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phantasm-ae · 17 days ago

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okayyy so i was rewatchingg this old series called WifeSwap and well! I HAD AN IDEA. What if all the boys and their partners swap?? I hope u guyss like it hehehe. Might be a series hehehhe who knows??

cw: grumpy x sunshine, afab reader x simon ghost riley, tf141 is here, just pure fluff and a bit of… angst

HEADCANON: as part of a routine exercise punishment, Soap suggests wife swapping after one too many episodes of WifeSwap. The lot of them didn’t expect it to bloody backfire of course

PAIRING: Ghost x afab reader, Ghost x Mrs. Price

If you asked any of the boys how it started. Fingers would always find their way pointed to Soap.

Classic bloody Johnny it was -- loud, half-drunk, and far too entertained by the thought of chaos not involving stray and undocumented gunfire.

It was after an op gone haywire. Intel gone wry. Point person MIA. Comms scrambled to shit, and no one knew who was meant to breach what building until Ghost kicked in the wrong door and found three goats and a naked informant mid-yoga. The sullen old brawn just stared at the scene -- naked man in a headstand, goats chewing on what looked like classified documents -- and muttered, “Wrong fucking door,” before backing out like it was a haunted house.

They made it out alive though, somehow. Bruised egos for sure, one dislocated shoulder (Soap’s, naturally), and a four-hour debrief where Laswell looked like she aged a year slide after slide.

Letters circled red and a lot of possible red tape and blacked out notes to keep it more hush-hush than most. Because having to explain to the fucking government why the John Price -- the Captain Price -- UN hero, medalled and corralled by the classic gentry. Regarded and deemed a supersoldier on human payroll, the unofficial face of “stiff upper lip and carry on” -- had been photographed mid-sprint while the said naked informant did downward dog behind him and his bloody goat pissed on a thermal detonator. Paired with the Ghost himself ending up three feet from a nudist spy and another goat chewing on NATO credentials. And well... that wasn’t exactly great for PR now, innit?

Nor was it good for Laswell’s migraines.

So they were grounded.

“Enforced downtime,” Laswell said, like that was a reward and not a slow descent into group madness.

Two weeks. No ops, no field work, no high-value targets. Just paperwork, team-building exercises, and mandatory counseling sessions where Gaz tried not to laugh while the in-base therapist asked Ghost if he’d like to "practice non-violent communication" and Ghost just stared at her until she wrote down “resistant to healing.”

By day three, Soap was rearranging all the furniture in the barracks “according to the principles of Scottish feng shui, ya ken?” and Ghost -- obviously bored himself -- had replaced the coffee with bourbon and called it a morale test -- forgetting to place the filter all back together and had to back out of the room and deny everything when a young recruit looked dozed and glassy-eyed halfway through a briefing and said, “Sir, the coffee tastes like confidence.”

Gaz found Simon two hours later, trying to faux-mediate and justify to no one in particular why the coffee incident wasn't technically his fault. Brooding hulk of a man in a mask crouched in front of the charred machine like it had testified against him in court.

“I didn’t tell him to drink six cups,” Ghost muttered. “He made choices. We all make choices.”

“War crime, it is,” Gaz whispered, sipping it anyway once offered.

No one dared rat him out. Mostly because Price at the end of it --drank it too.

By the end of the week, Soap had made a piñata of Laswell’s face out of shredded incident reports, Gaz had tried to set up a frog enclosure in the unused sink, and the barracks dog had learned how to growl on command whenever someone said the word “mindfulness.”

Laswell was spiraling.

And when the rec room microwave exploded -- not from a bomb, but from someone (allegedly Soap) trying to “reheat soup in a tin can for science” -- Laswell finally snapped.

She stormed into the barracks mess with an expression like a woman ready to kill something or redeploy someone to Siberia.

“You lot need a goddamn outlet.”

Soap, full of energy and zero shame, sat forward. “You want a real outlet?”

“No,” Ghost warned.

Soap ignored him, of course.

“We swap.”

Laswell blinked. “Swap what?”

“Partners. Domestic partners. One week. New routines, new homes. Emotional resilience. Empathy. Psychological terrain navigation.”

Gaz spit out his tea. “Jesus.”

“It’s genius,” Soap went on, all fire and glee now. Enthusiasm and meandering intelligence after re-watching three seasons of the WifeSwap series from the common room's old casettes. “You don’t just test the soldiers -- you test the home dynamics. We live in each other’s shoes. You get to evaluate adaptability, control, even stress response. Like The Apprentice, but with more firearms and worse communication.”

Ghost muttered something under his breath about war crimes.

Laswell opened her mouth -- to say no, they assumed.

But instead, she looked… intrigued.

Oh shit.

She stared at the room, the war-hardened mess of them all. Then rubbed at her temple like she could already feel the paperwork punching her in the soul.

“…Fine.”

“What?” Price asked sharply. Sitting straight-up because having any of these wankers within arm’s reach of his wife, her kitchen, or his thermostat was not something he’d emotionally budgeted for.

“We’ll call it a trial. Psychological adaptability and domestic immersion assessment. No external observers. Seven days. Voluntary.” Her eyes scanned them one by one. “Unless I make it mandatory.”

Soap actually clapped.

Price looked like he aged five years on the spot.

Ghost just said, “This is how people die.”

“You’re serious?” Gaz added after a breath, wide-eyed, already mentally scrubbing the image of any of his team living in with his girlfriend’s own chaos-cave slash makeshift radioactive laboratory.

“I’m tired,” Laswell muttered, as if that were a legal defense. “And you lot are turning into a feral commune. I will try anything that gets me through this deployment without someone eating soap. Again.”

“Tha’ was one time,” Soap said, unconvincingly.

Laswell sighed, then pointed at Soap like a general drafting a madman. “Since you’re so enthusiastic, MacTavish, you’ll be responsible for drawing names and pairing assignments. I want folders and house profiles by tomorrow.”

“Aye, I’ll laminate ’em,” he said proudly, already pulling out a Sharpie and a deck of Uno cards like that was going to help.

“No fucking way,” Ghost finally spoke up, deep and flat.

“You’ll participate,” Laswell said without looking at him.

“I’m not letting one of these muppets touch my kettle,” Ghost grunted.

“That’s not your biggest concern,” Gaz muttered. “Mate, your entire side of the flat is just weapons, gym equipment, and one fork.”

“And it works,” Ghost replied.

“You live like a serial killer with a protein obsession,” Soap added, cheerfully.

Laswell clapped her hands once. “Great. Briefing at 0800. Draws will happen then. Everyone be ready to emotionally evacuate your homes.”

And with that, she turned and left -- muttering something about moving to a mountain and living with goats. Better trained ones, presumably.

The silence that followed was heavy. Charged. Stupid.

Soap, beaming now, stood slowly like a conductor at the edge of a masterpiece. “Right, lads. Time to play Domestic Roulette.”

Price scrubbed his hands down his face. “God help us all.”

Ghost just stood up and walked out.

No one stopped him.

They all knew he’d be back.

----

Truth be told, he made it about thirty paces down the hall before the heavy clomp of Laswell’s boots echoed behind him like a death knell. Hunting all 6'4 of him down with her “I am ten seconds from quitting” face, cornered him in the back hallway of the armory, and said, very calmly, “If you don’t go back in there and participate, I will personally assign you to the next UN ‘hearts and minds’ mission in a jungle so remote even your nightmares can’t reach you. With a therapy dog. And a journalist.”

So of course, bloody 2 days later, after having drawn your name from the makeshift sack from a decaying old Santa hat that Soap dug out from some hellish base closet. The shucking and moldy thing -- Gaz was pretty sure it carried its own form of disease -- still glittery with stray tinsel and regret.

Drawing your name from it and reading the card with lettered like a death sentence it was -- was like stepping on a landmine in slow motion.

Ghost blinked once. Deadpan. Held the card up like it was incriminating evidence in a war crime tribunal. Sighing a bit in both irritation, disavowed, and quiet... anticipation

Across the room, Price’s eye twitched.

Not a blink. Not a wince.

A twitch.

Tiny. Violent. The kind that meant blood pressure was rising in real-time and a man was silently calculating whether homicide was worth the paperwork.

Soap howled.

“Oh, that’s rich!” Johnny cackled, slapping his knee. “Och, Laswell, did you see that? That’s karma, that is!”

Gaz choked on his water.

Even Laswell looked vaguely amused, which, for her, meant one corner of her mouth might’ve moved half a centimeter.

“Switch,” Price said flatly, already reaching out. “Draw again. That one doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely counts,” Laswell said, pulling a pen from behind her ear like this was the greatest show on Earth. Half a smirk shadowing her features as Soap tried to outrun Price's fuming figure around the room. Two hands clutching the jiggly santa hat with fervor, trying to evade Price's grubby hands and wrath like it was a live grenade.

“I don’t make the rules!” Soap shouted gleefully, dodging behind a training dummy as Price lunged after him.

“Domestic immersion is meant to challenge your current dynamic, Captain”, Laswell only replied in return

“You’re pairing my wife with him,” Price snapped after a pause, jerking a thumb toward Ghost. “He barely talks.”

“Exactly,” she said, writing down the pairings. “Could be refreshing.”

Ghost remained perfectly still. Only his eyes moved -- locking on Price's daunting figure, dark and unreadable behind the mask. His voice, when it came, was low and flat.

“Not exactly thrilled myself, mate.”

“Oh, don’t flatter me,” Price grunted.

Soap was already wheezing on the floor after being deliberately tripped by Gaz, who had sacrificed him to the wolves in exchange for a front-row seat to this slow-motion disaster. “This is better than telly.”

Ghost looked at the card again, as if it might’ve changed names out of pity.

It hadn’t.

Just your name in small, tidy letters. Neat. Proper. Like everything else about you.

He slid it into his vest pocket with the solemnity of a man receiving his final orders.

Price folded his arms. “She’s not gonna like this.”

“She’s very adaptable,” Laswell offered, not looking up from the forms.

“She has standards.”

“She bakes,” Soap reminded them helpfully. Smiling in memory at all your lemon-drizzle cakes and blueberry muffins. “You’ll be fine, Ghost. Just try not to knife the tea towels, aye?”

Ghost muttered something unintelligible and sat down hard in his chair, clearly contemplating a fake injury or possibly desertion.

And so, it was done.

Ghost had drawn you.

And judging by the way Price’s jaw flexed every few seconds, one of them might not survive the week.

Probably not Ghost.

Probably.

48 hours later and Ghost still couldn't fucking believe it. Mrs. John bloody Price was in his home. In his wife's own kitchen. Her previously labeled sundries and preserved jams -- once in disarray and cluttered into her system of cowgirl chaos -- now lined up in rows. Actual rows. Sorted by type and date and, for some reason, emotional purpose.

There was a little handwritten note stuck to one jar that read: For rainy days -- peach and ginger.

Ghost stared at it like it might explode.

Mrs. John Bloody Price had done this in less than two days. Quietly. Like a ghost of her own.

She’d arrived with three tins of tea, a modest suitcase, and the calm certainty of a woman who could run a battlefield and a bake sale with the same tone of voice. And she had taken over -- not forcefully, not loudly, but like the tide.

The kettle had a new trivet. The towels matched. His one fork had multiplied into a cutlery set that actually jingled.

And it wasn’t his wife’s kitchen now. Truth be told too.

His chaotic messy cowgirl of a wife had swapped sides -- gone off to live with Captain Beard and Discipline himself for a week -- and in her place stood this gentle, soft-voiced, cardigan-wrapped domestic saint who made tea with lemon and asked if he’d like his towel “folded the long way or the proper way.”

She was humming.

Ghost, who had gone through three tours of duty without blinking, was standing stiffly in the archway like the world's most haunted IKEA display.

“You alright, Simon?” you asked over your shoulder, stirring something in a pot that smelled like autumn and kindness and maybe guilt. You had this little dance to it -- kettle, two cups, sugar pot, that weird fucking ceramic cow you used for cream. Ghost watched you like you were some strange alien species. Polite. Efficient. No sudden movements.

He realized he hadn’t said a word in five minutes. Maybe more.

He blinked once behind the mask. Twice. “Fine.”

You placed a mug in front of him, then sat across the table. Calm. Unbothered. Like you did this every day. Like you chose to do this every day. Like you weren’t in the home of a man who had once sharpened a knife on a live op briefing just to make someone nervous.

Ghost cleared his throat. Following suit like a sugarfly to melted honey at the scent of tea across from him. Massive weight of a man creaking the chair as he took the seat across from you. “You don’t have to do all this, you know.”

You tilted your head. A bit of your hair running loose from its updo at the movement. The gentle rivulet of you falling gracefully by your shoulder, “All what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely at the tea. The soup. The you-ness of it all. “I’m not your… you know.”

You smiled, and it was quieter this time. Smaller. But no less real.

“No, Simon. But you are someone’s.”

The words hit like a slug to the sternum.

But you are someone’s. Someone's.

You belong, Simon.

I'm here, Simon.

Come home, Simon.

He didn’t flinch -- but only because he’d been trained not to flinch. Trained to take things that hurt and fold them small, bury them deep, line them up in rows like kill marks on his ribs. But your voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t prying or smug. Just... true. Gentle as a field breeze, and twice as disarming.

He looked away. Jaw tight. The steam from the tea fogging his mask slightly.

He stirred the tea. Once. Twice. Didn’t take the mask off. But didn’t leave either.

You didn’t press. You just took a sip from your own mug and sighed like the world could be kind for five minutes.

“Is it alright?” you asked, nodding at the mug he hadn’t touched yet. “Too much sugar?”

He gave a grunt that might’ve been a no. Might’ve been a yes. You nodded anyway, as if it had been clear as crystal.

There was a pause. Still, not tense. Just... slow. Like a moment stretching out without expectation.

Like sitting in a chapel after the bells had stopped ringing. Old beggar staunched with the promise of alms and salvation at the steps of saints and pilgrims.

Something sacred about the silence, it was. Not empty -- but held. The kind that let thoughts settle in your chest instead of your head. Like maybe not everything needed to be fought to be real.

Ghost stared at the cup again.

Still steaming, still warm.

He remembered something then. Not fully, not clearly -- just a memory flickering at the edge of him like a candle left in a hallway. His hands were smaller. The table was too tall. And the voice -- her voice -- came from the kitchen as snow fell sideways outside the window. Ten year old boy, knees scraped raw, socks uneven, a tiny cut on his knuckle from climbing over someone else’s garden fence. Too proud to cry, too stubborn to apologize, but sitting obediently as he watched her cradle his baby brother Tommy in one hip and a kettle in the other.

“Not too much sugar, love. Just enough, aye? Just right.”

Kitchen light golden soft, dust from last weeks mess still floating like tiny spirits. Jam on toast. That worn old jumper she always wore when it got below freezing. And her voice, clear as breath --

"Come here, love. Sit down. It's alright. You're alright."

It echoed. Old and far and full of weight. A morose and bronzed cathedral bell rung just once -- long enough to vibrate in your bones but never again. Marrows shaking and spine drawn taut like the strings of a too-old violin being shucked and tuned timely for another symphony. Long enough to remember what it was like to be safe before the world cracked open and asked you to bleed for it.

Ghost blinked. The mug in front of him didn’t change, didn’t move. Still steaming. Still warm.

But in the silence, he swore he could hear it -- the soft clink of a teaspoon on porcelain, a lullaby not meant for the battlefield, the sigh of his mother’s breath as she smoothed his hair down and told him that boys could cry too. That softness wasn’t weakness. That love didn’t need armour.

He flexed his fingers around the handle of the mug. Gloved, calloused. The kind of hands that knew how to break bone and build shelter in the same motion.

“Is it alright then? Too much sugar?", you only repeated.

He didn’t flinch.

Just breathed once -- deep and deliberate -- like steadying before a breach.

His hands, still gloved -- armored is what is was -- curled a little tighter around the mug. He raised it slow, like the heat might burn him if he wasn’t careful. Brought it under the mask.

Sipped.

And for a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, quiet. Barely above a breath. The kind of answer you didn’t say unless you meant it with every cell of your body.

“…Just right", he only grunted in return.

drabbles

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oceantornadoo · 2 months ago

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I'm ALWAYS thinking about divorced!Price

Mostly about how good he looks with kids

Imagine him play fighting with them, and how he could pick them both up with ease 🫠 one under each arm

Big beefy hands trying to do delicate hair ribbons (and you're DEFINITELY thinking about those hands doing something else...)

That look he gets in his eyes when he sees YOU with his kids, because you're already a much better mother than their own and would you like to be their new mum

In conclusion...I would give this man a million babies

john price x f!reader

This!

And it's not your fault he looks like that during the unofficial base picnic. A practically indecent t-shirt clinging to his biceps as he fiddles with his daughter's hair bow, nodding as she jabbers away in his lap on the picnic bench. The other daughter has stolen his hat, currently shrieking with laughter as he threatens to call Santa if she doesn't give it back. This is your Captain, the man who but a month ago was shooting down terrorists and wiping off his bloodstained hands on his pristine uniform. Who used his own belt, worn and cracked with use, as a tourniquet for your leg in the field last year. Your blood, maroon ink on white snow, surrounding the two of you in a circle as he murmured praises to keep you awake.

And now he's here, finally finished with the bow after fighting it with sunscreen-slick hands.

The younger one, content with the crooked pink bow, sprints towards you, like she's heard your thoughts. Right before she gets to your spot, a sunny one on the woven picnic blanket you brought, she stops suddenly to examine something in the grass. Her pudgy hand grabs at the ground before bounding towards you. "For you." She blinks ocean blue eyes, the same shade as John's, doe-like as she brandishes the daffodil in her hand. "Thank you, miss." You say graciously, smiling wide when she giggles. You go to tuck it between the folds of the book you brought, but she stops you with a grabby hand.

"No! Princess hair!" She pleads, frowning when you don't understand.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I don't-"

"Here." John cuts off your apology, appearing out of nowhere with his other daughter tucked under his arm like an American football. She squirms out of his grip and into your lap like the most natural thing in the world. John squats and takes the daffodil from your loose grip, callused hand warming yours briefly, before snapping the end of it off to make it shorter. Without asking, he takes your jaw between his fingers and tilts it just so your ear is closer to him. Your Captain tucks the daffodil above your ear, brushing the skin of your cheek softly before releasing you.

"How's that, loves?" The two girls nod furiously, delighted by your princess hair. "Beau-beauteeful." The older one attempts, brows furrowing at the word. John agrees, ruffling her hair by the hat on top of it. "Beautiful." He echoes, voice hoarse as you lock eyes. You open your mouth, to say what you have no idea, and close it before you catch flies.

"Bubbles!" The younger one screeches, seemingly having found Johnny, and the two disappear in a cloud of giggles. "Think this look is standard issue?" You ask with a small smile. "'m not complainin' if you wear it too often." John murmurs, reaching forward until his thumb brushes the delicate petals of the daffodil. You're rendered speechless, leaning into his touch.

"Girls miss havin' a mum who pays attention." He mutters, almost to himself. "Who wouldn't pay attention to them? They're chaotic and darling." You question, in disbelief someone wouldn't want to spend more time with that. "Might need to bring you around more often, then." He rasps, his grip expanding to cover the nape of your neck, giving it a squeeze.

"I'd be amenable to that."

this was not smutty i fear but im just a girl whose PMSing

send more divorced dilf asks i love him your honor

#price #cod 141 #price call of duty #captain john price #price is right #price cod #john price #captain price #john price x reader #captain price x reader #price x reader #tornadothoughts #john price x you #john price x f!reader

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op1umeyes · 1 year ago

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to the heart

cred: @/cafekitsune

Being John’s wifewho is a badass cook and finally meets the team!!

Your mother always said that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Being married to the one and only John Price could only further confirm her statement.

John was a military captain- forming, training, and leading men and women into missions that could very well take their lives. As well as gain muscle and a family, military folk also gained an iron stomach. At least in John’s case.

The way he casually scooped up half the lasgma in the big pan made you wonder how he had survived off of packaged meals. John just shoveled down mouthful by mouthful as you eargerly awaited his reaction. Making something John wouldn’t like is borderline impossible, but you wanted to make only the best for the man that protected you and your loved ones in ways you couldn’t even imagine.

When John finally asked you if you’d be open to meeting the men he unofficially adopted, you were immediately filled with a mix of excitement and anxiety. Your husband had refrained from the gory details of the missions he preformed but entertained you with stories of his team goofing off or doing something impressive (John was more proud of those men then he let on and you could tell). He had told you that the way he had described your cooking had the men salivating.

You had decided to make a classic meal on the evening they were to dine with you. A simple but tasty spaghetti and meatballs dish. For the side- recipe you’d seen from Instagram- you cooked up a dozen fluffy pull-apart garlic/cheese/butter muffins (all dishes were John approved, of course, he’s eaten everything you’ve made). You debated a salad, but figured you’d just offer instead of set out a bowl in case they didn’t want any lettuce or anything.

John pulled you out of the kitchen when he heard the sound of an engine come closer to your secluded country-side home. “They already love you with the way I talk about you, love. Don’t worry your pretty little head,” he murmured, pressing a sweet kiss to your forhead as he les you out to the porch.

Eventually you found out John was exactly right. You greeted everyone with a hug- which was surprising to you that Simon seemed to melt into you like he hadn’t felt a good hug in years because, according to the stories John told you, Simon was anti-touch. Kyle was a sweet young man and you could tell how mich he admired John. Johnny was a handful, you observed. He immediately started taking cracks at Simon after he pulled away from the bone-breaking hug he gave you and recieved a sharp punch to the shoulder.

“Plates and bowls are right there. Silverware’s on the table,” you said, gesturing to the respective items. “Come on, J,” you said, urging your husband up from his spot at the table.

John carried your plate and his in one hand and weapped his hand around your waist with the other. “Are you doing alright so far, love?”

You nodded with a bright smile. You easily got along with John’s teammates and they seemed to get along with you. And you could only hope that they liked the food you made.

Luckily for you, though, you didn’t have to wait long for your answer.

You were sitting down in your seat beside John when you heard a noise that sounded like a gasp and a whimper.

Two spots to your left, the fork in Johnny’s hands shook as he chewed.

“Is- Are you okay?” You asked skeptically. You’d avoided using any foods you’d known they were allergic to, so what was the problem? Did he not like it? Did the spaghetti go bad? Were the meatballs moldy? Did you add the wrong spices to the pull-apart muffins?

“Lass… I need you to send me ma this recipe. I don’t- this is- serve this at my funeral, cap, bury me in this,” he babbled as he shoved forkfuls of noodles into his mouth.

You breathed a sigh of relief, incredibly grateful for Johnny’s compliment and reaction. You looked at Simon and Kyle. To your surprise they too practically licked their playe xlean before bouncing back up to get an even bigger heap of spaghetti.

John watched you through moist eyes and soft smile. The way you fawned over his team like a mother duckling made his heart race in ways he didn’t know was possible for a man his age. He didn’t have to tell you how much he cared for Simon, Kyle, and Johnny. You knew because you always knew- even when John couldn’t form the words to say anything. Seeing you all interact made his heart swell. John felt complete; pure, even. At times he wasn’t sure if he deserved this small but solid family, but he knew he would fight tooth and nail to protect each and every one of you.

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moonriseoverkyoto · 3 months ago

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Hii! Just discovered your blog and I fell in love with the Riley!reader drabble (and part two) my request would be Simon and Reader who meet as adults, but reader is younger (and touch starved) and Simon just kinda adopts them as a younger sibling. If that's not up your alley or anything dw just an idea and no pressure<3

If I’m haunted, am I truly alone?

Notes - HiiiI! I'm sorry for not responding sooner. I'm so happy to have my first request! I've been on an unofficial Hiatus but I'd be honored to fulfill your request. This piqued my interest and Im actually considering re-writing my Johnny "Soap" Mactavish x Riley!Reader fic but where reader joins the 141, has her own codename, the whole works. But I'll write this to ease into writing again. Also you didn't specify the background behind this so I took my own liberty and made you a medic.

Pairing - Platonic! Simon "Ghost" Riley x GN! Reader

Warnings - workplace inaccuracies? medical innaccuracies? Soap gets bulled #sorrynotsorry

There was a loud clang that sounded off throughout the infirmary. It wasn't surprising to hear these loud thrums that beat through the place, it kept everyone alive, it reminded them of where they were. Except for you, oh poor you, your first day on base and you were working errands for your coworkers. Suddenly you bumped into a man standing in the middle of the walkway towards a hallway.

"Hey watch where you're going, man, standing in the middle of the walk way, could've stabbed mysel-"

Your voice died out as your eyes peered up and met bright blue ones hidden behind black eye paint, and a sickly skull mask, that you swear softened for a moment upon seeing your anxious stance.

"Yes sir how can I help you?" you said slowly, not sure if the man would respond.

"Here f'r the Sergeant" he spoke gruffly.

"Which one, there's like a couple dozen in here.." you murmured to yourself peering around at all the beds.

"The sergeant with a mohawk that needed facial sutures." he responded, almost as if it was obvious.

"Oh right, yeah follow me. I'm about to do them" you responded meekly, feeling dumb, of course he'd be here a member of his own team. God you wondered what it was like to have somebody always watching your back. Always finding you and taking you under their wing.

He followed you quietly as you approached Soap's bed. Never once getting in your way, but still watching you.

"Aye there ye are, my knight in shining armor here to patch me up" Soap grinned at you. A sigh fell from your mouth as you spoke smoothly while getting out the suture kit.

"Sergeant I've told you, I'm just doing my job"

"Aye but you're a bloody angel to me" He smiled. Your cheeks would've warmed up if it wasn't for the stiff reply from the lieutenant.

"Johnny shut up and let the poor kid do your stitches so we can get back. I'm not doing your report for you."

"Aye L.T."

You took a deep breath as you slowly threaded the needle through his right cheek, taking your time to stitch. No big deal, first patient of the day is nobody else other than the 141. Definitely no reason to be afraid of screwing up your first suture of your military career.

"At the rate yer goin' I'm guessing I'm yer first patient. Don't worry, L.T. won't bite your head up if you rough me up."

"No this is my first time suturing. I'm usually stuck on errand duty" you spoke honestly as you threaded through the last bit of duty. Soap tensed up and you swore you felt that brick wall of a LT at your back.

"looks jus' fine to me" Ghost quipped quietly, you could almost hear the smirk at Johnny's sudden panic. Your heart warmed the praise, even if it was to quell the Scot's worry.

"LT don't let them rough up my face please. Don't let them ruin my boyish looks-"

"What are you goin' on about in here" a voice said.

"Johnny's medic here is takin' the piss from the poor boy about his sutures." The LT spoke to a man at the door. It was Captain Price, you'd seen him before but never in a personal capacity or for your services.

The Captain let out a soft chuckle as he came over and ruffed up the Scot's hair and stepped back to let you have your room. Your fingers finally threaded and tightened the skin before cutting the threat and applying salve.

"Let me see, let me see" Johnny practically begged with a whine, reaching for a mirror. You moved to grab one only to find Ghost handing it to you, patting your shoulder as the scot peered at your handiwork.

"ye got my knickers in a twist for nothin'" The Scotsman huffed, his cheeks turning pink in embarrassment at his worry.

"What, scared I was gonna take away your boyish looks and devilish charm?" You smirked as you packed up.

"Good job for a first timer" Ghost said softly to you as he and his captain chuckled at Soap. His arm barely brushing along your shoulder. Your heart felt warmed at such a notion.

Your meetings continued on as such in this way. You'd patch up one of the boys, Ghost would praise you, and you'd take turns teasing whoever was nervous about being your "first time" as Johnny smirked to himself. With John you always helped him with his aches and pains after he went down with constantly crashing helicopters. Gaz, you always patched him up since he had a knack for falling out of moving objects easily, even coming to you one time with a slight tear and pulled spine. Murmuring something about Nikolai and shooting upside down. Every time, Ghost, or Simon as he revealed one late night, would reward you with a pat or a ruffle of your hair. Price did the same but there was a comforting warmth when Simon did it. It was like the warmth of a fire from home.

Soon enough Simon was letting you work on him and patch him up every mission.

"Why don't blind people go skydiving?" He grunted out as you cleaned him up.

"I don't know but if you don't stop free falling, I don't know what I'm going to do-"

"It scares the shit outta their dogs." he said softly and waited. You smiled softly and then rolled your eyes.

"Oh that is so bad!" You said as you giggled while apply the last of the ointment to his wound.

"How do you turn make any salad into a caesar salad" You spoke to him now as you were bandaging up Price's leg. The poor guy had fallen out of another helicopter, and got practically bungee jumped for free. His back was shot, not literally and thank god for that, and his leg had rope burn from where he got tangled up in the ropes while handing.

"How do you-"

"Ye stab it twenty-three times." Johnny said before you could spit it out. You turned around shocked, how dare he ruin your joke. Your mouth hung in shock as you finished up Price before turning around. "Et tu, Brute?" you said cocking your eyebrow at him, before winding up your gear to launch at him. Quickly, Ghost came up behind you and grabbed you from behind. You melted into his touch but in the same way a feral kitten still bubbles with anger just underneath the surface. It was nice to be hugged by Simon, but you will wanted to get Soap back.

"Looking ferocious as ever." Gaz smiled as he walked in with snacks for everyone.

"He told the punchline to my joke" You frowned almost looking around for somebody to take your side. Ghost nodded to you, his eyes softening as his hand ran up your shoulder and tapped you in comfort.

"Hey Johnny, what's big, warm and bad for your mohawk" you said as you smirked. Ghost chuckled behind you as he caught on quick. Your eyes catch each others for a mere moment before you locked in on the scotsman. Within that half a second, you and Simon had concocted a plan. Price watched with a smile, he swore in another life that you two were twins.

"I don't know the punchline to this on-"

"me." you said as you suddenly jumped at the scotsman, horror covering his face suddenly. Price swear he didn't know a human scream could break the sound barrier till that day. Nor did he know that even medics could be temporarily banned from their station.

One day, dad jokes and bandaids weren't enough for Simon.

"Kid, where's the kid?" Captain Price was yelling as they drug in a large man into the infirmary in full gear. His face obscured from you so you weren't heavily concerned. Soap and Gaz pushed the bed and the masked man into a private care room.

"I'm right here, patching up somebody, old man, grab somebody else with more tim-" You were swiftly cut off at words that shot down your spine.

"Simon's been shot, he only trusts you to pull it out."

"Huh?" You say as you rush over into the private room. Suddenly the masked figure yanked off the balaclava once in the privacy of the room.

"Me shot, you remove, you clean, that clear, kid?" Simon's gruff voice shocked you into reality, you didn't miss the slight teasing tone at the almost neanderthal way he communicated.

"But I've never done this fully by myself-"

"Still only trust you."

"Simon what if I-"

"I'm right here, I'll stop you if it hurts" He said suddenly as he removed his gear and then shed the bloody clothes to reveal the mess of blood on his shoulder where he had been hit. His hand enveloped your wrist. "I promise kid, now can you promise me something?" His voice was calm, levelheaded. But he had a smirk similar to when he was about to tell you a joke.

"Anything"

"Promise me you wont ruin my boyish looks" He smirked. Everyone swore that the sound of a nearby train was actually steam blowing out of the Scotsman's ears.

notes - That’s it!! I hope it was good. I somewhat struggled to directly state the dynamic of Ghost and Reader without making Ghost tooo ooc but I hope I did good!

Requests are open!

Pt.2 is up!

#call of duty headcanons #call of duty fanfic #gaz call of duty #price call of duty #ghost call of duty #soap call of duty #soap mactavish x reader #call of duty #john price #simon riley x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #request #cod drabble #cod fanfic #john price cod #little ooc sorry

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world-exploration · 23 days ago

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FROM : captain-price-unofficially

Iranian ballistic missile hitting a southern suburb of Tel Aviv, Israel overnight. June 15th 2025

#captain-price-unofficially #news #israel #iran #wars #missiles #tel aviv #june #gifs #accidents & news & various infos

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irradiate-space · 1 year ago

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The thing that stuck out to me about this house is that she's manually installing those cheap, temporary door-stop alarms. Why doesn't she have a remote-monitoring home security system with door and window alarms, motion sensors, and cameras? She doesn't have glass-break alarms. She doesn't mention smoke detectors. She's got the inexpensive Wyze cameras that don't integrate with anything else. Her setup relies on her as a single point of failure.

Remote monitoring means that if you're incapacitated, the alarm company gets the alarm and can call 911 for you. Sure, it's pricey ($$/mo), but if she's paranoid enough to install shim locks on the doors, surely she's willing to shell out however much is charged by ADT or Vivint or SimpliSafe or Abode or Cove or whomever.

This video could be one half of an advertisement. Put on a TikTok duet where this video runs in contrast with someone who waves goodbye to her husband, presses the "Arm Stay" button on the panel, and then goes about the rest of her day with a smile on her face and warm background lighting.

#home security #tiktok #isaacsapphire #wordsaalt #true crime podcast #captain-price-unofficially

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qwimblenorrisstan · 10 months ago

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Surprise Pt. 5 | Soap x Reader

Summary: The boys learn that they don’t know you as well as they thought they did, while you find some newfound ‘friends’ in an American and his unofficial boss in Urzikstan.

Word Count: ~ 4.6k

Warnings: Descriptions of death, knives, blood, guns, explosions, debris, gas, torture, kidnapping, shooting, choking, heavy topics, biting, it’s a lot yall

A/N: umm sorry ive been gone for a week here’s some food!! *runs away* this is a big switchup though from mainly 141 to Alex, Farah, and a few more pieces of reader’s backstory so lmk any thoughts or theories (yk I love them) hope you enjoy<3 (side quest: find how many characters you can recognize from cod!)

Requests are open!

Previous | Masterlist | Next

The first thing Captain John Price registered when he walked into the room, the rest of his Task Force following closely behind, was that they were in some deep shit. They’d just gotten back from a mission. The one they’d been called into during the volleyball game. It had been low stakes, but instead of going back to the apartment, they’d been told to get back to base as soon as possible.

Laswell was pacing back and forth, fidgeting, two things she never did unless everything was falling apart at the seams. The last time he’d seen her so worked up had been years ago. When she caught sight of him, there was no sigh of relief or relaxation, she breathed out four words.

”They got her, John.”

He tried not to let the tension in his body show, tried not to look just how internally panicked he was right now. Simon stiffened, hands balling into fists. Price knew it was a conscious effort to not lash out immediately.

”What.”

Ghosh ground out, eyes narrowed. Soap tried putting a hand on his shoulder, a hand that Simon only shoved off immediately. Laswell just shook her head, looking to be in shock as she only sat down at one of the chairs in the dimly lit room, pulling documents out from a drawer under the long table.

Price was the first to sit, followed by Gaz, then Soap, and finally, Simon who refused to relax, his leg bouncing impatiently under the table, hands on his knees.

Laswell opened one of the files, sliding it around to where they could see it. Lo and behold, it was a picture of you from a few years back, maybe when you’d been 14 or 15. You shouldn’t have been able to get in that early, it shouldn’t have even been possible. You wore a uniform, the file listing you by your first and last name, your callsign in the center. There was no official position or branch like there should’ve been.

“Wasp.”

Price stared at it for a few moments, reading whatever he could glean over in the file before glancing up at Laswell, who in turn pulled another file out. This one looked newer, the corners were not bent or warped yet. When she opened it, there was no picture on file. This time, it stated “Marines” as your branch. Your last name was listed as “Woods” instead of Riley.

To keep Simon from finding you on the database, most likely. Or someone else.

And the thing that caught his attention the most?

The “Captain” title right next to your first name.

”That’s nae possible.”

Soap said, jaw clenched as he glanced at Simon, the man refusing to meet his eye, glaring down at the files.

”It is,”

Laswell said, breathing out a shaky breath. Trying to calm herself, Price knew.

”They found her in a camp at 12, Frank Woods took her in, pulled some strings, and enrolled her early off record. He kept her mostly off base in a safe house until she turned 18.”

Gaz’s gaze was on Laswell now, narrowed, pinned on her. Interrogation was his specialty, after all.

”A camp?”

A nod.

”Essentially a POW camp, her relations to Ghost meant she was a valuable asset to bargain.”

Price didn’t need to glance over at Ghost to see the way he’d nearly stopped breathing, the shock being a common aspect among the group. Gaz let out a deep breath, hand going to hold the brim of his cap, his gloved finger running along the seam.

”Then how the bloody hell is she in high school?”

Simon asked, trying to reason with how this could’ve happened, how you could’ve lied to them, to him, for so long about everything and he’d never even caught on. It hadn’t been a volleyball camp keeping you from attending his mum’s funeral, it had been a POW camp, one you had been in because of him in the first place. And the new, somewhat stable foster home you’d been in? A safe house provided by your new foster parent, Frank Woods, an American Sergeant that Simon had heard whispers of.

He’d allegedly been a force to reckon with during the Korean and Vietnam wars, retired now and pushing 60 probably, but no less legendary by military standards.

”She’s 23, Lieutenant. It was a cover mission.”

Another surprise.

Another lie.

“Steamin’ Jesus…”

Soap muttered, the gleam in his eye dimming from what was most likely concern.

”It was an undercover mission, but with her gone, I don’t know how we’ll handle Nova…”

Laswell muttered to herself, catching herself just in time to shut her mouth then and there, probably realizing she’d already said too much, when Price stood up, staring her down.

”Nova? The hell is that?”

He asked sternly, and Laswell gathered the files in her hands, putting them neatly back into stacks, falling back into the controlled woman he usually saw her as.

”That’s classified, John.”

“Considering we’re closely involved with her, I don’t think it is, Kate.”

He saw the slight whiplash it gave her to call her by her first name, which made sense considering it was always Laswell. Her face grew stern, despite the worried frown lines already carving into her face.

”Don’t. We’ll get her back.”

The rest of the boys watched as she walked out of the room, Gaz muttering something sarcastic under his breath, Price pacing, Soap cursing not so quietly under his breath in his full unbridled accent, and Ghost sitting deathly still.

”I’ll talk to Briggs.”

Price said firmly, words stiff as he walked out of the room.

A moment of silence between the remaining three in the room.

Soap was the first to speak.

“Fuck!”

The sweet and irony smell of blood filled your nose as you shakily tried to move, limbs trembling for some reason.

Blinking to try and clear the blurriness in them, you opened your eyes, only to begin rapidly blinking as something small and grainy lifted from a sudden draft and blew into your eyes.

Sand.

You hated sand. The way it shifted under your feet, how it got under all your clothing and in your mouth, under your nails, and in your shoes. The grainy, grinding texture of it against your skin when you had a high-stakes mission and had to lie in it, waiting for the perfect shot.

But sand of this texture was in a handful of places, so at least you could narrow your location down a bit. Getting up and looking around would also help.

You were in a small room, from the looks of it, leaning against a wooden beam that dug at the clothing on your back with jagged edges. Textured, colorfully patterned quilts and blankets hung around, and shifting your head to turn right despite how it throbbed, you saw a corkboard filled with pins and images of people, locations, and notes. A few of the faces were recognizable, not in a good way though. Recognizable in the sense that you had seen those faces before you thought you’d killed them.

The sandy floor beneath you had wood underneath, by the feel of it. Your palms pushed against the floor, trying to get the leverage to stand up, only for you to slump against the wood again.

You needed to get up.

This time using your good leg to push against the floor, as well as your palms, you got almost halfway up the beam, nearly standing, when the sand made your foot slide back out and you fell onto the floor again.

A small, breathy chuckle from the other side of the room had you immediately turning your head, the quick movement making it spin slightly, even as you heard the sound of metal moving against the floor as well as only one footstep every few seconds.

“I don’t like the sand either. Hard on my leg, or what’s left of it, anyways.”

The American from earlier came in, maybe Alex? You’d been so disoriented when he’d told you that you could hardly remember. Fragments of foggy bits came to light, but nothing more than that.

His hair was a sandy color, dirty blonde almost, with a mustache and hair that was sticking almost straight up but short enough to not look ridiculous. His one leg was perfectly normal, but on the other, there was a curved piece of metal to replace the lower half of it where a nub was all that was left.

He offered you a hand, one you hesitated before taking. An American soldier wasn’t a threat, or at least shouldn’t be. He pulled you up as you stumbled to your feet.

“Where are we?”

Your raspy voice asked, throat dry. You tried to clear it to no avail. He grabbed a canteen from a table a few feet away, near the corkboard, and handed it to you with the lid already popped off.

“Zaravan City, Urzikstan. We’re not close to much anything, though, this is one of our safe houses.”

He spoke while you chugged the water, it flowing down your throat mercifully and filling your empty stomach, only serving to remind you that you were also starving. Food could wait, though. When you handed the nearly empty canteen back to him with a small sigh, you raised a brow.

“Our?”

A woman’s voice, thick with a familiar accent, spoke then.

“Yes, our.”

She was standing by the corkboard, glancing over the information with a sharp eye, before walking over to Alex. Her hair was dark and thick, tied tightly back into what seemed to be a ponytail beneath her dark garb. A gun hung from her hip, something semi-automatic. You weren’t sure if that was legal or not here, but couldn’t find it within you to care.

“Farah, in case you don’t remember, Riley.”

You were glad she’d told you because you most definitely did not remember her name. Her gaze met yours, and you held it for a long minute, recognizable facial features coming to your mind, like a dream, you could reach but not quite hold. And then—you remembered.

“Karim,”

You breathed, eyes narrowing. General Karim had proven to be more than capable more times than once during the scandals throughout Urzikstan, especially to the boys.

The boys.

You’d nearly forgotten until now, but you wondered just how much they knew. Whether someone had spilled, or Laswell had told them everything. They would probably be biting at the leash, but there was nothing that could be done now, not with the mission having failed.

They were on their own now.

Farah nodded.

“It is not every day we find an American in a Mexican facility,”

A pointed glance at Alex, whose lips curled slightly up at that.

You grumbled, legs still shaky, probably from the gas that had managed to slip in before you’d put the gas mask on doing rounds through your body, the last of it yet to leave. Managing to stumble over to a chair near a small round table in the corner of the room, you sat down, it groaning under your weight.

“Not every day I see a group from America and Urzikstan in a Mexican facility.”

You shot back and watched as Farah and Alex exchanged a glance, a silent conversation happening right in front of you. Rude, but you couldn’t say you hadn’t done the same thing before.

Alex sighed, grabbing the chair with one hand and easing himself down onto it with his leg, propping the prosthetic up on a nearby crate.

His blue eyes met yours as he set one elbow down on the table.

“We were going after Santiago Garza, a key member of their cartel, which we have reason to believe has…”

He exchanged a glance with Farah, who gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head.

“…access to things he shouldn’t.”

Alex finished. Farah spoke next, already sensing your oncoming interrogation despite not being in control of the situation.

“We answered yours, now answer our question. Why did he want you?”

Her tone was demanding, leaving no wiggle room for you to try and keep anything from her. If this whole arrangement was going to work out, you were going to have to be transparent with them, anyway. Or as transparent as you could be.

“I have a… personal history with the Garza family. Not a pretty one.”

Farah pressed her lips together but didn’t question further.

The American wasn’t as smart.

“What kind of history?”

He asked, brows raised in an almost innocent expression if it weren’t for the gleam of suspicion in his eyes. You shook your head. Not willing to talk about it. Not now. Woods was the only one you’d ever talked to about it, other than David when the bastard was even there.

Which hadn’t been often.

“What’s the date?”

You then asked. If you’d been captured in America, and then taken to a supposed Mexican facility, then to Urzikstan, it must’ve taken quite a while. Not to mention the travel from there to the safe house…

“The 24th.”

Farah answered, hands moving to idly wipe sand off of the barrel of her gun, back leaning against the wooden post. Her finger remained near the trigger. Untrusting.

It had been nearly four days.

By then, someone had to have noticed the body of Nalani in your room, and your obvious absence. A homicide and a missing person’s case as well, most likely. The boys had definitely heard of it then, despite what you assumed was a mission they were on, considering how early they left that volleyball game.

Had Woods been informed? Had anyone on your team been informed, or were they still too deep in their work in your absence?

Alex’s eyes snapped to the window as he heard something rustling outside, and within moments he was down on his haunches, you and Farah were quick to follow as he lifted one of the thin sheets lying over the windows from the bottom, glancing out for a second.

The pain in your limbs was barely even noticeable compared to the mini-adrenaline rush you were flooded with, mind and body sharp and alert. You’d performed while in much worse conditions, you could manage this one just fine, you were sure.

But without a weapon, you were defenseless.

Reaching for a gun that was laid out on the table, Alex’s hand grabbing your wrist stopped you and refused to let you grab it.

“We’ll handle this, stay inside.”

He said in a hushed tone, voice firm, even though Farah was the one with the most authority here over the both of you.

Farah slowly opened the door, peeking out, dark eyes scanning the dusty roads and markets, when several shots rang out, feminine screams following quickly as the sound of people running became all too obvious.

“Al-Qatala.”

Farah murmured, jerking her chin to Alex, before slipping her gun from her side and walking out of the door, the American man giving you one last glance that clearly said “Stay here.” before following.

Racking your brain, you tried to remember anything that might help you. Urzikstan. A small country in Western Asia. Violence wasn’t uncommon, by the sound of it. And Al-Qatala…try as you might, you couldn’t remember anything about whoever they were. Maybe some sort of gang? Probably, judging by the gunfire and angry Arabic being barked out in the streets.

But you weren’t going to be helpless, stuck in this tiny “safe house” that had two entrances and one large window a man could easily fit through. You stood up, careful to stay clear of the window to avoid catching any strays, only to find the gun that had been on the table gone.

Alex must’ve taken it.

They surely had more weapons somewhere, except for the fact that no matter where you searched, there was nothing to be found. Nothing except documents of blacked-out information, pictures on the board, and a small stash of food and water lying around. A lot of dates, too.

It wasn’t an ideal situation, but you could work with it.

A few strands of rope that you quickly picked up were lying around. Every lesson you’d overheard Woods giving to his team, drilling it into their heads, began repeating in your mind. Like a dream, almost.

“Can any of you boys tell me the five rules of guerrilla warfare?”

His voice, sharp and brusque but not hostile, asked the men in front of him.

You were crouched down, hiding in one of the small areas where the metal of the walls dented outwards slightly, giving you an area to lay down and peek through at him.

One of the men raised his hand in a salute, chapped lips opening to speak.

“Hit and run, sir!”

Woods nodded, hand shooting out to point at another man down the line of soldiers. Mostly young boys who stupidly enlisted, living for their country and dying for it. You didn’t see the point, even if Woods did. You’d never seen the point, not even when Simon had enlisted.

He could’ve been one of the dead.

He still might be. You hadn’t seen him in a while.

“Ambush, sir!”

You snapped back into focus at that, eyes watching keenly as the man nodded again. He had a habit of it; nodding very often. Even if you just inclined to take a bite of soup, he’d nod. The praise was sort of nice, you supposed. Even if you barely knew him, just having arrived here a few weeks ago.

They’d found you on one of the starving horses from the camps, near the front of the marching people, leading their way to freedom despite how sickly and beaten most were. You weren’t much better.

And when the bastard controlling that camp must’ve ordered his remaining men to circle like vultures and take out as many of the surviving prisoners as he could?

Everyone alive after the vicious attack had huddled together in a small cave, the people at the entrance usually being shot from overhead planes by the men too cowardly to approach.

They’d found you huddled up, a warm body on top of you, on one of the sides. Thrown you over their shoulder. Taken you away despite your hitting and biting, and brought you here to domesticate you again. They weren’t bad. They were just soldiers. And soldiers were all about duty and honor, two things you couldn’t find within yourself to care about much anymore. You wondered if Simon still cared about them, or if he’d been numb to it for much longer. After the death of his mother, and how pissed he’d been that you’d missed the funeral, you seriously doubted it.

Snapping out of your thoughts, you watched Woods nod again. You must’ve missed the others, but you knew them by heart by now. After watching and listening for so long.

Harassment.

Mobility.

And finally…

“Surprise.”

A hand grabbed you by the arm, yanking you forward and through the wall, through the hole you’d been watching from. Woods held you by the arm infuriatingly easily, which made sense considering how much of a runt you were. Or had been at the time.

The metal had scraped against your shoulder, cutting open a shallow scratch from collarbone to right arm. You glared at him, kicking at him even as his soldiers chuckled.

Laughing at you.

You despised how patronizing it felt, leaning forward and sinking your deceivingly sharp teeth into the wrist of his hand that held you. Blood drew, and he didn’t drop you, simply moving to hold you in his other arm, smiling warmly at you as his shoulders shook from silent laughter.

“Feisty, huh?”

He said in an amused tone, ruffling your hair while someone went to grab a medic.

The memory felt warm and fuzzy, a reminder of a long time ago, though it only felt like yesterday.

But you had more important things to do than have an existential crisis.

Spying a fan in the corner, you pried the metal caging off, wrapping both hands around one of the metal pieces on it, and yanking until a piece came off. Jagged and sharp. Just how you needed it.

Wrapping your little pieces of rope around the base to protect your hand, you crept towards the back exit, listening for the sounds of any footsteps nearby. It would be hard to overhear, especially with the sounds of yelling, screaming, and gunfire in the streets. You wondered if your little makeshift friends had joined the dead or not.

A near-silent step, a branch accidentally cracking under his step, and you were on him.

Hit and run.

The metal slid smoothly into his throat, a quiet wheeze being all he could get out before you leaned his body back, watching his eyes glaze over as the blood ebbed and flowed. You pulled the gun from his hands, searching and taking what was left of his weapons as well.

One flash bang.

One knife, the case of which you strapped onto your hip, the flash bang being tucked into it soon after.

Mobility.

You crouched down, glancing left and right on the street, and breaking into a low sprint to a building down the dusty road. A restaurant by the looks of it. You couldn’t read the Arabic on the front, it having been one of the languages you hadn’t learned, even in your training for Special Forces.

More if the men flooded the streets just as you ducked behind the counter. Letting them all know you were here with gunfire wasn’t beneficial yet, not when you were so badly outnumbered. You needed to find the central point they were getting in from.

You needed to move.

Waiting for the men to pass by, you eventually went out of the back exit of the restaurant, passing the cool chill of its freezer near the kitchen before jumping onto a ladder in the alleyway outside, climbing up, and falling prone onto the ground as soon as you were there.

Looking up over the ledge, you could see now how there were so many.

Trucks were spread about the city, men exiting them and taking cover for a few seconds until they got to where they wanted to be, and started opening fire. They communicated through their radios, but why they would be here didn’t make sense.

Why try to raid a city when you couldn’t gain much, if anything from it?

Unless they weren’t trying to gain but to take someone out.

Someone who had always been against what you assumed was their little group. And that someone was none other than Farah, judging by how quickly she recognized them, and the gleam of hatred in her eyes when she looked at them. She’d been a bit too eager to slaughter them.

And with how quickly the men were flooding the roads and streets, and their communication, it wouldn’t be long until they found her.

Unless…

Glancing at the rooftop a few buildings over, you saw none other than a large tower. Not just any tower, but an antenna tower.

You observed the crowd for a moment, scanning, watching everyone, until you saw it. Heard it, rather, the loud boom it made, the man yelling “RPG!”. It was the second story of the building across the street. You couldn’t get there in time, even if you got over there without being killed or without too many civilians dying.

You needed to buy time.

Gathering the fractures courage left in your body, you got onto the balls of your feet, and against everything you’d been told, to stay quiet and unnoticeable, you began a mad dash across the building, jumping, and not stopping to marvel when your feet hit the solid ground of the other rooftop, only running further.

You still hadn’t gotten his attention.

You were almost to the antenna tower. Now or never.

Harassment.

Slipping the flash bang out of your belt-ish thing, you pulled the pin out, throwing it up in the air. You heard it when it went off, your vision blurring white as you dove and hit the floor. He must’ve heard it too, considering that when you glanced over, the large weapon was aimed at you, and when he fired, you saw it sail through the air not only at you but at the tower as well.

Diving over the edge of the building, you heard the blast, and chunks of debris and wire began raining from the sky in your area. Your ankles burned when you stood, legs screaming against any movement. Ash floated into your nose and throat, as well as the smell of fire, and you took off into another run, diving into a building, only to run face-first into another man.

Ambush.

Your fist met his jaw before his bullet met your body, but barely. You both rolled to the floor, kicking and flailing around, landing hits on each other. He jabbed at you with his gun, his knife out of reach. You rolled him onto his back, your knife coming out, only to be knocked away by his calloused hands.

Your arm went around his neck, hand locking into place with your other elbow as your knee pressed on his neck. Your breathing was pants, more gasps than anything as he gave a final few kicks, before going limp.

You picked your knife back up, head jolting up when you heard a familiar female yell just a few streets down.

The members of the Al-Qatala seemed lost, some shouting to others in Arabic, others going on rampages against civilians just for the hell of it, seemingly. You didn’t doubt that Farah had a small army of her own, but they hadn’t been prepared.

Neither had you.

Sinking lower to not attract attention, you crept through the streets, watching carefully, or as carefully as you could through your blurry vision. Sand and dust blew into it, but you couldn’t find the strength to blink it away.

Your head was throbbing again.

You weren’t sure how you managed the journey there, brain taking a temporary lapse in recording memory maybe, but the next thing you knew, you were near an old warehouse.

Talking came from inside.

A raspy voice. Old, but not kind or warm, not like the voices of the old men you were used to. Harsh and sharp. Like a whip wailing as it flew through the air. Cut paths through it.

“Where is it?”

Silence. As you crept up to the entrance of the warehouse, where the door was just slightly ajar, you could see the outline of Farah tied into a chair. Multiple other men inside. Maybe three or four. Pulling your gun slowly out, you set the handle against your knee, putting your eye right on the scope.

“We know you have the gas, Farah, or should I call you Karim?”

Cruel.

Unnecessary.

But it gave you a kernel of information.

Information you would think about later if you had the time. If you didn’t die here.

A harsh hit to the face. Audible.

You could tell it stung, but she didn’t budge.

You lined the scope up with his head, finger closing in on the trigger, holding down, just not enough until.

Surprise.

The blast of the shot alone rang out through the warehouse. Except it wasn’t who you’d been expecting to fall to the ground who did.

It wasn’t who you’d thought it had been. Not Al-Qatala, not Cartel.

No, instead, Philip Graves, director of the Shadow Company, fell sideways in the dirt.

And the men surrounding Farah?

None other than your own team that had been handed off to Graves during your departure.

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@karleequinn

@sharkluver

@100percentlazybonez

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@juneonhoth

@theyoungeagle

@kee-0-kee

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lunarw0rks · 2 years ago

Note

hi!! just wanted to stop in and give an idea ig

141 with a reader who’s like a mother hen after a mission, making sure everyone’s not injured, and god forbid they are, she’s trying to stop the bleeding, and scolding soap for being so reckless!! even after they get back to base after a long day, she’s fussy.

IDK JUST A RANDOM BLURB??

A/N: Such a cute idea, not one I would've thought of on my own! Hope I did the request justice <3

Summary: It's in your nature, the motherly role you feel towards the other members of the Task Force. Patching up their injuries, and scolding the two most reckless ones, it's all become routine.

Warning(s): platonic!141, fem!reader, canon-typical violence, blood/minor injury mention, mild language, suggestive banter, no use of y/n

Word Count: 2.1k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ 141 MASTERLIST // have a request? ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ ao3 ver.

Troublemakers // Drabble

Though you hadn’t said a word on the ride back, at least outside of ones pertaining to the operation, the look on your face said enough. For every mission, no matter the time and place, something goes wrong—someone gets hurt.

“Anybody broken?” Captain Price comes through the comms, the static crackling through the jeep.

“Everybody’s fine, Captain. For now.” Your voice hissed back into the radio, eyes scanning their faces for any signs of an injury. Right now, there weren’t any signs. But the second this jeep stopped, there was no way in hell they were getting past you without you at least checking. It had become your unofficial job; the mother of the team, the medic without an official title, even the ‘buzzkill’ at some points.

There was no time to fuss over them at first, during evac. Everyone had piled into the vehicles too quickly, and you were eager to get out of there just as much. You were a natural nurturer, but not blinded by your instincts—there was a chain of command, after all. When your Captain says to evac, you evac, no questions.

Once the titles and formalities fizzled out, once the comms went quiet, that side of you always came out.

The jeep was moving at high speeds, and the passing landscape was a blur. A secluded, abandoned field where the operation went wrong; the taperings of town turning into the city; fizzled out until it turned into the secluded dry field again—when you reached the base.

In usual fashion, everyone got out first, and you last.

It was second nature, ushering them out like a clown car, then examining the inside of the empty vehicle to make sure nobody forgot anything. It was comical to them, so comical they still shot amused looks as you cased the car. Any further into this role, and you would start saying “C’mon kids” every time you went somewhere with them.

Another challenge to their chivalry was the way you held the door open for each of them, eyes glued to them as pursed your lips in discontent. But, they knew the drill just as well as you did.

First, you peered at Simon, though he just walked by with his usual scowl, probably finding a dark corner to brood in. He was the only one you didn’t bother to fuss over, unless you wanted to get chewed out, naturally.

It was the other two you were the most concerned about—Gaz and Soap, the troublemakers. If you could call them that in the field, you would have a thousand times already, and most likely more than that, knowing them.

Heavy sighs filled the room, sweaty brows wiped as they relieved their bodies of the extra pounds their gear gave them. Vests and buckles undone, muscles stretched as the adrenaline coursing through each of you steadied itself.

For once, you were also overjoyed to see the bland walls of this base, and them too, as much as they gave you grief. Each mission was like watching a toddler climb up to the top of a playset, waiting for the inevitable injury that comes once they fall—and every time, your hammering heart nearly came through your chest.

Yes, they were grown men, trained soldiers, but that instinct still prevailed. You couldn’t trust them with your life if they didn’t have theirs, could you? The world kept turning, and the clocks kept ticking, all as long as you played your maternal part in this arrangement.

You squinted at the two troublemakers, that gut instinct showing itself. “You sure nothing went wrong, you two? No blood?” It was a series of accusations, not naive questions. You knew something was up, there was that bubbling in your chest.

Gaz’s lip tightened into a line like he was trying not to reveal the truth. “No blood.” What a liar, and a bad one at that. Knowing these two, Soap was probably pinching his skin where you couldn’t see, trying to contort it until you were left with no suspicions.

There was no way you could force the truth out, so if they didn’t want your help, they weren’t getting it from you.

With a slow nod, you began to take off your own gear, gathering your pack and all the extras. Perhaps, for once, it would be a happy ending. You would settle into your dorm, lay back on your cot, and catch up on some paperwork, maybe even some light reading—

Well, that fantasy came about as quickly as it went.

Soap’s palm was hovering over his side, letting out a grunt of pain when he put his backpack over his shoulders. He had turned so abruptly, nearly scampering down to reach his own dorm. But he wasn’t quick enough, and your iron grip on his wrist—it was as unyielding as your grit.

“C’mon, I’m fine, Lass.” Soap grunts, like a child embarrassed when his mother dabs his face with a napkin. “It’s just a—”

“—a scratch?” You scoff, lightly smacking your free hand against his tender side. No matter how tough he was, how well he thought he was going to hide it, he had keeled over and held the spot you barely made contact with.

Gaz was attempting to contain his laughter, which was only met with the kick of one of Soap’s legs to his shin.

You couldn’t believe it, from causing trouble and bickering to working as a team and failing miserably.

The grip on Soap’s wrist loosened, instead now on the strap of his bag, gently sliding it off his tender shoulder. “Let me look at it, please.” You pleaded, trying to keep your tone both firm but concerned all at once. It seems it wasn’t just a scratch; once again you were right.

“I got nothin’ but admiration for you, why do you do this to me?” Soap whines, still not budging and letting you examine the wounds.

You ran your tongue over the inside of your cheek, cocking a brow at him. “Sit down, Johnny. Now.”

Your finger was pointing at one of the spare dining chairs in the kitchenette, and it wasn’t a request either. He knew that by now. Soap could try and swoon you, butter you up until you left it alone, but it wouldn’t work.

“Yes, ma’am.” His tone was defeated, but he still had a smirk on his face, like he was enjoying the attention.

Gaz snickered from behind you, and you could hear him begin his trek out of the room. “Better to just listen to the lady, or she won’t stop.”

Before you could even lay eyes on Soap’s injury, your head snapped in Gaz’s direction. He was on just as thin of ice, he was only lucky you could tolerate his jokes. “You’re part of this too, Gaz. I suggest you don’t wander too far.”

It was ironic; men who had worked so hard, trained to kill, and yet, they were downright gutless when in your sights, especially when caught in a lie.

All apart from Simon, who maintained the same distance with you as everyone else—that you could accept, it was just the way he was. But from these two clowns? Not for a second.

It wasn’t coming from thin air, either, this was a two-sided deal. The first time you were injured in the field, you attempted to diminish it, to write it off and suffer by yourself. It went about as well for you as it was for Soap right now—forced into a chair and stitched up with an icy glare, one that says “don’t ever do that again” without any actual words surfacing.

That’s how you knew this wasn’t in vain, even if your work didn’t always come with a response of gratitude.

You were strong where they were weak—and in return, they would quite literally kill for you, in and out of the field. God knows you’ve had to hold them back more than a few times; order comes out wrong at the restaurant, you get ghosted after a date, or someone insults your abilities as a soldier? It’s a mess.

Your eyes stayed on Soap’s pout through the reflection of the window above the sink, scrubbing away the grime on your hands before you got to work on him. In mere minutes, you’d retrieved the very used first aid kit, laying out any supplies you might need. Knowing him, it could be as small as a papercut, or a gushing wound under the fabric of his shirt.

He had already removed his, cheeks rosy and lips crinkled like you hadn’t seen this a thousand times. Not to mention, you were patching him up, not asking for a striptease. He was the one making things awkward, for the record.

Aside from the dirt, the scars, and small scrapes, it was an injury that needed to be looked at, regardless of how stubborn the patient was. A nasty bruise was forming on his peck area and below it a gash with some tiny glass shards still embedded in it. The shoulder had no visible injury, but based on how tender the skin was, he had sprained it again.

“Christ. How do you manage this? It was a simple sweep mission, MacTavish.” You shook your head in disapproval, putting on a pair of disposable gloves with a loud snap of the blue latex.

He takes the hits like a dog that knows he’s in trouble, only it's a look of acceptance rather than apprehension. It was coming from a place of care, not anger, and by God did Soap’s reckless behavior make your heart drop often.

Your rambles continued, almost as if you were talking to yourself. Your fingers worked carefully, using the tweezers to get any debris out of there.

“Can you do anything about this, Captain?” Soap’s words made your work slow, not stop.

“No, I cannot, Sergeant.” Even Price was aware of this dynamic, and frankly, he was thankful for it, one less person to worry about getting in trouble. You scolded it, didn’t partake in it—and that left less paternal instincts of his own to run dry.

Price’s boots retreated without another word, probably to work tirelessly in his office for the rest of the night. Now, it was clear to Soap that there really was no way out of this, no way to shimmy away from your caring nature.

Might as well take advantage of it the only way he knew how. “You look like you need a drink, Lass. Always so tense.”

You stared up at him through your lashes, wrapping the gauze a little tighter than you usually would. What were you supposed to say to that? He was right, you could use a drink, but he wasn’t going to get the satisfaction of being right—being right was your job.

Before you could utter a witty response, Simon spoke up for the first time since the mission. “She has a scalpel at the ready, Johnny. I would tread lightly if I were you.” For once, his cynical humor had landed on your side, and it nearly made you spit out a laugh, if you weren’t so focused.

If you were as childish as Soap, you might’ve said I told you so, but your stern look said enough. After you finished disinfecting the wounds, you bandaged them up, patting the cotton with your fingers to make it stick.

“All better now, just don’t do it again.” A satisfied beam appeared on your face, that worry in your gut dissipating when he was patched up. “Please?” Now, it was desperate and anxiety-filled.

He probably would do something like this again, but maybe next time he would at least think first, and you could live with that.

Soaps fingers find his shirt, slipping it over his head slowly with a pained groan. “I can’t promise that.” Then, they find the nearest bottle of whiskey, in true fashion for him. “But I’ll find you first next time, ask permission to get hurt.”

You scoffed and let out a sarcastic ha-ha, but stepped back enough to give him space, discarding the gloves into the waste basket. Once he had collected his things, keeping them in his uninjured arm this time, a cheek smirk appeared again.

He waited until you had turned your back to wash your hands again, and to be safe, a few feet further from you. “Thanks, Mom.” Soap turned on his heels and whipped around the corner, down the hall before you could show him your face of shock.

On second thought, maybe next time he wouldn’t have to ask to get hurt, and it would be your own two hands making him pay for that comment.

#mw2 #mw2 fanfic #call of duty #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #simon riley #soap mctavish #kyle gaz garrick #captain price #141 x reader #task force 141 x y/n

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darth-mortem · 11 days ago

Text

The 18th part of my demon!Ghost AU. Laswell manages to find traces of the ‘Malleus Maleficarum’ in Italy, and with no other assignments, 141 heads there. They almost reach their goal, but an encounter with a mysterious stranger forces them to change their plans.

Demon Ghost in suit, Soap is loosing his mind. 3329 words.

The members of TF141 gathered in the break room, where Price had unexpectedly summoned them. Roach and Gaz were the first to arrive, and a couple of minutes later, Soap brought Ghost, who, as before, refused to even try using the phone or radio.

“Sit down, lads, but don't relax too much.” The captain said, glancing at his subordinates. “In two hours, we're flying to Turin, Italy.”

“New mission, sir?” Gaz asked.

“Not exactly.” Price smiled slightly. "As it turns out, Colonel Albright passed the information not only to us but also to Laswell, and she managed to find the probable location of one of the headquarters of the ‘Malleus Maleficarum’. We won't engage in open confrontation with them this time, but we'll try to infiltrate and find out more about these people and what they're up to. Don't take a lot of weapons with you, dress in civilian clothes, and pack for a few days. Any questions?"

Yoy can keep reading here or on the Ao3

There were many questions, but no one asked them, realizing that they were not the kind their captain could answer. Talking quietly among themselves, the members of 141 dispersed to their rooms to prepare for their unofficial mission and gather their belongings.

Italy greeted the five soldiers with a light frost, fog, and slow snowfall. However, the weather did not deter the numerous tourists who had come to Turin to see the Holy Shroud and visit ancient churches. They walked through narrow streets lit by lanterns, drank coffee, sat in cozy restaurants, and took endless photos. This was perfect for the members of 141: they easily blended in with the crowd, pretending to be tourists themselves. Gaz bought everyone coffee and mulled wine for Price, which surprised him greatly; Soap was genuinely fascinated by the architecture and took photos on his phone or asked Roach to take photos of him. Ghost stayed close, clutching his cup and looking around intently, listening to snippets of hundreds of conversations in languages he didn't know.

“I don't like it here.” The lieutenant muttered, or rather growled, as they passed another church.

“According to the navigator, we're close.” Price reassured him, puffing on his cigar.

They were heading for a famous religious and architectural landmark, the Gran Madre di Dio church. It was hard to believe that such a place could hide a secret organization, but Laswell's information was accurate. The unit was moving along the Victor Emmanuel I Bridge, which was immediately followed by a small square and the church itself, but there were still too many people there, so the captain decided to turn around and take the side streets. It would take more time, but it would attract less attention, and maybe the tourists would hide from the increasing snow in their hotels or numerous cafes and restaurants.

After crossing the bridge over the river, Price glanced at his navigator and turned. The rest of the 141 followed him. It immediately became quieter and darker, and before the street narrowed even more, Ghost squeezed past Soap and Gaz and took second place, peering intently ahead over the captain's head. People became fewer and fewer until the street was completely deserted. According to the navigator, the church was close, and Price wanted to tell everyone to focus, but he didn't have time because the unit's way was suddenly blocked by a man. He was tall, maybe a little under 6.6 feet; dressed in black—cargo pants, a leather jacket, and what looked like military boots. Soap's keen eye noticed his shoulder-length hair tied back in a messy ponytail, the scars on his face, and the fact that he had a holster with a pistol, maybe even a pair, under his jacket. No one understood where he had come from—the street was dark but too narrow for him to hide by pressing himself against the wall. Only Ghost managed to catch a movement from somewhere above and, looking up, saw a small balcony. It looked like the stranger had jumped from there.

“If I were you, I wouldn't go any further.” He said in a completely calm, slightly hoarse voice, leaning casually against the wall. “One of you might get hurt.”

“Is that a threat?” Price raised an eyebrow.

The captain also looked calm, but Soap noticed that his hand was reaching for the pistol hidden under his jacket at his waist.

“It's advice.” The stranger replied and then stretched out his hand, pointing at something on the wall.

Soap craned his neck but couldn't see anything in the darkness, just like everyone else except Ghost. He stared silently in the direction indicated for a few seconds and then slowly took a step back. In addition to the symbol carved into the stone, which was clearly protective in nature, the lieutenant also noticed that this man either knew exactly where he was or could see in the dark as well as the demon himself.

“That's right.” Ghost finally confirmed. “These symbols are designed to protect against...”

“From somebody like you, big guy.” The stranger interrupted him with a cheerful smile.

“Are you one of them?” Gaz asked grimly, waving his hand in the direction of the Gran Madre di Dio church.

“No, I'm just a mercenary.” He replied and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “And you are the ones who try to get involved in things you don't understand. I don't advise you to do that.”

“We don't give a shit about your advice,” Soap snapped, pushing past Ghost and standing in front of him, glaring menacingly at the stranger.

The lieutenant was still the most powerful and the most invulnerable member of the unit, but here and now, there seemed to be something dangerous for him. So Johnny was ready to defend him just as Ghost had defended him and the rest of 141 many times before, even if it wasn't clear what exactly they were defending them from.

“Quiet, son.” Price said soothingly and then turned his gaze to the man opposite him. “It seems you know something about us and our businesses, but we've never seen you before. If you're not an enemy, then tell us who you are.”

“That's fair.” The stranger lit a cigarette, looking not at the captain, but at Ghost. “You can call me Sword. I do pretty much the same thing you do, only not in the army but in the PMC. And all this...”

He waved his hand toward the church, indicating what he meant, then paused briefly, clearly considering how much information to reveal.

“You could say it's my hobby.” Finally, Sword said and slowly exhaled the smoke from his cigarette. "Right now, while I don't have any work, I'm keeping an eye on the organization you're interested in. I can assure you that these guys won't be bothering you for a while, unless, of course, you decide to leave your demon here and try to break into their headquarters. Without knowing your enemy, this venture is doomed to failure, so you'd better go, rest, and return to your own affairs."

The mercenary behaved and spoke quite arrogantly, but not condescendingly, and even more so, not hostile. He seemed to know a lot about the world that the members of 141 had only just begun to explore, so it would be foolish not to heed his advice. Even if, as was most likely the case, he had stopped the five soldiers not out of the goodness of his heart, but because he didn't want them to interfere with some of his own business. After all, the secret organization had been using this place as its headquarters for hundreds of years and clearly had no plans to change anything, so 141 would be able to return here at any time. Before that, it would be wise to learn a little more about the security system, which clearly included many unusual methods.

“So you've seen demons before, Sword?” Price asked.

“Demons and a lot of other weird, sick shit.” He replied carelessly and then shifted his gaze from the captain to the lieutenant. “But I've never seen one like you, big guy. It's quite interesting, you know?”

The mysterious mercenary threw away his cigarette butt, waved his hand, and simply disappeared, dissolving into the shadows or turning into some alley.

For a few seconds, all five members of 141 stood silently, digesting what had just happened. Then Price sighed heavily, not understanding why all this shit had happened to him, took out a cigar and lit it, turning back to the others. He was about to say that the operation was canceled, that they should return to the hotel and discuss the new information with Laswell, but Soap beat him to it.

“Is that dude even human?” He asked, catching the glances of his companions, crossed his arms over his chest, and snorted. “Well, what? He can clearly see in the dark as well as you, Lt.! And can anyone explain where he disappeared? Not to mention that he's not much smaller than Ghost!”

“Are you suggesting that we just encountered another demon, just like our lieutenant?” Price raised an eyebrow.

“Negative.” Ghost replied for Soap, shaking his head thoughtfully. “There is a reason why I wear a mask, and it has to do with the rather significant differences between my appearance and that of a human.”

“So this mercenary is human after all?” Garrick couldn't help asking, as he was naturally curious.

“Yes.” Ghost nodded. “But he's a very complicated human. I'm sure that if it came to a fight, none of my abilities would harm him. I don't know what protects him, but it's something very powerful.”

“My head is about to explode from all this shit.” Roach complained. “I think I need a drink. What do you say, guys?”

Gaz supported his friend's suggestion. Price declined, saying he'd rather take a taxi, return to the hotel, and contact Laswell. Soap, realizing that Ghost wouldn't be able to fully relax in a place where the other two sergeants were going to drink, said that he and the lieutenant would also head to the hotel, but on foot, to get some fresh air and clear their heads. Price didn't object, deciding that his men had every right to take advantage of the opportunity to relax today as they wished.

Returning to the bridge, the unit split up. The captain caught a car and drove to the hotel; Kyle and Gary, clearly in high spirits, set off in search of a decent pub; Ghost, as always, looked aloof and indifferent, while Johnny couldn't stop worrying. Even if 141 had avoided open confrontation today, they were still in territory of enemies, who were very close and used methods of combat completely unknown to the sergeant. However, the further he and the lieutenant moved away from Gran Madre di Dio, the easier it became for him, and when the bridge was behind them, Soap struck up a conversation which had nothing to do with today's events in his usual cheerful voice. They walked for a while, trying to stay away from the brightly lit streets, and then Ghost stopped and, following his gaze, Johnny was hardly surprised to see the familiar bizarre sign and window display with mannequins.

“Has he already done everything?” Soap asked in surprise as he and the lieutenant walked toward Mr. Schneider's workshop. “So fast!”

The sergeant suddenly caught himself thinking that he was now going to a workshop that could magically appear anywhere in the world and whose owner had been living and working there for over a hundred years, and all that surprised him was the speed with which a rather large order had been completed. This amused him so much that he laughed and couldn't explain to Ghost what had happened. Still laughing, he followed his lieutenant into the workshop.

“Greetings, Mr. Ghost.” The tailor smiled warmly. “And you, young man. How are you?”

“Relatively well.” Soap replied. “And yours?”

“Oh, everything's great, lots of work, as usual.” Schneider spoke and placed packages and something neatly wrapped in a garment bag. “Will you be trying them on, Mr. Ghost?”

“Negative.” The lieutenant replied, coming closer. “But I'll take a look.”

Ghost realized he had no idea what Johnny had ordered for him, so he began to open the packages with curiosity. There were several sets of underwear; jeans that looked very stylish compared to the ones the lieutenant wore; two pairs of cargo pants with tapered legs; a warm jacket; several hoodies and T-shirts; and a tracksuit. Everything except the jeans was black, and Ghost suddenly realized that he liked these clothes and didn't really like his old ones. This surprised the demon, because until now he hadn't paid any attention to such details. After going through all the bags, he moved on to the garment bag and, unzipping it, was surprised to find a perfectly ironed, formal black suit inside. The pants were quite standard, but the jacket was unusual. The tailor had managed to combine what seemed completely incompatible. A piece of hoodie with a zipper was sewn onto the lapels, and, most importantly, it had a hood, so Ghost wouldn't have to worry about a shirt, and he would be able to hide his mask as he was used to.

“That's a very interesting solution!” Soap exclaimed with excitement, examining the bizarre jacket. “Everything is so cool!”

“I'm glad I was able to please assistance human.” The tailor bowed his head. “What about you, Mr. Ghost? Do you like it?”

“Yes.” The lieutenant nodded and, after a pause, added. “Thank you, Mr. Schneider.”

While Ghost was swiping his bank card at the terminal, the tailor quickly folded all the clothes back into the bags and handed Soap a plain business card with his phone number and email address. Putting it in his wallet, the sergeant cheered up again, admiring how this old man combined his old-fashioned style with completely modern things. It seemed that the supernatural world was very similar to the one in which the sergeant had grown up and lived until recently—there was a place for both disturbing and frightening things, as well as cheerful, interesting, and pleasant ones. He thought about this as he and Ghost said goodbye to Mr. Schneider, and he wasn't at all surprised when the workshop disappeared as soon as they stepped outside.

“I think we should catch a taxi too.” Said Soap, who was carrying the suit bag, while Ghost got all the packages. “I can't wait to see you in that suit!”

The lieutenant had no idea why he needed such clothes, but, as always, he didn't argue and nodded silently.

After informing the captain of their return, Ghost and Soap went to their room. While the lieutenant was thinking about how his bag was too small for all these clothes, the sergeant pressed the suit bag into his hands and looked at him so pleadingly that the demon once again couldn't resist those sad blue eyes and went to the bathroom.

Johnny waited patiently. Ghost usually changed quickly, but this time it was different. Maybe it was because the clothes were new and unfamiliar, or maybe the lieutenant didn't like the idea at all. Soap wondered if Simon had worn suits in his life or if his dress uniform was his only formal attire.

Finally, the bathroom door opened, and Soap caught his breath when he saw his lieutenant. The suit fit him perfectly. The jacket hugged his broad shoulders and back, and thanks to its fitted cut, it turned out that Ghost had a fairly narrow waist. The pants, slim as was the fashion this season, hugged the lieutenant's buttocks and emphasized his muscular thighs. The hood was pulled over his head, and only the lower half of the skull mask could be seen from under its shadow.

In fact, Soap wanted to touch him in other places, but he was literally mesmerized by the appearance of his lieutenant.

“Simon.” Johnny exhaled hoarsely and almost groaned when he felt Ghost's hand on his waist. “I want you. I want to see you, kiss you, touch you. I want you to take me on this bloody bed. Or on the carpet. Or wherever you want.”

“If you see me, you'll stop wanting me.” The lieutenant shook his head, and the sergeant thought he heard a hint of sadness in his voice.

“You're wrong.” Soap shook his head, pressing himself against Ghost with his whole body; his hands slid lower, stopping on his thighs, covered with the luxury fabric of his suit. “I don't know how to convince you, but you're wrong.”

If the lieutenant could, he would have sighed heavily. The transfer from Albright's unit to TF141 had changed everything, even the things he thought couldn't be changed. These people, especially Johnny, had taught the demon humanity, helped him remember who he was, and shown him what true friendship, loyalty, and love were. It was all incredibly difficult for him, but also wonderful. But now the demon wanted more, more humanity, if you could call it that. He wanted to spend time with his new friends without hiding his face; he wanted to laugh at their jokes and sympathize when one of them was sad. He wanted, after all, a normal relationship with the human he loved—as normal as it could be in his situation, of course. And Ghost wanted so badly to feel that love without the piercing pain in his heart, which had long since stopped beating.

“What if I'm not wrong?” The lieutenant asked in an unusually quiet voice. “What if you see me and you're scared? I don't want to lose you, Johnny.”

“You won't lose me, Simon.” Soap said softly, peering into the shadow under Ghost's hood. “I didn't fall in love with your appearance, because I don't even know what you look like. But I really want to know. Please trust me.”

Ghost thought that this request made no sense, because he already trusted Johnny completely. It wasn't a lack of trust that was stopping him, but fear—also a very human feeling that he wished he never had to experience.

“We still can't do what you want.” The lieutenant made one last attempt, gently stroking Soap's tousled mohawk. “None of us are ready for this.”

“Well, actually, I'm totally ready!” The sergeant exclaimed triumphantly, breaking free from Ghost's embrace and jumping up to grab his bag, which was lying on a chair; unzipping the side pocket, he reached inside and pulled out two items. "Here's the lubricant, and here are the condoms, the largest ones available. As for the rest, I won't need much time to get ready."

The lieutenant wondered how long Johnny had been carrying these things around with him: had he bought them after their first encounter, or had it happened even earlier? He decided to ask about it later, because now Ghost had finally decided to give up.

“Well, since you've thought everything through and anticipated everything...” The demon looked intently at Soap and then let out a short laugh. “So why are you still standing there?”

“What?” Johnny opened his mouth and blinked, expecting to hear anything but that. “Are you serious? You'll take off your mask? And your clothes?”

“Yes, to all three questions.” Ghost shrugged, shoving his hands into his pants pockets, and this simple gesture took Soap's breath away again. “I trust you, Johnny. But if I have to wait too long...”

“Aye, aye, I'm going!” The sergeant interrupted and rushed past the lieutenant into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Ghost smiled under his mask, then sat down on a free chair and froze in his usual position, staring at a single point. In fact, he was ready to wait as long as necessary, and he was sure that Johnny knew it.

_______

If you're wondering what Ghost's jacket looks like, here's the idea:

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depthsasunder-if · 2 years ago

Text

Depths Asunder is an 18+ pirate interactive fiction infused with magic. It follows you, a young and fresh pirate captain, contracted to find a gem that is rumored to manipulate life and death to the wearer. It's a race against other crews who are just as determined to fulfill the contract and collect their riches.

[DEMO TBA] 𓊝 [CHARACTER POSTS]

Content warnings include violence, suggestive themes, substance use, gore, dark themes, emotional turmoil and more.

Your mother was a legend in the seas; a revered pirate captain, her legacy has followed you even after her death. All you want is to live up to the legacy she has given your family name, though all you've amounted to so far is the occasional thievery to survive.

When you're contracted by rich and powerful noble you're promised a swell of riches. In return, you must find and bring back a rare treasure that holds power beyond anything you know. Countless crews have attempted to find it, only to either end up dead or lost.

Now, it's your turn to collect your crew and bring your ship to the sea. You'll go up against not only dangerous mythological creatures of the sea but other ruthless pirates determined to find the treasure before you.

As you travel through the world of Sikara, you'll find that there's an even bigger mystery afoot. Will it all be worth it?

Customize your pirate captain from identity, your nickname, pronouns, gender which changes the story, appearance, personality.

Decide what kind of pirate captain you are: are you a bloodthirsty pirate hellbent on destruction? Or a merciful captain paving a new path? Do you treat your crew with kindness or hostility? Are you relaxed or a dictator?

Customize your ship: name your ship, choose the look, the features and enchantments. Will it help you during your sea battles?

Stop at different locations: will you raid like a typical pirate or help the locals? Will you steal treasure?

Customize your crew and decide who joins you on your journey. And who walks the plank.

Romance a slew of characters that include your ruthless rival, a merperson, a stowaway, the person who contracted you, and your best friend.

Play a character-driven narrative that is both on land and in sea. Discover what Sikara has to offer.

Captain Morgan 'Deadeye' Price [m or f]: Morgan is the bloodthirsty captain of the Lady Triton. They also happen to be your biggest rival, seeing as they're the child of the pirates that killed your mother. Morgan is bloodthirsty, unforgiving, cold and arrogant, and is determined to find the treasure. Part of you thinks they care less about the coin and more about beating you....and eventually killing you.

𓊝 enemies to lovers, rivals

Anton/Antonia St. Marteen [m or f]: The nobleman/woman who contracted you. They insisted on joining you on your travels, determined to see the treasure for themself. You don't know much about them other than the fact that they are stinking rich, which is all you need to know. Unfortunately, being on the sea with them means you're their unofficial bodyguard.

𓊝 bodyguard romance (MC is the bodyguard), forbidden, opposites attract (noble and pirate)

Castor Morgana [m or f]: the stowaway that hid in your ship alongside their sister, Ruth. Majority of your crew wants them thrown overboard, though a few think Castor can be helpful to the cause. It's up to you to make the final choice.

Gaelin 'Straightlace' Haval [m or f]: your best friend, second-in-command, and advisor. Gaelin is levelheaded, logical, serious, and deals little with emotion. They also seem to be the only one who cares little of pirate culture. They just want the mission done.

𓊝 best friends to lovers, opposites attract (possibly)

Sage/Soren of The Sea [m or f]: a mermaid/merman who, in a series of events, ends up on your ship. It's lucky that they grow legs off-sea, but no matter how human they look, they treat you as an enemy. Pirates and merpeople don't mix, and Sage/Soren is determined to keep a distance, even if the world of humans interests them so. They don't trust you, not with all the blood that's been spilled from both sides.

𓊝 romance with merperson, forbidden, doomed romance

Ruth Underwood [non-RO]: Castor's younger half- sister. She seems to have taken a liking to you, following you around like a puppy. How you deal with her is up to you.

+ and more!

Development of Depths Asunder will fluctuate based on my free time. I hope you like it and join me on this voyage :)

#interactive fiction #interactive game #interactive novel #choice of games #cog #dashing don #cog wip #interact-if #interactive story #dashingdon #if game #choicescript #if wip #upcoming if

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devil-in-hiding · 10 months ago

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Heard you say ghostprice and oh boy do i have some thoughts for you

Ghostprice who are equal, they take turns with all the responsibilities and can read their partner like no other. Ghostprice, who immediately knows when something is wrong.

Ghostprice who aren't official and they have their respective sergeants, but they still go to each other more often than not. Sometimes Ghost needs to be softer with someone, and Price would rather be vulnerable.

Ghostprice who can immediately tell when the other gets hurt even if they aren't together. It's like some sort of sixth sense. Ghost, who shoulders through his own pain to get to Price, too scared to lose his captain, his partner. Price, who would burn armies down to go to Simon when he gets hurt, too possessive and protective to let his man go.

They may be unstable and war criminals, but they're so soft when they're on leave in their little forest cabin. To just ignore the problems of society for a few days and enjoy the small little village that is still a few miles away. They aren't Price and Ghost there, no no, they're John and Simon. And there's this little old grandma that unofficially adopts them to shower them in baked goods and home cooked meals when they come home from a rough mission.

-✨️

i’m straight up bawling

#✨ anon #ghostprice my beloved #they deserve the world )):

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inkwolvesandcoffee · 1 year ago

Text

Coffee & Salted Caramel (Dad Best Friend!John Price Dark Romantic Headcanons)

CoD ML

It takes a moment for John to realise it’s you standing in front of him. However, after carefully scrutinising your face under the guise of a polite smile, there’s a spark of recognition in his pretty blue eyes.

In his defence, the last time he saw you was about ten years ago when you were an awkward teen just entering puberty. So little could have prepared him for seeing you now, blossomed into a beautiful young woman.

He doesn’t go in for a hug or a handshake, though it looks like the latter. Nevertheless, as soon as you’ve placed your hand in his, John brings your knuckles to his lips and kisses them. “My lady.”

The dark satisfaction blossoming in his chest due to your flabbergasted expression is carefully concealed behind a cheeky smile. A smile which is easily mistaken as amused, kind.

Without any other implications than friendship.

Picks you up from work if you’re working late and during winter. If you’re working the morning shift and therefore have to be there early, he’ll escort you to make sure you’re alright. At first John tells himself he’s simply being a gentleman, a proper captain. Moreover, he’s doing his best friend a service by keeping his daughter safe.

From men like him.

To keep you for himself.

Your father may or may not have let slip you go to the gym. A comment in which John saw a golden opportunity to get closer to you and reconnect. Or, rather, truly connect.

So you now find yourself three times a week working out alongside your father’s best friend, who kindly picks you up and drops you off after each session.

Who you’ve noticed glaring and sometimes even downright scowling at the other men there. Especially when he’s acting as your personal trainer.

Ngl, he makes for a good workout partner. Of course he respects your boundaries, but gradually tries to push you beyond them. Henceforth, when one week you swear you won’t be able to do a deadlift with 10kg on either side, you find yourself more than capable the next.

Though he’d never admit it, John loves showing off his strength and size. He might be middle aged, but he sure is still as capable, if not more, than in his younger years.

Another thing he’d keep a secret is how you wearing a choker tempts him to submit fully to instinct, play dangerously with the thought of claiming or, rather, owning you.

Frequently takes you out for hikes, picnics (weather permitting), trips around the country, and coffee. Whereas your father regards the outings with his best friend as enrichment because you two don’t get to do that stuff and acts of kindness, John actually sees them as unofficial dates.

Small moments during which he can properly fancy himself your partner.

You sing as a side hustle and have landed a performance at John’s favourite pub. Now, being a good friend to your father and simply being kind, he offers for you to stay overnight at his place. After all, the venue is too far from home to make it there afterwards safely.

Despite being seated in the back amongst the shadows, you feel John’s eyes on you throughout the show. Little do you know he occasionally closes his eyes, shutting out the world to enjoy your voice. It’s a lullaby that temporarily puts the rage seething beneath his skin to rest.

Gets grumpy when a guy approaches you to strike up a conversation after you’re done.

John knows you’re your own person and yet here he is, sulking and brooding over a pint because of a nagging sense he knows is unjustified. For fuck’s sake, you’re his best friend’s daughter! What the hell would you do with a guy his age, damaged beyond repair and haunted by ghosts?

Yet, he stands before you in no time and roughly grabs your wrist, dragging you behind him towards the exit. “On your feet. We’re leaving.”

On the way to his house, his grip remains iron-like regardless of how you struggle, whimper, beg, and try to pry his hand loose. Nonetheless, he remains as quiet, as tight-lipped, as when you ask him about his years in the army. Only when you call out his name with an ugly sob does he let go.

You flinch and step back when he turns around and comes closer, mortified by his fuming expression. John takes a deep breath, wishing he could kick himself in the face now that he finally sees how he hurt you. Moreover, in spite of his own disregard of rules and protocol, this type of behaviour would put any good captain to shame. That is, when directed at a loved one rather than a teammate. “I… I’m sorry.”

“What’s this about?” His gaze remains steady on the ground, even when you come closer to bridge the distance between you. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t know, poppet. Maybe it’s just the pints that get me a bit violent. Drank one too many.”

“John-“

“Let’s go home.” Hands tucked into his pockets, he turns on his heel and starts walking again. He’d hold your hand, but after that little incident he’s too terrified to touch you. More than that, he grows bleak at the thought this or similar incidents which perhaps have yet to occur will eventually lead to you resenting him.

With you, he doesn’t want to be Captain Price.

He wants to be a man rather than a soldier.

A man properly caring for his girl by making sure she doesn’t want for anything.

Trying to sweep the incident on the street under the rug once you’re at his place, John stands in the doorway to the guest room as he watches you rummage in your bag. “Something wrong, love? Forgot your post-concert snack stash?”

You share his smile, the idea of glaring at him evaporated the moment you lock eyes. “Very funny, John.”

“I can make us something, though, if you’re still hungry. I ain’t a good cook, but I think I can manage scrambled eggs on an English muffin. Sober enough for that, at least.”

“I’m alright. Still, thanks. Turns out, I forgot my pyjamas.”

“You can lend a shirt. Let me find one.”

A wee while later, after being occupied a little too long with picking something for you to wear and distracted by the strain in his pants, he returns with a hoodie. He’d rather you be too hot than cold.

“Arms up, doll face.” Without questioning the nickname, you do as he says. His breath hitches as you wriggle into his hoodie, staring up at him with doe eyes.

It takes every ounce of self-control not to pick you up, twirl you around, and tuck you into bed. Say what you will, but beneath the lust there’s the genuine want to take care of you.

Distrustful of his hands, he crosses his arms and nods to the bed. “Hit the hay. I’ll make sure there’s breakfast, so don’t worry about that.”

“Thank you. Goodnight, John.”

He almost breaks, almost reaches out to pat your head to satisfy himself as much as he allows himself. But he doesn’t. “Goodnight, love.”

Nothing could have prepared him for seeing you do Pilates in the morning.

He stops in the doorway, frozen in place by fascination and the feeling he hasn’t been able to shake off since seeing you again for the first time in forever. Honestly, seeing you stretch and bend this way and that doesn’t help him think any clearer either. In fact, it only throws him deeper down the rabbit hole created by the fantasy of you pinned beneath him, breathless and whimpering his name as he has his way with you.

And he just dealt with his morning wood before coming downstairs.

As silent as a ghost, John slips back upstairs to calm himself down yet again, only leaving the bedroom when he hears you in the shower.

We all know perfectly well why I had to include this particular gif. And no, I’m not sorry.😝😹

Using the towels he prepared for you last night before dragging his ossified arse to bed.

Breakfast is elaborate with croissants, freshly brewed coffee (and your favourite syrup to put in it, salted caramel), orange juice, bread, jams, yogurt, and fruit. The food extravaganza makes you stop in your tracks to take in the sight.

“Thought I’d surprise you and apologize for last night. I stepped out of line.” John settles down and gestures to the one across from him. “Please.”

You nod, still too flabbergasted by the feast.

After a few moments of eating and drinking in silence, you pose the question which has been weighing heavily on your mind. “Why did you really act like that?”

“Guys like that want nothing but sex with a pretty young thing.” Despite the casual tone, his gruff voice is strained as he pours you another cup of coffee. After adding enough syrup to make it to your liking, he slides the cup towards you. “Besides, I promised your dad I’d watch over you, keep you safe.”

You glance to the side. “Bullshit. Like I’m that pretty.”

“You are. I’m surprised you don’t see how easily you can wrap any man around your finger.”

“Right. Let’s say you’re correct. I still don’t know how to… you know… have… sex.”

“Suppose you haven’t found the right person yet. Someone with the patience to take you through the motions. Who wants to take the time to love you right, map every detail of your body and learn what makes you shiver.” His eyes darken. “Someone with experience.”

Prompted by the way he sees you squirm in your seat and the front you try to put up despite the blush on your cheeks, he stands up to walk over to your side. “Someone who’s loyal. Faithful. Committed,” his breath is hot on your ear as his fingers touch your cheek, finding you pliable, your senses full of his cologne and presence, “to you. Maybe also someone who’s a little older.”

Before you can respond, John’s lips are on yours. His beard feels ticklish, but surprisingly much smoother than you thought it would be. A pleased hum reverberates in his chest when you run your fingers through it.

A lovely sound that turns into a gasp when you push him away, horrified as the truth sinks in. For nothing is more terrifying than common sense.

“I…” you begin, grasping at straws to explain yourself. It doesn’t help your heart cracks at the sight of the sadness in his eyes, badly concealed beneath the mask of the composed and determined captain.

“Y/N-“

“I should go.”

Judging by your tone, John knows he won’t be able to explain himself. “I’ll pack up some food. Have it along the way. A soldier isn’t anything if they don’t have a full stomach.”

“Text me when you’re home.” He can see the fight between confusion and affection rage in your eyes. “So I’ll know you’re safe. It might be broad daylight, but that doesn’t mean nothing won’t happen. Please, Y/N,” the way he says your name with an uncharacteristic plea hidden beneath barely composed sternness makes you waiver. “Just a text. That’s all I ask.”

“Alright.” You pull out your phone, create a new contact, and keep your gaze down towards the screen. “Spill the secret info, captain.”

After a moment’s hesitation, John curls his finger beneath your chin to tip it upwards. There’s a tremble in his hand as he cups your cheek, afraid you’ll pull away.

Change your mind.

And leave him behind.

“Promise?”

You nod, slightly leaning into his touch. “I promise.”

Packed up, the shirt he gave you the first thing to find its way into your bag, and his number in your phone, you silently leave. You know that once you turn around you’ll run right back to him, to what he can offer you. Nonetheless, to avoid problems with your father, you keep walking.

John’s gaze hot on your back, drinking salted caramel coffee.

I might turn this into a proper fic. Ah dinnae ken when or how, but what’s for sure already is that I’ve got plenty thoughts and ideas.😉

#Captain Price #John Price #Captain John Price #John Price x You #John Price x Reader #CoD x Reader #CoD Modern Warfare

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