 - Price

They’d put down in a small clearing a couple miles out from their destination, hefting duffle bags through dense forest. 

It should have been peaceful, all mossy green trees filtered with sunlight, a sky so blue it hurt to look at it, and birdsong the only sound on the breeze. 

But there was something…off about the woods. 

The fucking talismans, for one thing. They spotted the first only a few moments after they landed, woven with birch and something that looked suspiciously like hair. Hung at irregular intervals through the trees, catching in John’s periphery when they moved in the breeze and making him feel like there were bodies in the trees, moving just out of reach.

They were probably just a folklore thing, superstition, John tried to convince himself. Gettin’ himself all worked up over nothing. 

But then there was a flicker at the corner of his eye, a flash of blue and black and bone slipping through the trees. John startled like a babe when the image resolved into a fuck-off massive horse, all powerful legs and sweat-slicked black coat, steam rising from its nostrils in the early morning light. 

John had barely begun to process its rider when his men caught sight. Ghost dropped to one knee and had his eye to the scope in a moment, but horse and rider were already gone.  

Kate and Nik were entirely unphased.

“It’s just Jack,” Laswell said, like that meant anything to him. “Probably scouting the woods to make sure we weren’t followed. Now c’mon, we’re almost there.”

Price didn’t know of any asset of Kate’s by that name, but Laswell was a black box at the best of times; he’d gotten used to her seemingly inexhaustible resources and secrets alike. Whatever kind of man or beast this Jack was, they’d find out sooner than later.

John rested a broad palm on the back of his lieutenant’s neck and squeezed warmly. Bone tired and still protecting the rest of them.

“Good lad,” Price said softly, “let’s get you home.”

This thought proved less comforting in practice.

“Steamin’ Jesus, did you bring us to fucking Chernobyl?” Soap’s accent sharpened on the last two words, dragging them out in disbelief.

It should be a ridiculous question, but, well. The second they’d stepped out of the woods into a small clearing, all eyes went immediately to the narrow cement tower rising from the center of a dark structure, striped with red like a coral snake. A huge chunk was missing from one side, caved-in likely, and the sight of it did nothing for John’s nerves. 

Warning, every inch of it said. Hazardous to your health.

“Can I just say,” Soap drawled, “I do think the safety of a safehouse is somewhat in question when it’s in a fucking nuclear reactor.”

“It’s decommissioned,” Nikolai said. “Very safe. Scout’s honor,” he promised, eyes glinting with mischief. Price sighed in resignation. He had trusted Nikolai with his life more times than he could count and he’d trust him again, but Soap had a fair fucking point.

He scanned the rest of the surroundings with an appraising eye.

The forest air became tinged with salt as they’d neared the clearing and sure enough Price could see glimpses of gray-blue beyond the trees. Probably used seawater to cool the reactor when it was live, he reasoned. Quietly hoped that it was not and had not been for some time.

All of it was enough for Price to get a rough estimate of their location—likely somewhere on Russia’s northern coast, Kara Sea maybe. He frowned slightly, something niggling in his mind about nuclear testing on the nearby Novaya Zemlya. Ah well, beggars and choosers and all that. Could certainly appreciate that the threat of radiation poisoning might be effective in keeping visitors away. But who the hell would voluntarily live here full time?

Price swept his gaze over the dark, Brutalist façade of the structure built around the tower. Two, maybe three stories. More windows than he expected and a surprisingly charming study in contrasts, blocky concrete lines softened by the glossy, sprawling vines that covered its surface and crawled partway up the tower. With the forest surrounding it on all sides, it looked like the building was slowly becoming one with the wilds. He even spotted some quaint wooden structures through the trees—probably a stable for that damn demon horse.

All told, if Price ignored the distinct feeling of menace coming from the tower, the place could be something from a fairy tale. Maybe a princess waiting for rescue inside, he thought idly, uncharacteristically silly with exhaustion. Just as likely to be the kind of place a Bond villain would hole up, mustache twirling as he plotted world domination. If they found an underground submarine launch for a clandestine escape, John would happily stay there for a time, radiation or no. Maybe even grow out his whiskers to complete the picture.

Kate led them through the clearing into the open mouth of a concrete tunnel, Nik bringing up the rear. When the sea air blew the right way, rattling the metal lights above, it almost sounded like the tunnel was breathing. John wasn’t too proud to admit it brought up the hairs on his neck, especially after their little jaunt through the forest.

The discomfort didn’t abate when they reached the end of a tunnel, an eye-wateringly yellow metal door barring their way. John’s Russian was a little rusty, couldn’t quite translate the bold red Cyrillic on the door, but he knew a warning when he saw one.

Kate didn’t hesitate a moment, punching in a code before leaning over for the thumbprint and retinal scan. The resulting grind of dozens of locks went on long enough that Ghost muttered an impatient “fucking hell” under his breath. When the keypad finally flickered green, he grunted in the way that communicated reluctant respect. Price had spent enough time with Simon to learn he had a whole vocabulary of the things.

“There’s a more discrete entrance closer to the stables, but I wanted you boys to get the full effect,” Kate said with a knowing smile, heaving the door open. “Welcome to Wichita.” 

The first thing John noticed was the noise. 

Someone was playing music and loud. Christ, how thick must those walls be, that they couldn’t hear it even just outside the door? The sound was echoing off the curved walls of the large atrium they stepped into, flooded with light from a massive, circular skylight above.A casual glance around showed no visible speakers, but there must be a subwoofer the size of tank somewhere, heavy bass rumbling in Price’s chest as he swept over the three visible stories.

Not another person in sight.

Kate motioned for them to drop their bags and follow her down one of the halls leading off the atrium, following the noise.

“This some kind of sick CIA torture protocol, Laswell?” Ghost called over the music.

“Ol’ Dirty Bastard!” Soap crowed at him, and Price raised an eyebrow.

“Gonna let him get away with that, Simon?” he asked.

Soap rolled his eyes. “S’the artist, sir. Though now that you mention it…”

“That’ll do,” Ghost cut him off firmly, though with that undercurrent of amusement he always seemed to develop around Soap.

“‘Shimmy Shimmy Ya,’” Gaz piped up. “Fucking banger, that.”

“Wu-Tang Clan ain’t nothing to fuck with,” Soap said, nodding sagely.

“What do you think, Kate?” Nikolai’s warm, rumbling voice called from behind. “Good mood?”

Laswell tilted her head, listening thoughtfully. “Good mood,” she confirmed after a moment. “It’s that godawful emo crap you have to watch out for.”

“Don’t go giving away all my secrets now,” a light, amused voice came from down the hall.

John’s head snapped up. Christ, the thought came unbidden, a princess after all. 

But that thought only lasted a moment.

Price had seen a panther once, hunting below the sniper’s nest he’d built at the edge of a thick forest on a mission in the Cordillera de Talamanc. He’d been holed up in the perch for a few days, waiting on the target’s caravan, when he caught the glint of eyeshine in the undergrowth: a black body well-camouflaged in the night.

For all that Price would consider himself a fairly dangerous man, the sight had sent a wave of instinctual, hind-brain fear through him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as he tracked the cat from his perch, watching as it patiently stalked a wounded deer through the edge of the forest for hours.

It wasn’t the size or muscle of the animal that made an impression on him, but the way it moved. Sinuously, even gracefully through the brush; all that potential energy coiled and waiting as it tracked its prey with complete, unwavering focus.

It was that panther he suddenly thought of as he took in the lass standing in an open doorway off the hall, one hip propped against the doorframe as they considered each other. Eyes bright for all she pretended ease, a coiled tension in her limbs just waiting for release.

She was somewhere in her late 20’s, if he had to guess. Tall for a woman and built strong--he knew a fighter when he saw one. Especially when they were dressed like goddamn Zorro, Price taking in her all-black outfit with a trickle of amusement. It was charmingly anachronistic: billowing linen shirt open at the neck, suede breeches curving along powerful thighs, wicked leather boots laced to the knee and flecked with mud.

Our forest rider, then, Price internally confirmed.

But for all the fright she’d given them this morning, her face held surprisingly more mischief than malice. He should know better; how many fools had failed to look past his own easy smile and paid the price for it? But still, there was something…disarming about her. She’d made a heroic attempt at tying up her dark hair but wonky curls sprung out to frame a face speckled with more freckles than he’d seen on one person, layered like stars on the darkest night. She had a rosebud mouth that sat incongruously above a stubborn chin, and a clear spark of humor in her eyes as she looked over the men in their tactical gear and black balaclavas—donned as an extra precaution on their trek through the woods. 

“Aw Kate, you brought me a stripper-gram? It’s not my birthday but you’re very sweet. I accept,” she said with a grin.

“Maybe if you ask them nicely,” Laswell snorted. “Meet Task Force 141. Captain Price’s men,” she said, nodding toward him. “They’ve run into a spot of trouble and need a place to lie low. Maybe some help to whip them into shape,” Kate tacked on with a grin, ignoring the noises of offense from Soap and Gaz.

“You don’t say?” the girl said with a curious glint in her eyes. “How very exciting. C’mon then, you can explain while I finish breakfast. No offense, but they’re looking a little…well-used. When was the last time they were fed and watered?”

“Too long,” Ghost muttered darkly.

Soap groaned in agreement. “My stomach’s cannibalizing itself.”

The girl led them into the room beyond, and John was pleasantly surprised to find it didn’t immediately give him the heebie-jeebies like the rest of the place.

It was welcoming, even—especially when she tapped a few times at the device strapped to her wrist and the pounding bass was replaced with something soft and classical that slipped into the background and calmed his nerves.

Price lingered in the entry, taking in the space. While the atrium and hallway had been constructed with the same Brutalist vision as the outside of the building, all concrete and stark lines, this space clearly must have been added later on.

The floors were a rough hardwood, the same material as the wood beams that braced the high ceilings and little lighter in color than the brick walls. Several massive, arched iron-paned windows were set into the far wall, flooding the room with early morning light and highlighting a few lazy specks of dust floating in the air.

It reminded John a little of a place he’d saw once on leave, years ago. Friend of a friend’s party, some factory-turned-loft on Brick Lane. Never cared much for the poncy shit who lived there but remembered thinking he’d like a place of his own like that one day. Somewhere open and warm, almost heavy with light. Like as not Price wouldn’t live long enough for real estate, but a lad could dream.

On the right side of the room was the kitchen, open wooden shelving interspersed with tall glass cabinets and a wrought-iron ladder on a neat track to reach it all. Glassy, emerald tile gleamed between the cupboards and the wooden countertops, the same material that topped an island roughly the size of a Fiat. On the far wall stood a bright red cast iron stove, big enough to feed a family of twelve (or roughly four SAS operators).

Price didn’t spend much time in kitchens, more used to shoveling down whatever high-protein slop was served on base and palate shot to hell from cigars. But even he could tell someone had poured a fortune into the space, all top-of-the-line appliances and gleaming copper cookware on the shelves, glass jars filled with ingredients Price couldn’t even begin to name.

The opposite side of the room was no less stunning. A long wooden table stretched under a cluster of pendant lamps that hung suspended from copper chains—green, petaled glass glowing in the sun. There were benches in place of chairs, but they looked wide and sturdy enough to hold even Ghost. Price also made mental note of two doors set into the wall behind it—pantry or storage, like as not, but he’d feel better once he could get a proper layout of the place. Not knowing his exits made him itchy.

Impressive as the space was, what rightfully piqued John’s curiosity was what lie beyond the kitchen. Moving further into the room, he realized what he’d taken as another set of arched windows in the far wall were actually doors, the slightly warped glass revealing verdant plants crowding beyond when he started forward. From what Price could see of the size of it, something less like a domestic greenhouse and more like a full-blown conservatory. 

Unusual that, for a nuclear reactor. 

Price’s curiosity would have to be sated later, as Ghost’s questioning presence at his shoulder had him up and moving, joining the others in the kitchen proper. He accepted the bottle of water and protein bar Nikolai pressed into his hand with a warm smile and leaned against the island, tuning in as Kate finished summarizing the legendary cock-up that had been their last mission.

“All that said, they need somewhere to disappear for a while,” she was saying to the lass, “and someone they can trust to aid in what comes next.”

“Oh, I do love a good resurrection,” the younger woman said, leaning by the range. “But I rather remember someone telling me I was retired.”

“Benched,” Laswell replied with the weight of an argument long held. “And, with any luck, your immediate threats will resolve well before theirs. I’m ‘thinking positively,’” she said, making quotations with her fingers.

The girl snorted. “Bea?” she asked, correctly ascertaining the source.

“The very one.” 

Price marked the mention of Kate’s wife; few knew she was married, much less the name of her spouse. Hell, Price had only been allowed to meet Bea for the first time only a few years prior.

The girl hummed, taking a moment to check on something in the oven and sending a wave of deliciously-scented warmth into the space.

“Alright, then,” she said good naturedly, straightening up to face the men. “Introduce me to the puppies.”

Price took that as his cue, pulling off his balaclava and scruffing down his hair a touch self-consciously.

“Captain John Price,” he said, nodding in greeting when Jack met his eyes, a lovely hazel threaded with blues and greens that caught the sunlight.

“These are my men,” he said, broad hand coming to rest warmly on Ghost’s neck. “Lieutenant Simon Riley. My right hand, though you’d do better to call him Ghost.”

Ghost grunted his acknowledgement, and the girl smiled at him, clearly undeterred by the cracked skull mask he still wore.

“Sergeant Kyle Garrick,” Price continued, moving down the row.

His sergeant had already removed his balaclava and gave her a charming smile and a wink, hurt shoulder or no. “Call me Gaz,” he said affably.

She gave Gaz the same warm smile she did Ghost before her gaze snagged to the side, eyes going wide as a newly-unmasked Soap rubbed a hand over his mussed mohawk.

“And this is Sargeant—”

“Johnny MacTavish,” she said in disbelief. “You devious little shit, is that really you?” 

Soap was clearly surprised, but Price could see something flickering in his gaze as he looked closer at the girl, eyes lingering on the wide smile that split her face. It was the deep dimple that finally did it, carving out of the girl’s right cheek as she grinned, waiting for Soap to catch up.

“You, you—” Soap stuttered, momentarily struck dumb with recognition. “You bonnie wee menace, get over here.” 

He moved even as he spoke, gathering her up and spinning her in dizzy circle as she hugged him back tightly, their exclamations and laughter overlapping. John shot a questioning look at Ghost, but his lieutenant seemed as in the dark as he was.

“I cannae say why or how you’re here, but I’m mighty fucking glad to see you, hen, really I am,” Soap returned her to the ground, running a hand wonderingly over her curls. “I didn’t recognize you with hair. Never realized you were hiding such bonnie curls under that buzzcut.”

“It’s called change, Johnny, it’s good for you,” she said, scruffing a hand over his own signature cut. She made a face when it came back covered in dust, wiping it on his shirtsleeve.

Soap didn’t react, too busy roving his eyes over her face. “Change indeed,” he said, tweaking the half-moon of hammered silver at her septum with delight. “Lookin’ like a wee highland cow and ev’rything.”

She batted Soap’s hand away only for him to grab her cheeks instead, eyes taking on an almost feral light as he squished them together until her lips pursed and she had to hold back a laugh. “D’ya still have it? Show me, show me, show me,” his sergeant begged, miles from the focused weapon of a man he was on the battlefield.

She rolled her eyes but obligingly poked out her tongue, revealing a matching glint of silver in the center. Soap crowed his approval, shaking her head a little as he grinned. He let go when she went to smack him in the stomach, stepping back with a laugh.

Price caught his eye with an amused smile. “Care to share with the class?” he asked his sergeant.While intellectually a recommendation from Kate was hard to beat, seeing the affectionate way Soap treated the lass—the way he was with no one but his team—set Price more physically at ease than he’d been since they landed. Bleeding out some of that tension inevitable with unknown quantities in their line of work.

“Oh aye, Captain,” Soap said grinning. “The lass and I are acquainted, sir.” 

“I gathered as much,” Price said dryly.

Soap spun the girl around to face his teammates, one arm slung proudly around her shoulders. “Her da was stationed at the same base as my cousin. Spent the summer wreaking havoc together fucking what, twelve? Thirteen years ago now? Christ. Thought I’d never see you again, lass,” he said, squeezing her tightly. “Let me introduce you properly. Lads, this here is—"

The girl slapped a hand across his mouth, cutting him off. “Nickname only these days, I’m afraid,” she explained over Soap’s muffled protests. “Just call me Jack,” she told the men with a smile.

And oh, Price should have guessed. Not like they’d seen anyone else here, after all.

“Jack?” Ghost asked, gaze resting on where Soap’s arm still curved around her shoulder.

“Of all trades, naturally. Blackjack if we’re being formal. But if you call me BJ, I’ll stab you in your sleep,” she told Ghost pleasantly.   

“That's my little Ripper,” Nikolai said fondly as he came forward to greet her, one big hand ruffling her hair. She tilted a cheek up to receive his kiss, smiling warmly.

“Jack is an artist with a knife. You’d like to see her work, Ghost,” Nikolai said with a nod to his lieutenant, who looked a touch skeptical, but at least not outright hostile. Ghost could be a right stuck-up bastard about his knives, Price knew well.

“I’m retired, remember, Nicky?” The lass—Jack—said, shooting an expectant glace at Kate.

“Benched,” the woman muttered right on cue. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Price saw Gaz mouth Nicky to himself in surprise. Fair point, that. John would consider Nikolai one of his closest friends—closer than that even, a time or two—but he still wouldn’t venture that nickname without expecting a swift punch to the gut (or more likely a titty-twister that would have him aching for days—Nik fought dirty as hell.).

Soap, now unmuzzled, had more questions.

“No’ a fan of your proper name anymore, then? It’s a fair pretty one,” he asked Jack, giving her the same pout that had gotten him out of trouble with Price more than once. Ghost every time.

Laswell answered him, brooking no room for argument. “Jack’s got as much heat on her as you do right now, maybe more,” she said firmly. “It’s as much for your own protection as hers.” 

“That right?” Price said, quirking an intrigued eyebrow.

Jack flashed him a grin, holding his gaze as she called to Nik. “What’s the current count, Nicky?” 

“Eh, twenty-seven, last I checked,” the man squinted, thinking. “Might be twenty-eight now, Mogilevich just found about those accounts you drained in Tambov.”

Her eyes shot to Nik, pleased. “Took him long enough,” she said.

Price found he didn’t much like the loss of her attention. “Twenty-eight what?” he queried, feeling little hum of satisfaction when her gaze flicked back to him.

“Contracts, of course,” Jack informed him with a proud smile.

“You’ve got twenty-eight hits out on you?” Soap said, outraged. “Are you out of your bleedin' mind—” he started to form something Price thought might be a name before Jack elbowed him in the stomach. Hard.

She ducked out from under his arm while he wheezed, grabbing the oven mitts off the counter and pulling out a couple trays trailing maple-sweet steam.

Soap glared pointedly at the seated men as he caught his breath. “Some back-up you are. Just gonna let her get away with that?” he groused, hooking a thumb in Jack’s direction.

“You earned it,” Ghost said, and Jack shot him a bright grin.

“Children, play nice,” Kate said, gathering plates and utensils together. But she, too, sounded more amused than angry.

Though Kate had been growing more comfortable with Price’s men, softened no doubt through the many years of their friendship, she was still somewhat…reserved with them. But this, well. This was as friendly and open as John had ever seen her, and he couldn’t help wondering about the nature of her relationship with Jack.

Kate wasn’t close with any of her family—had shared the details of that particular story with John long ago, a few fingers deep into some shitty whisky at a shittier bar. So not a blood relative likely, but she was clearly fond of the girl. Easy with her in a way she was only with Bea, Nik, and himself. But it’d taken him almost two years to get Kate to smile at him like that. Another year or two before she’d ever tease him back. She must have known the lass a long time, but then why wouldn’t have Price heard of her before now?

A stacked plate slid under his nose and drew him back to the present, the mouthwatering smell suddenly reminding him he was near fucking delirious with hunger.

“Hope you like French toast sticks,” Jack said, distributing plates to the rest of the men. “I figured quantity over quality would be paramount based on the fuckin’ size of you lot. These are my favorite though, so you better enjoy them.”

“I am going to kiss you on the mouth,” Soap told her seriously, earlier gripes forgotten.

“So fickle, Johnny,” Ghost chided, his lieutenant plainly enjoying himself.

John reveled a bit at that, at the sheer fucking luck of it all. Simon didn’t always…take to new people. And with the stress of that fucking cave still fresh in his mind, well. Not even Price’s best-case scenario had been this good. But Jack seemed to be capable of a trick only Soap had previously perfected—making Ghost laugh.

“Oh, Nik, before I forget—new batch for you,” the lass in question said, grabbing a tin on the counter. “You know the rules, no more than two at a time. Don’t pout,” she chastised him. “Remember what happened last time?” She gave Price and his men a look of exasperated fondness. “He locked himself in the tank for two hours because he thought the KGB was coming for him. Lots of fun, let’s never do it again,” she said to Nikolai, patting him on the chest.

Soap perked up at that. “Fuck me, you got a tank in here?”

“Oh, Johnny, you’ll cream your shorts when you see what I’ve got stockpiled, you little pyro,” Jack said with a toothy grin that did nothing for John’s nerves. Just what Soap needed, another accomplice—like he and Gaz didn’t give John enough headaches (and paperwork) as it was.

“Fucking hell, there’s two of ya,” Ghost drawled, but he had a light in his eye that Price recognized as, well, not displeased.

“Eat your breakfast,” Kate told the men sternly as she pulled Jack from the room—like as much to do their own catching up as it was to give the men privacy. Nik stayed behind, snatching a French toast stick from Gaz’s plate and promising them showers and clean clothes after they ate.

As Price surveyed his men, happily tucking into their breakfasts and barely coming up for air, he found that he was rather pleased with the way their ship had turned ‘round.

Sure, a murderous multinational network had very recently tried to bury them under a mountain, but lots of people had wanted to kill Price for some reason or another. He’d had the good pleasure of offing each and every one, and didn’t doubt he’d do the same here.

As for the fiction of their death, well. Most everyone who would mourn John Price sat right there at the table. None of them had much in the way of family or friends. Wouldn’t do this job if they did. 

The truth of the matter was that his boys were tired, he was tired, and this was the exact fucking break they needed. Heat off their back, a spacious—if fucking odd—safe house to shelter in, and a thoroughly enchanting enigma of a host he could already feel himself itching to take apart. A right bit of luck indeed, and John had long since learned to appreciate his blessings.

Thus resolved to enjoy his afterlife, the captain tucked gratefully into his breakfast.

Read chapter 3.

[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.

[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

[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

[pythonmoth]

cw: flashback, sort of. military inaccuracies. lots of cursing. implied sexual activity but nothing explicit, this pov is just bloody shameless. blood, war, canon violence. author is projecting their own friend group, who cares. everyone's a little shit, including reader. mention of past gaz x price. (author is giggling at this).

simon x f!reader. poly tf141. father figure price.

word count: +6.4k

EDIT: if you read this the day I posted it (monday), I've edited a few details by midnight. nothing too important.

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If anybody had told him he would go through this a few months ago, he would've laughed at their faces.

He's too busy for this mess, really. He goes on a solo mission for a whole month and when he comes back all he knows is that his favorite lass is hospitalized and that Ghost and Soap were involved, and that it's John's fault. He had thought "well, they definitely broke her now", and had laughed in his mind at his silly joke, and then the soldier in front of him told him what had actually happened.

"Tortured. Nails all gone. Capt'n Price ordered it. Big mess".

Not even an hour in since he comes back and he has to see that bastard get away with it, and leave you with the physical consequences of it all. It was enough to make him burst a fucking blood vessel. He couldn't possibly smack John —he did once, and it did not go well for him—, but fuck, he was absolutely tempted, and he genuinely felt no sympathy for his team.

The rest of the lasses are worried about you, bombarding him with questions, but they have nothing to do with it and he does not have the time to stop and talk, so he just lifts a hand and doesn't bother replying as he sidesteps them.

He'll find the time later on.

After he got the doctor to clear a bed for you, he barely had the time to do his entire paperwork. He works quickly so he can be there with you. He can only eat and work, treating the minor injuries he got, work again, and as soon as he's finally free, he goes to the clinic. He can see Ghost and Soap waiting anxiously by the door. Your door.

Kyle sighs as he gets closer. He can understand their feelings, but he honestly can only feel annoyed at their stupid display.

Hell, if they were so worried, they should've refused! The Captain could've chosen anyone else. He knew it was hard and that they had orders, but if he had been here, he would've seriously smacked everyone.

If you had to be tortured for whatever reason, why the hell do it themselves? Isn't that fucking ridiculous?

This team is the most important thing for him, and they simply accepted to torture their favorite lass —the one they've been dating for a year, no less—. Kyle just can't understand that. If the torture had to happen, as the Captain was ordered, they should've refused and forced him to choose someone else.

Everyone's fucking stupid, really.

Not you. It's not your fault that you're surrounded by complete dickheads.

Not wanting to startle them, he makes sure to make noise with his boots, and grips their shoulders to silently force them to sit down. Ghost and Soap are a goddamn mess, both of them trembling, on edge. They're quiet, more than he thought they'd be, considering what they did, but seeing them like that, the guilt clear in their eyes and body language, Kyle starts calming his own anger down. They weren't in the mood to be yelled at, and he didn't feel like lecturing them either. It's enough for him to see how tightly they're holding hands, knuckles white, for him to try and make them feel worse.

He would, but he isn't an asshole either.

With nothing left to do but wait, he sits there next to them, waiting as the Captain's muffled voice comes from inside your room. Just a few minutes later, he comes out, and the three of them bolt up. Kyle's heart trembles slightly as he sees you on the bed, your back to the door.

"Sergeant Garrick" the Captain calls, and Kyle is a little surprised to hear how happy his tone actually is. "She's hungry. Would you mind bringing something? She's okay with you being there".

Kyle nods, patting Ghost and Soap's shoulders in sympathy. Just a tiny bit.

He rushes to flirt with fight the lady at the mess hall, securing a good meal for both of you. He couldn't eat because he was so worried about you, so now that you're awake and okay with seeing him... hell, he'll eat whatever the kitchen lady wants to give him. He'll even take those disgusting rolls of rice the lady loves making.

Anything for you, really.

Half an hour later, hands full with food, he gently knocks on your door. When you don't respond quickly, he peaks inside. "Hey, it's me. Come in peace. Brought you food".

"Gaz" you cry out, rushing to stand up. Kyle feels his heart drop to his feet, eyes wide, and immediately jumps forward, nearly dropping the food in his haste to catch you when your knees give out, hissing in pain as your feet touch the ground.

"What are you getting up for, you idiot?" he scolds, his arms under your armpits to keep you up —it's easier than he remembers from past missions, and he does not like that—, biting the bag of food between his teeth as he helps you to the bed. "Dumbass. Come on".

To keep himself from crying at the sight of your weakened state, he tells you about how he fought the lady at the mess hall, setting the food on the floor only after making sure you're comfortable. You stare at him in silence but he's fine with that, making sure he only touches your arms and shoulders so he doesn't accidentally hurt you.

"You look like shit" you mumble, interrupting him. Kyle looks down at you and, with his heart full of warmth, he grips your nose between his fingers, shaking your head slightly.

"Missed you, too. Now, come on, let's eat. I'm starving" he says, not giving you a moment of silence. He's glad you don't fight him as he helps you settle properly in bed so he can sit next to you. With quick hands, he places the food between the two of you so it's easier to eat.

He talks about his mission, exaggerating it just a tiny bit. He didn't take seventy men down, he took only like... thirty. He also didn't dismantle an entire Cartel on his own, but he did kill anything he saw moving in one of their safe houses and managed to capture the leader alive when she was running from the back. He had a grin on his face —he didn't add that little part— as he managed to shoot her on the leg to slow her down.

He also doesn't tell you his heart was pounding with excitement when he saw the panic in the sicarios’ faces, wishing he could hunt them all.

Just that, really.

Halfway done with his own food, he realizes you're just listening to him talk and haven't eaten more than a single bite. "Weren't you hungry?" Kyle questions, his voice a little muffled as his mouth is stuffed with food.

"I guess. I don't know" you mumble, your shoulders slumping even further.

Kyle reaches out to steal a piece of chicken from your plate and takes a bite, munching happily as he starts talking again, mouth full. Gratefully, you don't realize he slowly starts feeding you the bites he steals, filling your mouth and watching you chew.

He can't have you fall asleep for another three goddamn days without taking a bite, so when he manages to trick you into eating more than half of your meal, he relaxes.

He has no intention of treating you like a victim, even if part of him wants to just cradle your face and protect you from whatever is gonna happen in the future. He doesn't think you're weak, you're just... hurt, so he stays the same. At some point of his rambling, your head lands on his shoulder. Kyle watches you sleep, his lips curling up as you drool on his uniform. He gently moves the food from the bed, making sure you stay comfortable resting against him.

Careful not to wake you, he lowers you on the bed and gets the rough hospital blanket over your shoulders. He tries to step away so you can rest properly, but one of your warm hands curls around his wrist in your sleep, so Kyle just drags a chair with his foot very carefully, and sits right next to you until he also falls asleep, his head on your bed.

You sleep for so, so long he's nearly afraid he gave you food poisoning.

Dr. Wilson catches him on his way to the bathroom, and sends him to wake you up. He takes just two minutes for himself and rushes back to your room. As he gets closer to you, your arm squishing your face as you drool against it, he smiles. You're snoring, your eyelashes sticking together, and you look so ridiculous he can only stare for a little moment, cursing himself for not bringing his phone. He never uses it, but now this is a wasted opportunity.

Eventually, he does wake you up, helping you prepare for the exams they'll have you take.

The art of tricking you into eating... he's a master at it, already. It brings him no happiness to use tricks but it works, and he'll take it for now.

While the medics check on you, he catches up with John.

Ghost and Soap are nowhere to be found, probably in the smallest corner in the barracks drowning in their own misery, but John looks like he wants to either kill everyone or himself. Maybe both.

"I know I fucked it up" John tells him. Kyle watches as he pours himself a drink, which... he technically shouldn't, but neither of them says anything about it. "This is my responsibility. Hell, if she decides to leave the team, I won't be bloody surprised."

Kyle keeps silent, the resentment towards his own team slowly building, even if he tries to bite it down. It's hard not to be angry at them. They didn't even give it a single day, didn't even wait for him to arrive. This whole situation is just bullshit.

"At least we can agree on that. That's a first".

"Can I ask you to—"

"I ain't convincing her that you weren't absolute dickheads and didn't rush the situation, John" he cuts him off. "You fucked up".

John gives him a warning look, but only sighs, nodding and gulping down the rest of his whiskey. "Well, then. We've got work to do".

On the third day of you being awake, Kyle is there when the Captain tells you you're leaving the next morning. He doesn't miss the way your shoulders tense slightly whenever you look at Ghost and Soap, or how your eyes go warm whenever you look at him. If this had been another time, he would've been jumping up and down just because you're looking at him this way, but right now, it's slightly... hurtful?

Maybe that's not the word.

Annoying, definitely, in a way. He doesn't want to be a replacement for Ghost and Soap, and Kyle knows you're not that kind of person, but maybe you're doing this subconsciously. A traumatized mind can do a lot of shit to a person. He just wished…

Something else. Perhaps.

That night before you leave, he is the only one who stays with you, as he had the past few days. Kyle's just surprised you decided to actually share the bed instead of having him sleep on the floor. He totally eats it up, however, smiling brightly as you giggle, glad that his good energy is making you happy before sleeping.

With your head nestled against his chest, your arms gently curled between the two of you as he holds you lazily, one of his hands caressing your hair, he wishes he could stay like this. You seem so peaceful, so distantly different from the person he saw a few days ago that it's just perfect right now. It's comforting and warm, and as you two relax, the conversation slowly turns from idle gossip to a bit more serious, finally reaching Ghost and Soap.

No. Simon and Johnny, he corrects himself.

"You don't have to forgive them. Fuck them. I hope you remember that" he mumbles against your hair. Kyle makes no attempt to subdue his anger, not wanting to hide that from you. "Maybe you'll learn to understand why they had to do it, but that doesn't mean you have to be cool with it".

"And I'm not" you mumble back, shaking your head as you shift, looking up at him. "It's hard to just... look at them and not think of it. It happened like a week ago, anyway, so I can't be blamed. Right?"

"Fuck no. I'd say you give them hell a few months" he reassures you, nudging you slightly. It's enough to bring a smile to your face. Kyle keeps his arms loose around you, as you keep on shifting, restless.

"I don't know. I understand, I guess. I can't say I wouldn't have done the same in their position, but... I don't want to think about that right now".

"Of course" Kyle hums, his hand gently rubbing on your back. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.

It's warm, and it's nice. Your breathing is slowly calming down and he knows it won't take long for you to fall asleep. It is pretty late, after all. He's lost in his head for a while, wondering if he should take your things to the truck while you're asleep or if he should do it in the morning when you're getting ready to leave. It takes him a moment to realize you're staring at him. Kyle raises an eyebrow, playfully poking your back.

"What do you want? Is there something on my face?" he asks, moving so he can look down at you properly, his eyebrows furrowing, a feeling of worry growing in his chest.

When he shifts, trying to get comfortable as your eyes follow him, you surge forward, pressing your lips to his.

Kyle's heart stutters a bit, his eyes slightly wide as he looks at you when you pull back not even a second later. His body is frozen, half lifted from the bed.

"I'm sorry. I'm really-"

He cuts you off.

Of course he'll cut you off if you look like you're about to burst into tears if he dares flinching away.

It's a soft kiss. There's nothing but calm and affection in it. Kyle's fully aware of why this is happening, of the need for comfort that's definitely growing in your brain. He keeps it gentle, even if your breathing is ragged, even if your arm wraps around his neck. He sooths you with it, and he hopes it helps. He's okay with it.

Kyle welcomes it, calming his heart. He... also doesn't mind it. In the slightest.

Its only when he cradles your face, feeling the warm tears over your heated cheeks, the kiss slowly becoming salty, that he pulls back. He holds you closer, letting you cry into his chest, pressing another soft kiss to your hair. It takes a while for you to calm down, but Kyle just holds you through it, caressing your back, your hair.

It's you who breaks the comfortable silence.

"Are you angry?"

"What? No. Why would I be?" Kyle asks, genuinely confused. Your question feels so anticlimactic he nearly groans.

"Because I kissed you?"

He hums, his hand never stopping where it's caressing your back. "No. I'm not mad. It was a good kiss." You groan instead, hitting him on the ribs with your elbow. He laughs, patting your back so you settle against him again. "Nothing wrong with kissing your mates".

"Shut up!"

"Fine, fine. Well, look" he sighs, reaching out to the lamp so he can turn it on and look at you properly. "I think you needed that, and maybe I did too. I don't think I'm a replacement, either. Or am I?"

"No!" you shriek, your face heated.

He won't tell, but his shoulders relax as you reassure him. Kyle doesn't mind kissing the nerves out of you, but he's glad to see the genuine glint in your eyes.

"Then that's fine. Just kissing the mates goodnight".

"Garrick!"

"All I'm saying" he says, grinning down at you, and placing a hand on your head, "is that a kiss can just mean that. Did it feel good? It helped?"

You purse your lips, frowning at him. "Yeah".

"Then that's alright. Don't question it much".

"Should've asked. I'm sorry".

That makes him grin, his chest warm. "It's cool. Just don't do it in front of the rest. They wanna kiss their mates, too, but they need alcohol for it".

"What? You'd be embarrassed?"

"No. You would be, though".

"Why? It's not like- ugh!"

He playfully grabs your face, not letting you move, and kisses your cheek loudly, making you laugh for the first time since you woke up. He manages to keep your good mood, not letting you dwell on whatever that kiss could've meant. At some point, he can't keep up with your energy, and slowly falls asleep, his mind filled with contentment, and warmth.

Saying goodbye to you for nine long months was one of the hardest things he's done. Kyle doesn't like being near Ghost or Soap or the Captain when there's a big hole missing. It's their fault you're missing, and he knows his annoyed looks convey that. He's professional, but it takes him a while to get along with them again. Mostly, he's forced to.

Ambushed.

During a mission, they get caught in enemy territory. Kyle's not sure how it happened, just that it was just too fast for anybody but him to react as two cars suddenly burst from fucking nowhere. He manages to jump out of the way, but the rest aren't so lucky. When they drive away at high speed, no doubt suspecting they're all dead —or will be, anyway—, Kyle gets up and checks on the rest, knowing they have to move. If they want to survive so close to the enemy's base, they need to rush.

"Fucking hell, they got your leg" Kyle grunts, helping Soap up. His bulky leg is dripping onto the ground, his uniform soaked in just a few minutes, but he looks focused. Maybe a little too much, but that'll have to do.

John has a wound on his left shoulder, but he can walk for now, so it's only Ghost and him that ain't hurt. It's their job to find quick shelter so they can treat Soap and John before rushing back to their camp. It's not easy but Kyle manages to find an abandoned small house that isn't armed to the very core with bombs. They all ignore the old bodies in the place, especially a smaller one in the back.

It's impossible not to take a moment, all of them freezing as the clothes of that smaller body rustle with the harsh air. Suspended in time, however the kid met their end.

In silence and not wasting another moment, they walk inside as carefully as they can.

Kyle and Ghost do their best, treating Soap and John for an entire night, but they can't stay there. So they risk it. Ghost drags John, who looks extremely lightheaded from the blood loss, while Kyle carries a bloody Soap on his shoulders. It's a long, long walk back to the camp, especially with the enemies so close.

Kyle says goodbye to you in his mind.

You should be here with the team, but he's also glad you aren't. At least you get to live on.

Fortunately, he gets the opportunity to feel silly for being so worried not even two hours later when they make it to their hidden camp. Once they're all in their jeep, however, he sees Ghost slowly passing out, just now noticing his uniform was darker than usual.

That's fucking blood.

"Do I have to do everything in here?! I'll skin you all if you die!" he growls to himself, knowing the rest aren't even conscious or interested in his anger. Kyle pushes the jeep to it's limits, the team bouncing off the seats slightly, and the hot air making his eye twitch.

It takes him a few hours to be back, worried out of his mind. He's the only one who didn't get hurt, and that's fucked up. He gets to help his team but at what cost? If they die, that's on him for not being fast enough, for not being good enough at his work. For being too focused on his own safety instead of looking out for his team.

Ghost's side is fucked, Dr. Wilson tells him. Of course, she doesn't use those words, but that's pretty much what she means. John's shoulder wasn't actually damaged, there was no fracture, but he lost a lot of blood. Same thing with Soap. It had been a close call, in any way.

Kyle spends the next five days making sure Ghost is comfortable, the drug-induced comma he's forced into fucking up his planned Months of Hatred. He really had planned on pulling faces at them when not in immediate danger, on going as far as ignoring them, but because he had been pissed at the three of them and his mind didn't instantly click to treat them as a priority, they're all hurt. He wasn't good enough and he will never forgive himself for that.

Because of him, you could've lost them all.

Dr. Wilson insisted he doesn't have to be here, but he can't just leave them alone again.

The sunlight coming from the windows, he sits right next to Ghost, rubbing his own face in profound desperation. He doesn't have the heart to text you. He wouldn't even know how to tell you in person that your dear Ghosty and Johnny got hurt, but texting or calling is not his strongest skill so it's out of the question. He would only make you worry even more.

Besides, you weren't talking to them, as he'd gathered from their conversations, so he doesn't think you'll miss them much.

At least, he forces himself to think like that.

By the time Ghost wakes up, the first thing he asks for is his phone. Kyle only gives him a look but he quickly brings it. He gives him space, knowing he'll probably want to be alone when he texts you. Kyle hears his grunts of pain stopping, and then his voice going all soft.

Ah, a call, then.

Pretty soon after Ghost recovers, by the fourth month of you being away, one night Soap suddenly rushes over to the Lieutenant, and Kyle would be damned if he didn't understand the little tears clinging to the sergeant's curly eyelashes. Really, he doesn't even feel guilty anymore. They both seem so happy, now out of danger, the love of their lives is texting them back and he's actually very happy for them.

Even John seems a lot better, seeing these idiots happier.

No matter how hard Kyle tries to fight it, he loves these idiots. Even the people closest to you might hurt you, and you'll hurt them sometimes.

It's been nine months.

Despite his better judgment, Kyle's managed to text you every now and then, and, even though it pains him greatly, he takes your calls if you text him beforehand. At least two days before so he can be ready for it. Kyle would rather die than to willingly call someone; if it's not an order, he just can't be bothered. But this is you, after all. Kyle makes an exception for you.

Now that everyone's getting along a lot better, nearly the same as it used to be before this whole bullshit situation, Kyle does spend time with them, having drinks by the bar or just in John's office. Everyone clearly needed that, because they get drunk ridiculously quick. Including him, honestly.

"Ya know, I've never asked" John begins, sipping his whiskey as he turns to Ghost and Soap. "How did y'all get together anyway? If you're gon' be explicit, I don't wanna hear it, though—"

"None of your business" Ghost grunts, taking the mask off, since it's only them. It's not like it's the first time, anyway.

"Shut your mouth" Soap says, waving a dismissive hand to Ghost. He sips his whiskey and grins at John. "It was pretty funny, actually".

Kyle remembers that day perfectly.

Over a year ago, he had realized the moment you and Ghost first started dating. It wasn't super obvious, nothing really changed, not even when you thought nobody was looking, except maybe that Ghost was extra touchy. He also pretended not to see the little marks on the Lieutenant's back whenever they changed.

Good for them, he thought.

The little dates you shared weren't a secret, either. Whenever you had the time, Kyle saw you walking into the common area to watch a ridiculous movie, or a show, or whatever. He could barely hear it from the kitchen if he happened to need a drink, anyway. All he knew is that, at some point, Soap joined the movie nights.

At first, Kyle thought it would be a problem because, to him, it was painfully obvious the sergeant had a thing for Ghost, but if you two were together... where did that leave poor Soap? Eventually, Kyle himself ended up joining a few movie dates, out of boredom really, and, one night, after enduring two long hours of the heaviest sexual tension he's ever felt and trying to pretend he wasn't more interested in whatever was happening behind him instead of the actual movie, he just drops on the carpet and pretends to sleep as he listens to you talk.

"Dunno... is it wrong?" you murmur after a while, sitting on the couch right behind Kyle.

"Hell if I know" Ghost grunts back.

The silence is thick with something, but Kyle would rather die than to get up and miss whatever is happening. He breathes slowly, but not so much that he doesn't seem to be asleep.

"Every time he looks at you with those silly eyes I kinda just wanna..."

"Smooch him?" Ghost snorts quietly, earning him a smack on his arm. "What, you wanna kick him instead?"

"Both, I guess" you admit slowly, and Kyle can't help but grin.

Really, the army is fucked up. Everyone's together for so long that the lines between romance and friendship sometimes get blurry. Hell, Kyle himself had a thing with John for nearly a year. That did not happen, if anybody asked them, and they never brought it up after they decided to break it off. They're still a little petty, however.

The credits roll slowly, an obnoxious song playing as Kyle listens to Soap's soft snoring where he's curled next to him in the carpet, by Ghost's feet. It's funny, though, he's sure the sergeant is also pretending to sleep. Soap's one hell of a snorer. That's cutesy snoring.

He calls bullshit.

Sure enough, when you very quietly admit that you wouldn't mind if dear Simon was interested in little Johnny, and Simon admits he's actually smitten by the sergeant, Johnny sits up so quick he nearly kicks Kyle in the face.

"Wait, say that again".

And when their conversation turns a little too serious, too bloody personal, Kyle stops pretending and absolutely bolts away, earning a few snickers from the three of them.

Little shits knew he was listening.

The road to your house is a little too... exciting. You've been talking to all of them by texting and calling, and they could see how much you've improved in therapy. The therapist wouldn't tell the Captain much, and he told them even less, but you were doing better, and that's all that matters to them. Soap's nearly bouncing off the seat, Ghost's hand on his thigh to keep him still. Kyle's riding shotgun and the Captain's driving them. Unfortunately, driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole, and they all have to sit through the Captain's music for the whole ride.

It isn't so bad, but it's something Kyle's father would listen to.

... He decided not to think too hard on that a long time ago.

The city is pretty calm, and Kyle likes that. He can tell the rest are excited to be back, both because of you, and because this is the smallest city they've ever been in —where they didn't have to kill anybody, that is—. Not even fifteen minutes into the city, the Captain is already parking outside your house.

Kyle goes first, knocking on your door, the Captain right behind him, his steps calm, but he notices the other two faltering behind them, as if scared, hesitant. He can't blame them at all, it's been a while they since also saw you in person, but right now, he's only focused on seeing you again. Your face through the screen isn't good enough, and he's terribly excited.

He has to knock twice, but as soon as he sees you he wraps his arms around your middle, grunting happily to feel your weight back in place, no longer too light. He carries you further into your house so the rest can get in as well.

"Hey, sweetheart. Looking good" Kyle hums, beaming at you, pressing a soft kiss to your cheekbones before letting go of you.

He watches as you say hi to the rest, but there's something in your behavior that has him sharing a look with John, and when Ghost takes his mask off, Kyle can see the worry in his face as well. Okay, so they'll go slow. He meets Soap's eyes and they both nod. They'll be as careful as possible, not wanting to startle you at all.

That proves a challenge.

With everything happening to you, and probably triggered by their presence in your safe place, your home, you're snappy and terribly annoyed at everything they do. Not him directly, but you can't handle his touch, so Kyle keeps his hands to himself for now.

And, naturally, he had to take the initiative yet again. Everyone's so goddamn awkward, so watching a movie is way better than just staring at each other in silence. Soap and the Captain offer to buy snacks, so that leaves him with Ghost and with you.

Yippee, seriously.

Fortunately for him, you're less anxious now that there aren't so many people in your home and immediately crave his touch. He hugs you and checks on your fingernails, making sure you didn't anxiously bite them off again.

Kyle kisses your cheek, your hair, making sure you're feeling better, and grinning down at you when you give him grateful smiles. He barely notices Ghost shifting, uncomfortable. If he said he doesn't feel guilty, that'd be a lie, but you need him right now, so he doesn't stop to explain Ghost what's going on. Not that he knows himself... not really, anyway.

A while later, the Captain and Soap are back, and you're looking so much better. You're enjoying your sour candy, making Kyle eat them to giggle at his despair —he hates those things—. Soap and Ghost throw some annoyed looks in his direction, but you don't seem to catch them, probably protecting yourself from any kind of anxiety by just focusing on Kyle alone.

But then, Soap kinda fucks up.

Getting more crisps from the kitchen, he accidentally drops a plate, the shattering sound making even him flinch. You get up so fast you end up smacking Kyle on the face in your haste of getting away. He pauses long enough to watch Ghost hesitate, and then rushes after you. Kyle finds you easily in the guest room. You're on your knees, shaking so much he wonders if you're breathing at all, and he can see your hands gripping the rough carpet. He dives for you, not closing the door in case you panic even more and hugs you tightly.

It's like you can't process his words for a few moments, until you suddenly go limp on him. Kyle's deeply worried for a second, but then you're speaking and he feels his heart beat again.

Now, he won't lie and say he doesn't feel a little, really, just a tiny little bit used when you seek his lips again, but he puts aside his own feelings to give you what you need. It's not about him right now, it's about what you need.

So, really, imagine his fucking surprise when you shut his smart ass with a proper kiss. He's so startled he can barely keep up with you, his mind spinning with contentment. Maybe he's enjoying this a little too much, but just this once, he decides to indulge himself.

Your warm hands cup his cheeks, the kiss deepening so much that Kyle can hear the harsh smacking of your lips as they sloth together. With his arms around your middle, pulling you closer and closer until your front is completely flushed against his, your hands find the back or his neck, of his head, and he sort of... just melts. Kyle let's out a shaky exhale that makes you pull back for a moment.

He stares at you with half-lidded eyes, feeling your nails dig slightly onto his skin. "I'll be damned" Kyle mumbles quietly.

Neither of you do or say anything for a long heartbeat, only breathing each other in, staring.

Then, he just can't hold back. And apparently, neither can you.

Well, fuck him. What the fuck.

It's only after a while, when neither of you can breathe anymore and the fierce need seems to slowly melt away, that Kyle finally pulls back, panting heavily against your shoulder, a hand gripping your hip. He's seriously fucking glad you have the decency not to question why he's shifting away from between your legs even if he doesn't let go of you.

He doesn't think he can stand that question right now.

"I'll be damned" Kyle murmurs, repeating himself.

The only thing that keeps him sane right now is that you burst out laughing, clearly flustered. He laughs, his cheeks aflame as he helps you up.

When the whipped cream touches his face, he just can't stay still anymore, his mustache quivering as he holds back his laughter. These ridiculous kids don't hold back at all, filling his face with whipped cream and placing more and more gummy bears on top. Finally, he opens his eyes and stares directly at you, your giggles stopping immediately as you rush to stand up, trying to escape him.

Price grips your arm swiftly and pulls you closer, holding you against him as he uses your face as a napkin, rubbing the whipped cream all over your cheek and hair, your screams of delight filling your house, the rest joining immediately after, even Ghost's amused huffs make it to his own ears.

Its a little messy, but he can only grin brightly, seeing you happy enough that you're no longer avoiding Ghost and Johnny. He doesn't bother questioning why Garrick is all over you. Really, at this point he's just happy you're content.

After a few hours of playing around, of getting teased for pretending to be asleep, you invite them to sleep over.

Price wasn't expecting that, but he doesn't say no. Neither do any of the other idiots, not that it's a surprise, and, while the others get ready to sleep in the guest room, their voices loud and actually happy for once, he gently pulls you aside over to the kitchen, away from possible eavesdropping.

"What's up?" you ask, your hair still a little wet where you had to wash it, just like his damp beard. Price grins down at you.

"Are you okay?"

"Hm? I am. Why?"

You look so confused as to why he's asking such thing that he almost believes you. He does, just a little bit, mostly because the therapist did tell him you're doing better now.

"You panicked on me just now" Price says anyway, his eyes inviting, hoping he doesn't scare you off again. However, you only give him a small smile.

"I was terribly anxious I was gonna be scared of you, that I ended up... kinda forcing myself into being scared? If that makes sense. My therapist's been helping me realize a few things" you mumble, rubbing the back of your head.

Price places a hand on top of your head and nods. "As long as you're okay. If you change your mind about us sleeping here, I'll drag them out".

The smile you give him, the dismissive wave of your hand, tells him enough. Still, he waits a little bit.

"It's fine" you reply. He blinks when you flick his nose, actually grinning. "I'll also lock my door, and I have a few knives under my pillow. That helps".

"Fair".

It's pretty late when Price hears Garrick walk into the guest room, even if they're all still awake. Ghost and Johnny only give him a look, but say nothing, carrying on their conversation as usual. They've been looking a lot better than they had when they left before the whole whipped cream prank, so that's something positive, at least.

As Garrick gets closer, Price sees the little gloss on his lips and he has to bite back a smirk.

Kids these days, really.

You had excused yourself after a while, yawning for nearly an hour until you decided to just go to bed. Garrick followed after you not even ten minutes later.

He didn't know what to make of it, didn't know if he felt annoyed or not, but Kyle gave him a not a word look, so Price only gives him a smirk.

Well, then.

Now with everyone curled on the bed, legs half-dangling from the mattress, Price sighs loudly, making the rest turn to him.

"If I lose my team over this... new generation's type of relationships or whatever the fuck is happening here, I will skin you all alive".

"Noted".

"Copy that".

Ghost only looks at him, and shrugs, flipping onto his back before closing his eyes. "Price and Garrick fucked".

That makes Price gap in complete disbelief, turning to look at Ghost when Johnny bursts out laughing, Kyle burying his face in his hands. "Why are you even saying that? That did not happen, don't know what you're talking about. I just think it's ridiculous to—"

"Oi!" Price snaps at him, frowning, feeling just a little bit offended. He doesn't even want to know how the hell Ghost knows.

"I saw you with her" Ghost says instead, cutting over Johnny's laughter. Price sighs, turning to Garrick, who's staring at the pair. "We both did".

Johnny sighs deeply, his laughter dying out, one of his arms under his head. Everything is quiet, Garrick's breathing slow, his face unashamed but a little guarded. Eventually, Johnny speaks up. "It's cool".

"Is it?" Garrick asks, blinking at the two of them.

"If she's happy, it's fine" Ghost replies instead, rubbing his face.

"Doesn't mean we'll stop fighting for her, though".

"Fine by me" Garrick hums, shrugging.

Price stares at them in complete silence, listening to them talk about this as if they were discussing the fucking weather. Shaking his head, he turns his back on them and pretends he can't hear the slowly warming tone from Johnny when he talks to Garrick.

Ah, he should retire.

-ˋˏ✄——————————————————

im having the time of my life, birds are tweeting outside, the woodpeckers are going insane, my cat's on my lap and my old pup is by my feet, tf141 is a loving polycule (price is like a father to reader so not w her, but the rest? *shrugs*) and im tired of pretending it isn't.

gaz calls price "john" when he's either pissed, worried or content.

» why gaz (nearly) taking down an entire Cartel isn't as ridiculous as you might think it is: that's happened here in México before.

there is someone we call "El Marino Loko", a crazy mexican marine; he and his team didn't care for sicarios' human rights. they would beat them up, would force them to wear women's clothes, would make them kiss each other, humillation in general yk how it is. they never took prisoners :) the government and the mafias themselves wanted that marine dead, but he disappeared.

he's still alive, as someone's personal guard but nobody truly knows *twirls hair* there's no way to know how many sicarios he killed, but he and his team killed hundreds if not a thousand (or more). that's pretty hot, if you ask me.

anyway, since it's just gaz I couldn't say he killed a hundred alone, but definitely a few. follow me for more interesting facts that emilia pérez could never tell ya lol

taglist: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @kukavittu @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @rayrayyio @diseasedclitoris @alex1011sdzfgh @thebumbqueen @hyunjaebaby @jillvalentinesrealwife @sodavrr @kneelforloki @vioxsoo @l4vstrr @leon-thot-kennedy @t3a-bag @dotmistbird @littlezarp @eclipsedcherry @codeseven @babydoll-143

[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

[peachetteprice]

Call of Duty - Masterlist:

The Complete Masterlist of: peachetteprice.

Asks and submissions are open!

Feedback Policy

External Links | Ao3 | Wattpad: Peachette_Price

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Key

× NSFW content - ranging from sexually suggestive themes to explicit smut. This content is not to be interacted with by minors. I give you my partial trust to adhere to this, but I will regularly check the age of the blogs following me and block when necessary.

// This is an ongoing work.

< / > This work is unlikely to be completed now and/or in the future.

(REQ) This work is published as a request by a user.

TF141 Headcanons:

Driving Habits - How would the boys usually drive? What are their habits when in the hot seat?

Cheating Partners - POV: I let an anon down by not fulfilling their request and still posting it anyway. Ft. Phillip Graves. ×

Captain John Price:

42-Year-Old John Price - He isn't as sprightly as he used to be. ×

Eighth Date - John reveals to you about his profession, but you're much too taken by something else!

Speak Up, Love - Uh-oh. John's lost his voice. Wouldn't it be such a shame if someone teased him about it? ×

Stern Captain John Price - He really... really... becomes accustomed to the life of a cat owner despite his penchant for dogs. ×

How it Should Be - John's a hardened war veteran... but he still gets flustered every time you call him handsome. ×

A Deal of Cards - (REQ): How might Price deal with his gorgeous, talented partner: a spiritulist, working in the creative field with a rather earthly aesthetic? With love, of course.

What a Bargain - John is a man who loves bargains. That's it.

Jeweller!Price - Uh... John's a jeweller. That's it. Pretty straight-forward, innit. Pt. 2 ×

Accountant!Price - He's an accountant. You get it by now, right? ×

The Gloves are On - The gloves stay on, even when he's finger-fucking the ever-living daylights out of you. ×

Neuroscientist!Price - Price is a neuroscientist with a dark present. ×

Coworker!Price - don't get it twisted. This isn't 'accountant' Price. ×

Domestic!Price - He's just a little guy with fuzzy socks on.

Agent!Price - He's only ever been an Agent: what are you on about 'Captain'?

EmotionallyUnbalancedWriter!Price - He reminisces on a love lost.

The Uniform - John lets you have all the fun 'playing Lieutenant'. Don't worry, he knows his place, too. ×

CultLeader!Price - Oh, how we rejoiced!

(REQ) Neighbour!Price - John is your bird-watch loving neighbour!

Husband's Best Friend - John Price is your HBF.

Simon "Ghost" Riley:

Strangers in the Night - Simon has a waking nightmare; you're always there to provide comfort.

A Hand for Radio - You're not just on the team to dilly-dally, something that everyone, including Soap, finally needs to understand. ×

Some Days - (REQ): Simon and Reader have a spat. Reader feels invalidated and rightfully tells him so, because what a bitch, honestly.

Fisherman!Simon - it's Simon... but as a fisherman. I don't know what more you want from me.

Full-length works:

27 Hawthorn Court - Simon "Ghost" Riley finds himself in hot water after the Greater Manchester Police suspect him of murderering his family: his brother, his brother's wife, and their son. < / >

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick:

Could Have Been - Didn't you know, Gaz could have been a professional footballer?

One of Those Nights - It's your favourite thing about him, truly. ×

Born For It - Oh, but he's just so rich and handsome, whatever shall you do? ×

Morning Brew - Kyle likes his coffee like he likes his coffee, and his mornings, entirely unlike his coffee: full of lazy sex! ×

Backshots with Kyle? - The one thing he loves to do more than anything ×

Bar Meet - You meet Gaz in a bar. Even after the night is over, he isn't done. ×

Crawley - Kyle is your flatmate in a two-bed flat share. Things are predictable, right up until they aren't.

John "Soap" MacTavish:

The Ever-forgetful John "Soap" MacTavish - Poor bastard never remembers not to use the water when you're mid-shower!

A Dream to Build a Life On - It's tough to have almost everything you've ever wanted right at the tips of your fingers, but have one thing... just one thing... that seems entirely out of reach. ×

Days of Old - It's never easy to watch something drag the life out of a loved one's eyes. ×

The Highlands - A short drabble about Johnny coming back to Scotland every once in a while to re-live the simplicity of rural life. Ft. Part 2

Charity Dinner Ball - Soap relieves his OWN Charity Dinner Balls... pause... after being drawn to you the entire evening. ×

Needy Soap - I need him biblically, I fear. ×

Phillip Graves:

Full-length works:

Mister Commander - (DBF) Winnie Collins knows better than anyone that a homestead requires up-keep. When she returns home to Texas, following the dissolvement of her engagement to the man she thought she loved, there's a stranger on her parent's ranch, during the height of May heat, in a town where nothing but dirt and sweat remain. Phillip Graves. He's her father's best friend - and he's here to stay. × //

Ghost x Soap

Two Men in a Boat - A boat bobs along the ocean. Within, there are two men.

[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. 

[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

[tojisun]

call of duty masterlist - 02

01 mlist; 03 mlist; series mlist

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

all works belong to tojisun. all forms of reposting are not permitted; please do not translate, copy, revise and/or refine my works.

short legend:

❦︎ - nsfw

last updated: july 28, 2024

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

- SIMON (GHOST) RILEY

it won’t fit… - reader’s pov; simon’s pov ❦︎

acts of service

not a one-night stand guy ❦︎

pinky promise kisses

teasing you is his favourite thing ever ❦︎

tender touches

a little begging ❦︎

great malevolence ❦︎

kinda distracted ❦︎

mutual obsession ❦︎

you would not let me

full of him - 01, 02 ❦

something sacred

best friend simon

mercy

little liar ❦

obedience and patience ❦

older bf! - 01, 02 ❦

agonizing love

my love (mine all mine)

unleashed desires ❦

sweltering - suggestive

good pup ❦

little comfort

to be loved is to be changed

sub simon ❦

heavy love and ferocious hunger

sasha’s daddy

impatient (not so) little man ❦

use me whenever ❦

sweet princess; fucked stupid ❦

words are not needed

childhood best friend simon - 01, 02, 03

biting need ❦

blue collar (plumber) simon - 01, 02 ❦

unwilling cat dad

how he fucks - p link! ❦

teach me how to say goodbye

just mind-numbing sex ❦

pretty cam girl - suggestive

the lights are on ❦

> short ramblings - 01, 02, 03, 04 ❦

- KYLE (GAZ) GARRICK

good boy ❦

brat tamer ❦︎

breath play ❦︎

i find you in everyone

swipe right (dilf kyle) ❦

unplanned creampies ❦

- JOHNNY (SOAP) MACTAVISH

good boy (his ver) ❦

his little stress toy ❦︎

nasty in public ❦︎

makeup and cockwarming ❦

strap-ons ❦

- JOHN PRICE

got you cornered ❦︎

gentle love

cockwarming ❦︎

my ex-husband, 02 ❦︎

throat training (snippet) ❦︎

peanut

oral fixation - suggestive

disobedience and punishments - suggestive

in the silence, we find love

golf dilf price - 01, 02

his pickup truck - suggestive

little darling bimbo of his - suggestive

young love - 01, 02

- VALERIA

pretty mouth ❦

- MULTI (cod)

the loyalty of a dog - open character

little freak - tf 141 x reader ❦

his command (pt 02 of some sorts) - price x reader x simon ❦

sir and his dolls, 02- price x reader x gaz ❦

baby trapping - price/simon ❦

stuffed - simon (+ hinted tf 141) x reader ❦

frenzied addiction - ghoap x reader ❦

dog x lamb x wolf - simon x reader x price - suggestive

pretty cage - 141 x reader, established price x reader - WIP

orgasm denial, 02 - reader x simon x price ❦

through the viewfinder - 141 x reader - noncon ❦

hate sex - alejandro x reader x valeria ❦

little remote, 02 - johnny x reader; 141 x reader - noncon ❦

nosy neighbours and bird watching - 141 x reader

fervid obsession - 141 x reader

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𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 this is a completed masterlist (i reached 100 links LMAO) so pls refer to 01 & 03 mlists for the rest of oneshots and the series mlist for ongoing works ^v^ ୨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹

[pfhwrittes]

title: (hunka hunka) burnin’ love

pairing: john “soap” mactavish x female reader

word count: 1.6k

tags/triggers: smut, oral sex (johnny receiving), semi-public sex, johnny’s POV, blink and you’ll miss it reference to past kyle “gaz” garrick x reader, humour, parental interference, pet names (“bonnie”, “hen”).

a/n: i’ve finally finished a fic. everyone send tats (@stuffireadandenjoy) some love for inspiring this one.

also regarding the parental interference tag, johnny’s dad walks in after the reader and johnny have finished. if that makes you cringe, feel free to skip from “christ, the fabric of his boxers chafes something fierce.” and pick back up at “back at the table johnny fidgets uncomfortably…”

as always my work is barely edited (i loathe re-reading my own words) so typos and grammatical goofs are likely. with that said, enjoy!

johnny’s breath hitches as you lick a (gratifyingly) long wet stripe up the underside of his cock. your tongue curling sweetly around the head as your fingers dig into the meat of his thighs, not taking your eyes off him for a second. 

christ, he’s a lucky man. a very lucky man. 

you’re always game for his particular brand of hijinks. when he’d dragged you unsubtly to the bathroom of the nice restaurant after watching you chew on the straw of your drink (for aeons!) with those plump lips of yours, he was sure you’d slap his hands away. chide him. remind him he was no better than a panting mutt. tell him to keep his hands to himself until after dinner at least. 

but you didn’t. 

and now here he was. and here you were. on your knees as his belt buckle clinks noisily in the locked toilet cubicle while the rest of the table (sorry maw) waited for the second course. 

“christ, bonnie.” johnny hisses through his teeth desperately as you lap leisurely at the droplet of precum beading at the slit. (and no, cupcakKe’s deepthroat does not start playing in the back of his mind. shut up.) 

you blink up at johnny in a catlike fashion. he preemptively bites down on his knuckles so he can’t make a stupid joke about the cat gettin’ the cream, eh hen? and be left, quite literally, cock in hand as you return to the table in a huff. (it’s one of the things he loves about you. you’re mercurial as sin and god knows he loves the chase.)

his heart stutters and it takes all his will power not to place his hand on the back of your head and thrust deep into the wet heat of your mouth as you slowly suck on the head of his cock. fuck, it’s not the first time you’ve dropped to your knees and sucked the soul out of him but it leaves him breathless each and every time. 

(has he mentioned he’s a very lucky man?)

“mphfuuuuckin’ hell!” he manages to swear around his fingers before remembering to pull them out of his mouth.

he doesn’t know what it is but this time something feels different. your clever tongue traces nonsensical patterns as you bob your head. it’s wet and messy, the soft skin under your lips prickling, almost as if his dick is more sensitive than usual. 

wait. 

prickling? 

“wait, bonnie - ohjesuswept - i think -” johnny swallows the low moan trying to crawl out of his chest as your head bobs lower, taking more of his cock in your mouth as you hollow your cheeks and suck. it’s a dirty trick, one that’s made him pull the trigger prematurely before. god he loves you for it, you filthy wee minx. 

(if he didn’t have a little box in his jacket pocket waiting for him back at the table he swears hand tae god that he’d propose right here right now in this tiny cubicle with the toilet paper dispenser as his witness.)

you pull off with a slick pop and wipe at your messy mouth, smearing the gloss on your lips as you do. 

“what?” you arch a brow as you fist his cock with the same hand. you know him well enough that unless he calls his safeword (children’s feet, if you’re curious) he always wants you to continue somehow. he loves riding that edge of ohgodyes and ohgodtoomuchtoomuch. 

johnny hisses as you do that clever little twist of the wrist and his dick throbs. no, not throbs, burns. (oh great, now he sounds like one of those wankers from that fucking show you like, the one with the period dresses and shagging. not that he watched it and heckled lord whatshisface’s technique as you battered him with a throw cushion.)

“seriously johnny, what?” you squeeze the base of his cock a little meanly (in his opinion) and pout. “do you want me to stop or -” 

“no, no, no. keep goin’ bonnie, please.” johnny cuts you off to beg. fuck it, he’s had worse in the field (and god knows he’s twisted enough that the whole burnin’ boaby situation is actually getting his motor running more).

you squint up at him suspiciously before shuffling on your knees slightly, getting as comfortable as you possibly can on the uneven tiled surface.

“fine, but be quick. i’m positive your mum knows what we’re up to in here.” 

johnny is pretty sure he looks like a stupid bobble head with how fervently he’s nodding but he couldn’t give a single solitary shit as you lean forward and swallow him down. (he’s not ashamed that he has to squeeze his eyes closed to stop himself from going off like a rocket. you’d given him permission to be quick but he’s still got to have a measure of pride.)

the filthy wet sounds of you gagging on his cock makes johnny’s toes curl in his shoes and he swears his hands move on their own to cup the back of your head to hold you in place. (just for a moment, he’s no’ a monster. it just feels so good.)

he feels you swallow and hears you whine through your nose. chancing a glance down, johnny groans loudly as he meets your teary eyes before he guides you off his cock so that you can suck in a grateful breath of air or two. (okay so maybe the moment was slightly longer than a moment but he challenges any man to resist.) 

you cough and splutter before you squirm in his grip. johnny loosens his hold on your head and moves one of his hands to pump his cock furiously, the ruddy tip resting on your plump (seriously, he swears it’s plumper than usual) bottom lip. 

fuck, his dick is so sensitive, burning hot under his hand – even with the rapidly cooling saliva, precum, and gloss still slicking the length of it. johnny fists his cock and shudders out a long moan as you open your mouth and stretch your tongue out to lick at him. (another dirty trick, and not one he’s shown you. he’d send flowers to the person or persons who’d taught you to flick your tongue along his frenulum if it wouldn’t be weird. ah well, maybe he’ll buy gaz a pint the next time he sees him.)

johnny knows he’s babbling utter bollocks through gritted teeth and gasping like a fish out of water as sweat beads along his hairline. he’s so fucking close to coming his brains out in this little cubicle as he gazes down at you.

you’re a fucking vision on your knees. it’s not the way you fidget slightly, pressing your thighs together hoping for friction, or even the way your mouth looks swollen and spit-and-precum-slicked that causes johnny to come with a harsh grunt onto your waiting tongue. (he’ll never admit it out loud but it’s your eyes. it’s the mischievous twinkle in your dilated pupils that tells him that you’re loving this as much as he is. his partner in crime.)

“fuckin’ hell hen, yer gonny kill me.” johnny pants as his knees wobble like a newborn foal, phosphenes blurring the self-satisfied smirk on your shiny lips when he’s finally able to focus on you. 

you lick your lips and johnny grunts as his cock gives a feeble twitch even as it softens in his grasp. hells bloody bells, his dick is still throbbing and he muffles a whimper when you lean forward to blow cool air on it. 

“jesus christ!” 

“sensitive?” you ask as you get to your feet, moving to tuck johnny back into his trousers. 

christ, the fabric of his boxers chafes something fierce. johnny’s so distracted by adjusting the front of his underwear that he almost misses the loud bangs on the cubicle door. 

“john! fer god’s sake get back oot here! yer maw’s got intae the red wine!”

johnny shoots you a panicked look and reaches over to clap his sticky palm over your mouth seconds before you burst into inappropriate laughter. your eyes light up and johnny schools his face into the one his maw used to give him when he’d tromp through the house in his mucky boots (and god isn’t that a horrible thought? he always thought when he’d get older he’d become like his auld da), a slow stern shake as you waggle your eyebrows. 

“aye, aye ‘m comin’, keep yer hair oan!” johnny calls through the door. 

“now, john!” 

you wriggle your tongue in between johnny’s fingers (gross!) and flip the lock on the cubicle door, pushing it open to saunter past his auld da with a cheerful “he’ll just be a minute!” leaving johnny to face his da with his belt still hanging loose around his hips. 

“yer flying a wee bit low there son.” johnny’s da clears his throat uncomfortably and unsubtly waves his hand towards johnny’s groin. 

“aye, cheers.” johnny mutters as his ears turn red, fumbling to zip up his flies and buckle his belt.

–

back at the table johnny fidgets uncomfortably, discreetly adjusting himself under the cloth napkin on his lap. seriously, what the fuck is going on with his dick? it feels exactly like the time he pinched his sister’s original source shower gel. or like how his lips felt after he stolen your lip gl–

johnny turns his head and squints at your lips. they’re shiny again with a fresh application of gloss. oh you wee terror. so that was the reason you didn’t argue about joining him in the toilets this time. 

johnny leans over to nuzzle at your cheek, taking a moment to murmur in your ear. 

“i ken about the gloss.” 

you pull back, those gorgeous lips of yours twitching to stop from grinning at his predicament before leaning back so that you can murmur your reply, your breath tickling the shell of his ear.

“good. oh and johnny?” 

“mm?” 

“i found the ring.” 

johnny grins so wide that his cheeks hurt. 

aye, he’s a very lucky man.