#POV kyle gaz garrick

[mrspasser]

Sweeping the room

Call of Duty fanfic Read it on A03

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh shit, indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room is silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[sigh-tofm]

if you wear glasses …

… price

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

… kyle

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

… johnny

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

… ghost

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

[mindie-arts]

Join him? 🍜🌱✨

[mothmothmothmothmothmoth]

@angel-eyes-and-devil-hearts

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

[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.

[reds-skull]

Bringer of Demise

[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.

[temeyes]

drew a new Gaz dp <3

[sabrielmoose]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And NATASHA AND GHOST FRIENDSHIP!!!

#heroes duties

#codxavengers

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

Chapter 1

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV)

Word count: 3.3 k

Minors DNI - medieval fantasy au, ladyhawke inspired au, animal shifting (of a sort), angst and romance, YEARNING, swordfighting

Summary: For five years, Captain Jonathan Price has been traveling, banished to live his days under the sun alone, away from the woman he loves. He is on a quest for vengeance against Lord Shepherd for cursing him and his beloved to a life where they are always together, forever apart.

A self-indulgent Ladyhawke AU for my ship of John Price/Rory Sinclair (oc) and told from Price and Gaz's swapping POVs.

[Can also be read on AO3]

Five years.

Five long years. 

Five long years. Alone. 

Each day getting that much harder to watch pass. The break of day is a cruel mistress for him as the spark of burning sun that rises each morning means he is once again left to wander. 

Jonathan Price knew no home any longer, held no loyalty except to one person, and as he travels each rocky road and dirt path between villages the sights have all become a blur, blending into one bland doldrum of gray. He can’t even appreciate the stars in the sky, nor the cool silver glow of the moon. There was just the sun, but with it came no light, not anymore. Days were one long expanse of reflecting on his memories of a better time, of the things he no longer got to have. Things so close, yet so far away. Just out of reach, like a figment in the corner of one’s vision, a mirage of an oasis he took for granted when he had it at his fingertips. 

Pulling on the reins of his trusted Karachay, Nikolai, the horse’s dark mane blowing in the mid-morning breeze, Price takes long strides through the woodland green as his loyal companion follows, whinnying when the small lamb trotting along with them falls behind. It's wool coiled soft and white, eyes large and innocent, bleats its discontent as he moves quicker than little legs can carry. 

Pausing his march, he turns to look over his shoulder and grumbles quietly to himself before calling out to the animal, “Now, now, my girl. None o’ that. I carried you for the last five miles.”

The shrill little cry of the miniscule creature back at him in opposition to his chiding was enough to make him smirk. “Is that so?” He lifts a brow and looks down at the hooved creature announcing its displeasure, a low chuckle coming from him. “Well, whatever the lady wants, eh?” 

Scooping up the lamb into his arms, he places it in the saddle bag on the horse's back. It's little head pushing back the leather lid as it peers out at him, bleating once more, pink tongue flailing with its call. “You're gonna be trouble for me today, aren't you?” He teases, grasping the lamb’s slender black hoof in his hand before brushing his fingers gently through the wool on its head. “Just like you to be, darlin’.” 

As easy as this moment seems to be, he finds himself overcome by a look of longing that furrows his brow and tightens his jaw. Carrying a loss with him that for so long he has tried his best to ignore, pretending as though it doesn’t weigh heavily on his heart with each passing moment. 

“You just rest those li’l legs of yours, my girl.” His voice a husky whisper as he looks into the dark eyes of the innocent prey animal in his charge. “We'll stop for a meal soon enough.”

The journey seems to last forever, one heavy footstep placed in front of the other, and he can’t even blame it on his tiny escortee slowing their pace. Finally coming over a crest, he can see the sight of yet another village, worn down and left to obscurity as intended – his Lordship having resigned himself to letting all the villages outlying his city walls to fester, though that certainly didn't stop him from taxing them into sheer poverty.

Price grumbles to himself once more, a growl deep from within his throat. “Bloody Shepherd,” he husks, “Goddamn bastard.”   Nikolai bristles in response, shaking his large head with a huff and blowing hot air from his nostrils, braying as Price shifts his dark cloak, the heat of the sun beginning to warm him. He scratches at the whiskers on his jaw, shifting the belt that holds his sword, and carries on towards the village walls. 

In the center of the village lies a small marketplace, hardly bustling anymore. Farmers sell their goods – what little they can share. Butchers, bakers and candlestick makers all plying their trade. It’s a sad state of affairs as people barely scrape by with what meager existence they can find, but that still doesn’t stop the selfish from trying to take more for themselves. Thieves guilds and bandits circle these sorts of places like buzzards, picking clean the carcass of a dying community until there’s nothing left to steal. It turns Price’s stomach. He was raised with duty and honour, setting out with noble intentions when he took over his father’s place as the Captain of the city guard, wanting to prove himself to be the same kind of man – good and righteous – but, like Icarus, aiming for great heights… oh, how he fell. Failing to complete his most important task, failing her. 

Nikolai’s hooves clomp through the muddy ground leading into the village square before Price ties him up to the nearest hitching post and stops to tuck the leather lid of the saddlebag over the lamb’s head once more. “You stay right there, be a good girl. Keep outta sight. Promise I’ll be right back for ya.” Patting the animal’s head with a gentleness that belies the gruff exterior of him, he closes the lid and strokes Nikolai’s mane. “Keep an eye out for her, Nik.” Feeling like a bloody madman as he talks to his animals, but alas, they’re all the companionship Price has these days. He wishes things were different, dreaming of another time when he had his friends, his brothers-in-arms, his beloved. But those were the old days, and these were the new, those were times he was never going to get back – he had learned to accept that fate, however begrudgingly. With what money he had, he headed to the market to get what provisions he could. Having learned to ration, to make it last, filling in with what he foraged and hunted in the forests along the way. He had always wanted the simple life, to provide for himself and a wife - this felt like a cruel perversion of that aspiration. As he finishes paying at one of the stalls, yelling draws his attention, along with the rest of those who mingle about, the few city guardsmen stationed there doing little to halt the ruckus. Price grunts, a low rumble in his throat, as he watches a man stalk off carrying a bag of coin. Steely eyes narrow at the sight, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of his longsword. Old instincts die hard. He can’t help himself, can’t leave well enough alone, even if it will draw attention. He’s never been one to let a threat get away with something if he can stop it. Well, in most cases…

Leaving his sack of goods at the stall, chasing after the thief, his cloak flutters around him and he feels like it's the good ol’ days again as the wind whips past his face. Muscular legs carrying him as fast as they will take him, the smoker’s lungs not doing him any favours (but a man has a right to enjoy his pipe). Ducking through doorways, darting past civilians, the heft of his mass keeps him barreling forward like the boulder hurled from a trebuchet.

Price is quick to find that the man is not alone in his endeavours to steal and claim what he has no lawful right to. There’s a pack of them. Wolves snarling, they claw and tear, preying upon those they deem to be weak. A glint sparks in his blue eyes, a breath of life that he hasn’t felt in years, an ember of the old fire that burns in him as he draws his sword from its sheath with a whisper of metal against leather. Tossing back his cloak, revealing dark leather armour with a coat of arms no one has seen in years, he fights through the men – striking with his pommel, slashing with his blade, chopping with the strength of a woodsman. An expert swordsman, his body and skills as honed and crafted as his weapon. The sweat that drips down his brow, and runs down the bridge of his nose, a testament to how hard he is willing to fight. Eight on one seemingly nothing to the man as he powers through them.

A crowd of onlookers form, citizens drawing a circle around the fight. Women and men, their eyes cast upon the first act of bravery they’ve seen in seemingly forever. Five years felt like a lifetime for everyone under the gilded foot of Lord Shepherd. Never had been much for spectacle, Price thinks. It was always just about getting the job done by whatever means necessary. There was only ever one pair of eyes he wanted on him, and he knew he’d never find them in this crowd, he’d never see those inviting hazel depths again. 

Shouts of encouragement carry across the breeze, the citizenry reveling in the sight of bullies getting their just desserts – and then the city guard set upon him like a pack of wild dogs. They won’t act when it’s a criminal, but when it’s him? Well, he’s come to expect them to make more trouble. Orders from on high, soldiers just doing as they’re told… same as it ever was. He gruffs, mustache twitching as his lip curls in anger, his nose scrunching and nostrils flaring. Not planning to kill them unless they strike first, opting instead for a good defense rather than an offense. Muscles burning deep from the last fight, a fiery ache gnaws at his tendons, licking at the ligaments, but that won’t stop him taking on another. 

As they strike at him as a horde, it’s easy to tell that the focus on footwork, on perfecting their craft as swordsmen has gone by the wayside since his time in the guard. The conditioning and practice pushed aside for stronger, more powerful weapons, but in the hands of those without polish they would never serve any real use. They are clumsy, easily taken off balance with a shove here, or a block there. It’s easier work than he had expected in the long run, Shepherd’s new Captain was clearly more focused on style over substance. A damn shame, he thinks to himself. He lunges, jutting his weapon forward, knocking the sword out of one guardsman’s hand, before thrusting the pommel backwards into a man looking to attack him from behind. Tossing grown men aside as if they weigh nothing more than bags of grain, Price cleaves his way through the guards’ numbers. Striking. Slashing. Beating them back. The whistle of his sword through the air gives way to screams of pain as wounds are slit through to the soft flesh below. The wounded crawling away from an enemy they have no business dueling. They didn’t stand a chance. However, one guardsman stands out from the pack. Price’s battle-hardened glare following each precise placement of the younger man’s feet. It’s harder to telegraph his motions compared to the others he’s fought. A worthy opponent. Their swords clash, metal upon metal ringing out as they cross. While the younger guardsmen may be fleet of foot, Price has size and experience on his side. Able to overcome and overwhelm by sheer force, he charges at the guardsman, but he is abruptly parried. 

“Wait!” The clangour of steel reverberates through both swords with a rattle, and Price’s cold blue eyes pierce sharper than the blade ever could as he glares over the edge of his weapon at the younger man. Warm brown eyes meeting him on the other side, their arms both shaking with the force of their match. His brow furrows as he leans in using his bulk against the younger guard’s lean muscle. “What am I waitin’ for exactly?” Price’s voice is a dangerous rasp, his mettle being tested in the arena of battle. “Your armour…” The younger soldier’s eyes widen at the sight of the coat of arms on Price’s chest. Jaw clenching, his teeth grit together as he shoves the younger soldier backwards with enough force to have him landing on the ground. “You’re old guard,” the younger man whispers as if he’s meeting a personal hero and Price flinches at the prospect. “The law says we’re supposed to strike you down on sight.” Laying his sword down on the ground, he submits. “But I won’t.”

Grunting, Price holds his sword out against the young man in case he gets any ideas. “Law’s funny that way..” “I’m not going to stop you, but you need to go, the others won’t back down, especially since you’ve drawn blood.” Price studies the younger man for a moment, appraising his trustworthiness, and then slips his sword back into its sheath before retreating away towards the marketplace for his goods and then the hitching post where Nikolai is tied and waiting. 

He’s quick to loosen the reins, freeing his horse before drawing his sword once more and holding it out towards the footsteps he hears crunching up behind him. The tip of the blade points at the throat of the younger guardsman who stands there, his hands lifted in surrender. “Thought you were lettin’ me go?” Price rumbles.

“I am, but most folk don’t go around wearing old guard uniforms, especially not out in the open like that. You tryin’ to get yourself killed?” “I’m not a coward. I’m not takin’ off my armour just because the Lord’s gone and made his own rules up.”

The young man’s eyes lock on the old crest, his brow furrowing, mouth drawn in a straight line. “You know, things used to be good here, people prospered. And then, a few years back, all of it went to hell. The rise of the new Lord, rules changed, the guard stopped fighting for what was right. There used to be a time where there was law and order, where we protected people. Now…” the younger soldier’s words trail off. “Now we’re bloody useless.” “And?” Price says curtly. “That’s the Captain’s patch on your leather –” “That was a long time ago.”

“What happened?” Price tips his head to the side. “Times change, don’t they?” His lip curls into a sneer. “New powers that be. People who were once allies become enemies, or they disappear.” “Sgt. Garrick, sir,” the young man says, giving him a polite bow of the head as if Price still had any power at all. “If you’re who I think you are, then it's about damn time things go back to what they once were.” Nodding, Price replaces his sword back into its sheath before jumping up onto the stirrup throwing his leg over the back of his horse, Nikolai ready to run at a moment’s notice. “That’s the plan.” “You’ll need assistance then.”

His brow lifts as he looks Garrick up and down appraisingly once more. “S’pose I will. You ride?” “Horses are in the stables, don’t have time to get one.”

“Fine. Hop on,” he says gruffly, “Mind the bags.” Garrick climbs onto the back of Nikolai, his leg bumping the saddle bag, and the little lamb’s head pokes out, bleating once more. He looks down at the sheep and cocks a brow. “You keep some odd company, Captain.”

Price smirks and knocks his heels into the horse's sides, cracking the reins and the group ride off. 

Dusk begins to settle, the sun fading through the shivering oak leaves that rustle in the wind. Striations of coral and tangerine blend like watercolors in the sky, dripping into one another as the trees darken into silhouette in the foreground. The last calls of the birds are a witness to the coming night and Price’s hackles begin to rise. He’s on edge, a common occurrence the closer the moon comes to rising. He needs a place to settle, to rest. Travel can wait once more for the harsh light of the sun.

“We’ll make camp,” he says off-handedly, over his shoulder to his newest companion, the first one who can actually answer back in years. 

Pulling on the reins, he slows Nikolai’s gallop to a saunter as they look for a clearing, and through a thicket of trees, an old serfdom farm comes into view. In the falling darkness it’s hard to tell whether the farm is in a worthwhile state or whether it's worn to nothing but rotted wood. There’s little else around for shelter and the prickle of his nerves down his spine and his clenching knuckles tell Price there’s no point in looking further, time won’t wait any longer for him. The closer they get it's easy to see that the roofs of every structure have caved inwards from the deluge of rain received in the winter, shingles crumbling, walls splintered and bowing under the pressure of standing stable without any upkeep. They’ll make do for one night, carrying on in the morning. Tying Nikolai to the nearest sturdy oak tree, Price unloads the pan and pot for cooking, ordering Garrick to go collect the firewood. 

Alone at camp, he unloads the final saddle bag, pulling the tiny lamb from inside it and cradling it in his strong arms. A calloused finger caresses the underside of the animal’s chin as large eyes stare up at him. Heart squeezing in his chest, his brow furrows as he looks down at the little being in his arms, so totally reliant on him. He wishes he was deserving of the trust she gives him – he knows he’s not. 

Carrying his most prized possession over to the barn, Price places the wooly creature down on the cloak he has draped on the hay for her. A large hand that covers nearly the entire head of the lamb strokes softly, his thumb drifting upwards along the snout against the soft wool between dark mirror-like eyes. “Rest well, my girl,” he whispers in a husk. His armour sits tight on him as muscles begin to expand and shift with the coming night. As the first stars begin to twinkle, his chest swells and his back wants to hunch. He hates this in-between stage, where he can feel himself slipping away, losing himself to an instinct that isn’t even his own. Everything that makes the man falls by the wayside as the silver light of moonglow threatens to overwhelm the dying sun. Stripping himself of his last vestiges of clothing, folding them neatly, handling them with the pride and respect they deserved, he packs them away. Left bare, the chill of the night settling into the scars on his skin and the patches of hair that start to sprout from him, he looks over at the little lamb resting curled up. He sighs, knowing the time will come where once more he’ll have only a fleeting moment with her. A sight for sore eyes that lasts for a fraction of a second before they are once more separated. It never gets any easier, a constant burden that follows him – Always together, forever apart. 

The sun finally dips down, darkness blanketing the world, crickets beginning to chirp as the quiet of night takes the helm. Before him, as he reaches out his hand, watching it transform into a massive paw with black sickle-like claws, stands the woman he’s been aching for every day for the last five years. Unable to touch her, his heart pounds in his chest and he could nearly weep at the sight of her beauty. It’s his fault they’re trapped like this, he’s done this to her, and he could scream at the curse that hangs over their head like the executioner’s axe. She’s his whole reason for living and this is what they’ve been reduced to: a yearning that can never be ended, a lifetime of heartbreak, a loss worse than death. But the pain relieves itself, because in the blink of an eye, he is no longer a man. 

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@peachiicherries @la-grosse-patate @josephseedismyfather @statichvm @clicheantagonist

@tommyarashikage @aceghosts @inafieldofdaisies @raresvtm @cloudofbutterflies92

@justasmolbard @finding-comfort-in-rain @cassietrn @carlosoliveiraa @imogenkol

@theelderhazelnut

[teacupcollector]

Misdi: *In the tank*

Gaz: *Trying to get you out of the tank*

Soap: *Filming*

[personwhowrites]

Reality

You take a moment to observe the group of men. They are all in the midst of their drinks, engaged in lively conversation. One of them, Soap, seems to be the main source of the chatter, speaking animatedly about a topic that appears to have little relevance. The others in the group seem to be listening politely, but with little engagement.

As you watch, you notice that one of the men, Gaz, begins to join in on the conversation, adding his own thoughts and comments. This seems to energize the group, and the conversation becomes more animated and raucous.

Another man, Price, seems to be trying to suppress his laughter as he listens to the banter between Soap and Gaz. He occasionally shakes his head, as if trying to contain his amusement.

Ghost, on the other hand, sits silently, observing the group with a small smile playing on his lips. He seems to be amused by the antics of his friends, but content to simply watch.

You, however, are sitting at a separate table with your own group of friends and thus unable to fully hear the conversation taking place at the other table. You can only catch snippets of the conversation and laughter that carries over to your table

"Y/n? Can you pay attention?" Someone next to you nudges your side, bringing you out of your observation. "Come on, we need to celebrate!"

"Right," you reply, turning your attention back to your own group of friends. They may not be as exciting as the task force 141, the group of men you were observing, but they are still important to you.

"To a victory," you say, raising your glass.

"To a victory!" Your friends echo, raising their glasses in unison. "To us and to our amazing leader!" They add, clinking glasses together in celebration.

You lift your cup of beer to your lips, taking a slow sip. A sour taste fills your mouth, but you take one last look at the group of men you were observing. You can't help but think that maybe, in another lifetime, you could matter to them. The thought of it is tantalizing, but you can't shake the feeling that you don't matter to them now.

As you take another sip, you can't help but wonder what the point of trying is, if you don't even value yourself. You've been working so hard to be a part of the task force 141, trying to be someone that matters to them, but maybe it's time to focus on valuing yourself first.

[softcrow]

finding a family masterlist

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

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

call of duty. found family. hurt/comfort

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

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

main fic

part 1/?

drabbles

initial 'simon unknowingly regresses' idea

gaz and soap regressing

gaz and soap as ghost's older brothers

[appleciderp]

he needs better friends. (Ghost POV)

Day 8 of Soap in Kilts for @empresscirque

EMP WROTE THE FIC

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

[yallneedtherapytbh]

POV: you get hurt in a mission

Taskforce 141:

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

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

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

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

[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.

[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