#captain price as santa

[x3no9]

Santa, baby!

Captain Price as Daddy Santa ;)

Did a little tweaking as it was even more odd looking than these. Still hot AF!

[vozart]

happy holidays

[hedgehogsaretheultimatelifeform]

But fully can we get a story about all the cod characters trying to fight off eldritch god Santa Claus as he tracks them down to fulfil all of our christmas wishlists

[raffe156]

You know Price is getting one of these for his secret Santa off someone 😂 not naming names….

[sunni-stuff]

John Price helps his kids get in the festive mood every Christmas, helping them write down what they want on a big list, encouraging them to add whatever they want no matter how big or small.

His girls want a new Barbie Dreamhouse set.

His sons recently got into hotwheels and want their own racetrack.

His wife wanted him home more.

These were all things he could give with ease, except one.

His youngest had the biggest request of them all.

He wanted to see Santa Clause with his own two eyes.

"Everyone at school says he's not real, but I know he is!" He exclaimed knowingly while helping his mother make cookies they could set out for the big man in red and white.

The night before Christmas, he was tasked with a mission that was not fitted for a soldier but instead a father.

Captain John Price indeed decked the halls as he managed to scale the roof of his house while dressed as Santa, preparing to climb down the chimney.

If you told John years ago he'd be doing this, he'd call you insane yet here he was sliding down the grimy, soot filled hatch in a fat suit to give his son a Christmas miracle.

[d-emeter]

Secret Santa on base (but the entire 141 is desperate to pull you) — plus-size!fem!reader x task force 141

CW: christmas (?), the boys being a little bit creepy but they're just in love leave them be, allusions to sexual activity

So this somehow ended up from Laswell's pov for the most part lol but it switches to reader for the end! Also happy holidays to everyone that celebrates! <3

When Laswell had brought up the idea of doing a secret santa on base — well, it had been her wife who said they needed some more holiday cheer, and who was she to deny that? — she had not expected it to become something akin to a battlefield. Maybe she should have known better, the soldiers surrounding her were competitive by nature. Winning was always the main goal.

But this time, there was no enemy to defeat, no intel to gain, no hostage to save. No, this time, you were the objective. Laswell was not stupid, in fact, it was her job to be observant, to figure out that which others could not. And to her, Task Force 141 was an open fucking book.

It was in the way Price would leave his hand on your shoulder after offering you an encouraging pat, and how that hand would move lower down your arm or back while he talked to you. It was in the way Ghost would always prepare an extra cup of tea to bring to early morning briefings, trying to subtly push it your way while you were rubbing at your eyes. It was in the way Gaz would lean over you when you asked him to come look at something on your laptop, arms on either side of you and practically caging you in. It was in the way Soap would always find a way to touch you, without fail, calling you 'bonnie' or 'love' in that obnoxious Scottish accent as he threw an arm over your shoulders. It was especially in the way the other three would scowl at whoever had your attention for the moment. It was clear as fucking day — they all wanted you.

Laswell knew this and, in hindsight, should have taken that into account when organizing the gift exchange. This realization came when Price knocked on her door just after the announcement had made the rounds. He had inquired if she was going to be the one to select the secret santa's, and if he could maybe take a look with her — just to make sure they weren't pairing up people that disliked eachother and causing issues, he explained. When she told him no, some random online generator would do just fine, Kate got her confirmation that he was lying about his motives — she'd never seen the captain look that disappointed.

After the secret santa's had been given out, she realized that maybe it was time to do some damage control. She had walked into the rec room to find Gaz grilling everyone in there on who they pulled, seeming more agitated each time they did not answer with what he wanted to hear. A few hours later, he had apparently found the one he was looking for, as Laswell overheard someone talking about how Sergeant Mactavish had offered the person in question nearly 100 bucks to switch. Then the report came in about Lieutenant Riley threatening that very same person, and Laswell had had enough.

REMINDER: SECRET SANTAS ARE FINAL AND CANNOT BE EXCHANGED.

She pretended not to hear the huffing from Price as he read the email she had sent around.

Kate had hoped the situation had been subdued with that, yet still couldn't shake the weird feeling in her underbelly when the base christmas party came around. Everything seemed fine, at first; there stood a sadly decorated plastic tree in the corner, lights were strung up around the room and the secret santa table was overflowing with badly wrapped gifts. Everything would be fine, right?

—

Wrong.

You had been excited about the gift exchange. It was a fun way to interact with some of your coworkers that you hadn't done so with yet, and you had always liked giving out presents. You tried not to beam too bright when Kate unwrapped the gift you had got her, and got up excitedly when your name was called. It was nothing special, really; a cute mug with a bar of chocolate inside, courtesy of some random private you had never really had the chance to talk to. You were grateful nonetheless.

But then your name was called again. And again. And again. The flush of embarrassment grew with each one. By the end of the night, you had five gifts in total, somehow. The second gift was a bottle of perfume, and you had to stifle a gasp as you saw the brand — it had to have been close to three figures in price. You tentatively spray some on your wrist, and- Hadn't you smelled something similar on Gaz when he greeted you earlier?

The third gift was a basket filled with goodies; all your favourite sweets and snacks, a pair of fuzzy socks, a book you had had on your wishlist for a while, and, wait, was that..? You're so preoccupied with using the socks to hide the box of XXL condoms that you don't notice how Ghost's fingers move to adjust himself in his pants.

You start to feel really flustered when your fourth gift is handed to you, trying not to flounder under all the stares you're getting. The box looks expensive, and reveals a gorgeous pearl necklace when you open it — God, that must've been at least triple the given budget. You have to hide the added note from view when you read it: 'Just a placeholder until I can give you a pearl necklace of my own -S'.

You don't even open the fifth gift, choosing instead to quickly accept it and ushering the announcer into calling the next name. You feel a little faint when you actually open it once you're in the privacy of your room — it's a fucking vibrator. The little instruction manual says something about it being remote controlled — so where is the controller?

[auspicioustidings]

Gaz would get Price viagra for secret santa as a joke about his age and come to thoroughly regret it many hours later when he is face down arse up and absolutely dripping with his Captain who is still bloody going and doesn't show any signs of stopping. At this point he is worried he might actually just pass out from the exhaustion and when he wakes up he's still going to be getting ravished :')

[oceantornadoo]

lavender haze (price x f!reader, explicit use of weed/smoking mention)

it was the happiest day of your life. john was on one knee, smiling and holding a ring box up to you. your smile was too big for your face. as you reached forward for him, the ground shook, causing you to look up. that wasn’t right - you were in a hellscape. the air clogged your lungs, buildings were burning and screams rang out. the cries of innocents permeated the air. john was still on his knee, smiling. a popping sound surrounded you, then he wasn’t smiling anymore. the ring lay in a pool of blood as your captain’s eyes glazed over…

“wake up, lieutenant.”

you couldn’t stop looking into john’s eyes. and where was his hat? he never went to battle without it.

“c’mon, you need to wake up.”

you could hear them coming for you. the same footsteps that killed john. they were right behind you and-

“baby please, wake up.”

you woke up with a gasp, the room pitch black around you. a lamp flicked on, casting the motel room in an eerie glow, illuminating the man next to you. your captain, decidedly and platonically just that, was a bit flustered, his hand on your back to track your breathing. “y’ were having’ a nightmare.” you nodded, sucking in greedy amounts of air into your lungs as you calmed down your body. it was routine now, waking up in the middle of the night and walking yourself off the ledge of a panic attack. unfortunately, this time had to be when you shared a bed with your captain. platonically. for the mission.

“i find a smoke helps when i can’t sleep.” he’s still here, rubbing your back in small circles. your heart jumps and you kill it with a reminder of how he fist bumps and shoulder taps the men on your team. it means nothing, he’s just being a good captain. “don’t have anything on me.” your voice is gravel, hoarse from the phantom screams in your dreams. “‘s ok. i could use a smoke too.” he drops his hand, moving to get out of the rickety mattress this establishment calls a bed. you avert your eyes at the sight of him in a casual t-shirt and boxers, willing your overactive imagination to go away. the imagination that thinks about how he’d look after a one-night stand or a casual lie-in with his lover. the one that inserts you into the fantasy.

“c’mere.” the room has a small balcony, barely enough room for two, but he gestures to you anyways as he unlocks the door. there is something in his hand, but your sleepy brain tells you it’s too small to be a cigar. odd. when you walk outside, you’re immediately met with the edge of the balcony. it’s truly standing room only. a glance to your left reveals your captain looking for threats in the night sky, finally satisfied when his shoulders drop an inch. he takes out a lighter, something with the image of a santa claus that you can imagine gaz gave him as part of his old man jokes. john raises something to his mouth. the smell is odd, not that of his regular cigars, and it takes you a second to process as you wrack your brain. “is that…weed?” he exhales in a partial laugh, restraining a cough since you ruined his proper exhale. “surprised, lieutenant?” you scoff, reaching for the joint. his fingers brush yours, the joint really too long for that to be necessary, calluses on calluses setting your body aflame. you take a hit, trying to remember how to inhale correctly as it’s been a while since you’ve smoked weed on a balcony with someone. not to mention, your captain. “big inhale, lieutenant. not just a mouth breath.” you hum as you exhale, satisfied you’re able to follow his instructions. “good girl.” he is too, apparently. you shake off any underlying message.

“can’t believe my captain smokes weed.” he takes the joint back wordlessly, fingers brushing yours again. “rarely. jus’ for nightmare occasions. never on a mission.” funny, since you're both waiting for exfil the next morning. a bit closer to a mission than you imagined he usually did. “technically, we’re still on a mission.” you were on your third hit now, time going fast when it was just you and john on this lonely balcony. “necessary exception. can’t have my best lieutenant runnin’ on an empty tank.”

you bit back a smile at his compliment. “i won’t tell ghost if you won’t.” john rewarded you with a chuckle, a deep belly laugh you’d only heard once or twice. so this is what he was like high - a man who allowed himself to have fun. you could work with that. “won’t matter. y’ve got him wrapped ‘round your finger.” a jilted gasp escaped you as you refrained from stomping your feet. “no way! if anything it’s soap since ghost calls him johnny. i couldn't get away with half of the things soap does.” the joint was almost finished and you hadn’t even realized. he offered you one last hit before putting it out on the railing. disappointment sank heavy in your stomach, a feeling that the moment was almost gone.

your captain turned to you, a string pulling you closer until you were standing under him. his eyes were red, smile lines fresh. “you look good. sorry, relaxed. i see why you smoke now.” you murmured. his hand reached out into the space between you, then dropped back down. weird for him of all people to make an uncertain move. “think soap is to ghost what you are t’ me.” this had to be a cruel trick the universe was playing on you. “you mean you’re wrapped around my finger?” he nodded slow, the weed sinking its claws into him. “you’re just high, captain.” he frowned unexpectedly. “‘s john.” oh. oh. you nodded silently. the next steps were fuzzy, a dance you’d never learned.

“what was your nightmare about?” that was not what you thought he would ask. “um. the usual. the battlefield and dying and…yeah.” this time, his hand had a direction. it raised to your hairline, tracing the skin gently as his thumb led the way down to the curve of your ear. he felt that too, seemingly enamored with the softness of your earlobe before dropping his hand completely, like it never happened.

“you said my name, before you woke up. screamed it, practically gave me a heart attack.” his eyes were questioning, burning into yours like an interrogation. “oh. yeah, it was, um. youwereinmydreamandyoudied.” you practically spit the last part out, turning your head to study the skyline instead of finding whatever was on his face. unexpectedly, the weed made you both talkative and shy, a combination you didn’t expect. maybe it was sativa. “what happened before i died?” it was like he knew what happened, even though there was no way. right? you couldn’t resist a sideways glance, tracking the open earnestness of his face. “you were…proposing.” the last word was a whisper. “which is crazy, obviously. just a stupid dream.” you cut in before he could open his mouth. there was that frown again, one he rarely directed towards you. before tonight, that was.

“like this?” there was a yearning in his voice and when you blinked, he was on one knee. somber, not smiling like in your dream. he was realer, a wrinkle here and a gray hair there. your feet took you closer until his view was your thighs. that’s when you remembered you’d gone to bed in only a t-shirt and underwear, not having packed for an extra night in a motel. the triangle of your panties peeked out from your shirt and embarrassment creeped up your skin.

“i’m sorry, this is inappropriate. i shouldn’t be dressed like this, i'm sorry, captain.” his gaze hadn’t moved. “john.” a low exhale escaped him, like you saying his name had lifted a weight from him. unlikely, but a nice visual.

“‘ve never heard you say my name.” he was still on his knees, but he moved his head until he made eye contact. “guess i never had a reason.” he tilted his head to the side. “what’s your reason now?” you were scrambling off the edge of something you couldn’t see. you didn’t know this game you were playing. “you- you told me to.” he nodded, raising back to his full height off his knee. for some reason, you were disappointed. “you’d do anything i ask you?” it was the weed, surely, that made you nod vigorously. “get on the bed, then.”

you got on the bed. could feel him vibrating behind you as you walked towards it. turning, you sat on the very edge, legs tightly pressed together. “you’re high.” he shook his head. “barely. bein’ high doesn’t make me lie, sweetheart. quite the opposite, in fact.” you had no mental energy to get into the word sweetheart. it had already warmed your belly and turned you inside out.

“i’m high.” he said nothing. “barely.” you added with a whisper. “out of excuses yet?” you spread your legs instead of answering, letting him step in between them. he bent down slowly, turning your chin to him like you were something precious, something to take his time with. the kiss was slow, both of you tasting bitter because of the weed, and it was magical. you wrapped your legs behind him until he got the message, pushing you down. he grinded into you, hard and wanting.

“i’d propose to you now, y’know. jus’ don’t carry the ring with me on missions.” it took a second for the message to get through, especially since his lips moved to your neck, biting and sucking. “there’s a, fuck john, there’s a ring?” he was leaving hickies, surely. the weed had turned him into a teenager, and you giggled at the thought. he misinterpreted your laugh, pulling back until his eyes met yours.

“you got a problem with a ring?” you whined at the loss of him on you. “no. no. c’mere.” he leaned down for a kiss and you flipped the both of you over, straddling him with ease. his hands landed on your ass, pushing you closer until you could feel his hardness. he was such a possessive kisser, biting you when you drew back for a millisecond. his scruff scratched you pleasantly and you hummed like a cat in the sun. his neck felt so delicious under your fingers and you decided to explore it, small kisses and kitten licks until he was growling.

“you wet f’ me, baby?” his tone unlocked a memory. “you called me baby earlier. when i was sleeping.” john didn’t give you an answer, staring at you expressionless. “and?” it sent you sputtering. “you can’t call women baby when they’re asleep.” there was that frown again. “‘m not callin’ women baby. ‘m callin’ you baby. because you’re mine. got a problem with that?” you shut him up with a kiss. he was infuriating.

the wetness between your thighs was concerning. your hips were grinding of their own accord, the feeling of his clothed cock between your folds addicting. the weed supplied you with confidence, fingers reaching down to move your panties to the side. he let out a groan at the feel of your bare cunt against his boxers, soaking them through.

“not fuckin’ you like this, baby. not here.” you nodded against his skin, tongue darting out to lick at the beads of sweat that hard formed. “still want to come, though.” if weed made him laugh like this, you were determined to get him high every day. his hands tightened on your hips, pulling you harder and faster against him. the angle was perfect, the contours of his body catching your clit with every grind. his eyes were open, tracking your every movement.

“john,” and he understood you completely, catching your mouth with his lips again. he tasted like yours. pressure coiled in your stomach at the thought. john was yours. “captain,” you groaned against his lips, reveling in the strained sound he let out. “gonna make me come before you do, sweetheart.” his mouth left yours, instead biting your breast over your shirt. it was too much: the sweat, the grinding, the bites he delivered with vigor. he pushed you down harder, the motion brushing your clit and sending you over the edge.

“fuck, baby.” it sounded like you both said it at the feeling of his cock leaking cum beneath his boxers, the fabric soaked both ways. time stopped as you both looked down, taking a second to take in the sight. it was absolutely carnal, the grinding without fucking. a claiming.

“‘m tired.” you whispered. neither of you had a change of clothes so you both stripped them off, reveling in the sight of your naked bodies together. he pulled you into him, tucking you under his chin as you wrapped yourself in his body heat. so strong, so capable. your hands traced his chest, tangling in his body hair, until sleep overtook you. finally, a nightmare-free sleep.

--

i have no idea what made me write this since i haven't smoked in like over a year. if my depictions of being high are inaccurate, welp. also yes i headcanon price as a smoker but very occasionally just when he's stressed

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

CoD!Widow AUs make me cry and I love it

Like imagine being married to Price, and he dies in action.

The guys only find out he's married because as they are waiting for evac, they know he won't make it. The silence is thick as he goes into his chest pocket and pulls out a polaroid of his wife that he's kept hidden for for the past two years. It's a picture of them eloping at the courthouse, posed in front of the courthouse steps. She's got on a short white wedding dress, and he's dipping her back in a classic romantic kiss.

The next polaroid he shows them with shaky hands is of her and a little baby boy, and he has their captain's eyes and her smile and a head full of curls. John tells them they named him John Jr., but he's affectionately called JoJo.

John tells them that he was going to invite them all home for the leave after this mission, the Wife's been begging to meet them all says, "Who are you to deprive JoJo of his uncle's? They can keep their mouths shut about us." But now he's sad because he's dying, and he should have listened to her, and he won't get to see either his wife or JoJo meet his boys for the first time.

John makes Simon, Kyle, and Johnny swear on taking care of his wife and son. He was all they had. He wants them to hug her tight, always send her flowers, she likes pink garden roses the most, but is just as happy with any flower. He tells them that her favorite holiday is Christmas, and since JoJo was born, John has always dressed up as Santa so the boy could sneak downstairs and 'catch him' setting out presents. They are a colored lights on the tree and stockings above the fireplace kind of family, hot cocoa with whipped cream with sprinkles, not marshmallows type of family. Snow days spent making snow angels and snowmen type of family.

In the end, he just tells them to make sure his little family knows he loves them and let his wife know he wasn't alone when he took his last breath. That was always her biggest fear, him dying in the field alone.

It's actually Kyle that is able to bring himself to knock on the red front door to the sweet little country side house. The home is perfect it looks like it is big enough for a family of at least five. There's an apple tree out front, the grass is manicured, and there are well-kept and well loved flower boxes on the windows.

Kyle feels sick to his stomach, and he doesn't want to be holding his Captain’s hat, dog tags, and under it, the British flag. He's the one that does it because Johnny can't form words because he spent the previous night crying so badly he lost his voice, and Simon has been at his worst with shutting down, he hasn't even taken off the gloves and mask he was wearing since they still had Captain’s blood and scent on them, Kyle suspects he's still in shock. Kyle is the only one even halfway put together out of three to speak with their Captain’s Widow.

The front door opens, and it's her. She's wearing a pink apron, a smudge of cake batter on her cheek, and on her hip is Jojo. Kyle could have choked and died when he noticed the small bump in her middle. It's clear that Captain didn't know, or else he would have said something about this, too.

Her eyes are bright for a second as she swings open the front door, "Finally he lets you off base" She goes to laugh but that sound dies in her throat when she sees what he's holding. Kyle watches as the light dims in her eyes and her smile slowly drops.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Price." Is all he's saying before she's wailing in heartache.

Part 2

[rileyslibrary]

Ghost is forced to dress up as Santa for the day and talk to kids.

You’re ordered to tag along as his Elf and do some damage control if necessary.

———————————————————————

You lean against his armchair, watching the chaos in front of you. Children are crying, tugging at their parents’ clothes, shouting both in excitement and fear, all while looking at you. A young boy keeps waving at your lieutenant, desperate to get his attention, but Ghost is too preoccupied with coming to terms with his new reality to notice.

You return his wave with a smile.

“Try to stay still, Santa,” you remind Ghost as you nod towards the boy. “Kids are watching.”

He snaps back into focus and redirects his attention to the queue. He stretches one last time, pushing on the armrests, before settling into the chair.

“Try not to tell me what to do,” he murmurs and waves back at the child.

You straighten up and tweak your green hat, triggering the bell at its tip to jiggle in your ear. You feel for him; you really do. He’s not supposed to be here; he’s not built for this. Unfortunately—for him or the kids, you haven’t decided yet—the “real” Santa broke his hip at the last minute, and your military base stepped in to provide a new Santa for the local community.

And what better replacement than Ghost, you may ask? Well, literally anybody else.

Dressed in a red costume with white faux fur trim, the lieutenant looks nothing like the man you experienced on the battlefield. His shoulders threaten to rip through the rented outfit, and the seams at the back hold onto each other for dear life. Since his belly wasn’t big enough to simulate Santa’s, you asked him to stuff a pillow under his uniform. Surprisingly, Ghost complied almost instantly, leaving you to wonder if he was using the pillow as Kevlar, a barrier between him and the kids or if he was secretly enjoying this.

You also convinced him to ditch the balaclava for the time being since he would now have plenty of props to conceal his face—a wig, a long beard, glasses, and a red hat with a white pom-pom, to be exact. Additionally, you attempted to trick him into applying some blush on his cheeks, but he side-eyed you and told you to ‘be careful now’—ironic for a man who paints his face daily.

You rub your temples, trying to keep calm amid the chaos of the mall as you prepare for what’s about to happen during the next few hours. You have no idea why Price chose him to be Santa, but you didn’t question it either. Ghost seems to be the least qualified for the job out of everyone in the base. It feels like a last resort, so to speak—a ‘that’s all we have left in the store’ solution.

On the other hand, you know precisely why the captain chose you to accompany him. “To monitor the situation,” he said—“To make sure we don’t get sued,” you heard. And, under normal circumstances, you’d be happy to tag along with Ghost—be it on patrol, on missions, or even transporting confidential documents. But in this situation? Acting as a troubleshooter rather than a teammate? You’d rather be anywhere else than here, with anybody else than him.

You take another look at him while he sits on the chair. He’s tugging at the uniform, scratching his head, and instinctively pulling the beard to his nose.

“Stop doing that,” you whisper. “It’s a beard, not a balaclava.”

“Price would have been perfect for the job, for fucks sake,” he spits. “He has the fucking moustache for starters.”

“Stop with the ‘fucks’ and the ‘fucking’ Ghost; you’re about to talk to kids! And, as for the captain, he said he couldn’t do it.”

“Oh yeah?” He asks, lifting his hands from the armrests. “And what makes him think that I can?”

“I wish I knew, to be honest, but we don’t have time to go through this again,” you murmur, looking at your watch one last time. You approach the barrier, unclip the rope from the stanchion, and turn over your shoulder.

“Operation ‘Santa’ begins now,” you declare. “Ready?”

“Do I have a choice?” He replies, shrugging, and gestures for you to proceed.

And so it begins. Your first ‘customer’ arrives, and many more follow. You guide one family at a time into the enclosure and escort them to Ghost, who handles the rest. Some children are hesitant, peeking out from behind their parents’ legs, while others are much more direct with their intentions as they scream in horror at the sight of him.

On the other hand, Ghost is neither your typical jolly Santa nor the irritated lieutenant you’d expect. He appears to be... understanding. He reassures parents that it’s okay and there’s no need to force their children onto his lap if they feel uncomfortable. He initiates conversations with the kids from a respectful distance. He smiles with his eyes and hunches his shoulders to appear less imposing. Sometimes, he lures the shy ones into a handshake, a fist pump, or a high five by lowering his gloved hand to their level.

And then there are those other types of kids: the curious ones, the social butterflies. The ones who look forward to sitting on Ghost’s lap, diving into full-blown conversations with him. That’s when you stiffen up and switch into damage-control mode to ensure he won’t lash out at them. You begin hovering above them, listening, jumping into their conversations and sometimes interrupting Ghost and replying to the kids instead of him.

You would have thought he’d be grateful to have you managing the situation. Ghost, however, seems more irritated by you than by the little girl who’s currently playing with the pom-pom on his hat.

“Oi, Elf!” he says calmly, yet visibly annoyed. “Emma and I are chatting about how she spilt tomato juice on her Elsa costume and wants a new one for Christmas. Could you please falala off and go wrap some presents?”

“B-but I need to know because I’ll be sewing it for her,” you reply, smiling at the little girl. “Isn’t that right, Emma?”

And, although Emma nods her head, more out of necessity than agreement, you get his point. He’s doing surprisingly well with those kids, even without you. Actually, he’s doing remarkably well, especially without you.

More kids come and go, and Ghost slowly adapts to his new persona. He starts making bets with you, predicting which kids in the queue might ask for a PlayStation or an iPad and even speculating who might wipe snot on his costume. You, in response, adopt a more laid-back approach and let him do his thing. After each child’s visit, Ghost turns towards you, whispering in your ear about their Christmas wishes, as if he’s indeed Santa, and keeps logs.

“My man wants a full-sized car wheel,” Ghost murmurs as the young boy leaps off his lap, “can you believe him?”

“What did you say to him?” You ask, stifling a laugh.

“I told him I’ll get it for him,” he shrugs. “What else should I do?”

“Alright, but what did you really want to tell him?”

“That his dad already has four of them screwed in his car.”

As the day winds down, and the final announcement for the day echoes through the speakers, parents and children walk past you and towards the exit. They wave at Ghost and occasionally at you. The parking lot empties, the stores shut their doors until tomorrow, and the holiday lights that decorate the inside of the mall switch off one by one.

You stretch your back and tap on his shoulder, signalling that both of you should pack up and return to the base.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, grasping your wrist with one hand and tapping his thigh with the other. “You didn’t tell me what you want for Christmas.”

You’re exhausted but still manage to smile as you comply with his request. You sit on his lap, and he leans back to take a better look at you.

“Let’s think about it another way,” you say. “What would you, as Santa, give me for Christmas?”

“Coal,” he replies. “And a muzzle, so you don’t interrupt me while I’m talking. What was that all about?”

“Was afraid you’d say something bad,” you explain. “But you were pretty good with those kids.”

He shakes his head and plays with the fur trim on his sleeve. “Nah,” he murmurs. “I’d never say something bad to a kid.”

“Speaking of bad and coal,” you say, combing his fake beard, “you never asked the typical ‘have you been a good kid’ to any of them.”

“There’s no bad kid in the world, love,” he whispers. “All kids are good, even the naughty ones.”

You smile at him, but he doesn’t look back at you. He’s examining his uniform as if trying to find something else to discuss. He finds some crumbs a kid left on his suit and brushes them off.

“Ready to head back to the base, Lieutenant?” You ask, tapping his thigh before standing up. You extend your hand to him, and he gladly accepts it, helping him rise from the chair he’s been sitting in all day. You begin walking towards the exit, and he wraps his arm around your shoulder. You reciprocate by hugging his waist.

You walk up to the parked military vehicle that brought you here earlier, still discussing the day. He opens the door but pauses and turns to look at you.

“Resilience,” he declares. “That’s what I would gift you for Christmas.”

“Why?” You ask, turning to look at him. “You think I need it?”

“We all do,” he replies softly, just like when he used to talk to those kids. “Since I can’t protect you from every obstacle life throws your way, I might as well give you the ability to recover from them.”

“That would make me very happy, Lieutenant.” You say, smiling.

He smiles back at you and reaches for your hat to fix it better on your head. His hand moves to your forehead, and he tucks a stray hair behind your ear.

“It’s Santa to you.” He replies.

———————————————————————

A/N: Bruh, I was so tempted to make the reader pull off a Mariah Carey and say, “All I want for Christmas is you,” when Ghost asked what they wanted, but my gag reflexes kicked in every time, and I was cringing galore.

So, there you go: resilience. That’s what I would like to gift you as well. I wish I could shield you from whatever has troubled you in the past or is currently doing so. To protect you from future worries and make everything ‘falala off’. Unfortunately, I can’t do that, neither for you nor for myself.

But this is why comfort characters and stories exist—so we can imagine, when no one is there for us, that someone actually is.

Just like Santa. Just like Ghost.

[lay-z]

🕊 Day 10 – Santa Soap and his most dangerous mission

A continuation to 🌨 Day 2 – Quaint, which means it’s set in the same universe!

Synopsis: At the annual Christmas party on base, you’re torn between making a quick escape and holding out to get a glimpse of someone special.

Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: No smut. | military!Reader; cussing; nicotine addiction; friendship; mutual pining; medical inaccuracies; humour; fluff; friends/teammates to lovers

Word count: 2.5k

↳ back to 🎅🏼 Masterlist ☃️

You’ve made the internal decision that you’ll clock the next bloody bastard who dares to approach you only to comment on your appearance tonight. The fact that you’re wearing a dress and heels and some makeup for a rare change, has definitely gained too much attention from the wrong crowd. 

Standing in a corner of the adapted and decorated event location, close to the ceiling-to-floor windows that lead to the equally decorated large balcony, you pick at the sleeve of your dress with one hand while holding an empty wine glass in the other, feeling yourself getting terribly antsy as the night progresses. 

Hell, it has already slipped your mind at this point in the evening, why you even decided to get all dolled up. You hate the attention from male soldiers here on base, especially superiors who might take it the wrong way, though you could care less about the rookies. You stand above their opinions and the rumours about you. 

You’re at a point where you’d kill for a ciggy right about now, but you’re trying to quit the dirty habit to start the New Year a better person than last. So, cold turkey, because you’re that determined and petty to quit after both Gaz and Soap taunted you about never being able to do it. On top of that, more alcohol is also not an option, because it would only worsen the need for a beloved cancer stick. 

Glancing at the watch on the wall, you see that it’s been barely an hour since you showed up here, and you’re already mentally debating if it’s appropriate to make an early escape back to your quarters. Perhaps you can dodge Captain Price on your way out, the man who’d secretly ordered you to socialize and mingle.  

However, in the back of your mind, there’s also that nagging voice that keeps making your stomach twist and knot with questionable words and thoughts, and desires, about your Lieutenant. 

You haven’t seen him yet… and most importantly, he hasn’t seen you!  

No, you didn’t dress up for Ghost, of course not. That would be so silly and frankly, also pathetic. 

“Oh, look at ye!” 

Once Soap’s voice reaches your ears over the noise of the surrounding crowd, you fear your eyes might roll back so far into your skull that they might get stuck this time.

You cross your arms over your chest awkwardly, still holding the empty wine glass, “Will you leave me alone already? No, I don’t wanna kiss under your fucking mistletoe and I’m not gonna call you ‘Santa Soap’, either.” 

Gaz practically spawns next to Soap, wearing a matching Santa hat like the goofy Scotsman, a drink in his hand, pearly whites gleaming in the dim light as he grins mischievously, “Now, why would you be such a grump on this fine evening, Sergeant? Our Santa here’s simply trying his best to spread the Christmas spirit.” 

Meanwhile, Soap nods enthusiastically while fetching another mistletoe from the inside pocket of his dark grey lumber jacket, just like the one you’d previously thrown away when he tried to make you kiss him earlier. 

“Did you seriously bring more than one?” 

Soap nods innocently, bright blue eyes shining with mirth and liquor, “Aye, ‘course. Cannae show up unprepared, my wee she-elf.” 

Gaz snorts, “Always pack enough ammo.” He nods approvingly and takes a sip of his drink. 

You roll your eyes again, “Ugh, shut up you two.” 

“Aw, are we a bit narky, eh? Need a ciggy that bad already, lassie?” Soap coos tauntingly, grinning boyishly when you scoff and turn your back to them dismissively, a clear pout on your red-painted lips. 

“I think she’s just vexed, because our Lt. didn’t show up yet.” Gaz mumbles into his glass, peeking over the rim as he gauges your reaction. 

That makes your breath falter momentarily, because have you been that obvious lately? 

After you spent that night on guard duty with Ghost a few weeks ago, you felt like you’d made progress with him. He’d opened up a bit about his childhood and past, though he always kept things sort of vague, and in return, you were soaking up each tiny bit of intel you could gather about him, eager to solve the puzzle – or get a glance of the display picture of the puzzles' carton, at least. 

The mystery about him didn’t stop your rapidly cementing crush on him, either. And it’s an odd feeling, falling in love, after so many years of successfully throwing yourself into your career instead of focusing on a possible romantic relationship. 

Who knew you’d find the latter at your bloody job of all places. 

You look down into your wine glass, swirling the last ruby droplet around as you bite your tongue, feeling your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. Here you are, thinking you were being sneaky with your growing – and much forbidden – infatuation with your superior.  

Soap nudges Gaz’ side while you’re not looking, shaking his head at his friend and teammate with his thick brows furrowed chidingly, making Gaz shrug in return, his expression apologetic before he lifts his drink up to his lips again. 

“Think I saw him head out on the balcony, lassie,” Soap remarks, his voice surprisingly serious and soft for a change, “If ye’re stealthy enough ye might catch him.” 

“We both know that’d be impossible, Johnny,” you retort languidly as you lift up the wine glass to slurp up the tiny droplet, “No one can sneak up on Simon. Plus, he’s not here, so stop lying.” 

“Simon?!” The men bark in unison, eyebrows shooting up as if you’d just insulted their mothers. 

“Oooh, since when are you two on first name basis?” Gaz inquires curiously, his warm brown eyes getting that familiar spark whenever he smells potential new gossip – gossip you won’t provide this time. 

“We’re not,” you lie, smacking your lips as you crave another drink – and a cigarette along with it, “– and if we were, I wouldn’t tell you, Garrick.” 

Soap snickers, stepping around you and giving your shoulders a few squeezes. He rubs them obnoxiously until you shrug him off with an annoyed click of your tongue and a glare over your shoulder. 

“Could you stop? You’re so annoying.” 

Gaz laughs as he watches you and Soap act like cat and dog, his eyebrow quirking with a knowing smile when Soap pries the wine glass out of your hand next, giving your back a soft shove towards the balcony doors.  

“Yeah, yeah, and I’ll keep bein’ annoyin’, so ye better take a breather now, sweetheart.” 

“Muppets,” you mutter under your breath, getting more agitated by their behaviour, “Both of you!” 

Gaz lifts his hands in surrender, chuckling as he takes a side step to let you walk past while you keep mumbling to yourself under your breath. 

“Risky,” Gaz remarks, flashing a grin at Soap once you’re out of ear shot, “This might be your best work so far… or a guaranteed arse kicking, MacTavish. You don’t think she’ll notice?” 

“Nah,” Soap sighs dreamily, looking in the direction you left in before he perks up again, “Let’s get another drink, eh?” 

As you step outside onto the balcony, you take a swift glance around before you immediately regret not bringing your jacket as the icy winds swirl about. 

Hugging your arms around yourself, you take a few sauntering steps farther out on the spacious balcony, admiring the fairy lights wrapped around the long railing and the clear night sky as you tip your head back to look at  the moon and stars. 

It’s still a wonder to you, how unique the sky looks in different countries; have you spent some of your time on deployments simply stargazing whenever you found yourself on guard duty and whenever you felt safe enough to do so. 

And suddenly, as the noises from inside, all the chatter and boisterous laughter and music, are simply muffled into the background, you feel utterly lonely and… strangely defeated. 

“What the hell am I even doing here?” You groan quietly and sigh deeply, warm breath puffing and fogging up in the cold. 

“That’s what ‘m askin’ myself.” 

Nearly jumping out of your skin with a gasp, you almost turn your ankle in your pumps as you flinch away from the dark corner to your right.  

You can only see the flickering flame of a lighter first, followd by the amber glow of a cigarette tip, blue smoke curling in the darkness and evaporating into nothingness, before the behemoth of a man steps out of the shadows towards you, like the grim reaper himself, living up to his name as Ghost. 

“Fucking hell, Simon,” you chide, still breathing heavily as you clutch your rapidly beating heart, though now it’s beating for a whole different reason, “You need to stop scaring people like that!” 

“Not my problem you’re jumpy like a little bunny.” He retorts gruffly, though you can clearly hear the smile in his voice before you can see it. 

His simple, black balaclava is rucked up over his nose again as he takes another lazy drag of his cigarette while his dark eyes give you an agonizingly slow once over, one that has your heart flutter and your cheeks burn. He keeps the smoke in his lungs as he speaks, “You look nice. Different.” He exhales.

Needless to say, you don’t clock him for that. 

“Different,” you repeat under your breath as you look at him; drinking in the exposed, pale skin of his neck, his cheeks, his mouth, as always. You notice that he shaved. He’s wearing a pair of jeans that clings to his muscular thighs nicely, a dark hoodie and black leather jacket along with boots. 

He looks nice. Hot, actually. God... he’s so hot... 

“Aye, different as in nice. Want me to tell ya that you’re beautiful?” He asks bluntly, taking another drag, “Would feel wrong to tell ya that now, lass. You were already beautiful without all –“ He makes a vague gesture to your face and dress, “– ‘o that.” 

“Okay, thanks.” You squeak; your throat now terribly dry. There is nothing you would love more than snatch the cigarette from his thick fingers to take a greedy drag and calm your jangled nerves. 

“Mhmm,” he hums, then and doesn’t stop staring; his onyx eyes flickering over your form as if he’s assessing you. 

“Why are you out here anyway?” He makes another gesture at your outfit, “Dressed like that. It’s too cold, ya dafty.” 

You could ask him the same, but you feel like you know the answer to that. He hates crowds and avoids social gatherings if he can help it, but Price has ordered him to attend just like he did you. 

“I just... needed some air,” you shrug and Ghost nods as he fetches a pack of smokes from his chest pocket, flicking the lid open with his thumb before holding it out to you. 

Your fingers twitch against your arms, nails clawing into the fabric of your dress while your nostrils flare as you get a whiff of sweet, sweet tobacco. But then, the nagging voices of Gaz and Soap echo in your mind, and if they would catch you smoking out here, you’d never hear the end of it – and frankly, that’s not worth your nerves. 

“Can’t,” you croak out, refusing reluctantly. Your eyes flit from his offer up to his eyes while he raises an eyebrow under his mask questioningly, “I quit.” 

Ghost snorts, flicking the lid closed again, “Why?” The small pack disappears back into his pocket. 

“Someone told me it’s unhealthy,” you jest with a small shrug, hugging your arms tighter around yourself as the cold starts seeping into your bones. 

“Hmpf,” he hums again and pauses before he takes another slow drag, “What an arsehole.” He exhales through his nose, smoke curling into the air as he smiles bemusedly. 

And then, there is a tense pause as you watch how the golden glow of the surrounding fairy lights reflect in his dark brown eyes, adding a sudden soft warmth to his lingering gaze. 

“Can you blow some smoke in my face?” You ask, biting your inner cheek before adding, “I read that’s what pregnant ladies do when they struggle to quit smoking at once.” 

“Bollocks.” He barks out a laugh, flashing his slightly crooked teeth you’ve come to adore so much. Teeth who’ve been broken violently and been fixed too many times. 

“It’s true!” You whine playfully, chuckling along with him, and then he gives you an odd look, his lips tighten into a line before he speaks, “Close yer eyes.” 

Your stomach does a flip at his soft-spoken command, your heart flutters violently as he takes a step closer, taking a long drag. And then, you do as he says and close your eyes, tilting your head back expectantly. 

A few seconds later, the warm caress of his breath and thick cigarette smoke brush over your cold skin, making your skin pebble underneath your dress. You inhale greedily, lips parting slightly as you try to catch the taste of it discreetly. 

“More?” He rasps and you nod slowly, keeping your eyes closed, “Yes, please.” You utter softly. 

Another few seconds later, you hear the crunch of boots on concrete, and then you suddenly feel the tentative press of chapped lips on yours. 

Your eyes squeeze together, and you nearly pull back in shock, but his hand is already cupping the back of your head gently, his other warm mammoth hand resting on your waist; his body heat seeping through your dress as he closes the distance between your bodies. The fabric of his balaclava brushes against your face as your noses nudge together before makes you tilt your head. 

He kisses you slowly, somewhat clumsily, as if he’s calculating and overthinking each move of his lips, but by God, it’s good. So good, and so much better than you always imagined, because it’s real.  

Your hands slip to the front of his broad, buff chest, fingers clutching his open leather jacket and holding on for dear life as your brain starts to shut off. The tip of his tongue brushes against the seam of your mouth and your lips part wider on instinct. His tongue dives in, seeking and rolling against yours almost timidly, and you can taste the nicotine, the whiskey, and the remnant minty taste of his toothpaste. 

When a soft moan is torn from your throat, his hand squeezes your hip and his fingers brush through your hair before he grips the nape of your neck, holding you in place when he pulls back, breaking the first kiss you shared.

Your breaths mingle, hot and panting, as you gaze at each other with half-lidded eyes. His heart is thudding harshly against his chest, feeling it clearly beneath your palm, though it matches your own rapid heartbeat. 

“...’m sorry, bunny,” Ghost says eventually, his voice rough and husky, his lips still brushing yours as he speaks, “I just... couldn’t keep ignoring that bloody mistletoe.” 

[storiesaplenty]

Special time with Santa (18+)

141 X f/Reader

Call of Duty Masterlist

This has not been proofread. Please enjoy though.

Warnings: swearing. Smut below the cut. Unprotected sex. Oral (m & f receiving). Pussy fingering. p in v sex. Cum swallowing. Use of nicknames, Santa, little elf. Sex in public. Creampie.

WC: 1297

©️ storiesaplenty 2024: do not repost or translate my work. This is the only place I post my work.

Having sex with 141 Task Force as they dress up as mall Santa, and you are dressed up as an Elf.

Captain John Price:

"That's it lovie. Just like that." John groaned from behind the beard. His gloved hands were gripping your waist tight as you rode him.

His cock touching the tip of your cervix as he buried his face between your tits, pulling down the green fabric so he nuzzle the skin.

"Shit, John." He slapped your ass, making you yelping. "Now, now love. What do you call me?" He angled his hips just so, nudging your g-spot.

"Santa." You whined, you back arching as he took a nipple into his mouth. "Mmmm, yes." His mouth popped off your chest.

"Being so naughty aren't you lovie? Making a mess on my pants. Come and give your Santa a kiss."

You whimpered but kissed him through the itchy beard.

The little bells on your shoes made noise as you bounced in his lap, tethering on the edge.

"Santa!" You cried out as you finally came, your pussy gripping his cock so tight, he came.

You could feel him shoot rope after rope of cum in your fluttering pussy, as you collapsed against his chest.

"Mmm, now be a good elf and clean Santa up." He said, as he pulled you off his lap, and onto the ground.

Your mouth wrapped around his softening cock, moaning at the taste of the two of you.

His hands were placed on the back of your head has you leisurely moved your head up and down, cleaning his cock as best as you could.

Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

"Come on baby, take it all." Kyle groaned as he gently thrust his cock down your throat.

You have tears in the corner of your eyes as you look up at him from the floor of the little workshop, the mall put in the Santa Village.

His cock stretching your throat beyond its limits it felt like, but you didn't want to disappoint him, so you breathed through your nose, fighting through the ache as you nuzzled your face into his pubic hair, making him curse under his breath.

"I knew you could do it. I fuckin' knew it." He slapped the armrest of the chair he was sitting in as he raised his hips, making you choke around his cock.

"Fuck, let's do that again." You shook your head no, but he did it again anyways, holding your head in place as you choked around his cock.

Your vision started to become a bit blurry as he fucked your face, you tapping his leg but he was so enthralled with the pleasure your mouth and throat were giving him, he didn't notice, or care to notice.

So you placed your hands on his thighs, which are covered by the red, baggy Santa suit. You looked up at him through the tears, his eyes were closed, the Santa hat barley hanging on, as soft grunts fell from his parted mouth.

You felt the first rope of cum hit the back of your throat before he let out a low groan, his hips bucking against your face as you quickly swallowed.

He pulled his hips back before he was finished coming, some of it landing on your cheek before you wrapped your lips around the tip to finish him off.

"Shit sweetheart. I'm taking you home tonight, and putting you under my tree." Kyle groaned as you continued to suck him off, even as his cock was softening in your mouth.

Sergeant Johnny “Soap” MacTavish:

"Keep quiet." Johnny groaned from behind as his hips bounced off your ass. One of his black, gloved hand covering your mouth to keep your moans at bay.

His fake, Santa stomach was sitting on your ass, and pushing into you, making you gasp for air each and every time.

"Santa, Johnny, shit." You whined behind his glove, as you smiled at how well he is fucking you.

Been a while since you have been fucked like this, and it is like he knew, like he is the actual true Santa because all you wanted for Christmas was someone to make you cum and not disappoint you during sex.

"Shit, call me Santa again." He grunted as his pace sped up. His hand leaving your mouth, to wrap around you waist as he the other hand reached around you, gripping your throat and pulling you up and against his body, your own body at an odd angle due to the Santa stomach.

"Let's go you two." Came a knock on the door, the bored voice of the other elf.

"Where?" Johnny groaned in your ear as he nipped the earlobe, making you gasp.

"Inside. Pill, clean." Was all you could get out as he his pace sped up, his hips bouncing off your ass.

The little bells attached at the end of your skirt is making so much noise, but it sounded fuzzy to you.

You gripped his arm that was gripping your throat, as you came, saying Santa over and over again as he let out the loudest moan you have ever heard as he ground against your ass, as his cum filled your pussy, triggering another small orgasm from you.

As Johnny pulled out, you couldn't help but giggle. "So, Santa." You emphasized the word. "Does it for you, huh?"

"Be quiet little elf, or you may get a spankin."

Just the thought of him spanking you, had you clenching your pussy around nothing.

Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley:

"Such a good little elf, aren't ya?" Simon grunted into your ear as he fucked you against the wall of the employee bathroom.

You couldn't answer him as he has literally made you stupid because of his cock.

When you first saw his cock, as he pulled it out his Santa costume, he was slowly jerking it off.

The tip shiny with precum and you wanted nothing more than to lick it, but then you noticed how big and long he was.

"It isn't gonna fit." You whimpered. "I'll make it fit." Came his promise and fuck, he made it fit after spending time on his knees, lifting you by your ass to eat and stretch you out on his fingers.

He made you cum so much that you could hardly stand as he stood up, holding you against his body as he lifted you up, all the while thrusting his cock in your still, too tight pussy.

You feel like he is in your stomach every single time he bottoms out inside of you.

"Shit. Made for me, weren't you little elf?"

"Santa Simon." You whined as your head lulled side to side, not even knowing what you were saying as the only thing consuming your thoughts were Simon and his giant cock.

He lifted you up and down his cock, like his own personal flesh light, forcing orgasm after orgasm from your body until you could hardly see straight it seemed.

Simon didn't ask where to cum, he just came inside your shaking, quivering body, your mouth open as he filled you with so much cum, it started to leak around his cock.

"I'll let them know you need a minute." He smirked as he pulled his cock from your body.

The two of you moaning at the feeling of him leaving your body, as his cum slowly dripped down your thighs, and onto your ripped, green elf-tights.

[writersdrug]

Captain John Price would be the kind of dad to bite into an unpeeled banana, early on Christmas morning while your kids are still asleep, just to make Santa and his reindeer more believable (he'd immediately phthoey that thing into the trash bin)

[piratesfromspace]

Just Like Old Times (Price x Reader + poly141)

Pairing: Reader x Price (& Reader x 141) Rated: Mature Word count: 2.9k Summary: A cottage in the snow. A Captain you knew in another life. His rugged and attractive men. Will you let them into your life? Note: This is a fic I wrote for @literatecowboy for the Secret Santa event organized by @bunnyreaper! I tried to make something soft and sweet and it's taking place during the winter, it's not smutty but if you like it, I can make a part 2 with some action 👀

EDIT: we have a PART 2!!

Content: ex-military!fem!reader, mention of food & alcohol, a little bit of angst but it’s mainly fluff, smoking, flirting, praise kink, sharing body heat

MASTERLIST // PART 2

It had been Laswell’s idea. 

The team needs to be ready for snow conditions, do whatever you think is best. You have 3 weeks. And I’m talking extreme weather, Price, not a little trip to your local ski resort.

Those had been the instructions Kate had delivered to an unphased Price.

He knew it was only a matter of time before this kind of mission would be required from them. Of course, the men of the 141 have already trained in the cold of England, have seen and tested the winter gear. But Laswell is about to send them somewhere at the very East of Europe, and there is a small difference between surviving winter in London and surviving winter in places where the cold could kill you in minutes if you didn't have the proper equipment or knowledge. Over there, more than usual, tiny mistakes could have big consequences. And Price would rather not have his team freeze to death because of a lack of training. 

It’s December and the month is cold already. But it’s nothing compared to the cold Soap feels when he steps out of the helicopter. It’s like Price has picked the coldest place he knows in America. He’s pretty sure they are somewhere in Wyoming or Montana, the only thing he can see are mountains all around them. Spruce and fir trees sprawl in dark patches contrasting with the stark white of the snow covering everything. He crosses the large glade to reach the tree line, as the helicopter takes off, sending the fresh snow flying in every direction. The sky is a light gray, and while the whole scene is stunning - makes his head spin with equal awe and wonder thinking about nature’s force and brutal beauty - it means there is no sun to warm his face. 

“Come on soldiers, let’s move, we still have a two-hour hike to reach our B&B!”

“You mean someone will be there to make us breakfast Captain?” Soap chimes, unbridled joy coming through his voice at the prospect of warm home-made meals instead of MREs.

Price has a hard time hiding a smile as he starts walking on the thin winding path, only recognisable for those who know it’s there. ”There will be someone, but I’m not sure they will cook for you, Sergeant.”

Ghost lets out a dry chuckle and follows the steps of their Captain, leaving Soap and Gaz a bit puzzled.

❄️

The sun is already setting when you hear loud voices outside, and soon after a series of knocks on your door. You’re a little stressed when you rise from the floor in front of your fireplace to go open the door. You have agreed to shelter those 4 soldiers for 3 entire weeks only as a favor to Price. An old acquaintance who saved your life, a decade earlier, before you left the field to heal your wounds - body and mind. The large wood cabin had been your home for a few years already. You keep it open for women like you, in need of time away from the world, although it’s pretty rare they come during winter time when the road is blocked by snow. It’s an old building, but well-kept and you made it as cozy as possible, all warm natural tones, plush carpets on dark wood floors, dark gray stones in the bathrooms. 

You welcome them with a soft smile, delighting in their surprise - seems like John had not told them he planned on using your cottage as a back-up base for this training expedition. John’s team members are not really what you expected: there is one Scott with a mohawk that seems simultaneously annoyed and happy to be there (he has terrific blue eyes), a young and calm brown-haired Brit (he’s really cute, like movie-star cute), and a behemoth with a literal skull mask (his size alone has your head spinning). You can’t complain about them though, as they are polite and friendly, praising your home - and for sure taking in the comfort and warmth one last time before heading off for days of rudimental camping in the icy woods. You don’t envy them, remembering that one mission you did in Siberia when you were still in active duty, that wasn’t really fun. They settle in their rooms easily and you all share a quick dinner you had cooked - except for the masked giant. The banter goes fast between them, especially after you offer them beers. You like being alone, but you have to admit they are fun to be around.

❄️

The living room is silent and dark, the only light coming from the fireplace across your couch. After dinner, you had trouble finding sleep in your room, so you went to read a bit in front of the fire. But you must have dozed off, because you wake up suddenly, gasping, arms flailing, sitting up immediately. Your frantic eyes, wide open, scan the room for the reason of your awakening, survival instinct going overdrive. Someone is standing in your living room, frozen in place on their way to the front door. It’s the behemoth with the skull mask - the scariest of them all, of course.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” he apologizes. In the darkness of the room, it looks like his jaw is not even moving beneath the dark fabric covering the lower half of his face, like the sound just pours out of him or like he’s speaking directly inside your head. He might actually, you’re not entirely convinced the giant is not some sort of supernatural being John brought back from a cursed battlefield. It’s unnerving to say the least. 

“I’m sorry, it- it happens sometimes, I can’t help it, my instinct thought you were a threat…” you blurt out before realizing you may have offended him in some way by implying he’s not worthy of your trust. But instead of scoffing, he lets out a thoughtful hum, lowering his head to look at his boots, almost sheepish. 

“Don’t. Don’t apologize.” His voice is low, calm, and at the same time you can feel something else, sadness, maybe disappointment, in what or who, you’re not sure.

“Care for a smoke?” he offers after a beat of silence, nodding to the front door. You don’t smoke anymore, cut the nasty habit years ago. That’s why you don’t know what compels you to accept, but you’re not gonna be able to sleep now, so you follow him outside, grabbing your coat on the way. 

You half expect him to smoke through the mask, but he pushes the fabric up enough to reveal a strong jaw covered in light stubble, and plush lips. So he’s human after all. The slick and heavy storm lighter looks ridiculously small in his giant hand when he lights his cigarette. He takes a deep puff before handing it to you.

“Sorry, last one.”

Your fingers graze his, and you bring it to your lips to drag a small puff that immediately makes you cough.

“You ok?” he rasps, humor tilting the corner of his mouth upwards.

“Yeah, it’s been a while, that’s all” you provide. He hums in approval at your explanation. 

When you hand him the cigarette, you take a moment to look at his mouth, the way his throat works when he inhales, the way the silver smoke dances between his open lips and fades into the night sky. Something warms your gut when you realize his lips are set just where yours had been a few seconds ago. 

You don’t know what’s more attractive, this or the fact he doesn’t try to make conversation for the sake of it. He doesn’t bother to explain why he couldn’t sleep and felt the need to smoke at 3 in the morning. He knows you understand. You are just glad to bask in the soft noises of nature at night - wind in the threes, the hooting of an owl. Fuck, you’ve been alone up there for too long to thirst on John’s colleagues just like this, just a few hours after their arrival. You shake your head, driving out the thought, and take the cigarette again from his fingers.

❄️

The next morning, you wake up pretty early after a short night, only to find one of them - the pretty one, Gaz - is already fixing coffee in your kitchen like he belongs there. You honestly could get used to this. The thin long sleeves of his shirt are doing nothing to conceal the muscles underneath, rolling as he’s going about this mundane task of preparing breakfast. His kind eyes and soft voice when he asks for your choice of eggs makes your heart flutter with a yearning for this kind of intimate domesticity you had never really allowed yourself up until then. It’s kinda concerning, at this rate you’re gonna ask one - all? - of them to stay with you in your cottage instead of going back to whatever missions at the other end of the world. 

The rest of the day is not making you change your mind. Price had asked if anything needed their help around the house, and you gave them the tedious task of moving the gigantic pile of wood logs stocked at the other end of your garden closer to the house. It would have taken you days to do it by yourself. But by lunch time, the pile had dwindled to a fifth of what it was thanks to the hard work of the four men. The two younger ones were down to their long-sleeve compression shirts despite the cold, sleeves rolled up their elbows, showing off strong forearms, various scars slashing across the discreet swirls of black ink from old tattoos. Some disappear under the black gloves they are all sporting. Sweat plasters the fabric of their shirts to their shoulders and chests. You can’t deny they look fucking good. 

You had accepted Price’s demand without much after-thought, but now you couldn’t be more happy about it, ogling those four rugged men laboring away for you. Despite being older than his men, Price is far from looking bad. He’s built like a brick house, a healthy layer of fat covering muscles he’s been honing for two decades. Dark hair peaks from the open collar of his jacket, your eyes follow the line of the thin garment which is hugging his tapered waist, down to his thick thighs. Fuck. You remember what it was like to be close to him - literally and figuratively. He was your colleague, an equal, a couple years older than you but you shared the same rank. He was a mentor, a friend, a lover - only briefly, after that fateful mission where he saved your life on the field. You parted ways in good spirit after you announced that you wanted to retire, needed to get your head straight before committing to anything. Today, you ask yourself if maybe you could take this back from where you left it.

❄️

You want to train with us today, love? Just like old times.

Price had asked you the question the next morning and you had not been hard to convince. It was more about being able to look at them than to train your body, but they didn’t need to know that. Even if you keep a pretty healthy lifestyle, you can’t compete with elite soldiers, and by the fourth set of push-ups, your arms are giving out. You’re about to stop and reach for your water bottle, when Price notices. 

“Come on, you can do five more, I’m sure!”

You groan in response, but you go back in position.

“Breathe, love. Back a little more straight. Elbows in. That’s it… Good.” 

Price’s deep voice is calm as he’s encouraging you, gently correcting your posture.

“Don’t look down, chin up. Perfect, you’re doing good.” he goes on, and you cheeks warm under his praise, enough to make you forget the stinging cold. Your whole body is clenched with the effort, you’re letting out little cries with each push-up, your muscles are hurting, but you want nothing more than to make the captain proud.

“Just one more. Done! You did great darling, I’m impressed.” 

He helps you get up on shaking legs and when you almost stumble, he secures you upright against his chest, keeps you there for two seconds more than he should for it to not look intentional. When you raise your head, you’re suddenly so close to his face, blue eyes staring down at you with a glint in them you can’t ignore. You reluctantly part before reaching for your water bottle again, playing coy.

The three others are not oblivious to the little game between you and Price. You notice how they exchange knowing looks and little smiles whenever you both interact. Worst, they also seem to pick up on your love for being praised and soon enough they take every excuse to whisper how good your aim still is during target training, or how smart you are for knowing everything about the local fauna during your afternoon hike. It never sounds like they’re mocking you though, never feels like it’s not genuine. It’s not fair, really. At this rate, you don’t know how you’re gonna survive living under the same roof with four attractive men for three entire weeks. 

The answer to this torture of yours is revealed quickly. After a few days of acclimatization at your cottage, Price and his men are ready for a long expedition higher in the mountains, with just tents and even a short surviving-in-extreme-cold workshop. They will be gone for at least ten days. You watch them pack their gear and leave your place with a pinch in your heart you couldn’t expect when you first opened your door to them.

❄️

Days go by, pretty uneventful, until your heating system breaks down. It’s not the first time since you’re leaving up there, it’s not that scary but you’ll have to wait a few days for the repair team to come by. In the meantime, you resort to live and sleep in your living room, where the fireplace provides enough heat to keep you warm in the heart of the winter.

They come back the day after that, and when you see their silhouettes emerging from the treeline, just before the sun sets down, you can’t prevent your lips to form a smile so big it hurts your cheeks after a couple minutes standing in the biting cold. 

The fondness in Price’s eyes is not dulled by the news your heater is out of order, nor is the relief on Soap’s and Gaz’s faces at the promise of a solid roof and comfy beds after days of rudimentary accommodations.

You all work to prepare some food, and to bring a couple mattresses with all the duvets you can find in front of the fireplace - the only sane solution for you all to sleep without suffering too much from the freezing temperatures. It reminds you of your years of service, when you sometimes had to share a single room with your whole squad - you’re not missing the stress and the harsh living conditions, but you’re definitely missing the camaraderie, the jokes and fits of laughter, the bodies of trusted people around you. 

They leave you the couch - gentlemen that they are - the objectively most comfortable option, but once again you can’t find sleep. The piece of furniture is the farthest away from the fire, and you’re on your own, no one next to you to share body heat with you. 

It’s only because I’m cold. That’s the poor excuse you give yourself - and the one you whisper to Price - when you step down from your couch to seek a place under the cover next to John. He’s sleeping next to Gaz; Soap and Ghost are sharing the other mattress. You slide yourself against him, immediately melting into his chest, the man radiating heat like it’s his only purpose in life. He doesn’t even have to ask you if it’s okay to hold you against him because you plaster yourself to him and nuzzle against his chest, old habits taking over your sleepy brain. A sense of safety and comfort envelopes you at the same time his warmth does. You forgot how good it felt to be in his embrace, to be tucked against his broad chest, surrounded by his smell - manly, ambery wood, and the rich spice of his cigars. 

He chuckles silently as you settle at his side and let out a little content sigh. He missed that too, he won’t say it out loud, but having you like this, soft and pliant in his arms, it makes him wonder how he could be such a fool for not seeking you sooner. He suddenly wants to kiss you, to make you feel good, here and now, no matter the fact his men are sleeping just a few inches from you. Should he care? He’s not blind to the fact you spend a good amount of time leering at them since they’re here, and to the fact they are watching you back. He can not ignore the shameless flirting going on between all of you five actually. John has never really been in a situation like this, doesn’t know where this will lead him - where this could lead them. But he’s ready to follow you. He takes a deep breath before he talks. 

“Just like old times?” He asks, voice low, chest vibrating with it under your palm. 

Just like old times… The words echo in your head, echo in your heart. He gives you the opportunity to lead him - to lead them - wherever you wish.

“Just like old times.” You repeat back to him, before you capture his lips in a gentle kiss.

PART 2

[littleredhotsridinghood]

Some 141 winter ideas that I can't get out of my head, so please feel free to use them!

Dinner at the MacTavishes with the whole team, featuring many children who take to Ghost immediately. Mama Tav babies Gaz, to Soap's disbelief. And Price enjoys sitting and talking with Papa Tav.

A quiet Ghostsoap lie-in with snow falling in the window behind them. Maybe some personalized snowmen with branch rifles and holding hands.

141 getting snow on base and having a snowball fight or building a snowman army. Bonus points if trainees are involved (they see the prowess of our guys, and get terrified at just how competetive some are. Somehow Soap managed to make a snow drift explode. Ghost terrifies an entire squad by just appearing behind them and burying them in snow. Gaz has amassed a small army while Price is just sniping people with snowballs from a distance.)

Price's cigars being swapped out by one of those wafer sticks and Ghost's secret love of hot cocoa. Soap knows ALL of the ways to make Christmas cookies and Gaz helps.

Presents! Gaz getting a ring in his stocking from a certain captain. Simon getting a puppy, already approved for therapy or battle training. Price ALSO getting a ring, taped to the inside of a "#1 captain" mug. Johnny getting a "1 free explosion on any mission voucher", signed off by Laswell and a leather sketchbook from Ghost.

Ale and Rudy spending Christmas Eve with los Vaqueros and the actual day of with Rudy's abuelita.

Spicy stuff - 141 squad in ugly Xmas sweaters.... ONLY the sweaters.

Spicy or sweet - Ghost dressed as Krampus and Johnny as an elf. Maybe Price is Santa and Gaz is a reindeer or Mrs. Claus.

[blingblong55]

Naughty List-141

Soap and Gaz, behaving well since November just so Santa Clause (Captain Price) can bring them the best gifts

Ghost and R/N hanging by a thread on the good list

R/N: *hits a box filled with feathers with a bat, over and over*

Price: careful, you'll end up on the naughty list

R/N: *smirking* yeah I will...he he

Ghost: Maybe Santa will feed your kinks mate

R/N: fuck yeah!

Soap and Gaz: oh my god *concerned and scared *