#i only read the first few words and i knew this was john price

[writersdrug]

I need the bartender Simon having to escape upstairs for a few minutes just to control the monster in his pants just because of a more direct provocation from the reader

I was saving this ask and I think this is the perfect moment after Simon sees reader in his shirt, no?

Warnings: NSFW, masturbation, sex toy, pining, daydreaming about p in v sex

He doesn't dare go up to his room - even after the bar is closed, after you and Johnny are both gone, after his tasks are complete. His mind has been scrambled ever since you came down in his shirt, looking like you'd just woken up from having a nap in his bed. He knew that wasn't the case, but it was so easy to pretend. You made it easy, looking like wearing his shirt was just your typical Friday outfit. If he tried hard enough, sitting at the bar after hours, sipping on an Old Fashioned- he could imagine you were up there right now, lying stomach-first in his bed, wearing his shirt, with "LT RIELY" on your back - you weren't objective, he certainly doesn't think of you like that - but having his claim on you aroused the most primal part inside him. If only you could see what you've done. Did you even know it?

Price comes lumbering down the stairs. Simon doesn't bother to look at him; he sits at the bar, his Old Fashioned long gone, with an empty whiskey glass and the mostly-full bottle next to him. He was hoping to replace the thought of you with drinking, but he didn't have the stomach for it.

"I'm plannin' to see if Garrick wants to join the team." Price says, shrugging on his jacket. "I know he wanted to be his own man, but we could use him. Our girl's made this place quite popular."

Simon wants to spit out the words he'd just heard. Our girl. Whose girl? John's? Soap's? The entire pub? It was his name on your back. Not Price. Not MacTavish. He was the one you came to with all those receipts, numbers scribbled in the margins, trusting him to help you ward them off. Sure, you have fun with everyone, asking them all for help - but you go to him the most easily, whenever you need to feel safe. Bad customers, bad situations - you looked to him. Didn't that mean anything to Price?

He doesn't respond to his captain, choosing to stare at his empty glass instead. Price looks at him quizzically.

"Feelin' alright, there?"

Simon grunts. "Long day."

Price knows he's bullshitting him. He knows exactly what this is about. He sighs, pulling his beanie on and tucking the money pouch into his jacket. "If you want 'er, Simon, tell me to back off. Can't read your mind."

That has him pursing his lips, grip tight around the sides of his glass. He would have punched John, was he any other man. He knows exactly what Simon's thinking, yet he makes him work for it. Typical. His pride and his jealousy are fighting tooth and nail against each other, but he can barely say a word.

Price stands there a moment, waiting for Simon to speak - but he doesn't even spare the owner a glance. Bastard's always punishing himself... he thinks, sighing again.

"Bright and early tomorrow, lad." He says, heading towards the kitchen. "Lights off when you're done here." He knows Simon's capable of closing, but he repeats it every night regardless.

"Sir."

Price stops, halfway through the kitchen door. He looks at Simon, who's now staring directly back at him. There's a look in his face, something that reminds him of Ghost - the reason he became his right-hand man.

"Respectfully..." he says slowly. "Back off."

Price almost finds it comical. Like an animal staking its claim, staring at its rival - except they’re not rivals. The only reason Simon is bothering to play his captain's game, asking for permission to have what Price would happily hand over, is because he's his superior. Even if they're all retired from the SAS, no one ever really dropped the dynamics of the team.

He smiles, nodding his head once. "Understood." He says, shoving himself through the kitchen door. "But hurry up and say somethin' to 'er. I'm sick of you losing your mind during the rush."

With that, Simon hears him leave through the back door. He stays there for a moment, his mind reeling - he feels both satisfied and angry at the same time. It was a bit humiliating to tell Price to leave you for himself - you don't belong to him. But that was a problem he was going to fix. You had his name on your back-

For Christ’s sake, he’s got to give it a rest. You wore his shirt, that was all. You wore it – with no bra. Bare. Naked underneath the 141’s insignia, under his title.

And that damn bra is still in his room.

He can’t take it anymore. He unscrews the whiskey bottle and takes a few swigs, before slamming it back onto the bar top. He leaves the bottle and the glass there as he gets up, making his way across the floor, up the stairs, passing the office, and continuing up to his studio flat.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary. If you’d gone snooping, you either did a good job of hiding the evidence, or you didn’t really rifle through too much. His bed was untouched, his books and items where he had put them last – he goes into his drawers, checking to see if you had gone through anything other than his shirts. Considering everything is still where it should be, he assumed not. Though you did leave a mess in his shirt drawer – you’d been digging around in there until you found his old SAS shirt. Did you mean to do that? Were you looking for something with his name on it, just to drive him insane?

He goes back into his top drawer, muttering a curse as he pushes the contents aside. His cock is pulsing in his pants as he grabs his pocket pussy, slamming the drawer shut and heading towards his bed. He doesn't want to draw this one out - this is nothing more than a wank, just to get you out of his head. He sits at the foot of his bed and unbuttons his jeans, pulling his hard length out of his briefs – it bounces up and slaps against his abdomen, precum already smeared across the tip. He’s been hard for hours now, trying not to cum in his pants at the thought of your tits rubbing against the inside of his shirt. Do you have small, pebbly nipples? Or ones that are soft and pliant? He growls as he smears the tip of his cock against the lips of the toy, rubbing up and down the slit. He sighs, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. You’re there, rubbing your lips on his cock, your hand wrapped tightly around his shaft as you stare up at him, licking and kissing his tip like a good girl…

He scowls and opens his eyes, sitting upright – he sees your bra hanging off the back of his chair, and he nearly passes out form how quickly the blood rushes to his cock. Pink lace, delicate and kinda skimpy… and your shirt, crumpled on the seat of the chair. You’d forgotten to shove them into your bag before you left. Or did you do this on purpose?

He's reaching out before he realizes it, slowly standing up and heading towards the chair. He wants to grab your bra, rub his cock in it until he stains it with his thick cum – but something in the back of his mind keeps him from touching it. One, it’s purely you, and he doesn’t want to ruin that. Two, he’s trying to cum. Not to cum to you. He’s doing this to get rid of your image in his head.

So, he goes for the next best thing. He grabs your shirt and sits back down on the edge of the bed. He lines himself up with his fleshlight and brings your shirt to his face; no wonder the drinks had turned it translucent, it was the thinnest fabric he had ever felt. Practically skin.

He presses it against his face and inhales: the scent of you, sweet, floral and spicy, fills his mind. It makes it all to easy to imagine that you’re sinking down onto his cock, and not that he’s stuffed it as far as he can into the toy. He groans, his eyelids fluttering shut as he pumps his hips once, then again… the tightness of the fleshlight slides over him easily, offering no resistance with the precum acting as a lube while he grinds up into it, heat knotting in his gut. The waist of his jeans hugs his thighs as he slowly and steadily pulses towards the ceiling, taking deep breaths of your scent.

He feels like an animal. Dirty, cheap, and desperate. He has to remind himself that it’s not about you, it’s about having a good wank and getting you out of his head. He drops your shirt on his chest and uses his free hand to cup his balls, groaning as he massages them. The schlick of the fleshlight around his dick is loud, the sensation borderline painful as he quickly fucks into it, curses spilling past his lips as he slams the thing down to the base of his length, catching on the Jacob’s ladder piercing on the underside, then back to the tip.

He shouldn’t, but he lets his mind slip elsewhere. What would you be doing? Would you have your hands on his chest, lips parted in a moan as you drop your hips onto his thighs, your cunt dripping and squeezing around his member…? What are you doing now? Are you still wearing his shirt? Are you lying back on your bed, playing with your breasts under the fabric and using your other hand to toy with your pussy? What do you sound like? Are you saying his name, or can you make any sound at all?

He falls back against the bed. “Fuck fuck fuck-“ he mumbles. He’s caught himself in a trap here – he can’t allow himself to indulge in the thought of you, begging him to take your hips and buck up into you – but it’s impossible to get you out of his head. Even if he could, he doesn’t think he’d be able to cum without you. He squeezes his fist around the fleshlight, groaning loudly from the pain, trying to drown out the sounds of your moans in his head… you’re always there, ever present, leaning over him and whimpering in his ear, need you, Simon, wanna cum on your cock, want it inside-

It's all too much for him, but not enough. He turns himself over, climbing up to his knees on the bed. He props himself up on his forearm, holding the fleshlight with his other hand as he ruts into it, stuffing his cock in as far as it will go, until the lips are smashed against the base. He pants and groans, mouth hanging open as he hovers over the bed; over you, holding one of your thighs up, touching his forehead against yours, watching as you’re covered in a layer of sweat, tits bouncing with each violent thrust of his hips. Both wrists secured above your head with one of his meaty hands, whimpers and whines spilling from your mouth as you struggle to remain coherent. Your cunt swallows him greedily, hugs him tightly, pulses around him, coaxes him to pound into you harder and harder, your walls twitching as slick gushes around him, your fingers digging into the back of his hand as you cry out his name, “Simon, Simon, Simon”-

He hisses through his teeth as his balls seize up, his abdomen going taut and his dick twitching in the toy. He rips the fleshlight off and grabs your shirt without a second thought, wrapping it tight around his cock and pumping it. “Gonna cum, gonna cum- fuck- oh, fuck-!” He mumbles to no one as his orgasm is ripped from him, hips canting repeatedly as cum spurts into the fabric of your shirt, leaking out around his thighs as he thrusts into it, thighs aching from the exertion. He bites into his hand and growls as he continues rutting, fighting through the overstimulation to chase what remains of his high – but he soon collapses on the bed, huffing and groaning into the mattress.

His orgasm fades slowly, his heart ramming against his ribcage and the fog clearing from his head. Realization sinks in as he’s hyper-aware of your shirt, still wrapped around his dick, now soaked in his cum. He'd have to wash it, now. Filthy doesn’t even begin to describe how he feels, but he doesn’t find it in him to care anymore. He rolls onto his side, clutching your shirt in his hand. Fuck. One quick tug was all this was supposed to be, and now, he’s picturing you lying across from him. Face flushed, lips swollen and eyes hazy, smiling at him and panting. Telling him you love him. He’d say it back a million times. Listening as you breathe, as you talk about your silly little ideas for the pub, for redecorating his room… craving the moment where you drag yourself closer to him and snuggle into his chest for the rest of the night.

He hasn’t gotten rid of you, like he hoped for. He’s only made it more clear: he wants you. He wants his life to be threaded with yours, he wants to wake up next to you, he wants you to change his routine, to pick up his broken pieces and make a mosaic – and he wants to be there when you need someone, he wants to give you everything you want and more, whether that’s a life up in the clouds or down here, in his arms, in his small bed and lackluster apartment. You’d make it better; you’d make anything better.

He sighs, slowly sitting up and on the edge of the bed. Price was right – he’s got to hurry up and say something to you, or else he’ll be drowned in his obsession. You’d either agree to take this fucked-up giant on a date and end his misery, or you’d reject him, and he could force you from his thoughts and replace you with misery. It’s worked before.  

He pulls off his jeans and shirt and grabs the fleshlight, standing with a grunt and walking into his bathroom. He’s planning to clean the toy, but if he waits long enough, he might just be fucking it again in the shower.

[b1rds3ye]

Mask On

How the boys react to their new ally who is more adamant on wearing their mask than Ghost himself.

Characters: Captain John Price, Simon “Ghost” Riley, Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

GN!Reader w/ no physical descriptions (except shorter than Ghost)

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 3.1 (~0.8 each)

Warning: Canon-Typical Violence, Mentions of Reader potentially having insecurities, Not Proof Read

A/N: You know what maybe I want to be the badass masked character 😤

Captain John Price

The captain is thorough, and he immediately knew something was up when he looked up your file only to be greeted with no photo. He’s honestly a little peeved that his rank doesn’t grant him this confidential information, he’s known Simon before he took up the mask so this is the first time he’s genuinely had a faceless ally

But ultimately, as long as he can trust that you’ll be following orders, he doesn’t care if you have a mask or not. But his concern is only that for a fellow soldier

It takes a little longer for him to warm up to you - facial expressions tell a lot about someone’s character. He’s a bit prickly around you, he learns about you indirectly with how you interact with the rest of the 141

But over time there’s a shift. He can’t pinpoint when exactly but the sight of your mask relaxes him. After days separated on a mission, high stakes and adrenaline has Price snapping his head at the faintest of foreign sounds. But upon the familiar sight of your signature mask, he feels at ease

Price is fiercely protective of you and your mask. He likens it to his hat, only far more important - that mask is part of your identity and he knows just how important a soldier’s psyche is. If the enemy manages to take off your mask, he’ll stop at nothing to get it back on your behalf, even if you reluctantly tell him to abandon it

If he can’t salvage your mask, Price has now made it a habit to carry a balaclava for you in one of his pockets. If that’s not available, he’ll even offer you his hat, tipping it down far enough to obscure your eyes

Off duty he finds himself staring at your visage more these days. Looking at how the mask curves over your features, or the small slivers of skin that reveal themselves. He catches himself before you notice but he’s still disappointed in himself, he feels like a Victorian-era prude hyperventilating at the sight of an ankle

“Looking fresh, sergeant.”

You let out an audible chortle at Price’s words. The last mission was a success but at great costs, one of them being your mask damaged beyond repair during melee combat. Your face still wasn’t revealed, but slashes against fabric embedded with dirt and ash have made your signature mask look unrecognisable. Immediately upon returning to base and after debriefing, you were out of commission until you could don a new mask.

Price would be lying if said he didn’t miss your presence for the last few days, hiding away from the rest of the soldiers in base. He has no doubt you’ve still maintained your training and visiting the infirmary for mandatory checkups, but he’s gotten far too used to you being at his beck and call. The famed sight of your mask is no longer in his periphery, giving a nod of approval (not that he ever needed your approval, but he does enjoy your attention).

And now here you are with a new mask, the highlights glowing under the overhead lights and the darks swallowing up the lightwaves like an animal starved. Your updated look had you noticeably confident, shoulders square and head tall.

“Thanks, Captain.”

He can hear your smile and he ends up sitting next to you. Did he need to sit so close? No, but he acts as though his thigh brushing against yours was pure coincidence.

“What are you going to do with the old one?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, giving a light pat to a pocket in your cargo pants that your past mask currently resides in. “I know there’s a lot of memories in this… it’s my first mask… but I don’t know what to do with it.”

“I’ll keep it.”

You look at him. Price now has the uncanny ability to read your mood purely through your body language. From the speed at which you turn your head, the inclination of the neck, how your shoulders slant, he’s surprised that such a vicious soldier can act so endearingly in these moments.

“For what?”

“Safekeeping,” he says simply. “I’m proud of my soldiers, sergeant - want to remember their accomplishments.”

You shrug in agreement and fish your mask out of your pocket. You don’t need to know how much Price truly values you, how having your mask will be like having a part of you by his side to motivate him when he’s working alone.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

You’ve got a mask? Cool, so does he. Simon really doesn’t care when he first met you. He offers a simple nod of acknowledgement to you and then it’s all mission talk. If anything, the mask makes him respect you more, like him it’s always the masked ones who’ve seen shit and can get shit done

Even before you two became friends, you two were often paired together for operations. Perhaps it was just assumed the two masked people were on the same wavelength and to be fair, they were right. It didn’t take long for Ghost to admire your prowess on the battlefield

However as the two of you start to get closer, Simon gets a bit of a eureka moment. So this is how all his allies feel when trying to get along with a masked figure, unable to see any of their expressions. Oh how the tables have turned. It’s not daunting for him, more just amusing

He knows the struggles of having a mask so he helps out where he can. He reminds you if it’s been some time since you last washed your mask (advice he does not follow himself) and he’ll offer you some of his obsidian powder he uses to obscure any uncovered patches of skin

Price often has the two of you accompany him for interrogations, he calls it “mask pressure”. There’s nothing more terrifying to a target than having two imposing faceless figures standing on either side of them, unreadable and unpredictable

It’s clear you don’t want to show your face to anyone and Simon doesn’t question it. His natural curiosity is not worth your discomfort and he makes that abundantly clear. If on the rare occasion you catch him without a mask, he’ll sometimes put it back on so that you don’t have to be the only one with their face covered

If your mask is ever compromised, Simon covers you with his hulking figure. No one dares get on the bad side of Ghost who shoots the most terrifying glares towards anyone looking in his - and consequently your - way. He stands in front of you, back rigid and shoulders square, his posture only slacking if he feels you hold onto his back, seeking comfort

A few weeks ago, when left in a briefing, you finally noticed Simon was staring at you from across the room. He had been staring for a good while now, but you - ever the diligent soldier - were distracted discussing tactics with a corporal. So there he was, standing and observing in the corner of the room - his “observing” being drinking the sight of you. And that was when he noticed, among all the glory that was you, that your mask was slightly off alignment. Cue his eyes being trained on your head for you to get the idea that something was wrong.

When your head stayed still - probably challenging his gaze - he tried to change tactics. He added the occasional upward jerk of the head - miming an attempt to shake the mask back in place - but your head only tilted in confusion. You still could not figure out what he was doing.

Eventually he gave up and walked up to you. He lifted a tentative hand, silently asking for permission and you nodded. He pinched at the fabric on the side of your face.

“Your mask’s slippin’,” he said gruffly. It wasn’t the end of the world, only a small adjustment that only someone as observant as him could notice. Still, he felt satisfied at your heavy exhale, you must’ve noticed it’s a little easier to breathe with everything in alignment now.

“Thanks.”

Today, Simon finds your gaze trained on him, head following whenever he moves across the room. You used to stare when you first met, you probably found him intimidating and he doesn’t blame you. He thought you’d be over that though, you two were closer than that. At least he hoped.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He eventually asks and that spurs you into action.

Standing in front of him, you reach up, your hand grabbing the top half of the skull that overlays his balaclava. Your thumb lightly hooks into the skull’s eye socket - a little close to Simon’s actual eye but he trusts you. He feels you tug upwards, and Simon now realises that the skull had been sinking down his face, the peripheral around his brow no longer obscured. He’ll need to reapply the glue for the mask later.

“We really need a hand sign for this,” you mutter.

And so you two make one. It’s discreet, a closed fist with a thumb poking out, dragged from the jawline up to the hairline. The rest of the 141 just look at the two of you in confusion whenever you use it though, your little secret.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

Johnny’s generally a good judge of character. Although it’s a little uncanny being unable to see your features, he’s used to it because of Simon. One conversation is all he needs to reach a conclusion as to what type of person you are and now he treats you as if you’re good friends

Yes, he is curious about what you look like under the mask. He used to make comments about it occasionally until he caught you on a bad day

“C’mon Sarge, just a peek.” “Not happening, Johnny.” “What, you ugly?” “… that’s not for you to speculate, MacTavish.” “Shit, sorry. I- I’d never think that of you, or care. I know you’re a looker.”

And Johnny stands by his statement. Even if he’s never seen your face he quickly developed a little crush on you. How you conduct yourself in battle has him watching you with stars in his eyes and he just knows you’ll take his breath away if you ever show your face

When Johnny’s bored, he likes doodling your mask and potential alternative designs in his journal which he’ll show you sometimes. He’s not an artist but he gets the idea across. He’s created a “happy” design, an “angry” one, and the “when I see Soap” design which is just your standard mask with a whole lot of shoddily drawn love hearts on it (you haven't seen that design yet)

He’s genuinely surprised at how determined you are at keeping your mask on in all circumstances - you’re worse than Simon at this point - but he’ll never ask because he doesn’t want to potentially open up old wounds. Despite his curiosity for what you could look like, Johnny will never invade your privacy and ensures no one else does either. If you’re in your room he’ll knock once, twice, thrice, until he’s absolutely sure you’re ready for him to enter

If something goes wrong and your mask falls off he’s looking away and shoving everyone else to look away as well. He’s like a guard dog, shouting and name-shaming anyone who dares look in your direction. No one except other members of the 141 will be able to approach you until you’re covered

Was it smart to have you and Soap - combined to be the most disruptive and obnoxious soldiers on the field - alone to handle a stealth mission that was off the books? No, but you sure as hell weren’t going to disappoint Price or Laswell. The objective was clear and the rules of engagement were even clearer; under no circumstance can the enemy know you’re from 141.

“We’re gonna need to cover our faces,” Johnny mutters absentmindedly beside you. You pull your binoculars down to send him an incredulous look and he chuckles. “I need to cover my face.”

“You got a mask?”

There’s a pause and Johnny’s looking at you, eyes glinting in that familiar mischief. That was never good news.

“You bet.”

You offer a tentative nod of encouragement before lifting your binoculars back up to observe the target site. You hear the repeated shuffles of fabric against fabric and clothes sliding against skin. It’s prolonged, you swear it’s enough time for Johnny to change his entire uniform. His breaths become muted, mouth now covered until it eventually falls to complete silence. It’s unnerving, the designated demolitions expert is not known for his silence, and you have to look back at him yet again.

Of course you expected Johnny to be wearing a mask, but it was the mask itself that took you by surprise.

“Is that… mine?”

“Was yours.”

You squint and somewhere in the depths of your mind, you vaguely recall Soap asking if he could have one of your spare masks back at the base. You humoured him, and said your wardrobe was his.

That was your first mistake.

You figured he was just going to take the piss, wear your mask to scare some privates around the base. You didn’t think he’d actually wear it on a mission. It was unexpected, but it felt like an honour. How he was so willing to identify with you in some of the most dangerous of situations.

But your silence has Johnny getting fidgety. He’s already reaching up to pull the mask off.

“I have a normal balaclava. If you don’t like this I can-”

“Wear it.”

You can’t see Johnny’s face but you see him pull his head back in surprise. Then he smiles, one so wide, expanding his cheeks you can see it stretch your mask. In that moment you’re glad your mask obscures your features as you feel yourself grin at his own joy.

“We’re a team, aye?”

“You bet.”

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Kyle’s may be close to Simon but he's not entirely used to masked allies. When you first arrived he shot Captain Price a cautious look, a silent conversation between them finished by Price’s definitive nod. Eventually he relents and puts up with you

Subconsciously, without seeing your face he ends up reducing you to a weapon. He respects you like a soldier, a robot. His language is restrained, only issuing orders and you recite them back

It’s only when another soldier cracks a joke on the mission and you laugh does it flick a switch in Kyle’s mind. You weren’t all orders, you weren’t a machine, you were a human (with a damn nice voice might he add). He feels terrible for reducing you to a tool simply because he can’t see your face but he’ll make up for it now

He becomes a bit of a menace in the sparse quiet moments of a mission. He makes the occasional one liner about how you wear the mask so others aren’t distracted by your good looks, but then changes the topic so quickly you’re not even sure he said it

Yes, Kyle’s a little obsessed with your voice. He can’t see you and he doesn’t have the experience like Price or Simon to read body language accurately. Instead, he can read your mood near perfectly with the inflections in your voice (which is arguably more impressive). While he doesn’t want you to ever be upset or angry, sometimes how you taunt the enemy has a shiver running down his spine

Because your mouth is blocked by a mask, many allies don’t offer you food or drinks. Not Kyle though, if he’s grabbed refreshments, he always ensures he has extra for you. At first he just gives them to you and then leaves. But when you said it was okay for him to stay - trusting him enough to just look away when you lift you mask - Kyle’s heart soared

If anything happens to reveal your face, Kyle is immediately by your side. He pulls you close to provide comfort, while also guiding your head into his neck or shoulder to block anyone from seeing you. Another member of the 141 will find a solution to cover your face, you are Kyle’s first priority and he’ll gladly hold you all day

After a long mission, you and Kyle are finally safe upon reaching exfil. Sitting on a helicopter Kyle slumps against his seat, and you do the same beside him. Although he could finally relax, he feels absolutely filthy, swamped in his own sweat under multiple layers. Dirt and mud caked his boots and crept all the way up to his thighs. Some even sneaked up into under his tactical vest.

He spares a look and sometimes he thinks you can’t possibly be human. The heat is suffocating enough without a mask, Kyle has long forgone his signature cap to let his head breathe. If your body language was any indicator, you weren’t handling the sweltering heat of the helicopter engine or Al Mazrah’s temperament. Your chest notably heaving under the weight of your tactical gear, breaths so laboured it sent the fabric around your mouth pulling and billowing with each inhale and exhale.

There isn’t much Kyle can do for comfort, but he tries. He shifts a little closer to you. Your head shifts to look at him, the movement was far too slow, like your head was too heavy and his heart tugs a little.

With one hand, Kyle gently tilts your face up to him. With the other he lightly pinches the fabric of your mask at the junction between your jawline and ear. Teasing it between his fingers, when he pulls his hand away there’s gunk on his fingertips. Dust, dirt and as he squints at your mask he realises that some of the stains are likely the dried blood of an unidentified enemy.

The hand he’s resting on your chin is about to pull away until he notices how you’re resting your head on it. He can’t see your face but he has no doubt that your eyes are near shut, almost drifting off to dreamland. He occupies himself by gently brushing away loose debris off your mask which has you relaxing further into his touch.

“We gotta wash this,” he murmurs defeatedly.

“... yeah, we do,” you grumble, voice thick with fatigue. Kyle does not stop his ministrations - even pulling some fluff off of the cotton of your mask. It does little to actually clean your mask - at this rate it’s going to need pure bleach to clean it - but he can’t bring himself to stop. Not when you trust him this much, leaning into his touch, entrusting him to be the respite from your mission.

Masked Reader Masterlist Call of Duty Masterlist

[frogchiro]

Okay so I read that gladiators could sometimes be hired to be body guards for nobel ladies and all I can think of is Gladiator! Price and a sweet little Nobel! Reader

Like imagine big, burly, hairy price following reader everwhere?? :(( even watching over her in her bedroom and the bath to "make sure she is completely safe". But really he just wants to see readers pretty soft skin in her nightgowns and smell her sweet scent after her baths.

Gladiator!Price who got hired by your father, a noble, who is incredibly protective over his youngest, only daughter. You're a young lady, just turned 20 amd he knows that the world is a dangerous place especially for someone like you so every extra step is justified in his mind.

He has seem the gladiator before in the coliseum, a magnificent warrior despite his age but this is something that only fueled his decision to hire him, a young buck would surely be a perverted degenerate who will try and rob his darling daughter's innocence and might even hurt you, so someone like John is perfect. If he only knew :((

You were kinda scared of John at first when your father introduced him as your new guard. He was a huge man, larger even than your father and much broader, his bulky body standing with his arms crossed over his strong chest, but what really got to you were his eyes. Those intense gray eyes which seemed to be fixated on you made a shiver run down your spine and made appear a shameful tightness in your belly.

You were really timid at first around the gladiator; he was mostly silent, occasional gruffy words left him but they were few and far in between. Pity. His voice was deep and low, a perfect amount of husk and growl in it to make your breath quicken but you pushed those thoughts away as quickly as they came. You should be ashamed! What would father think, what would John himself think about the fact that you have such lusty thoughts about him! All he probably sees is a naive, young noble girl with nothing better to do than go to the market to shop for luxurious fabrics and jewelery with your father's money and sew pretty patterns at home.

Well...that picture of a noble and stoic guardian fell pretty quickly the moment you stepped inside your home's private bath, a beautiful place you always liked to sit and think...but what was Price still doing here? His answer was curt: to protect you at all times. Didn't you know that while bathing you're more vulnerable than ever besides sleeping? He's your guard appointed by your father and it's his sworn duty to protect you.

Sounds reasonable and noble right? Well the feeling of his cock stirring against his armored tunic wasn't all that noble for all the shit John't is spewing. But at the end of the day John is just a man, a man with needs and urges and he can't help the fact that he got assigned to protect the prettiest little nymph he ever saw :((

Good gods what wouldn't he give to touch that beautiful, glowing skin of yours, squeeze your soft tits and suckle on your nipples, grab at your broad hips and- John's trail of thoughts was interrupted by your whining at him that it's embarrassing to undress before him, you're an unmarried lady, it's indecent! But John just scoffs and tells you in that hard, gruff tone to either get naked and hop into the milky, opaque water or go without a bath so he left you with little choice, he's so cruel :((

But on the other hand you couldn't help but decide to tease the older male a little bit, making s bit of a show of you undressing, letting the luxurious fabric of your dress slip deliciously down your body and entering the water step by step, all nice amd shy and demure and you could feel your nipples harden and your cunny get wet when you heard a low growl emanate from the gruff gladiator♡

[heartmix]

Beard Burn - John Price

Pairing: John Price x wife!reader

Word Count: 1.1k+

Warning: allude to s*x, going commando, beard burn (as you can tell by the title)

A/N: originally a jamie benn fic but captain john price 🥰

Masterlist / cod masterlist

Your favorite physical features of John's was hands down his beard. He took a lot of pride into keeping it looking good, often taking hours to line it up and trim it. Often you reminded the captain of how much you loved it and how handsome it made him look. His beard was one of the things you first noticed about him. To say it was an obsession on how much you loved it wouldn't be that far fetched. 

It was a blessing and a curse. As much as you admired it, his beard tended not to be so nice on your skin. During make out sessions or another intimate activity your skin would hate you and get all read and itchy. John noticed the redness afterwards but didn't bother too much since there wasn't much complaining on your end. No way were you going to complain about it.

"Why are you walking like that?" Brandy, your best friend asked as you made your way to the backyard.

You and price decided to hold a little barbecue to celebrate the boys coming back from a four month long mission. He always took care of his team and made sure that they took the time off of work to actually relax. This was one of the ways he could make sure they are doing just that.

"Um, beard burn." a quick mumble was let out as you straighten your pose seeing as she noticed something was up. It wasn't the first time you had to deal with it, but it was the first time you had to play host with it still fresh. 

"You nasty people, someone was excited to be coming home." She teased to which you rolled your eyes at. It was honestly no secret that John couldn't keep his hands off of you especially when he came back from deployment. Your best friend being the only person who knew the dirty details, courtesy of her barging into your house one morning.

"It's fresh from this morning and burns like hell."

"Then why are you wearing jeans? You ain't letting any airflow." She was saying what you already knew. Normally in a situation like this you would go commando and wear the silkiest shorts you own but it didn't feel appropriate for the occasion. 

"This was the first thing i found. The only laundry ive been able to wash is John's and thats not an easy task."

"Come on lets go find something more comfortable, we have time before the rest of your guest come." 

"You going to change lovie?" John asked seemingly hearing what Brandy said as he started up the grill. 

"Yeah, want to change into something more comfortable." You smiled up at him to which he returned. If only he knew the real reason why you were going to change. 

"Don't be long." He said leaning down to place a kiss on your lips.

"Let go of her you leach. Don't burn my steak." Brandy's voice broke your kiss making you both laugh before she was pulling you back in the house. 

Navigating through the mess that was your closest you managed to find a clean dress that was tossed all the way in the back. A simple blue sundress that looked modest enough for the night. Thankfully there was no wind and you were able to go commando without the risk of a Marilyn Monroe moment. 

By the time you and Brandy reached downstairs everyone seemed to be here already. A few of your friends were in the house while Price and his boys were out by the grill in the backyard. Looks like you took longer to change then you would have liked. 

"Go play host while i get us some drinks." Brandy said nudging you to your living room as she headed off to the kitchen. 

As you made your way throughout the house greeting people you couldn't help, but be glad at the suggestion to change. Relieve came immediately when you stepped outside to the crisp fall air. The pain wasn't fully gone but it wasn't as irritating as it was when wearing jeans. A smile graced your face while you made your way up to the boys.

"Theres the Missus!" Exclaimed Gaz making everyone look up at you.

"Looking beautiful as always." Soap smiled making you giggle at the compliments. 

"Thank you, you boys enjoying yourselves?"

"Making sure your husband doesn't burn the food." Ghost spoke up earning an eye roll from John. 

"You look beautiful lovie." John said as he pulled you beside him placing a kiss on your lips.

The rest of the night went on great. Much to Ghost and Brandy's doubt John didn't burn the food. Everyone enjoyed themselves which was all worth the last minute planning. As you both settled into bed John was wondering what made you decide to wear a dress. Sure maybe Brandy somehow convinced you, but it was unlikely you would stop your hosting duties just to go and change. 

"You looked comfortable tonight." John hummed as he came out of the shower seeing you in a night gown all ready to go to bed.

"Yeah I was. Cold air felt nice tonight." 

"No other reason?" He asked settling in bed next to you. 

"I kind of got uncomfortable from the activities this morning." Shyly you admitted making a smirk appear on your husbands face. 

"Was I too rough?"

"No not that, um your beard." John was now confused. What did his beard have anything to do with your comfortableness? "Beard burn." You clarified seeing his confused expression. Might as well rip off the bandage while were here.

"You have beard burn from me eating you out?"

"Yeah, Was burning at bit earlier, but got better when i was wearing just the dress."

"So you're telling me you weren't wearing anything under that little thing all night?" The smirk was back up on his face as his big hands slowly moved up and down your bare leg. 

"Just because i said it's better now doesn't mean that i want a repeat of this morning." You playfully slapped his hand away but it had no affect, his hand was back on you. 

"I'll shave." He said with all seriousness in his tone. John was going to do anything to make you happy and feel good. If the beard had to go so be it. 

"Don't you dare John Price." You scolded seeing how serious he was being. As much pain as the hair on his face caused you there was no way in hell you were parting with it just for a night of sex. 

"It's cock blocking me!" With all seriousness in his tone which you couldn't help but laugh at. 

"Well your cock blocker is what turns me on so it stays. You can go one night without sex old man."

[a-b-riddle]

I'm just going to ask this because I need to get it out of my head. This is all in regards to your Poly141 x Reader series going on. I'm just going to recap things first.

-Price got verbally eviscerated because of all the times he got short/snapped at the reader because he came into their bookstore that they bought with their own money, put their own blood, sweat and tears into fixing up and had THE AUDACITY to call them immature for trying to break things off cleanly like a MATURE adult in a space that's RIGHTFULLY THEIRS because he couldn't be an adult admit how he shouldn't of been treating the reader like one of his men.

-Soap showing up trying to apologize and then thinking with his dick because of how the reader got dressed up for a dinner date and got a taste of his own medicine when the reader just hit it and quit it without so much as a thank you, or a goodbye kiss and basically told him to clean up, get dressed and kick rocks.

-Gaz shows up after weeks of just flaking out of any dates and just being a ghost (ironic considering Ghost's callsign) trying to talk to the reader in person when the reader had tried for months to just get a glimpse of him only to be told he couldn't right now but could another time. Then the reader just tell him, 'yeah sorry no. I don't have time for you and your mates nonsense at the moment, just swing by to get your stuff when it works for you'.

-Ghost showing up whenever the reader is in trouble and getting them away from danger only to disappear shortly afterward and give the reader radio silence. The one time that the reader tried to seek him out for just a SHRED of comfort and he just told them, 'You're only good for what's in between your legs love, you knew what you were getting into. You should've known better.'

With all this mind, I want Ghost to have everything and the kitchen sink thrown at him. I want him to be told in no kind words that his words and lack of realizing how fucked up the things he said to the reader were was the straw that broke the camel's back. I want the reader to hurl everything that they didn't say to Price to Ghost. I want him to realize in no unclear terms how if he didn't fuck up so royally and had actually attempted to give the reader a fraction of what he was being given, things would be so much better. And for some extra salt on the wound, have the reader tell him that they suppose that when it comes to his line of work, he's pretty good at breaking anything and everything he touches. It's just a shame that for anything that involves a softer touch, he winds up breaking it beyond repair.

I just love narrative/reflective irony and can't wait for the next part and wish you well for making it to the end of this ramble. 🥰

I'm throwing up.

I am so happy that y'all got it without me having to say it. YES! She is giving everything back that they gave her. John's outbursts, Johnny's lack of aftercare and Kyle's flakiness.

I will say this which I think is interesting. Simon said something hellllla shitty and unforgivable. Like it was mean and something once you say you can't take back. I will ask this and feel free to go back and re-read.

What else did Simon do? Before the phone call, what else did Simon do to reader? We know Simon wanted to hurt reader. Why? Did he plan

Spoiler below, read at own caution

Or was he just sick of being the only one out of the four guys to actually contribute to the relationship and knew he needed to be the one to drive it home that there isn't a future with them? Reader refers to Simon several times as her body guard or guard dog... But never a boyfriend or partner.

In flashbacks, we see that Simon only ever came over at night. You'll find out why in the next few chapters, but as much as I love y'all hating on Simon, I cannot WAIT for y'all to get to the why.

And remember kiddos, hurt people hurt people.

[roosterr]

murphy's law

a/n: ive had this idea in my head for a while so i decided to dump it out of my brain for all of you to enjoy. somewhat inspired by lunarvicar's amazing wonderful fic to the flame i really love her writing so check it out yo also i haven't written anything in years so cut me some slack :')

pairing: captain john price x gn!reader

summary: when a simple mission goes south, you get left behind in the confusion. you just can't seem to catch a break.

no use of y/n, callsign is 'vantage'

no physical description, but reader is (very) vaguely implied to be shorter than price

warnings: descriptions of injury (nothing too graphic), canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, minor character death, i don't know how the military works lmao, lots of swearing bc i can't help myself

word count: 8.6k

read it on ao3 here

✹✹✹

it was a straightforward mission; in and out, grab what you need, and you'd be home in time for dinner. nothing you hadn't handled before.

ghost and price were on overwatch; the lieutenant was positioned with his rifle on a rooftop across the street, whilst the captain stayed in the suv with a laptop to keep an eye on the surveillance cameras around the exterior of the building.

you'd had your eyes on this intel for months now, biding your time and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. your opening had finally arrived, and with all that time spent planning, it was going so well.

that should have been the first red flag.

the second, more apparent, warning sign was that anything you found as you, gaz, and soap swept the building was either something you already knew, or irrelevant. how was that possible? the location of this facility was a heavily guarded secret, you'd fought tooth and nail to find it; why spend so much effort hiding something which had such little value?

you'd ventured to the second floor, up the damp stairwell and further into the eerily quiet building. there must be something worth hiding here, you just had to find it. you certainly weren't planning on going home empty handed.

you paused your movement into the dark, staring down the empty corridor through the sights of your gun. you felt your stomach turn, and swallow down the sick taste of bile in your throat. for everything you'd done to get here…

it was going so… well.

bringing your hand to the radio on your chest, you don't bother to calm the shake in your voice before speaking.

"does this feel off to anyone–"

you're cut off by price's shouting, a twinge of panic in his voice you aren't used to hearing from him.

"fuck– it's an ambush! get out of there, now!"

you're about to respond, when you hear gunshots from below you. soap and gaz were downstairs, where the hostiles were pouring into the building, and you were on your own upstairs.

the shots from ghost's rifle make your ears ring, even from across the street.

"vantage, get yer arse down here, there's too many of 'em!" soap's yelling brings you out of your haze, and you can't find the energy to respond as you take off running, back to the stairs you came up. "shit– man down! gaz is hit! they're coming up, vantage!"

you just about register what he said when the door to the stairway bursts open only a few metres ahead of you. diving into the nearest open room, you narrowly avoid a bullet to the gut, and slam the door shut behind you.

shit. fuck. fucking shit.

you counted at least four hostiles up here, and with gaz injured, soap would most likely be dragging him back to the suv you all arrived in, where price was waiting, which meant…

you really were alone.

well, ghost was out there, but he was a man of self preservation. he wouldn't risk coming in here to save you. not when you were this fucked.

your chest felt tight, now, and you could hear the enemies shouting on the other side of the wall. come on, you plead with yourself, do something!

snapping your head to look around the room you'd trapped yourself in, your eyes linger on the filing cabinets lining the wall next to you. you can drag them over here, barricade the door. 

prolong your survival, or delay the inevitable.

you hadn't noticed how hard your nails were digging into your palms until you went to grip the cabinet. the half-moon divots stung against the cool metal as you heaved it in front of the door.

now the hostiles are outside, rattling the wall with their attempts to kick the door down.

you drag another one, for safe measure. you pray they'll be heavy enough.

through the blood rushing in your ears, you can just about make out price's voice.

"vantage, answer me dammit! what is your bloody status!"

"i'm good– i'm good," you manage to get out between pants, never once taking your eyes off the door. willing your heartbeat to slow down. "not injured, just– stuck in a room upstairs."

"that doesn't sound good to me."

it all went quiet when he spoke to you. at first you thought it was just because your focus had shifted– because it was him– but it really was quiet now.

"yeah, i… they're– wait, they're not at the door anymore, they…"

hold on.

what?

"ghost, you got eyes? what's happenin' over there?" there's a sense of urgency to your captain's voice, and for a single selfish moment, you think he might be worried for you beyond that of a just soldier. your frenzied mind lingers on that thought.

the gruff voice of ghost brings you back to reality,

"they're setting charges– vantage, you need to find a way out."

charges. explosives.

all you can muster is a half-hearted, "shit…"

deep down, you know that isn't going to happen. you wouldn't have time to run down the stairs, and even if you did you'd only be walking right into their bullets. there's nothing they can do to help. and you think, deep down, they know that too.

this is it, then, you think to yourself, am i really going to die like this?

and for another fleeting moment, you're filled with regret that you would never get to see john's face again. all the stolen glances, lingering touches, inside jokes; none of it would ever amount to anything. would he remember you? would he even come back for your dog tags?

the tightness is back in your heart, but it's different this time.

your eyes still don't leave the door as your back hits the wall. the faint moonlight gives the room a soft glow, serene, and your heart sinks further into your stomach.

the moonlight;

the window, the outside.

not an ideal escape route, but these were hardly ideal circumstances.

you didn't waste a second with hesitation and backed up for a running start. you thank every deity you can think of that you always insisted on wearing a helmet.

this was going to hurt, but it was better than the alternative.

"van, you have to get out, please!" you're not even sure who's talking in your ear anymore, but you know who you want it to be.

for him, you think to yourself, i have to make it back to him.

with a deep breath, you take off into a sprint, tucking your head into your elbow and diving shoulder first through the glass.

as you free fall out the second storey window, you think you hear john calling your name, your real name, and you think you feel a flutter in your chest. it was almost peaceful.

and then you hit the ground.

with a thump and a sickening crack, you rolled unceremoniously and ended up on your side, in the snowy alleyway behind the building you were just trapped in; the building that was about to be demolished. your elbow muffled your pained cry.

right, explosives, the reason you jumped to begin with.

your teammates are still going berserk in your ear, yelling at each other or you or both, but you can't bring yourself to respond. you could answer them once you were a safe distance away– and when you could breathe without heaving. as you stand, swaying on your feet, you feel your ribs shift in a way they definitely aren't supposed to, filling you once again with the innate urge to vomit.

but you swallow that down; it'll have to wait, you need to get as far away as possible, now.

your hands braced your broken ribs– and you notice, then, that your shoulder is killing you too– as you stumble down another alley, leading away from the building. you slip and almost fall on the untouched snow, but somehow manage to catch yourself. in the back of your mind, you notice you lost your rifle at some point. you'd have to survive with just your pistol.

for a moment, you almost felt that you'd gotten away, that you'd made the perfect escape.

of course, it was too perfect.

the charges finally went off. you were thrown forward, and despite your helmet, everything went black.

✹✹✹

your ribs flared with agony at the ragged breath you took, blinking your eyes open as consciousness returned to you. darkness swarmed your vision, contrasting the pure white of the snow that was slowly freezing your extremities, and you fought with every bit of self-restraint you had not to cry. your eyes stung anyway.

how long were you out? you were still in the alley, and you hadn't been found by anyone yet, so it couldn't have been long. i need to move, is the only thought swirling in your head. with what little strength you could muster, you rolled yourself onto your back to look at the ruins behind you.

dust filled the air and coated everything in sight, obscuring your vision almost fully; but what you could make out, was the lights from your enemy's guns as they swept the rubble.

looking for you, presumably.

shit shit shit.

you had god knows how many broken ribs, your shoulder was fucked, and now your vision was swimming, and to top it all off you could barely hear yourself think over the violent ringing in your ears. this night just kept getting better and better.

it took everything in you not to scream at the agony as you dragged yourself behind a fallen dumpster, sitting up against the cold brick of the building behind you in an attempt to catch your breath.

in. out. in. out.

in.

out.

every move had your bones creaking in protest, the longer you sat here the more you felt every little cut and bruise and shard of glass littering your body. the dust in the air tickled your throat and threatened to make you cough up a lung, spots in your vision danced like fireflies, luring you back into the clutches of sleep.

no… i can't rest yet, you urged yourself to fight your drooping eyelids, i have to get back to the suv… they're waiting… for me…

the crunch of debris under heavy boots snaps you back to the present.

someone was approaching.

the optimist in you wanted to believe it was price, coming to rescue you. but you couldn't take that chance. your hand grips the pistol on your hip, drawing it out slowly to make as little noise as possible.

the shadowed figure came stumbling into view. your arm straightened to aim at their unprotected head, eyes wide and breathing laboured.

the man– the boy– locked eyes with you, flinging himself backwards to the wall opposite you with his hands held high.

your expression hardened. he was your enemy. his uniform made that clear. for a moment, neither of you moved, you weren't even sure if he was breathing anymore. like two wild animals, locked in a staredown, each of you waiting for the other to make the first move. which one of you was the hunter, and which one was the prey?

shooting him will draw his comrades over here. sparing him means he can call them over himself. a lose-lose.

lost in your internal debate as you stare at him, you vaguely notice his hand lowering to his belt, and in a moment of panic, your heart clenches in time with your finger to deliver a shot right between his eyes.

his body slid down the wall, a perfect mirror of your own as the life fades from his expression.

shit. again.

his friends must’ve heard that. with renewed, adrenaline fueled vigour, you scramble across the alley, and begin rifling through the packs on his chest and belt.

a twinge of guilt fills you as you notice his empty holsters. he wasn't even armed.

shaking your head, you find what you're looking for; a morphine shot. at least, that's what it looked like, the words on the label were swimming with the concussion you surely had. it would have to do.

you take the syringe carefully, and stick the end into the muscle of your thigh, through a rip in your pants you hadn't noticed before, and inject the solution. it would take a minute to kick in, but hopefully the painkiller would help you at least make it back to the suv where your team was waiting.

where price was waiting. god you hoped they were okay, him especially, though he was probably in the least danger of you all. what you wouldn't give to have stayed in the car with him.

pocketing the empty syringe, you spare another glance at the boy's face. his wide, lifeless eyes. the pack he was reaching for. the same one you found the morphine in.

he… was going to help you. and you'd killed him.

oh god. the realisation has your stomach turning for the third time that day.

you pressed his eyes shut and pushed yourself to stand. as you trudge your way to the far end of the alley, you keep your eyes forward. there wasn't time to linger.

with a deep breath, you steel yourself and begin to make your way through the cold, abandoned streets of the small town. the suv wasn't far, only a couple blocks away. it wouldn't take you long to get there, even with your injuries.

somewhere in the distance, you could hear terrified screaming, presumably the residents who were forced awake by the sound of the explosion.

now that the ringing had died down, you realise that you hadn't heard your teammates in a while. absent-mindedly, you bring a hand up to press the comms, and you almost start talking before you feel the plastic crunch under your fingers.

"oh for fucks sake."

of fucking course your radio was broken. it must have been crushed when you were flung forward by the explosion.

brilliant.

whatever, the suv would be in your sight soon anyway, you don't need it.

the cover of night made it significantly easier to hobble through the streets unseen, thanks to your all black gear. the enemy were still hovering around the destroyed building, but at least that meant they thought you were buried under there. hopefully they would stay distracted long enough for you to make it back.

god, fuck, you really couldn't wait to get back to base. you desperately needed a shower hot enough to melt your skin to scrub off all the dirt and blood from your body. the morphine had started to kick in now, but you still felt your ribs shift unnaturally with every heavy step. you'd definitely need a few weeks off to recover from this one, and you’d probably get an earful from the captain. you’d kill to hear his voice right now, even if he was yelling at you for being an idiot.

only a little further. then you’d be back with the safety of your team, with this godforsaken place in the rear view mirror. with the promise of being able to rest, your limbs seemed to grow heavier as the exhaustion finally made its way into your bones.

except, when you turn the final corner, you freeze, an ice-cold dread sweeping through your veins.

the car was gone.

it wasn’t there.

they weren’t there.

there was a stretch of tarmac that fresh snow just beginning to fall had yet to cover, tire-tracks that showed the u-turn the suv had done, blood on the snow from– you assume– gaz, empty bullet casings from the fight they put up.

but no suv.

no teammates.

no john.

no. no, no no no. they couldn’t have left you. that wasn’t how you did things in the 141. it was no man left behind, you knew that. maybe they’re just circling the area, you rationalised, desperately trying to calm your ragged breathing, yeah, they went to look for me. they wouldn’t leave me behind.

but they weren't here.

and as you followed the tire-tracks down the street, they didn’t go back into the town. they made a straight line, directly to the dirt track leading into the wilderness, clear as day in the snow. back the way you had all gotten here earlier that night.

your knees dampen from the snow, the painkiller in your system keeping you from feeling the impact. when did you fall over? there was no attempt to stop the searing hot tears this time as they ran through the dirt caked to your face. your throat constricted, lifting a hand to your mouth to muffle your hyperventilating.

they were gone.

long gone, without you.

they really had left you behind.

a mumble from somewhere to your left interrupts your breakdown. grief morphs into blinding rage for a split second; can i get a fucking break? you swing your arm still holding the pistol to point at whoever was watching you, twisting your abdomen in a way that has you gritting your teeth.

a woman, clutching her young son, shielding his eyes and ears from you.

you lower your gun. that’s not a mistake you’ll make twice. catching her eyes, you gesture for her to be quiet, which is quickly met with her frantic nodding.

it reminds you, you’re still not safe here. you were supposed to be, but hey, it looks like plans change. no man left behind– what a load of horseshit. you push yourself onto shaky legs, you only had a few hours until the morphine wore off, and you needed to be out of here before that happened. as fast as you could possibly muster, you begin to stumble towards the dirt track that disappears into the treeline, following the slowly disappearing tire-tracks.

✹✹✹

you managed to make it into the woods faster than you expected, and you found a fallen tree slightly off the path to take shelter behind while you licked your wounds. literal and metaphorical.

this was unbelievable. how could they leave you like that? if they’d only taken the time to do a quick lap of the building, they would’ve found you laying face down in the snow, and this whole mess could have been avoided. where were they off to in such a hurry anyway? it’s not like you guys had found anything sensitive. 

oh, wait. gaz was shot. that had briefly slipped your mind. perhaps you were being a little selfish by getting so worked up by this, but then again, for all they knew you could have been in the same condition– or worse. they…

your breath hitched. and not from your injuries.

they thought you were dead. that would make sense, in the chaos of everything, and amidst your panic, you didn’t really do a good job keeping up with answering your comms. still though, you were definitely going to rip them all a new one when you got back; or maybe it would be the other way around.

either way, you couldn’t sit here and dwell on it all night. you needed to make it to the safehouse before they flew back to base. if you missed them this time, you really were well and truly fucked.

✹✹✹

"i've gotta be at least half-way by now," you lament, flopping down against another tree with a grunt in an attempt to calm the burning in your legs and chest. the morphine had worn off about a few hours ago, and you were finally feeling all the bleeding wounds you'd ignored before. nothing lethal, you hoped, aside from your shoulder, ribs, and splitting headache, it was mostly just a lot of glass in your skin.

when you left the town, it must have been just past midnight, and at this pace it would be well after morning before you made it back. you could just about see the first signs of dawn poking through the cloud layer.

the snow had gotten heavier, casting a haze over the horizon, but it hadn't escalated into a storm yet. even under all your gear, the cold was starting to bite at your limbs. your lack of gloves was a decision you were coming to regret; if you lost any fingers because of this you really were going to kill price.

"fuck, he thinks i'm dead…" you groan as you stare up at the sky. snowflakes catch in your eyelashes and threaten to freeze the tears as they well up in your eyes. was he as distraught as you currently were, you wonder? was he even moved at all, or were you just another soldier, just more paperwork he had to fill out?

being in love with your captain was so, so difficult. a mistake, most would say, and you used to tell yourself the same thing. but after knowing him, seeing the vulnerable parts of him he keeps closely guarded, you can't bring yourself to care. seeing his expression when you gifted him the cigars you bought for him, learning his favourite drink when you all went out after missions, trading stories over paperwork in his office late at night. even after everything you've been through together, you know, in your heart, he doesn't feel the same; he's your superior, you're his sergeant, and he is nothing if not an honest man. it can never work between you two. but despite it all, the only regret you have as you sit bleeding in the snow, is that you never told him how you felt.

please, don't leave me here… 

in the back of your mind, you know they wouldn't go home without at least id-ing your body, but you were so shaken by the ongoing near death experience that your train of thought wasn't making much sense anymore.

the distant whirr of a helicopter snapped you back to reality. maybe it was… no, the 141 didn't have a helicopter here, which could only mean it was a hostile one. fucking fantastic. where you were slumped was right at the edge of the road, with very little cover from above. you needed to move further off the path, under the protection of the forest canopy.

with a laboured grunt, you pulled yourself back onto your feet, using the tree behind you as a crutch until you could catch your breath again. the helicopter was getting nearer now, close enough that you could almost make out the spotlight through the falling snow.

a brief jog was all you could manage to get away from the road. the snow wasn't deep enough to leave tracks that would be noticeable from the air, not through the shade of darkness. you still as the helicopter passes overhead. there's no change in its course, and you huff a breath of relief. at least you wouldn't have to try and outrun a chopper.

you watch the helicopter's silhouette fade into the night sky. there was nothing to do but carry on. you needed to get to the safehouse.

this was going to be a long night.

✹✹✹

hours, it had been hours since you first set off, so long in fact that it was essentially daytime. the sun hadn't fully risen, casting the world in a dim light that was just dark enough to keep you tripping over roots and holes in the ground.

the snow had let up a while ago, but the overcast clouds had stayed, the perfect match to your steadily declining mood. you thought you felt like shit earlier? if only you could have predicted how much worse it would get. you were acclimated to the pain by now, it reduced to a constant throbbing where your bones were broken. perhaps the icy temperature around you was numbing your injuries; it was either that or the shock.

ahead, you recognised a set of worn tire-tracks making a hard turn through a gap in the forest. there was no way of knowing it was the right way, but a spark of optimism ignites in your chest. maybe you were finally getting close. you just had to pray that your sense of direction was good enough to be leading you in the right direction.

you were right on top of the tracks now, and upon closer inspection, the pattern of the treads might just match the ones on the suv; you've had to fix that damn car so many times you'd know it in your sleep. they were messy, the snow making it hard to pick out, but you needed the hope right now.

this had to be them.

you go to continue down the clear path, to follow where your team had gone, but your luck just doesn't improve.

the mud slides under your foot, catching your ankle and toppling you in your attempt to struggle through. the breath is forced from your lungs as you impact the ground. you cry out through gritted teeth, feeling the strain of your muscles twisting far further than they're supposed to.

pain strikes through your ankle like lightning. drawing a breath is almost impossible from the pressure of your ribs. as you fight to sit up, the mud fights to drag you back down like quicksand.

fuck. another injury to slow you down.

muddy snow covers you from head to toe, the stabbing pain in your shoulder coming back in full force.

was that a car? the low rumbling from the direction you came from drew your attention, and you faintly see beams of headlights through the darkness. you momentarily forgot about your injuries, a frenzied panic making your blood run cold. another patrol. i need to go.

then, as you struggle to get up and out of sight, you feel a concerning pop from your kneecap, and you don't even have to look to know it's dislocated.

but there was no time to check the damage, you had to hide, now, or the truck would reach you and you'd have a lot more problems on your hands. you scramble onto your hands and knees, and yank your ankle free of the wet mud, practically throwing yourself behind the undergrowth just in time for the truck to round the bend.

your ribs are displaced again, injecting fresh pain into the shuddering breath you took, on top of your newly twisted ankle and dislocated kneecap bent uncomfortably beneath you.

it's a miracle you were able to keep quiet as the vehicle passed by.

by some stroke of luck, or just divine stupidity, your enemies drive straight past the space in the trees and your hiding spot. the headlights cast ominous shadows as they cruise by, but they didn't see you.

struggling to your feet once again, this time you give the muddy path a wide berth as you make your way deeper into the forest.

✹✹✹

one foot in front of the other. dragging your injured leg behind you. cradling your broken ribs.

just keep going.

limping through the mud took every resource your body had left, the effort of keeping upright was almost more than you could take.

how much longer could you possibly go, before you can't get back up again?

you couldn't lose hope.

ahead of you, a break in the sea of trees.

just one foot in front of the other. that's all you need. it's all you can do.

closer, stepping out into the open, squinting against the sun.

against the pale light of the morning sky, you see a dark shape. a building? you couldn't tell, you could only pray it was the warehouse you'd been longing for.

one foot in front of the other.

closer still, despite the bone-deep exhaustion in every limb. you could make it out now, the rusted metal siding and fresh tire-tracks in the mud. you were right there.

you taste the salt before you realise you're crying. 

almost,

somewhere between the agony, you hear yourself think,

still too early to celebrate.

your heart stutters. they were here, they had to be.

they had to be.

one foot in front of the other.

closer again, you focus on the keypad beside the door. your ankle twists uncomfortably as it drags along the gravel.

the handle became your crutch as you mustered the energy to lift your arm to enter the code.

seeing double, vision swaying as the edges fade.

a distant beep. a red light turning to green.

the handle turns under your weight, and the door swings open.

you find the floor coming up fast.

voices are all around you.

you give in to unconsciousness.

✹✹✹

the distinct hospital smell is what rouses you from your deep, dreamless sleep. hands prod at your busted ribs, drawing a scratchy groan from your dry throat. you grab the wrist of whoever is there as you fight to open your eyes.

"sergeant vantage?" they call out to you, and you realise with a disappointed sigh that it's the medic and not your captain. you open your eyes fully and see her standing above you with a clipboard in one hand. apart from her, you're alone in the medical wing. she notices you looking around, and looks down at the clipboard as she continues,  "glad to see you finally awake. your teammate gaz got off pretty lucky, the bullet went clean through his leg. you on the other hand, i'm impressed you made it back at all."

your ankle is in a boot and elevated on some pillows, and you can feel your knee is tightly bandaged under the blankets. an ache starts to form in your shoulder at the effort of holding your arm up.

"vantage, i need you to let go of my wrist." she says, and after an awkward pause you free her from your hold.

"sorry doc…" you mumble, bringing both hands up to your face and observing the tiny cuts littering your skin. you let them flop down to your sides again, but the aching doesn't subside.

"how are you feeling?" she breaks the momentary quiet, setting her clipboard down on the table next to your bed, "want me to get you anything?"

"i'd kill for some water…" you wheeze, the dehydration was catching up to you.

"alright, i'll be right back," the doctor affirms, making her way to the door. she turns back to look you in the eyes with a stern expression before she leaves, "please don't go anywhere."

and with that, the door clicks shut and you're left truly alone with your thoughts again.

your bones creak as you push yourself to sit up, your movements sluggish still with exhaustion, and you're reminded of just how badly you were hurt. everything aches, and it feels as though you'd been asleep for years.

gaz was okay, that's a relief. a little insulting that he got shot and was still in better condition than you, but whatever.

you look around the room for something, anything, to take your mind off the pain, and your eyes eventually land on the table beside you. a few cards sat on top, all with some variation of get well soon on the front, along with a small vase of flowers. you pick up the card closest to you and open it to read the scratchy handwriting inside.

'i swear you could survive a nuke, you're like a cockroach! get better soon, lots of love, soap! xxxxx'

what a charmer soap was. you chuckle at his lighthearted message, he always did try to keep your spirits up in times like these. as you place the card back where it was, your gaze is drawn to the empty chair next to your bed. there was a thin blanket folded over the back, probably left by whoever was last sitting there.

your mind begins to wander; how long were you out? your teammates clearly visited, does that mean price did too? you feel your stomach flutter at the thought of him worrying for you, watching over you as you recover. and if he fell asleep at your bedside? the heart monitor might call the doctor back if this train of thought continues. but then again, you doubted he'd be that forward, he would most likely be buried in paperwork like he usually is after a mission. and the mission you just came back from would require more paperwork than most.

because they… left you behind. that's right. you had to walk yourself back to the safehouse on all your injuries. who knows how long you were walking for but it must have been at least ten hours, considering the sun had risen by the time you got there. the butterflies were swiftly melted by the hot anger rising within you.

you were going to give him a piece of your mind, just like you promised.

all thoughts of the pain you were feeling are out of your head as you fling the blanket off your lower body. you grip your injured leg and lift it over the edge of the bed, swinging your other leg to plant both feet on the floor.

just as you were about to pull yourself up to stand, the door opens again and the medic walks in with your water bottle in her hand. she stops, an icy look in her eyes as she observes what you're doing.

you look back at her, debating whether you should give it up and lay back down, but your anger quickly wins over. the heart monitor picks up again as you work yourself up.

"i swear to god, if you don't sit back down right now," she makes her way over, setting the water down on the table you were using as a crutch. you meet her eyes indignantly, and go to step around her anyway. "no! you need to rest!" the doc puts her hands on your shoulders, and she stops your movement embarrassingly easily.

"fuck that," you croak, your voice still hoarse, "where's captain shithead? i need a word."

she maneuvers you back into sitting on the edge of the bed, and hands you the water. you keep your sour expression, but still drink half the bottle in one go.

"i assume you mean captain price? he's in his office, hasn't come out since you all got back." she takes the bottle from you when you're done, setting it down again, before moving to take the iv out of your arm. if she feels your glare, she doesn't acknowledge it. "whatever it is, it can wait."

"yeah right, i got a few strong words for him, and he is gonna hear 'em."

the doc hesitates as she works.

"i don't know exactly what happened out there, but i think you should know… that he hasn't visited you," she speaks softly, watching your angry expression fall. "your other teammates did, i even saw ghost sneaking out of here one night, but you didn't hear that from me."

silence overcame the small room again as her words sunk in. he left you for dead, and now he was avoiding you? even ghost visited you, and you'd barely had a single conversation with him. your heart feels tight again, the same way it did when you were trapped in that building.

"how long was i out?" your voice is low, almost a whisper.

"two days."

you should have listened to all the people who told you loving him was a bad idea. you'd almost died, and he still didn't visit you? that stung. god, you haven't even been awake an hour and you already want to throw up.

i guess i really don't mean that much to him, huh?

you think back to the night before the mission, when you'd sat with john while he did paperwork. at first, he tried to convince you to get some sleep, 

"you wanna be well rested, love."

but you stayed anyway, saying that you'd just sleep on the flight. you would rather spend your nights of insomnia with him anyway.

the two of you had talked for hours that night, about anything that came to mind. it was the early hours of the morning when you finally retreated back to your own quarters. he'd insisted on seeing you back, despite the fact that it was the middle of the night and your room was in the next building over. the way he'd lingered by your door as you said goodnight, you really thought he was going to kiss you then. but he didn't, and you went to sleep with a heavy feeling of disappointment that persevered into the next day.

"i'm sorry vantage." the medic sets something down on the end of the bed, and you turn to look. a pile of your clothes. "i know how you soldiers are, you're gonna get up as soon as i leave no matter what i say, so i'd rather you not walk around in a hospital gown."

she was right.

"...thanks, doc."

despite the overwhelming pain in your heart, you were still about to rip into price.

✹✹✹

you limp out of the infirmary after dressing yourself as quickly as your injuries would allow, which is to say, not very fast. thankfully there weren't any stairs between here and your captain's office, you definitely wouldn't be able to make it up them with your crutch.

the sun was already setting, a pink hue filling the sky as you pushed open the doors of the medical wing. you tried to think as little as possible as you made your way steadily across the courtyard. it would only upset you, and you desperately wanted to be pissed at him. you wouldn't– couldn't– let price see how hurt you were, he probably didn't care anyway. he was just your captain, after all, realistically there was no reason for you to be this upset.

but you were, and the few people you encountered in the corridors could see it written on your face, staying well out of your way as you shuffled past them.

as you stared at the closed door of john's office, your anger wavered. despite the ache in your heart, you considered for a moment that perhaps you were being dramatic. he was your captain, you were just one of his soldiers. it made perfect sense that he'd prioritise the lives of three others over yours alone.

it was his job, and he did it well.

you love john, of course you do, and that's why you're so affected by that fact. maybe you were letting your selfishness get the better of you. honestly, you didn't have a real reason to believe he felt the same way about you. everyone on task force 141 was close, that's the way things are, you couldn't confidently say he treated you differently.

but he was smart. he had to know how you felt, had at least had to know that you don't go out of your way for your other teammates as much as you do for him.

then again, even ghost had visited you while you were out, and you considered yourself much closer to price than him. so maybe he hated you now, he'd finally gotten tired of your poor decision making skills. it was the reason you were in this situation to begin with.

you were just about to abandon the idea of laying into him when price's voice sounded through the door.

"whoever's standin' out there, hurry up and come in, or piss off." he sounded exhausted, his tone blunt with annoyance. it wasn't unusual for him to get like that, especially whilst buried in mind-numbingly boring paperwork, but you could feel something else under the surface of his sharp tone.

well, there goes your last chance to run. you took a moment to steel yourself, to remember that you were in fact angry at him, and open the door with the harshest look you can muster.

he didn't look up as you let the door close behind you, keeping his nose buried in whatever report he was currently scribbling on. his hat was discarded on the desk next to him, and the hand in his hair was keeping it the messiest you'd ever seen it. you breathe in deeply through your nose.

"oh you'd love to get rid of me that easily, wouldn't you?" you spit, coming to stand in the middle of the room.

john's head snaps forward at the sound of your voice, the hand in his hair dropping to his desk, allowing you to finally get a good look at him. his eyes were wide and tired, you could tell the bags under them were darker than the last time you'd looked him in the face.

"vantage…" he spoke with something almost like disbelief, like he couldn't fathom that you were really in front of him. the hard lines of his face soften as his eyes meet yours, and then even further when his gaze falls to your crutch and boot.

fuck, how were you supposed to stay mad at him when he looks at you like that? you channel every ounce of bottled up frustration you have before his blue eyes consume you.

"well unfortunately, i am still alive. not that you give a shit; you got a restraining order on the infirmary or something?"

he murmurs your name– your real name, and as he rises to stand, his eyes don't leave yours for a second.

fuuuuuck.

"what? you leave me for dead, now the cats got your tongue?" you hiss at him, but you can feel the venom leaving your words with every second. the way his expression falls ever so slightly has you regretting what you were saying. you came in here needing to hurt him the way he hurt you, but you were quickly losing your nerve.

"don't do that…" he was almost pleading, as he made his way around his desk to stand in front of you, his piles of paperwork long forgotten. he goes to grasp your elbow, but you pull back before he can touch you. 

"sorry if you've already filled out my death certificate, i'd hate to cause you any more headaches." there was little fight left in your voice now, as you stared each other down in the middle of his office.

in the pause, john screws his eyes shut, turning his head to the side, before fixing you with a hard stare.

"don't. you know i would never've left you if i had any other choice!" it's not anger when he raises his voice, it's desperation; trying to convince himself as well as you. he takes another step towards you, toe to toe now as you lock eyes.

"do i know that? because from where i'm standing, it looks like you couldn't get far enough away from me," you can't help the way your voice cracks, nor can you disguise the hurt when you continue, "even fucking ghost visited me, but not you…"

another beat of silence.

"i couldn't…" john mumbled, eyes showing his mind was somewhere else. your chest tightened; every trace of anger was gone, replaced with the heartache you'd gotten so familiar with when it came to him.

"correct me if i'm wrong, but i really thought you cared." you try to take a step back, put some distance between the two of you, but he grabs your upper arm– successfully this time– to stop you going anywhere. it takes an impressive amount of restraint not to melt at his touch.

"of course i fuckin' care!" he growls, tugging you marginally closer.

your eyes hardened again; of course he did, just not in the way you wanted him to.

you jab your finger into his chest as you speak, your expression sour. "well you could've fooled–"

he grabs your hand as he cuts you off, and you can see the muscles in his jaw clenching, his face turning sharp again.

"bloody hell, just shut up! it killed me to leave without you, y'know that? if it weren't for simon i would've sent 'em back without me! i waited, as long as i could," he wasn't shouting, but you went quiet as if he was, any retaliation you thought of dying on your tongue. john let out a heavy sigh before he continued, "but you didn't come. you were stuck in that building, and then when it went up in fuckin' smoke, what was i supposed to think? i– we called out to you so many times, but you never responded."

the silence between you was heavy. deep down, you had already assumed everything he was telling you, but to actually hear it from his mouth had you choking up in his grasp.

"i…" you tried to say something, anything, but the words just wouldn't come. despite your best efforts, the tears welling up in your eyes were close to spilling over as your gaze fell to the floor.

john sighed again, softer this time, and using the hand on your arm he brought you into his chest, letting go of your hand with his other and wrapping it securely around your back.

you rest your cheek against his chest, bringing your own arms up around his torso, and revelled in the feeling of his embrace. listening to his elevated heartbeat, you wondered if he could feel just how hard yours was beating too.

"when you came crashin' through that door the next mornin', alive, i swear i've never been so relieved. but then you wouldn't wake up, and you were covered in so much blood… i…" his voice breaks, actually breaks, and you try to lift your head to look at him, but his hand on your arm moves up and presses into the back of your head, holding you tight against him. "...i was fuckin' terrified, love." he whispered.

"... why didn't you visit me?" the question you'd been meaning to ask all along, the real reason you had been upset at him.

you feel him press his lips into the top of your head, gently rocking you both where you stand. the crutch falls from your arm, but neither of you make any move to retrieve it.

"i couldn't. i couldn't face you, layin' in that hospital bed, hooked up to all them machines… knowin' it was my fault…"

"Hey, you know it wasn’t…" you murmur with disapproval; as much as you hate to admit it, you dug yourself into that hole.

"fuck, i'm– so fucking sorry love,"

"don't apologise… please, you did what you had to," you lift your head, and you can look him in the face again. his eyes were slightly red; if your heartstrings were pulled anymore they'd surely break. "plus, i was never really mad at you anyway."

he huffs out a small chuckle, his breath fanning over your face, the crease in his brow melting away as your eyes meet, "well ain't that a relief?"

"i thought you were pissed at me, and that's why you didn't visit…" you clear your throat and avoid his gaze, "i mean, i did lock myself in a building full of hostiles… not my finest moment,"

"no. as stupid as you are sometimes, i could never be angry at you." 

"that is a relief."

a quiet overcomes the two of you, standing in eachothers arms as the evening sun casts the room in an orange glow. you wanted to stay like this for the rest of time, but it was getting increasingly difficult to ignore the voice in the back of your head that said this was inappropriate. the way he was talking, holding you, had your hopes high, just like that night before the mission. the one where you went to bed disappointed. it didn't help that you were expecting the let-down now, if anything it only made your heart sink even lower.

you notice that, exactly like you, john was staring at you with an unreadable expression on his face. you tilt your head, wordlessly urging him to tell you what's going on. he sighs, scanning the multitude of cuts and scrapes that litter your face, "i promise you, i will never let anything like that happen again, alright?"

"i believe you." you smile softly, and you do; of course you do, you'd trust him with your life. it wasn't something you'd admit out loud, but you would do just about anything if he asked you to.

"i swear, i'm not lettin' you outta my sight." the look on his face has you squirming is his grasp, under the intense gaze he pinned you with.

"alright, i get it," you chuckle, your face heating up at the implication. this was doing nothing for the enormous crush you were harbouring. shuffling backwards slightly, you put enough space between you that you can comfortably rest your hands on his chest.

"i don't think you do, love," you feel his chest rumble as he speaks, and his gaze becomes serious, "i coulda' lost you. i thought i did. fuck, when soap and gaz came outta there without you? i thought my heart'd stopped… i just– i…"

it was rare to see your captain so lost for words. you feel his heart beat faster under your fingertips, the distant look in his eyes giving away the internal debate he was surely having.

"john?"

"if i'm out of order, say the word and we can forget all about this, but vantage…" his voice was low, and you felt your cheeks heat up to a boiling point as he cradled your face with one hand and leaned in closer, chest to chest again. the anticipation and the proximity might just make you sick. "you mean the world to me, i don't know what i'd do with myself if i lost you."

was that… what you thought it was? it sounded an awful lot like a confession, and you really really wanted it to be, but… was it too good to be true?

the lack of a response from you had john pulling back with an uncharacteristic cough that radiated embarrassment. he let go of your face, hovering next to your cheek as if he couldn't bear to let go, and you frown at the absence of his warmth.

"just ignore me, i shouldn't've–" he begins to back-pedel, going to move away from you before you cut him off.

"no!" you exclaim, with a bit more panic than you intended, and grasp his shirt in your fists to keep him close. "i get it, i really do. i- i care about you too, probably a lot more than a teammate should." your face heats up at the admission, and he lights up with surprise. "i think i always have."

slowly, he moves his hand back to its place cupping your jaw, searching your eyes for any signs that he was misinterpreting your response. when he found none, he smiled at you so genuinely you doubted anyone had ever been so sincere towards you.

"yeah?" he murmurs, the slight disbelief gone from his expression but still present in his voice.

"yes, john," you mirror his tone, bringing a hand up to hold the back of his neck. his skin burned hot under your touch.

"well thank god for that," his voice is barely a whisper now, as he draws your lips closer to his. the air separating you felt thick enough to be cut.

you let your eyes fall closed, and with a small burst of confidence, you lean forward and close the final distance between the two of you. he kisses you so tenderly, with so much emotion, it makes your head spin. you sigh into him, tilting your head and pressing yourself impossibly closer, revelling in the feeling of being in his arms at last. all your many months of pining had led up to this moment, and you felt like your heart might just burst. regretfully, you find yourself needing to break away for air, and to your delight he follows your lips as you pull back.

"maybe i should get injured more often, if this is what i get," you breathe, a dazed smile on your face as both your eyes flutter open, and his chest rumbles under your hand with a deep chuckle.

"you better not; i'll have your head if you do, love."

✹✹✹

[ghostssweetgirl]

Yo me again lol, after reading that lil comfort Simon fic u did me , was curious to how the other 141 boys + König would react to sad fem reader just wanting to be held 👀

141 + König & How They Would React to You Wanting to be Held

You know I got you!

Captain Price

He's a big teddy bear, forreal now. Like always giving the best hugs, and always encourages you with little pats on the back, his voice as smooth as honey when he asks you if you're okay.

He always knew when you were having an emotional day, and was always ready to be your support.

Hates seeing you cry, it nearly brings this old man to tears.

But he enjoys holding you, enjoys being the one that makes you feel better and back to your normal self.

In fact, he was about to check on you before you knock on his office door.

You meet his eyes with your swollen ones, slightly puffy from stuffing your face into your pillow while you cried. Before you could say anything, you could hear the concern in his tone.

"You a'right there, kid?" he tilted his head, putting all of his attention on you.

You bit the inside of your cheek as you thought about it. "Not really."

"Ah, I knew it," he chuckled as he leaned back in his desk chair. "Wanna talk about it?"

"No," you shrugged. "'M fine. Jus' wanna be held. Could you help me with that?"

He pat his lap as he belted out a hearty chuckle. "Right, come on, then."

This. This is what made him happy. It made his day when he made yours better. He gently patted your back while you got comfy, resting your head on his chest for God knows how long. It just felt nice to be in his strong, warm embrace. For Christ's sake, the man even put out his cigar to attend to you - fully.

You went to sit up but he pulled you back into his chest. "Nope, not done holding you yet." He didn't say it outright, but he needed it, too. Plus him holding you there while you playfully tried to get away made you giggle, which he loved to hear.

John 'Soap' MacTavish

Absolutely elated that you wanted him to hold you.

100% will put down anything he's doing to make you feel better.

Really good at comforting you with his words, he's so selfless.

He knew when you were sad, but never pushed as to not intrude in your personal space and privacy, but if you ever needed to talk, he was more than happy to lend an ear.

"Easy there, lass," he laughed as you plopped down on the sofa next to him, playfully pushing his arm away to lay on his chest. He gratefully pulled you into a tight embrace, and although it was an awkward position, holding you felt natural.

"Thanks, Johnny," you smiled, sinking down further where you lay on his belly. He swore besides Ghost, you were the only other one who could get away with calling him 'Johnny'. "You're really comfy."

"Aye, I bet y'are comfy there," he chuckled. "Did somethin' happen? Can tell yer sad, lass."

"Nothing happened, I suppose. Just... sad. You know?"

"Yeah."

"What do you do when you're sad, Johnny?" you asked.

"Usually go make you laugh," he smirked. "Always works. Seeing you smile makes my day."

"How sweet, but now I'll think every time you joke with me that you're sad," you frowned, looking up at him.

"Ah, it never lasts long, don't worry, bonnie," his eyes sparkled as he looked down at you with a wide smile plastered across his face.

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

A literal cuddle bug.

Was shy about holding you at first, but felt pure bliss when you two embraced.

Doesn't always know what to say, but he holds you so tight your brain shuts up.

When he does talk, his voice is very smooth.

You can hear his heartbeat fasten while you lay on his chest.

He was laying on the couch, minding his business, almost dozing off at the comfort of the sofa until he heard footsteps, specifically yours enter the room. His eyes widen as he sees your slumped shoulders, feeling your sadness radiate off of you. Concerned, he sits up. "Hey, you okay there?"

"Never better," you joked, tip-toeing a few inches closer to him. "I... have a question."

"I might have an answer, shoot."

"I was just wondering if you could hold me?" you asked nicely.

For a minute he sat there, looking you up and down as if 'are you sure?' and stammering as he found his words, shifting on the couch thinking of a comfy way to hold you. "W-would you like to lay on top of me?"

"As long as you hold me tight for a while, it doesn't matter."

It may have been awkward at first, but you two soon found comfort. You softly chuckled as you heard how fast his heart was pacing, poor guy was so nervous. Of course he liked you, but he didn't expect you to come to him to make you feel better.

He calmed down eventually, wrapping his arms around you tightly. "Starting to feel a little better?"

"Yeah, actually," you sigh. "Comfy... Might fall asleep."

He laughed as he agreed.

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

As per my last little one-shot, he never hesitated to hold you or even listen to you, give you advice when you sought it. He was a great Lieutenant first, but an even better friend, partner.

God, did he hate to hear and see you cry.

You were too good, too amazing to feel sad, and he wished he could take it all away. He'd take it away and go through it himself if he could.

You were always afraid you made him mad, but it was quite the opposite. He was proud you came to him. It helped his sense of responsibility, and helped him more than he thought it would, or could. Quite therapeutic for the two of you, if I must say.

You two understood each other on a different level than the others.

You didn't come to dinner, and that's when he knew you needed him. First off, you needed to eat. But more importantly, you needed to be mentally okay to eat proper. He excused himself from dinner before coming to your door, softly knocking 3 times before coming in worried.

He sighed as he spotted you in fetal position, holding your knees to your chest.

"Darlin'," he sat down. "Why didn't you come to me?"

"I didn't want to bother you," you whispered.

"W-why would you have bothered me?" It almost offended him you'd think you were a bother to him. You were anything but that.

"Don't know, I'm sorry," you apologize.

"No don't be-" he sighed, laying behind you, shifting behind you. He pulled your back into his broad chest, looking over at your beautiful face that he wished was smiling and happy. "Hey."

"Hey," you chirped.

"Now I'm goin' to hold you here until I can make you laugh, am I clear?" he chuckled, his voice raised in concern. "Let me make it better, luv."

"You always do, Simon," you start to smile. "Always. Thank you."

Alejandro Vargas

Such a romantic mannnn 😍.

A natural flirt, trying to take your mind off of whatever was bothering you which you refused to ever tell a soul.

Quick to ask if anyone hurt you and if he needed to take care of it, anger seeping through quickly before he learned that you were just sad and needed to be held.

You come up to him, frown on your face and your eyes still wet from just crying.

"Mi amor, who hurt you, huh?!" he cupped your face, his voice raised as he felt adrenaline rush through his veins.

You shook your head. "No one. Can you just hold me? It'd be really nice right now."

"Si, of course, of course," he rasped, guiding you to his room with his hand on the small of your back. "Hermosa, you should not be feeling so sad."

"I-I can't help it, I wish I wasn't," you complained.

He laid you down in his bed where he lay next to you gently. Not leaving any space between your bodies, he pulled you to lay on his chest. "Are you okay? Do you need anything - water, a snack, a hot or cold cloth, huh? Nothing for the princesa, yeah? Alright, okay, now come here, just lie there and look pretty, okay?"

You snuggled into him, cherishing his scent as he calmed you. He breathed deeply as he realized you just... needed this. It's been a while since he's held anyone, so this was much needed for him, as well.

König

Our shy little baby 🥺.

Hated when you were sad, but he was far too anxious to push it or ask about it unless you came to him.

He'd find himself pacing, hoping you were truly okay.

He wanted to knock on your door, hold you so close and pluck all the sadness out of your brain.

While everyone else was on a mission, you stayed back along with König, and while you felt like you needed someone, you didn't want to bother him, but you figured why not? The worst he can do... is not be there for you, which, to be fair, wasn't his responsibility, but it would sure help.

You knock on his door shyly, quietly and would be surprised if he even heard you. He opened it shyly as well, his eyes looking far down until they finally met yours. "Oh, uh, hi!"

"Hey, König... Can I come in? It's okay if-" you hold your hands up as if you were trying to defend yourself, not sure if you're making him uncomfortable.

"Ja, come in," he opened the door fully. You look around his tidy room, and set your eyes upon his humongous bed. You stand awkwardly there as you two look at each other nervously.

"I'm just going to ask it, so, König, I have a question..." your eyes met the ground.

"Okay..."

"Would you be willing to hold me? I'm- I feel sad and I just-"

He shook his head eagerly as he made his way to his bed, patting it, inviting you to join. "Of course, Schatz, come, sit."

You waddle over to his bed, having to jump to get on it. He was nervous because of his size, most people were scared of him based on it alone, but here you were, asking him to hold you in your time of need, making him feel proud.

He scooted up, patting his chest excitingly waiting for you to lie on it. He seemed more excited to hold you than you were excited to be held by him. The quietness was peaceful, and it wasn't long before you found yourself falling asleep on him.

He hummed, chuckling as he felt himself drifting off into a slumber himself. For once in a very long time, his anxiety dissipated for a moment, as long as you were there laying on him. He wished he could do this more often, for you and himself. He wondered if this would have helped him during his anxiety attacks.

A/N - I hope this is something along the lines of what you were asking for! I apologize, I wrote this while I'm halfway falling asleep so if I lost it here and there I am sorry and can redo it if you want :) Thanks again for another request, please don't hesitate to send as much as you would like <3

[flowermiist]

A warm heart - Prologue

Click here to read new chapters... ♡

Pairing: John Price x Fem!Reader

Sypnosis: Some time ago, you started a cooking channel on YouTube as a way to relax, have a proper hobby and teach others your favorite recipes as you improved your own culinary skills too. Fame wasn’t something you wanted, you were more than happy with your 50k subscribers... Yet you never thought you’d stumble upon one of them.

Word count: 1.k

A/N: So I’m really excited since this is my very first fic... I still haven’t planned it much but I’m already working on the first chapter as I post this!! If you have any suggestions or comments please leave them below. Comments and reblogs are always so welcome and appreciated.

John had gotten back from base two days ago, he had spent nearly three months stuck in Egypt with some CIA members and his SAS team. Time there went slow, it felt like it would never end, most intel they could gather was messy but the missions were successful.

Sitting on his couch and with his already third glass of scotch, John knew his stomach wouldn’t actually settle for alcohol and a cigar – It was too late to go out, most places would already be closed by now – except for some street food carts and dingy local pubs. So now, both his exhaustion of having spent his whole day locked away in his office finishing reports and filling out documents was mixing with his empty stomach and possible upcoming migraines making him way too irritable and tired to even attempt going out and getting something – Not like he was even in the mood to do so.

If this moment had been one of the irritated man’s childhood caricatures, a lightbulb would have gone on above his head as he remembered the few basics he had gotten from the grocery store in the middle of the road on his way home while getting back home from base. The captain let out a deep grunt as he got up from the couch, grabbing the empty glass of scotch and the TV remote to turn it off and walk to his kitchen.

Opening his pantry, he only saw the basics, some canned tomato sauce and a single bag of spaghetti. John sighed as he grabbed those two ingredients and hopes that it would at least taste decent enough not to make his headache worse. Internally cursing himself for not getting more things from the store – not being home for too long did limit a lot of his comfort and meal options when it came to getting back after a long time, buying food that would expire too soon before going to work would only mess up his pantry and fridge.

When it came to cooking, he wasn’t exactly an expert. Yes, he could defend his culinary skills by making a good English breakfast and a cup of tea but besides that? Yeah, no. Yet for some reason, John didn’t want to admit the fact that he had grown too accustomed to the meals he’d get at base or the pickup he’d order whenever he was home. Almost embarrassing that an officer specialized in unconventional warfare or any kind of missions would find it more difficult to cook for himself than to deploy to the most dangerous and broken places on earth.

Luck had jumped out of his window and the spaghetti ended up tasting horrible to say the least – Was it the sauce? Was it expired? Or did John just get horrible at cooking at this point? Too tired to care, the gruff man washed the dishes and went to sleep. This culinary war wasn’t over.

The following morning was busy, the captain went out for a morning jog then continued finishing up the last reports. His house had been too quiet for his own liking because when a man like John Price has gotten too used to the chaos and noise of all the places he deploys to and filled with all kinds of people, being in his own house feels almost surreal. Almost like he doesn’t belong here, like all he can handle are the noises that will not leave him alone with his thoughts eating him alive.

His own perseverance and stubbornness did not allow him to give up when it came to cooking, he was a grown man for crying out loud! No goddamn way he could be able to handle all the things he sees in his line of work but couldn’t handle himself in the kitchen – he thought.

Closing the other tabs on his laptop, he entered YouTube. After searching for basic recipes to challenge himself, he came upon certain channel – “Y/N’s kitchen diaries.”

Not even ten minutes later, he was already taking notes and focusing on every single detail.

John had prepared one of the recipes for dinner after yet another visit to the grocerie store, a less rushed one this time and somewhere that wasn’t in the middle of an isolated road. Meticulously following every single step shown by the woman in the videos – he liked her voice, it wasn’t like one of those annoying cooking shows from TV that would be filled with ads for kitchen tools and nonsense chatter, it even felt as if he had some company with the video – “Here we have our final result.” She spoke softly as she was showing the results, John looked at her video then back at his plate – It looked and smelled good. “As you can see the chicken is juicy and the smoked paprika gives it that extra flavor. Now our broccoli has that chewy yet soft texture, I personally sprinkle some salt on top of it but that is up to your liking.” A small pause before she spoke again, by then, John was already placing the plate on the dining table before grabbing his phone as the young woman spoke the final lines of the video. “Thank you for watching – don’t forget to comment down below if you have any suggestions or any recipes you’d like me to try. Bye Bye!” – The video ended and John had a small smirk on his face, both proud of himself and amused by how well this went. He clicked on the “subscribe” button and left his phone on top of the counter, walking towards the dining table and taking a seat.

The moment you got home, you kicked off your high heels, grunting from the relief as you stomped on the floor a few times – getting that relief of your feet getting accustomed to flat ground again. Putting your purse aside, you make your way towards the kitchen where you open the fridge and take some leftovers from yesterday and place the plate in the microwave – this gives you some time to rush to your bedroom and get your laptop to continue editing one of your videos, a new lasagna recipe you had been improving and recorded a video of.

While making your way out of your bedroom, you hear the little musical alarm of the microwave going off. You wanted to record a little something to start with the next video; yet you knew you didn’t have the enough ingredients to do so and neither did you have the energy to edit and record at the same time, not tonight at least – “Will do it tomorrow…” you mumble to yourself as you open your laptop and set your plate on top of the coffee table of your living room. – “Thereee we go...” you almost moan the moment your body falls down onto the couch, finally getting some rest.

You took some time to check your channel, seeing if there was anything interesting – YouTube was the only platform you uploaded your cooking videos to as you didn’t see it as a big deal but rather a hobby you enjoyed and relaxed with, the rest of your social media was pretty much private and not about your recipes or small food vlogs. Learning how to edit videos by yourself hadn’t been an easy task – but to you, it was worth it as it helped you clear your mind and not seem too crazy while talking to yourself in front of a camera. Before starting to make videos, you talked to yourself while doing tasks, eventually it just came into your mind – Why the hell not? You wouldn’t seem too crazy if you talked to a camera and recorded things for yourself, right? It was a good reason to talk to yourself, not an excuse. Starting your channel had been a rather spontaneous decision you took two years ago with the difference that nowadays, you are more frequent with your content than you were back then.

Sighing in relief, you turn off your laptop since you had finally finished the last details of the video. You were already stripping off your clothes on your way to the bedroom, not caring about tonight’s shower but rather tonight’s rest, you’d do everything tomorrow.

[kitkatscabinet]

Limerence

Pairing: John Price x reader

Summary: While on leave John runs into an older but still familiar face, he let you slip through his fingers once and he’s determined to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

Word count: 1.3k

The first few days of leave are always a difficult adjustment. It takes conscious effort to pull himself from the commanding mindset that is captain. More than a few times John’s rolled out of bed earlier than necessary out of nothing more than habit, halfway out the door before it sinks in that he’s not on base. He’s never quite sure what to do, he’s very few friends outside the military and there’s an instinct hammering at his mind, to move, to do something. There are only so many books one can read or exercises be done.

That’s why it is a relief when he tries to find a shirt for the day and realises too many are ruined with stains or simply don’t fit anymore. Even if the crowded bustling of the store sets him on edge, eyes instinctively scanning his surroundings for threats. It’s only when he notices, his feet slowing to a stop as he stares. It can’t be you… can it?

He watches intently as you turn to the side, letting him see more than just your profile. Just like that John feels like a lovesick boy once more, staring longingly from across the classroom as you chewed the top of your pen absentmindedly.

There are crinkles in the corners of your eyes where there wasn’t before, but almost everything else is the same, is so clearly you. He’s moved closer before he can stop to think, a confident swagger in his gait as he approaches with a warm smile.

You haven’t really seen him yet, probably don’t recognise him, not that you could be blamed for that. It isn’t until he’s already at your side, hand raised and your name on his lips before it clicks how creepy he must look. Some random man seemingly accosting you in what he’s just now realising to be the children’s section.

The damage is already done though and you turn to assess the new presence in your space with a slightly furrowed brow. He watches as your eyes flicker across his face for some sign of recognition, arms crossed as if to guard yourself. He starts to open his mouth, rapidly trying to backpedal before you punch the air from his lungs with a single word. Not just any word, but his name.

“John?” There’s surprise in your tone and just a little bit of confused breathlessness that he knows he’ll be revisiting in his dreams that night. He’s so stunned that you remember him that it takes a few moments before he nods, eyes never once leaving your form. “Oh my god, how long has it been? What nearly… twenty years, fuck. That makes me feel old” you laughed, still somewhat in disbelief.

Surreptitiously his eyes dart to your left hand. Ring finger bare with no signs it had ever been claimed and it’s with smug satisfaction that he notices your eyes trailing over his from too. He especially doesn’t miss the way your eyes linger on his biceps, trailing down his thighs before quickly darting back up to his face.

“You look good, a far cry from the boy I knew in high school that’s for sure.” He blinks at that… were you flirting with him?

“And you’re as stunning as ever” your eyes widen slightly at his reply, the surety in his tone leaving you a little flustered.

“Oh stop it, now I know you’re pulling my leg” you try to deflect and he frowns, did you really not see yourself the way he did? That would have to change, quickly.

“I’d never lie about that. Thought you were gorgeous in high school but you’re even more perfect now” there’s an alarming amount of conviction to his words, a confident nonchalance that leaves you reeling. It’s probably for the best that a little voice calls your name before running up towards you, lest you say something incredibly embarrassing.

Price watches with a slightly strained grin, of course someone had given you a kid already. No ring didn’t necessarily mean no partner, though John was of the opinion that whoever it was needed a swift kick up the arse for not giving you one.

The boy stops his excited chatter abruptly, turning to him in blatant curiosity. “Who’s that?” The attempt at a whisper is a little hilarious but Price plays along.

“Ah, this is John, a friend from high school”

“Oh, so he’s old like you then.”

“Charlie!” You scold in embarrassment and just a little bit of horror, eyes darting back to John to assure no offence was taken. He’s quick to offer a reassuring smile and a shrug.

“The lads not entirely wrong”

“Yeah, but his mother’s already on my case about swearing. Last thing I need is her blaming me for atrocious manners too. Speaking of, where are mine! John, this is my nephew Charlie.” The introduction allows for a small tendril of hope to unfurl in his chest once more. Using his guardian's apparent distraction, the kid tries to sneak both the toys in his hands into the basket now placed at your feet. Unfortunately for him, he’s still too young to have properly grasped the concept of stealth. You make a chiding noise, hands on your perfect hips, and John has to wrench his gaze back to the kid before he starts to picture it’s his own hands grabbing you instead.

“Ah! I told you, one. Now go put one of them back” there’s no room for argument in your tone but still the boy narrows his eyes somewhat defiantly. Bottom lip jutting out like that will make you change your mind, obviously it doesn’t.

“Listen to ‘em kid” he grumbles. It's a habit, years of disciplining young boys thinking themselves men that has the statement slipping. An apologetic look is thrown your way but you seem grateful, no sign of annoyance at his potential overstep. Charlie, on the other hand, does not look impressed with his interference. It’s nothing short of adorable, and for a split second he thinks the stink eye resembled a look he’d received many a time from Soap. Holding back a chuckle, his eyes never leave the kids as he gets the distinct impression he’s being sized up. Finally the kid blinks, turning with a huff as he reluctantly trudged off to return the toy.

You turn to apologise once the kids out of ear shot but John waves you off, “nothing to apologise for love.” Once again his words are rewarded with your flustered face as you shuffle nervously from foot to foot.

“I-“

“Let me take you on a date” the words leave his mouth without much thought, any plans to woo you going straight out the window. You blink in astonishment and just as Price readies himself for rejection your new nephew appears once more, obviously still upset at not getting his way. Tugging at your hand insistently, done with today's expedition. A sigh of exasperation leaves your lips as you gently scold the impatient boy. Holding out your phone you grin,

“Here, give me your number, I’ll text you a time and place.” Dumbfounded, his hands shake a little as he hurries to fulfill your request, almost outright dropping your phone as you lean in to whisper, “I’ve been waiting twenty years, hope you’re ready to live up to expectations.” Taking your phone from his grasp, you lean in to give him a light kiss on the cheek, pulling away all too soon to cater to your demanding nephew. With one last wink and a wave Price watches in a daze as you leave, eyes drawn to the sway of your hips as a hand runs down his face.

The clothes could wait, he needed to get home as soon as possible, before the memory of your scent and the feel of your lips on his skin faded. Though as he walks swiftly to his car it occurs to him that it was the visible love you held for your nephew that really stirred something in him. You clearly loved kids, and John had always wanted his own, he just hoped you'd agree that sooner was better than later.

[wiltedflowerpetals]

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At first, you, Mrs. Price, thought that you had to go on a normal but dangerous mission. You only had to get some intel. Get in and out. Easy… right?

But getting captured was not on your to-do-list for this mission…

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Hi! Thanks for reading the third part, I wish you all a great day! Also a small reminder: I take requests for this series and all the fandoms I write for!

Words: 2217

Warning: angsty, no death so don’t worry, angry and worried John Price

Part 1: Wife Meets Friend | Part 2: Wife On A Mission | Part 3: (you are reading it) | Part 4: Husband Saves Wife | Part 5: Husband And Wife

You stirred, your body instinctively seeking out John’s warmth. His arm was draped protectively over your waist, and you smiled softly. For a few blissful seconds, you allowed yourself to forget about the dangerous world outside or the mission you went on yesterday.

John shifted beside you, his hand tightening around you as he woke up. “Morning.” He murmured, his voice deep and drowsy.

“Morning.” You replied, turning to face him. His hair was tousled, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep.

“You slept well.” He noted, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek.

“I did.” You said, leaning into his touch. “Better than I have in a while.”

“Good.” John said with a smile. “You needed it.”

You two lay there for a while longer, enjoying the simple pleasure of each other’s company. You always treasured these moments - moments where you could enjoy your simple life with your lovely husband in bed. Eventually, you knew you had to get up.

“I’ll make breakfast.” You offered, slipping out of bed and heading towards the kitchen. John followed you a few minutes later, still in his pajamas, looking more relaxed than you’d seen him in days.

As you moved around the kitchen, preparing your usual breakfast, you stole glances at him. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the sound of his low chuckle when you teased him about his bedhead - it was all so precious to you.

You could see that John was trying to enjoy the calm as much as you were, and you appreciated his effort to keep things light. But you could sense a lingering concern in his eyes. He hadn’t mentioned your odd behavior from the previous night, but you knew he was still worried.

When breakfast was over, John stood and started to clear the dishes. “I’ve got this.” He said, motioning for you to relax. “You should take it easy before you head to work.”

You smiled, appreciating the gesture. “Thanks, but I’m fine. I don’t want you doing all the work.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You work too hard, you know that?”

“I know...” You chuckled.

After breakfast, you headed upstairs to get ready for the day. As you dressed for your supposed office job, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. It was a subtle tension in the air, but you didn’t know what exactly was off.

Just as you were about to leave, your phone buzzed on the bedside table. You glanced at the screen and saw Kate’s name. You heart skipped a beat as you answered the call, praying that you didn’t had to lie to your husband again and could just relax with him today. “Kate.”

“Morning, (Y/N).” Kate greeted her, her tone all business. “I need you to meet me at the usual spot. We’ve got a situation.”

You sighed. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve got intel on a new target.” Kate explained. “This one’s sensitive. You’ll need to handle it alone.”

You nodded. You were used to working solo, and while you preferred it, the timing couldn’t be worse. “I’ll be there soon…”

“Good.” Kate said. “And (Y/N)… be careful. This one’s different.”

“Understood.” You replied, before ending the call.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. Whatever this mission was, it required your full attention. You finished getting ready, making sure your appearance was as normal as ever before heading downstairs. John was in the living room, flipping through the news on the television when you approached.

“I’ve got to head to work.” You said, leaning down to kiss him goodbye.

John looked up, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Another busy day?”

“Unfortunately.” You replied with a small pout. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Be safe.” He said, his voice laced with that familiar concern.

“I always am.” You reassured him, before turning to leave.

Kate’s warning echoed in her mind, as you drove away. But you had a job to do, and you couldn’t afford to let your personal fears get in the way.

You met Kate at a discreet location on the outskirts of the city, where you could speak freely without the risk of being overheard. Kate’s expression was grim when you arrived, and she wasted no time getting to the point.

“The target is a man named Mikhailov.” Kate began, handing you a dossier. “He’s resurfaced after years of staying under the radar. We have reason to believe he’s planning something big, and we need to find out what it is.”

You flipped through the dossier, scanning the information. Mikhailov was a name you hadn’t heard before, but the details were troubling. He had connections to various criminal organizations, and his recent activities suggested he was gearing up for something major.

“You’re going in alone.” Kate continued. “We need you to gather intel, find out what he’s planning, and report back. But be careful - Mikhailov is dangerous, and he won’t hesitate to eliminate any threats.”

You nodded. “I’ll handle it.”

“I know you will.” Kate said, her tone serious. “But I need you to be extra cautious this time. Something about this doesn’t sit right with me.”

You met her gaze, seeing the concern in your friend’s eyes. “I will. You have my word.”

With that, you set off on the mission. The location you were heading to was an abandoned warehouse in Budapest - a perfect place for someone like Mikhailov to conduct shady business. You parked your car a few blocks away and made your way to the warehouse on foot.

The building was heavily guarded, but you were a master at slipping past security. You moved like a ghost, silently taking out any obstacles in your path. Inside, you found what you were looking for - Mikhailov was meeting with a group of men, discussing plans that were clearly meant to stay secret.

You listened carefully, gathering as much information as you could. But just as you were about to slip away, something went wrong. One of Mikhailov’s men spotted you, and before you could react, you were surrounded. They moved quickly, disarming you and forcing you to the ground.

“Look what we have here.” Mikhailov said, his voice dripping with malice as he approached you. “A little spy.”

You glared up at him. You had been in tight spots before, and you knew better than to panic. But this time, something felt different. Mikhailov’s cold eyes bored into your, and you realized that this was no ordinary capture.

“You’ve made a big mistake coming here.” Mikhailov continued, his voice low and menacing. “Did you really think you could sneak in and out without anyone noticing?”

You remained silent, knowing that anything you said could be used against you. You were outnumbered and outgunned, and there was no easy way out of this. Your thoughts flickered to John, wondering if you would ever see him again.

Mikhailov ordered his men to take you away, and you found yourself roughly shoved into a waiting van. They tied your hands behind your back and blindfolded you, so you couldn’t find out where they are going to bring you. As the van sped away, you realized that you were in serious trouble, and for the first time, you weren’t sure how you were going to get out of this damn situation.

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

Back at home, John spent the day going through his usual routine, but there was a weird feeling that he couldn’t shake off. As evening approached, he realized that you hadn’t returned yet. You hated being late and would always text or call him in case you truly were busy with work. Maybe that was the reason why John started to worry more than usually.

He tried calling you, but there was no answer. Anxiety gnawed at him as he paced the living room, his mind racing with possibilities. He tried to convince himself that you were just busy, that you would walk through the door any minute now with an apology for being late. Just like on many days before. But there was still no sign of you and his worry turned into full-blown fear.

Just as he was about to grab his keys and go out to try to find you, his phone rang. He snatched it up, hoping it was his sweet wife, but the number on the screen wasn’t yours.

“Kate?” He said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Make it quick. I need to get out-”

“(Y/N) has been kidnapped.”

His grip tightened on the phone. “What…?”

John’s breath caught in his throat. “Kidnapped? What the hell are you talking about, Kate? How could this happen?”

Kate’s tone was serious. “I don’t have all the details yet, but it appears that Mikhailov is behind this.”

“Mikhailov?” John repeated, the name triggering a flood of memories - dark memories he’d hoped to never think of ever again. Mikhailov was a ruthless terrorist and a ghost from his past. John had thought he’d killed the man years ago, but apparently, he’d survived. “I thought he was dead.”

“So did we at first…” Kate admitted. “But it seems he’s resurfaced, and he’s not done with whatever vendetta he’s holding. I’m sorry, John, I didn’t know how deep this ran.”

John’s mind raced. You had been taken by a man he thought he’d defeated, a man that killed every damn soldier in his previous team, before he became the captain of 141. The thought of Mikhailov getting his hands on you made his blood run cold.

“What does he want with her?” John demanded, his voice thick with worry and anger. “She’s not involved in any of this.”

Kate hesitated, and John’s heart sank further. “I don’t know yet…” She said carefully, choosing her words. “But Mikhailov has a long history of targeting people to get what he wants. He might know about your connection to her…”

John’s mind flashed with images of what Mikhailov did back then. All the blood John had to see on that damn day. “I’m going after her.” He said, his voice hard with determination. “I’m not letting that bastard take her.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that.” Kate replied, her tone softening slightly. “But, John, you need to be careful. Mikhailov is dangerous. Going after him alone isn’t a good idea.”

“I don’t care.” John snapped. “I’m not sitting around while she’s out there, God knows where, in the hands of that monster.”

Kate sighed. “I understand, but you’re not alone in this. You have people who can help. Your task force-”

“No.” John cut her off. The fear of history repeating itself weighed heavily on him. The last time he’d faced Mikhailov, good men had died. “I’m not putting them at risk. I’ll do this on my own.”

“John, listen to me.” Kate sighed. “You need to think this through. Mikhailov isn’t someone you can take down by yourself. You have a team for a reason. Let them help you.”

John hesitated, he wanted to protect his team, but also needed to save his wife. He knew Kate was right - going after Mikhailov alone would be suicide. But the thought of involving the 141-... God, no, he wouldn’t want to see them die as well…

“John.” Kate continued; her voice gentler now. “You can’t do this alone. I know you’re scared, but (Y/N) needs you to be smart about this. Don’t do this by yourself.”

John closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. She was right. He knew she was right. He thought of his team - Gaz, Ghost, Soap - all of them were capable and willing to risk everything for each other. They were his brothers-in-arms. If they asked for help, he would help them immediately…

“Alright.” John finally said. “I’ll call them in.”

Kate sounded relieved. “That’s the right call, John. I’ll do everything I can to support you from here. We’ll get her back.”

John hung up the phone and took a deep breath in. His thoughts were a mixture of fear, anger, and determination. He couldn’t lose you. Not now, not ever.

He quickly dialed the numbers of his team members. Each conversation was short, their responses immediate and unwavering. They’d be there, ready to help him get John’s wife back, no questions asked.

Within the hour, 141 gathered at a secure location, prepared for what was to come. John stood before them, his face a mask of grim determination.

“Thanks for coming.” He began, his voice steady and calm despite the fear inside. “I’m not going to lie to you - this is personal. (Y/N) has been taken by Mikhailov, a man I thought I killed years ago. He’s dangerous, ruthless, and he’ll do whatever it takes to get what he wants.”

The team listened intently; their expressions serious. They knew what was at stake. Your life.

“We’re going after him.” John continued, locking eyes with each of them. “But we do this smart. No unnecessary risks, no heroics. We get her out, and we take him down. This ends today.”

They nod. John smiled at them, grateful that they will help him. He wasn’t alone in this fight. Together, they will fight and bring the love of his life back. No matter the cost.

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[qwimblenorrisstan]

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!

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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.

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.

Tags:

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[rookiesbookies]

Recovery

Soap x Price’s Niece!Reader & and exploration of his platonic relationship with his teammates based on what we’ve seen in the games.

Content Warning: Hurt-Comfort, mild angst, bittersweetness, some fighting, and it’s over 5.2k words

It’s all under the cut from here, big thanks to @shotmrmiller for editing my crap

When Soap had been shot, he had gotten incredibly lucky. The bullet hadn’t gone all the way through and had ended up lower than Simon swore he saw.

Well, I suppose ‘lucky’ is subjective. Johnny would be in the hospital for months healing. He had lost degrees of peripheral vision in both eyes, so there was no way he could go back into the field, he had to learn how to walk again, and some of his motor skills were to be relearned. He had been confined to a wheelchair for months. Complaining constantly about losing his muscles and how it would ruin his charm. His hands shook, he’d be unable to do any of the demolition and explosive work he used to.

He felt as though who he was, Sergeant John ‘Soap’ MacTavish, was completely lost.

Captain Price and Laswell had been well overpatient with him.

Johnny had flung food trays at them when his hands shook too much to eat, constantly missing his mouth. He had had amnesia for the first two weeks or so after he woke up from his coma. He had had surgery after surgery, his mohawk shaved off to make it easier, the final piece of his identity stripped from him.

Price had never seen Johnny cry until the realization of who he became someone he could never be again.

Price still had no clue what had possessed him to call her.

His sweet niece, at least that's what he called her. She had been an exchange student, studying abroad for advanced college courses, when she lived with Laswell and her wife. They had volunteered so she could practice medicine on soldiers. Field medic had been her goal, but Price did reverse nepotism to make sure his niece never left the base.

He knew deep down she was the only one he could trust with the care of his sergeant. He also knew he could trust the Sergeant with the care of his niece.

It was a dream she had given up on, and she had planned to come visit anyway. Maybe this was an excuse to see the closest thing he had to a daughter again.

Laswell and her wife had offered to adopt the girl, Price told them they’d have to fight him for the chance. Maybe it was Price trying to atone for being too overprotective to let her fulfill her dream.

He had introduced Johnny to her before. Back when she had visited the second time. Johnny was still much younger, just earning his sergeant rank. He had threatened both Gaz and Soap, saying that if either tried anything he’d make them do work outs until they were in the medical station.

He knew Simon wouldn’t have been an issue.

Johnny and his niece were only a few years apart. Their first run in was when she was running to give Price some papers, it was before he had even introduced them and she had been on base. The floor was wet making sure she accidentally slipped and slide tackled poor Johnny. It wasn’t until she read his velcro on his uniform that she realized it was Price’s sergeant. She had been red in the face and embarrassed. Her papers littered the wet floor and she had been so apologetic she hadn’t even seen Johnny pick them all up.

It made their official introduction awkward, to say the least.

Johnny hadn’t seen her in a couple years when she walked into his room this time. His head was wrapped tight in a bandage, hair growing back in a small fuzz that he found embarrassing. His lips were red, cracked, and bloody from his angry chewing at it. He was so pale too, paler than a Victorian child. He didn’t smell of the arousing male musk he normally did, he looked weak. His pearly white teeth weren’t on show, his blue eyes weren’t bright.

“Johnny,” she said softly, “it’s been a while.”

“Don’t look at me, lass. I’m a sight to make eyes sore, not a sight for sore eyes.” He grumbled. Doing his best to cross his shaky arms and sigh. His voice wasn’t smooth or suave as it normally was with his natural Scottish gravel. It was dry, dusty, and crunchy like a gravel driveway in the summer.

They had flirted heavily. Or at least she had to him back in the day. An American who made disapproving jokes about the brits as he did. He couldn’t deny he found her attractive, the chemistry was undeniable, but he didn’t dare flirt back in the public eye for fear of his life.

She walked over and sat on the edge of his bed. Reaching out to rub his chin, feeling the rough scruff that was longer than he’d usually keep it. Small knicks littered his face from when he tried to shave. She used this as an excuse to pull his face to look at her.

“I don’t know what you mean, I still see the same Johnny I always did.” She spoke softly. She knew being delicate with patients like this was crucial. She ran her thumb over his cracked lip. “Here.”

She pulled a lip balm from her purse. Telling him to pucker a bit so she could rub it on.

He couldn’t bring himself to say thank you, but she saw it in his eyes. The desperation, the want to cry, the defeat.

“I doubt yer just here to visit me.” He grumbled, having to stretch his arms out as keeping them crossed made them begin to shake like earthquakes instead of the small tremors that they were prior.

“Uncle John called me. I take it he and Laswell haven’t told you the plan.” She said softly, taking one of his hands in hers. He tried to pull back but quickly let in. “Just means I get to deliver the news.”

He cocked a brow.

“The plan is to fake your death. Put you in hiding. Get you out of here.”

“Lass, yer probably too bonnie to think about this, but I can’t wipe my own arse.” He snapped, like a hurt animal, not an ounce of malice or hate.

“Why do you think they called me in?”

“Yer not wiping my arse, love.”

“It’s more complicated than that.” She mumbled. Looking to the door to wave Price and Laswell in, Ghost and Gaz filing in behind. It had been months since he had seen those two. She saw the way his eyes almost lit up and quickly dimmed. Hollow. Like a fire that tried to start but the spark burned out too fast.

“We’ve already filled out the KIA.” Laswell started. “We’ve started filing the paperwork to put you in witness protection. You’d be moved to at home care, somewhere quiet. Given new identification, new everything.”

“My girl is going to look after you. I expect you to do the same in turn. I'm trusting you with her, MacTavish.” Price said, a poor attempt at playfulness with the dead inside young man before him.

“We’re going to start your PT. Help you with your motor skills. You should have the ability to move to at home care in a month or so.” Laswell tacked on.

John’s niece got off Johnny’s bed. Putting a hand on her uncle’s shoulder and nodding to Laswell before they filed out. Giving him a moment with his teammates, his brothers.

“Yer both gonna let them tell this poor girl she can wipe my arse?”

“Really stuck on the ass wiping thing, huh,” Gaz mumbled.

Ghost turned to close to the blinds on the door before sitting and pulling his balaclava off his head.

“Johnny.” He said as softly as his sharp voice could. “Maybe this is the fresh start ya need.”

“I don’t want a fuckin fresh start. I want my old body back.” Johnny growled.

“You can’t get that bloody back,” Simon snapped back before returning to his soft tone, “Price and his niece are doing your sorry arse a favor. This poor girl has agreed to be married to yer ass for an indefinite amount of time, don’t ya get that ya bastard?”

“A favor I didn’t ask for.” Johnny grumbled. He looked over at his gear, which sat sadly on a table.

“Johnny yer still young.” Simon sighed. “She’s a good girl, let her care for ya. We’re actively working to get permission to visit ya when yer all settled.”

Gaz stood, looking out the window at nothing, “ya know some would give a lot for an opportunity with a girl like that.”

“Then I’ll trade ya,” Johnny snarled back in a low voice.

Simon looks Johnny in the eyes one last time maskless in the room, “don’t fuck up yer chance at a new life, Johnny. Be smart for once ya bloody dense bastard.”

Ghost pulled his mask back on over his face. Blonde hair disappeared as he shoved it back under properly. Gaz moved to fix the window covering on the door, pulling it back open.

A couple of nurses filed in to change his bandages, the two men disappeared out to the hall.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea, Uncle Price,” she started, rubbing the back of her neck, “he doesn’t seem as… enthused as he normally would have been.”

“He’s in there, he’s just adjusting.”

“Hard to adjust to being helpless.” Gaz mumbled.

“Once he starts PT- the physical therapy will help.” John’s niece interjected. “The lack of is what’s been causing problems. Once he tries harder and has goals he may pep up.”

“I think it’s the loss of his beloved mohawk. I vote to get him a bloody wig.” Ghost threw in.

Laswell sighed. “Poor boy. He’ll pull through, it will just take time.”

Getting to Johnny to do PT was like leading a horse to water, you can’t make it drink.

His Commanding Officer yelling orders at him hadn’t done it, John’s niece couldn’t get him to do it with soft cooing and coaxingand even Simon failed. Johnny just ended up throwing the crayon he held in his hand to work on writing, and let himself fall as he tried to walk. Shouting about being a lost cause and how it was a waste of time.

“Johnny, please,” she pleaded, “just a few more steps. You’ve made such good progress.”

“Yer not my bloody girl, quit tryin to sweet talk effort out of me. I can smell yer pity.” He hissed, sitting back in his wheelchair.

17 steps.

They had gotten 17 steps out of him today. Which was a step and a half more than yesterday.

At least Simon hadn’t needed to pick him up like a giant baby to get him back to the chair today. He had also stood a good 10 minutes before needing a break.

When it was Simon’s day to motivate Johnny, he was by far the hardest on him.

“I'm going to keep pickin your sorry arse up and making you walk until you double what you did yesterday,” Simon growled through his mask. “I can tell yer not giving it your all.”

Anyone with eyes could see how emotional it made Simon. He was pushing his dear Sergeant sometimes well beyond his means.

It was also beyond a struggle for Simon to communicate how hard it was to watch Johnny just give up. Price could see how Simon’s eyes turned shiny as glass as he yelled at Johnny. He heard the small cracks in his voice as he picked Johnny up and made him walk those few more steps. He could see Simon’s pushing was all out of desperation to get Soap back. To get his partner back.

John Price had known Simon a long time. Well before he became Ghost, Price worked with him. Johnny was one of the few that brought Simon out in Ghost. Price and Gaz did as well, but not the way Johnny did. Johnny and Simon had the same dry sense of humor, there was a sense of understanding between the two that Price was proud to foster. That sense of understanding flooded the team, but whatever was between Simon and Johnny was just that bit more in depth. They were a team of brothers in arms, but those two were true friends.

Anyone could see Simon blaming himself for what happened to Soap as the two snarled back and forth. One of the two only let up when a physical therapist touched their arms or John’s niece quietly told them that arguments didn’t lead to progress.

Simon wasn’t supposed to be here even helping Johnny. Price had tried to tell him no. That it added risks, to which the lieutenant snarled that if the Captain could go see him he could. That it would arguably be safer for him since no one knows his face but the team.

Simon had never spoken to Price like that before.

Gaz had typically decided to wait outside for the sessions after the first one, it would have ended with Johnny fist fighting a physical therapist if he could close his fist without violently shaking and using all his strength.

Johnny didn’t see Simon blaming himself until the day he got so fed up in the private session he threw his mask to the floor to scream at him. A pointed finger to his chest as Simon finally exploded.

“Are you fuckin blind, Johnny? We’re not fighting against ya!” Simon practically screamed at Johnny. It was the first time he had yelled at anyone in years. Even stunning Price. “We’re not the enemy. We’re a team! We’re trying to help you get back to yourself.”

Simon took in a deep, shaky breath, “We don’t care about Soap, Soap is just a callsign and nothin more. We’re here for Johnny, ya dim bastard! Each and every one of us. We ain’t fightin ya, we’re fighting for you.”

A rogue tear, an enemy operative, running down his eye black. No one would have believed it if the trail wasn’t clear on his face. It was as if Simon’s tough love finally registered in his mind. As if someone else’s feelings were finally registering in his mind. This wasn’t the orders of a superior. This was love from a true brother.

It was the first time Johnny hadn’t had a snarky quip in two months. There was no snarl back, no growling, no yelling. Johnny just did his best to open his arms for a hug. Bracing himself with his brother’s body. Finally realizing he wasn’t the only one affected by this, that Simon and his team had genuinely thought he was dead. That they wanted him to truly live again.

The sight had the poor Captain teary. His niece took his hand to comfort him, watching carefully at the sight as months of Soap’s attitude turned into soft cries against Simon’s shoulder. She also distracted her uncle and herself, giving the two men some privacy.

The poor ferocious beast licking its wounds turned back into a scared little boy. One that muffled cries about losing who he was, not knowing what was next, fearing he’d never be the same, that feared he’d lose his team- his only true family- to this weakness and pain.

Simon just listened. He did his best to lift a bit of Johnny’s weight from his feet. Knowing he couldn’t stand long enough, or hardly at all. A small gesture, a bit of consideration for his friend.

It was the longest John MacTavish had stood since the accident. While he wasn’t unsupported, they all counted it as progress. A great deal of progress.

“It could only have been you to get through to him, ya know?” Price said with a sad playfulness as he nudged Simon.

“He’s got a thick skull, the bastard does.” Simon sighed, trying to return the playfulness, but all he only sounded defeated.

“I think where we are is evidence of that enough,” Price laughed dryly. Kneeling in front of Simon in the recreation room on base for the team. “Never seen ya yell like that, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t like yelling, but the ringing in his ears must still be there.”

“Still think it’s because he doesn’t have the mohawk?”

“I’m getting the idiot a wing from party city and gluing it to his head next time he tries to fight me,” Simon grumbled with a smirk under the mask. Price could see it, even if he couldn’t see it.

It was sad humor before John gave him a nice little love tap before going to bed.

The rest of the night was quiet. Johnny was wheeled to his room, legs aching from weak muscles and hands shaking from gripping things. He didn’t sleep. For now, he has the drive to keep going. A newfound understanding for his new chance. A second one. He took the large oversized and overly thick pencil from the best side and the giant clipboard. Hands shaking in attempts to grip them.

“Come on, Johnny.” He mumbled to himself, resting the clipboard and paper on his thighs. He took the kiddy pencil in his right hand.

His grip faltered a lot. He worked to even put enough pressure against the paper to draw a line.

Then a line turned into squiggles.

Squiggles turned into a name that looked like it was written by a toddler, but it was a name. It was his name. He put it all on his bedside table and picked up his old journal.

He gingerly flipped through the sketches and words.

Why had he given up on being an artist? Why had he let it go completely and only continued as a hobby? He had been an Advanced Art Student in school as a boy, how could he let it go? How could he have taken it for granted?

He ran his fingers over the pages. He laid it in front of him lower on his thighs, bringing the clipboard and pencil back, flipping to a new blank page. He groaned at how run down the pencil was, he’d need someone to sharpen it soon.

He weakly gripped the pencil so it was vaguely horizontal with the blank paper.

“Come on, Soap, ya wee bastard. Just do it like you always did.” He mumbled, hands shaking as he tried to touch the pencil to the paper.

He made sure the lines were faint, going over it 3 or 4 times to create darker ones to make sure it was all in the shapes he wanted. He tried to copy an old sketch of his red skull mask.

It was clunky. Looked like bad cubism mixed with a toddler's hand turkey if that were possible. He worked on it all night. Copying it until his pencil was worn well to the wood.

When the nurses came to wake him the next morning, they found him asleep lightly holding the pencil with his journal and clipboard on his lap.

One of the nurses snagged a photo of it, all the scattered copies around his bed and beside it, sending them to Price’s niece, who was listed as the emergency contact. It wasn’t proper and the nurse knew that but they figured the family would want to see such progress.

She had sent the images to Simon, telling him to bring Soap his sharpener, and more big pencils. Simon was scheduled to be Soap’s first visitor of the day, taking to rotations on days that weren’t PT days made it easier on them all.

Price was usually the last visitor.

In a way, he blamed himself more than Simon ever could. He gave the two that mission, let them take it on. Let them get lost. Let them get pinned down.

He stopped Johnny from shooting the fucker when they had the chance.

It was more than easy to see that Price dreamed of being a family man- craving two or three kids to come home to, a dog, a white picket fence, and a missus to keep his life in order. Sadly, it was a dream he gave up on a long time ago.

In a way, he did have three kids. Three boys he adopted risk their lives day in and day out for the safety of others - it made him prouder than anything. It was hard knowing that Soap- John MacTavish- had no known family. No real family to take care of him. No one to notify if anything happened.

Price had tried too, using what samples the military had from him to find any family.

What Price found broke his heart. All he learned was that Johnny had been an orphan since he was a kid. His parents were lost in a car accident, t-boned by a super speeder at an intersection. Johnny had been home with a babysitter, still practically a baby. He did his best to find other relatives, but none knew of Johnny, all were too distant.

In a lot of ways, he looked at Johnny and saw his son. Johnny had always made him proud since the day Price first met him. Johnny had always been willing to go the extra mile to be the best.

Laswell jokingly called Johnny ‘Junior’ to Price. She saw a lot of resemblance to a younger Price in the Sergeant.

She found Captain Price sitting outside Johnny’s room, he was clearly deep in thought as she placed a hand on his shoulder.

“He’s tough as nails, John, he’ll pull through.” She said, sitting next to the Captain.

John pulled off his hat, holding it in his hands as he slouched forward. He braced himself with his forearms against his thighs.

“Can’t help the worry.” John mumbled.

“He’s getting better.”

“It’s taking so long.”

“Healing from anything takes time, especially something physical and mental like this.”

“He didn’t deserve it.”

“No one said he did.”

Laswell gently rubbed circles on John’s back. “No one believes he did,” she mumbled again.

“Terrible things happen to the best of people, the ones who deserve it least especially.” She said, watching the tears bead up on his lashes as he tried to blink them away.

“Blaming yourself for this isn’t what happened, no one on the team is at fault. No one could have known what would happen next.”

“I should have let him shoot the bastard,” Price mumbled, his hand moving up to hold his forehead. Trying to cover where the tears fell down his cheeks before getting lost in his beard.

“You can’t blame yourself for not knowing then what you know now.”

Price sighed.

“You can’t, John.”

“I gotta ask myself if it should have been me,” John mumbled against quivering lips.

“Everything happens for a reason.”

He stayed silent as she kept up her circles on his back before she stood up to go.

“If you can’t be strong for yourself, be strong for the kid.”

Gaz sat quietly in Johnny’s room. He had never been much of an artist so Johnny figured they could both learn as he relearned.

Gaz held up a poorly drawn humvee, “remember the time we superglued the zipper to Price’s sleeping bag and because he always had it all the way up he got stuck and Ghost had to cut him out of it?”

“Yeah,” Johnny gave a chuckle, “remember the time when we made a bet that whoever couldn’t get the nurse’s number from Alejandro’s base had to buy the rounds at the pub when we got home?”

“I remember us both losing.”

“She didn’t have a wedding ring, I didn’t know she was married!” Johnny laughed, holding up his crudely drawn humvee. Johnny snorted, “Looks like we’d be great cubists.”

Gaz cocked a brow.

“It’s an abstract art style, looks goofy. It’s the one famous artists do when they get lazy after becoming famous for super detailed work. They just slapped a name on laziness.” Soap snorted, “reminds me of my hot art teacher from school. What I would have even for a chance with that braw lookin lass as a 13 year old.”

“We all had those teachers, mate.” Kyle laughed. “Had a Spanish teacher with big ones,” he said, holding his hands in front of his chest, “I learned nothing in that class.”

Kyle clapped him on the shoulder as they both laughed. Then a silence fell.

“Next time I may just be wheeling behind you as we make our great escapes.”

“How about I push you instead,” Kyle said, holding out his fist for Johnny to pump.

And he did, weakly. But it was far from the amount of shaking it would have taken him to hold a fist weeks ago, or a month ago when the process started.

Johnny held out five folded pictures to Gaz, “been working hard on ‘em, they’re labeled.”

Gaz nodded and gave him a hug with a chuckle, “I’ll make sure they get to the right people. Get some rest, dishy lad.”

It didn’t hurt as bad for Kyle to be around Johnny.

Kyle was grateful for that, he had his buddy back.

He shuffled through the folded paper in his hands.

One for himself, Simon, Price, Laswell, and Price’s niece.

He patted Price’s back, “ready to head back?”

“How is he?”

“In a much better humor than a month ago, even has gifts for us.” Gaz said, holding up the papers.

When they got back to the waiting room, Gaz dished them out.

Each slowly unfolded the papers with their names on it. Price’s niece was the first to get her’s open, a soft gasp leaving her mouth as her eyes began to tear up.

It was a sketch of her standing between Price and Laswell from when she was first introduced, the paper had clearly been torn from a journal. A second paper fell to the floor from behind it and she snatched it up before it hit the floor. It was a copy of the image, its lines were sharky and it was clearly one of the blank printer paper sheets they had given him to practice writing on, but the image was pretty close to the same.

‘Always thought you were such a bonnie lass, hope my bad attitude didn’t scare you off.

-Johnny’ was written in the bottom corner of the page with a small heart. The writing was as shaky as the art but it didn’t stop her flushed face and her shocked tears that threatened to fall.

Simon hadn’t intended to open his until he got back to his own barracks, but when he peered over and saw the niece’s he could help himself.

“What did the jammy bastard do now,” Simon grumbled. Eyes going wide as a photo of him and Johnny on their skull masks fell out. A polaroid Alejandro had taken with a camera they found. Simon told him to burn it. Apparently, he never saw Johnny slip it into his gear. An older sketch of it Johnny had done and a small scratchy sketch in there too.

‘Remember when Gaz and I tried to see how many of your stupid masks we could steal before you got mad when we were new on the squad? I remember you waited us out until we had to get the baklava off your face. The ass kicking you gave me for coming close to getting it in your sleep definitely scared me straight.

-Johnny’ Simon ran his fingers over the scratchy words before folding it up for safe keeping. He’d give Johnny back his polaroid later.

Price’s was a sketch of the photo they took before their first 141 mission, it always sat on his desk in his office. An old one he had done probably a year ago and a new one.

‘Couldn’t have asked for a better CO. Thank you Captain. We had a good run.

PS: I knew I was always your favorite sergeant, I didn’t tell Kyle though.

-Johnny’

Price didn’t even register the tear sliding into his beard and the sad chuckle that left his lips.

Laswell unfolded hers, it was a drawing of her and John from the back and her with her elbow on his much taller shoulder.

‘Make sure my team doesn’t get into too much trouble. I won’t be there to bite the next bullet for them.

-Johnny MacTavish’

Laswell gently held the two sketches side by side, chuckling at his terrible joke about his situation. It was from the day Price made Kyle do a pushup for every tooth in the zipper of the sleeping bag because he took the fall for the prank. He made Johnny and Simon stand behind them and watch so they knew what would happen if they messed around. Laswell laughed fondly at the memory, it was a bittersweet chuckle.

Gaz was the last to open his. Softly unfolding the papers. The sketches were of an old selfie they took from the time they were stationed at the same base for training. The rest of the recruits behind them and the two made overly dramatic shocked faces with Soap - with Johnny pointing at the angry General staring at them. The new shaking sketch only focused on himself and Johnny and their stupid faces. A reference to a terrible meme they had seen earlier. He remembered fondly that one of the sergeants on base made them mop the rain outside that afternoon because they had already pissed off the General before that morning at breakfast. He forgot how he really only talked to Johnny at training, Johnny starting just after him.

‘Don’t forget to consult me on any base antics, I still have plenty of ideas. Bonus points if you guilt trip Price and tell him you’re doing it in my honor when he tries to get you in trouble.

-Johnny’

They all sat there quietly before saying goodbyes, going their separate ways.

Price’s niece slipped away back towards Johnny’s room with a knock, earning a, “come in.”

“Hey Johnny,” she said, moving to where he patted her at the edge of his bed, near his hips. “I had no clue you did so many sketches.”

“Had to fill my free time somehow, you can only walk around the base so many times before you lose your mind.”

“They’re beautiful, both of them.” She said softly, looking at them again, “I had no clue you drew me.”

“Woulda done it like one ‘a my french girls but yer uncle didn’t like the idea.” He chuckled, cut off by her planting a soft kiss on his temple. She held his chin with her hand gently, thumb dragging lightly over his lower lip. His face flushed as she treated him like glass.

“No sassy retort?” She asked with a giggle. Face not far from his.

“I got brain damage, lass, and out of practice, gotta give me time to get back in my groove,” he chuckled. “Also, ya missed.”

“What do you mean I missed?”

“I’ll show ya,” he said, planting a kiss on her lips. It was quick, testing the waters, making her face flush and her eyes widen. “So glad yer uncle won’t yell at me now for this, been waiting a while for this chance.” Johnny pressed another kiss with more pressure as she giggled against his lips. “Promise to make sure I don’t eat Mexican so wipin’ my arse ain’t so bad.”

“Again with the wiping the ass thing?”

“Just gotta remind you what ya signed up for,” he said with a chuckle, planting a lingering kiss at the corner of her mouth.

Masterlist is pinned on profile as always, don’t forget to leave me a comment or a request in my inbox to let me know what yall want to see! Also Comments are always appreciated! I love hearing from yall!

[pekoehoneyncream]

Ghoaptober # 16

Prompt: Animal

Words: 800~

TW: None (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

This one is a pre-relationship, Alternate First Meeting, type of deal.

Enjoy!

Ghost was sat in Price’s office, not for want of company, but because Price had called him in then promptly got distracted by cussing out his insurrecting printer. When the machine had finally ceded to giving Price the paper he wanted -with legible text- he turned to address Ghost.

“We’ve got a new member coming in.” He said, slapping the paper into the dossier then handing the folder across to Ghost. 

“Really?” Ghost skepticized, “We got time for a F.N.G right now?” 

“John MacTavish, S.A.S. Sniper, Demolitions. Goes by ‘Soap’.” Price informed him, “Going by the amount of commendations he’s got his head on straight, and going by the amount of reprimands he’s not too much of an arse.” 

Price watched Ghost open the folder, skim reading and rapidly flipping through the pages. 

“I met him once, seemed like a good man,” Price spoke, keeping his tone idle, “And Shepherd wants him on the team.”

“O’course that’s it.” Ghost scoffed. Shepherd had a habit of elevating men he said had ‘potential’. The only potential Ghost had seen in the few he’d met was the potential to be a pain in his ass. They'd been lucky so far that the General had been mostly keeping his nose out of Price’s new task force, but it seemed their grace period was over. 

“He a shifter or a one-skin?” Ghost asked, unable to find the relevant page in the dossier. 

Price raised a slow eyebrow at his Lieutenant, “Shifter.” He answered, with a hefty undertone of ‘at least pretend you’re smarter than you look’. 

That was fair. 

General Shepherd was of the firm and loud opinion that Shifters were far superior to Statics. He would have never recommended someone that wasn’t a Shifter. 

“What is he?” Ghost asked, closing the folder and tossing it onto the Captain’s desk.

“Not sure, just know he’s a Shifter.” Price shrugged, leaning back in his chair and pulling a cigar from his desk drawers to hold between his teeth, “I was told that the documentation was ‘under revision’ and it’d be forwarded when it was fixed.” 

“The fuck does that mean,” Ghost demanded, he didn’t like bad intel, but if he knew it was bad it was still better than nothing. He could usually glean something by looking between the lines at least. Couldn’t do that with a blank page.

“Search me, Riley,” Price spread his empty hands, “You can ask him in-” he glanced at his watch “-half an hour. He gets in at O’nine hundred.” 

Eight-Fifty A.M found Ghost staring down the transport approaching the base’s tarmac. He watched every soul that exited, his eyes catching on one man that was flagrantly flouting regulations by having his hair shaved into a warhawk of all things. His dread and intuition were proved correct when the man veered away from the building to approach Ghost.

“Lieutenant Riley?” He asked, hoisting his bag higher on his shoulder and holding out a hand for Ghost to shake, “I’m Sergeant MacTavish, Sir.”

“You have your personnel file?” Ghost demanded, ignoring the outstretched hand. 

“Aye, I do.” MacTavish answered and dropped his bag to open it, presumably to retrieve the requested papers. Ghost could appreciate that he didn’t seem put out by his gruff words. 

MacTavish handed over his file, it was heftier than the one Price had, thick with medical records and untruncated mission reports. Ghost rifled through it, willingly ignoring MacTavish who had -for lack of any other instructions- chosen to stand at attention before him. Finding what he was looking for, Ghost read it with hungry eyes. 

‘SuSp: HSB 

SecCla: Genus - Canis’ 

SubSpecies: Homo Sapiens Bestialis, Secondary Classification: Genus - Canis. 

The photo attached looked wolf-like to Ghost, but as MacTavish’s file omitted his species he could be an overgrown pomeranian for all Ghost knew. 

“We were told this section is being revised, and didn’t receive it.” Ghost condescended to inform the Sergeant, tilting the page for the man to see the section in question.

“Yes, Sir.” MacTavish’s tone was much more formal, Ghost assumed MacTavish felt that the Lieutenant wasn’t worth trying to be friendly with anymore and forced himself to not regret it, “I petitioned for the rights to be classified under the species Canis Lupus, Sir” 

“Why were you not already classed Canis Lupus,” Ghost interrogated, snapping the folder closed and tucking it securely under his arm. 

“Because when I signed on I classed myself as Canis Lupus Anglicus, and was denied, Sir.” MacTavish answered, dutifully keeping any personal opinions he may have about that particular decision out of his tone. 

“Is it ruled extinct?” Ghost questioned, starting to understand. 

“The Canis Lupus Anglicus, Sir?” MacTavish clarified, continuing at Ghost’s affirming nod, “Yes, Sir. It’s ruled extinct, Sir.”

Ghost nodded again, more to himself than MacTavish, it all made sense now. There was an outdated rule in place, that followed the -thoroughly disproven- idea that Shifters could only be extant animals. Price himself was undeniably an Irish Elk and his papers read ‘SecCla: Subfamily - Cervinae’, as both his genus and species were ruled extinct. 

Ghost was glad that the Brown Bear wasn’t even close to going extinct, he knew a poor schmuck that shifted into a Western Black Rhino who’d had to have all his papers revised after they were ruled extinct, because that made perfect sense. 

“Follow me,” Ghost commanded and turned to lead the Sergeant to Price’s office.

The Captain would get a kick out of meeting a fellow victim of the Brass’s stupidity.

Thank You For Reading!

For my Shifter AU there's two Subspecies of Homo Sapiens, the Homo Sapiens Bestialis, and the Homo Sapiens Constans. Or the Shifters and the Statics as they're commonly called. 'One-Skin' is not very polite slang for a Static.

So, a Static's papers would read: SuSp: HSC SecCla: NA

All the 141 are Shifters.

Price - Irish Elk (Subfamily: Cervinae | Genus: Megaloceros[extinct] | Species: M. Giganteus[extinct]) 

Ghost - Eurasian Brown Bear (Genus: Ursus | Species: U. Arctos | Subspecies: U. A. Arctos)

Gaz - Carpathian Lynx (Genus: Lynx | Species: L. Lynx | Subspecies: L. L. Carpathicus)

Soap - British Wolf (Genus: Canis | Species: C. Lupus | Subspecies: C. L. Anglicus[extinct])

Confession Time! There is no such Subspecies as the 'Canis Lupus Anglicus'. When I was researching animals for the 141 to be I really liked the idea of Soap being the extinct British wolf, but they don't have a Subspecies name, so entire gimmick that this entry hinged on wouldn't have worked. So, I just made one up.

Here's my research on the British wolf: The British Wolf is a breed that was driven out of Britain in the 1500s and hunted to extinction in Scotland in the 1800s. Commonly thought to be a variation of the Eurasian wolf(Canis Lupus Lupus), it may have also been its own distinct subspecies of the gray wolf(Canis Lupus), as it shows distinct physical differences to the Eurasian wolf. An almost entire skull with missing teeth was discovered in Kents Cavern, Devon, by a Mr Mac Enery. The skull was exactly equal in size to that of an Arctic wolf, the only notable differences being that the sectorial molar was slightly larger and the lower border of the jaw was more convex.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

[random0lover]

Her Past Is Their Torture

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x GN!reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: Angst/No Comfort (yet), SFW, talk of death, readers fake funeral is mentioned, fake identity is mentioned, healing wound referenced, A gun is mentioned one time, words "terrorist group" is used once, nothing to serious!

Things to know: reader themself is never referenced looks wise so this is POC friendly! Also if you decide to follow me after reading, READ MY PINNED POST, thank you ♡

Notes: I wrote this in 3 hours after not writing anything for a while, so I hope this is okay! This somehow is getting turned into a mini-series, but I cannot make any promises on how fast each part will come out, but it will be a happy ending!! Kind of proof read but not really so sorry for any errors <3

Part 1 Part 2 (You’re here!)

You were not supposed to be alive. Your heart had stopped while you were lying in the arms of the man you loved but somehow you were alive sneaking your way through the base that you used to call home. 

Today was the day of your funeral, a month after the incident, you knew it would be your only chance to make it onto base to grab a few of your main keepsakes from your room, and no matter how bad of an idea it was, you wanted to stop in Simon’s room one last time. 

Laswell didn't know you were here as far as she knew you were on your way to pick up everything to complete your temporary new identity. A 24-year-old from the States wanting to get some traveling in after completing nursing school before going back home to start their job as an ER nurse. Enough information to satisfy anyone that wanted to have a chat but nothing that would be too memorable. 

Kate was the first person you saw after you woke up in a room that was decorated with floral designs that reminded you of the worn couch that sat in your grandmother's living room until the day she passed away. She told you that your getting shot that night wasn’t a coincidence and that the same people you've spent the last few years running from were once again coming after you.

 Before you became part of Task Force 141 you had previously been part of a different unit, one that now has no evidence of existing after a mission that went haywire. You had all been tasked to eradicate a terrorist group that had supposedly made threats to multiple governments not knowing that you were not the first unit being sent in, that it was a death wish going after them. You and your captain had been the only ones to survive at first until four months later you woke in the middle of the night to a frantic phone call from him saying that they were going to come for you next, the sound of a shotgun being cocked, then the line went dead. Not ten minutes later you had packed a bag and were getting ready to go out the backdoor when you heard your front door being kicked in, if it hadn't been for your captain making that call you would've been dead too.

From that day you spent two years running, going everywhere from China to The United States, to Poland, to Japan, anywhere you could hide until Kate had you staying in the UK which is when she introduced you to Captain John Price and you officially became part of task force 141. Price was the only one that knew your full story until you told Simon but you never got the chance to tell him that you might have to keep running one day. That the people that were after you would only show up to try and kill you to then disappear without a trace until they decided to come after you again.

You had become too comfortable, too hopeful that they were not going to come after you again, that maybe it was all over but the healing bullet wound in your side states otherwise.

You shake your head to get out of your thoughts and continue to make your way through the base while keeping your head down.

~~**~~

This morning you had watched to make sure all of the task force members had left so that you didn't risk running into any of them. You had already been to your room making sure to grab the necklace Soap and Gaz had gifted you on your birthday last year, the little notebook Soap would doodle in when he would sit in your room with you, the t-shirt you had stolen from Simon’s closet, and a coffee mug that Price had jokingly given you that said “dad’s favorite”. 

You knew it was all pointless stuff but the little things had always meant the most to you especially when it was things that people that were as close to family as you'll get had given you.

Walking through the men's barracks would not be a good idea usually but today they were mostly barren for obvious reasons. You quickly made it to Simon’s room having to resist stopping in Gaz’s room and staying focused. Oddly enough the door was unlocked but you didn’t think much of it, mainly just thanking the stars that you got lucky enough that he forgot.

You make your way into the room gently shutting the door behind you and move until you're standing beside his bed closing your eyes for a moment taking a deep breath, taking in the smell of pine and cedar mixed with notes of vanilla and a small hint of smoke. 

You open your eyes and finally let your eyes drift across the room. The room itself is completely clean not a thing out of place almost as if it hadn't been touched since the morning before that last mission what catches your attention though is the small desk in the corner that is currently the dirtiest you've ever seen it, covered in a few stacks of paperwork, mugs that have dried-out tea bags in them, and not so shockingly your file. It was sitting on top of everything else but you could tell from the creases and a few dirt stains in the manilla folder that it had been opened multiple times and maybe even thrown or dropped a few times. 

You feel in your pocket for the folded note that you had written the night before and pull it out. You stare at it for a moment before opening the folder and sliding it in between some papers at the bottom of the stack hoping that he’ll find it. As soon as you close the folder you hear some voices coming down the hallway and make your way towards his closed closet waiting to see if you’ll need to hide. You hear the voice fade and let out the breath you were holding until you see the door handle turning and frantically throw yourself into the closet hiding behind his clothes and trying to shut the door.

Simon comes into your view for a moment and you see him looking around the room, you hear him let out a sigh before taking a deep breath and you see his body go rigid, you freeze hoping he didn’t hear you, and hear him sniff again almost as if he smells something weird. He turns towards the closet and you can see his eyes settle on the door, you want to slap yourself for not making sure to close it all the way and suck in a breath as he takes a step forward reaching out to open the door but before he can you hear his door open again.

“You got that file you were looking for Lt.?” Soap asks from the doorway.

Simon looks at the closet door one more time before turning to the desk and grabbing the file, “Yeah Johnny, let’s go.” 

You wait in the closet for another five minutes before you decide that it’s safe to venture out and quickly make your exit, locking the door behind you before you sneak off base. 

As soon as you reach your car the burner phone that was in the center console starts ringing the screen saying ‘GREEN’ in big bold letters meaning that it’s Kate. You pull out the phone and answer it while starting the car. “Where are you? You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”

 “I'm almost there Kate, I’ll be there soon. Promise.” You sigh before hanging up.

Hi my lovelies, I hope you enjoyed the second part to Open Wounds and War Paint! Feedback is appreciated but not necessary. As always I hope you have a great day/night. &lt;3

As of right now I have a few requests, but requests are open! I cannot promise when or if I will write them, but I do prefer requests that are slightly more specific as I find them easier to write but it's not required. Thanks for reading my darlings! ♡

[ghostandsoap]

Stay

John "Soap" MacTavish x Fem! "Viper" Reader Tags: Assassination mission. Gunfire. Snipers. A/N: I feel like this sucks. Does it suck? Let me know if it sucks. Word Count: 6.0k "You can't leave."

John MacTavish was a deadly, silent marksman.

He struck fear into the heart of any enemy that dared to cross him...if they could even figure out that he was there to begin with. As Force 141's go-to sharpshooter and sniper, he had more than enough experience and advice to go around.

It wasn't lost on Sergeant MacTavish that he was one of the best -- but even then, his ego was never swollen. In fact, he felt like he was doing a disservice if he wasn't passing his wisdom along to someone just as talented and capable as him.

So when word on the street was that Captain Price had recruited a newly trained sniper to Force 141, Soap started preparing.

He wasn't surprised in the least when Captain Price approached him with a manila folder with a "classified" stamp on it. Soap wasn't shocked in the slightest when Price asked him to take the newbie under his wing.

He was more than happy to accept. He wasn't totally thrilled about the fact that most of his free time would be taken up by this, but it was a small price to pay to have the satisfaction of spreading his knowledge to someone deserving of his time and energy.

Price gave Soap a brief rundown, which didn't amount to much at all. Any information that Soap was going to have to know about this person was going to have to come from their files or from the person themselves. However, Price did give Soap a tiny sliver of information to get him intrigued.

"She's highly respected despite the fact she's young," Price had said with a chuckle. "They call her Viper."

Viper. The name rattled down his spine and left a tingle in his feet. He could only imagine where that name came from, and he was interested to know more.

And it seemed the more that Soap read up on her, the more that curiosity grew. As he read through her file, it became exceedingly clear to him as to why she was so well known and respected by her peers and mentors.

Viper showed a talent for sharpshooting in her early days of training. With proper mentoring and guidance, she ended up attending and finishing sniper school as one of the best.

When word spread that Captain John Price was looking for another sharpshooter for his infamous Task Force 141, Viper's information file was delivered to his desk almost immediately.

Price was betting on her just after seeing her file himself and after chatting with a few colleagues that had worked directly with her. His hopes for her only tripled when he actually met her in person to get a feel for how she would do with the rest of his team.

He knew that she would fly no matter what, but under Soap's supervision and guidance? She would soar.

Price introduced Soap and Viper to one another as soon as everything was settled...and truth be told, Soap almost scared her off on the first day.

Soap might have...overestimated how strong of a personality she was going to have prior to meeting her. With a name like "Viper", there was no question in his mind that she wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. And to an extent, he was correct. However, it seemed that his calculations had deemed her as nothing but a storm of venom and hatred, which was also not quite right.

Well of course Soap couldn't risk appearing smaller and weaker than the person who was supposed to be his student, so he amped up the side of him that was more "bad guy-ish."

He maintained the coldest stare that he could manage, and he didn't crack even a hint of a smile or any expression that showed him as anything but mean. He should've known that he was making a fool of himself when her eyes went wide and (quite frankly) concerned the moment he spoke to her in a tone that was less than pleasant.

Nonetheless, he kept this charade up for the duration of their first encounter, and by the end of their first day together, she was second guessing this entire arrangement. She debated running straight to Price and begging him to transfer her somewhere else and to someone who didn't act like they wanted to kill her in her sleep.

But thankfully Soap was intelligent enough to realize that his assumptions about her were horribly incorrect. When he saw just how rattled and exhausted she looked at the end of that day, he knew he needed to clear things up.

Once the misunderstanding was discussed and a "start over" was agreed upon, things went much smoother.

The two of them took off immediately. She soaked up every bit of advice he gave, and he practiced with her every free chance they had. For the most part, he helped her get familiarized with all kinds of different sniper rifles and practiced with her.

Any long ranged weapon that he had access to, he wanted her to be comfortable working with. He never wanted her to get into a situation where she needed to take someone out from a distance and was stuck with a weapon that she had no experience with.

As far as practice, they spent at least two hours at the shooting range every day. For the first few weeks, they stayed at the range. The range was a controlled environment with no outside factors...which also meant no distractions.

Eventually, Soap started taking her to locations outside of the range so that she could practice shooting from different elevations and altitudes. He wanted her to always be able to take wind speed and direction into account. He needed to know that she could still accurately locate a target at nighttime and in bad weather.

Long story short, Soap's end goal for her was easy. He wanted her to be able to take down an enemy in any environment, at any time, and with any long ranged weapon.

He had total faith in her, because it didn't take long for him to see for himself that, yes, she was very talented.

She was a fast learner, and when she was struggling with something, she persisted until she perfected it. She was determined and motivated in a way that he had never seen. He was impressed by her. He liked her.

The days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into days. Each new day, he was getting to know her as a soldier...and eventually, he was getting to know her as a person.

They were sharing things with one another that absolutely no one else on the planet knew or would ever know. He felt like she knew him better than anyone, and he had only known her a few months.

Their practice outings began ending with them sticking around in whatever place they were in, just chatting with one another and taking a load off from a long day.

One day in particular, about four months into this, he managed to get information out of her that he had wanted to know since the moment her callsign graced his ears.

The two of them were sitting together on top of a hill out in the middle of nowhere, dusk just beginning to creep over the sky as they sat together.

"So I've gotta ask ya," He had asked, slicing the blade of his knife into the red skin of the apple he had brought with him. "Where'd you get a name like Viper?"

Viper had laughed at his question, honestly surprised that he hadn't asked sooner.

"A few reasons actually. I'm fast, but also quiet...I can be pretty aggressive," She told him. "But mainly it comes from the fact that I can track and locate a target so easily and efficiently...especially through a scope."

"Oh, that's a good one." Soap said.

That was all he said after that. She waited patiently for a few seconds, expecting him to reciprocate the obvious.

"What about you?" She asked.

"What 'bout me?" He returned.

"Your callsign. Where does 'Soap' come from?" She clarified.

A shit-eating grin spread on the Scot's face as he popped a slice of apple into his mouth.

"That's classified Information." He remarked through chewing.

"What?!" She shrilled, unable to mask her smile. "I told you mine, so you have to tell me yours!"

"Not how it works."

"That's messed up. That is so not fair, Sergeant." She laughed an airy laugh, the kind that made his heart flutter and speak for himself before his brain had a chance to object.

"John," He blurted, his cheeks growing pink. "You don't have t'call me anything formal when it's just us."

The apple in his stomach was turning now, because that was the first moment that he realized that he was pining for her in a way that was beyond what he could control.

"Okay. I can call you John," She said to him, smiling in a way that almost made him collapse down the hill that they were perched on top of. "Now will you tell me why they call you Soap?"

He grinned and offered her the rest of his apple.

"No way."

After that, Soap found any excuse he could to see her and spend time with her. It got to a point where if someone needed to find Soap, they didn't even bother asking where he was. If they knew where Viper was, then they knew where Soap was.

They were glued to one another. She was excelling and improving every day, which only made him better and stronger as a result. The more time he spent with her, the harder he fell for her.

His likeness towards her was turning into something so much more wonderful. He was appreciating the world around him in ways he never had before.

John MacTavish was in love.

__

"Keep your breathing steady..." Soap instructed, his voice almost at a whisper. "Hold your breath right before you fire."

Viper was in the zone. She was perched with Soap's chosen sniper rifle of the day, staring at her assigned "target" through the scope. They were back at the range today, which should've made her feel more comfortable. However, Viper felt a bit of pressure today that she usually didn't feel when practicing because today Captain Price was observing.

Nonetheless, she did everything as she normally would. She waited until she was ready, she held, and she pulled the trigger. There wasn't any loud sound of a gunshot considering the weapon she was using was a suppressed rifle, but there was no noise greater than Soap when he was excited.

"Perfect shot," He buzzed. "Couldn't have done it better myself."

Her target wasn't a real enemy, of course. It was just a dummy that they used for shooting practice. Still, Soap was beaming and she was proud.

"What do I always tell ya, Vi?" He asked, leaning his head closer waiting for his signature quote.

"Be unseen and unheard until it's too late." She said, accepting Soap's hand to guide her up from the ground.

He grinned at her, waving Captain Price over to join the conversation. Price was wearing a proud, satisfied smirk as he approached them.

Price had been watching them closely over the many, many months that Soap had been working with her. He was pleased with Soap's mentorship, and even more pleased that she was blossoming into likely the best sniper he would ever see in his lifetime.

Not to mention, it wasn't lost on Price that Soap had grown to care for her.

Soap was interested in her in a way that extended past a teacher-student arrangement. Soap didn't have to take so much time with her. Truthfully, Soap's dedication to her was far beyond what Price could've ever hoped for.

"Nice work, Viper. Everything still going alright?" He asked.

Every once in a while, Price would ask that question. And every time, he got the same answer.

"Yes sir. All is well." She smiled.

"Good. You're quite the crackshot," He said, shifting the conversation topic. "I need to steal Soap from you for a moment. You mind catching up later?"

Soap and Viper shared a brief look before she answered.

"Sure, Captain."

Viper respectfully left the captain and the sergeant to chat and talk shop, and Soap already knew what Price wanted to talk to him about.

"You move out for Russia next week," Price said, and Soap nodded. "We need to talk about Viper."

Soap had known about this trip to Russia for two weeks. There was a job that needed to be handled there, and Force 141 would be heading there shortly. The mission was critically important.

Of course Viper had been with them on missions before. She was a part of the task force after all, so she was one with the team. However, Viper hadn't been put to the test yet. And this mission, if Price decided yes, would most definitely test her.

It was an assassination mission.

It was a mission that was going to be reliant on one person to be successful. And Captain Price was trying to decide if that person was going to be Viper or Soap.

Soap knew that Price was considering letting Viper take the lead on this one. Soap hadn't told Viper about the mission yet. He didn't want her to have that pressure simmering for so long. He didn't want Viper getting into her own head.

Soap would've been the obvious choice for this job, but Price was beginning to feel as if Viper was ready for this.

Soap knew her better than Price did at this point, whatever Soap said would determine Price's decision.

"You've been working with her for over six months," Price said.

Seven months and 12 days, actually. Soap thought to himself.

"You're the best judge of her ability and readiness to do this mission," Price went on. "She needs to be able to handle the pressure."

Soap understood exactly what Price was saying. Essentially, the captain was asking if Viper was ready for this.

Soap had complete confidence in her. She was already incredibly sharp when she first joined 141, and now she was an even better version of herself. There wasn't a doubt in Soap's mind that Viper was as prepared as she could possibly be.

"What's the verdict, Sergeant?" Price asked, arms crossed over his chest. "Is she ready?"

Without hesitation or lack of confidence, Soap answered.

"Absolutely she is."

___

This part of Russia is what she could only describe as the absolute middle of nowhere.

The land was extreme, and the tundra seemed to stretch out into hundreds of miles in every single possible direction. The land was painted white with the occasional silhouette of a tree or some other natural landmark.

Yet for some reason, in the middle of this vast land of nothingness, there was a small cabin about a mile away, only visible to Viper through the crosshairs of her scope.

Viper didn't mind the snow and frost in the least, but what she didn't care for was the extreme cold temperatures that came with them. And since it was nighttime, the frigid air was much worse. The air was so crisp and clean that her lungs were stinging with every inhale of air she took.

The sky was ablaze with millions and millions of twinkling stars, and if she had the time or focus to actually look up and study them...she might've even been able to see other galaxies.

But Viper wasn't out in the wilderness of Russia to stargaze and make wishes on those stars. Viper was here on business.

So here she was, hunkered down in the snow and camouflaged with the earth beneath her. Her rifle was an extension of herself tonight, as familiar to herself as her own heartbeat.

Even though she wasn't fond of the cold, it wasn't bothering her tonight. The numbness in her fingers and toes was ignored for the time being.

Soap and Ghost were elsewhere, but relatively close by. Their tasks were different for this mission, mainly to retrieve the body and to eliminate any unwanted visitors.

"Viper, this is Ghost. How copy?" The lieutenant's voice sounded in her ear.

"I hear you, Lieutenant. How's the weather down there?" She asked, keeping her voice low.

"Cold n' bitter." Soap chimed in, and she could hear Ghost's chuckle.

"At least you aren't buried in the snow." Viper remarked

The three of them had been bantering back and forth like this for a while. Something that most people don't know about being a sniper is that you have to have some serious patience. They had been playing the waiting game, and they had to do something to pass the time and the silence.

"Johnny'll warm you up when this is over." Ghost teased.

Soap had smacked Ghost's arm for that one, not believing that his friend was trying to embarrass her.

Viper's cheeks ran warm at that comment, which would've been nice in this weather if it hadn't been under flustered circumstances. She didn't respond, and thankfully she didn't have to, because there was sudden movement through her scope.

With perfect timing, she heard Soap again.

"Do you have a visual on the target?" Soap's voice echoed in Viper's ear.

Viper didn't move a single inch.

"Affirmative." She replied.

A very simple pause followed, and then an even simpler command was given.

"Take him out."

She steadied her breathing. She placed her index finger on the trigger. She held her breath, and she fired.

Her vision tunneled for a moment after she pulled the trigger, something that sometimes happened after she made a shot. When she looked through the scope again, her target wasn't down like he should've been.

He was on the move, alarmed and fleeing the area. Where he was going to go in this kind of environment, she wasn't sure. However, with enemies like this, they always had an escape plan.

"Shit." Soap cursed.

She missed.

She couldn't have missed him by more than a couple of inches. Her bullet was just a hair too far above, which only alerted her target and completely missed him altogether.

Nobody had expected Viper to miss. Especially not Soap. He knew that she didn't have long to reload and correct her second shot before her target disappeared.

"Viper, track him and fire again," He instructed, trying not to sound too urgent and make her nervous. "You've only got a couple of seconds."

She was trying not to panic, despite the fact that she was all shaken up from the fact that she missed. She had practiced a shot like this for what felt like a million times. How could she miss now when it was the real thing?

Viper reloaded, marked her target, aimed the crosshairs, and fired again.

There was a squeeze of the trigger, a puff of smoke, and her target a mile away that crumpled to the ground in an instant.

Viper coughed out a relieved, but stunned noise. One that came from a place of knowing that her target almost got away.

"Target is down," Soap said, yet Viper still felt sick. "Beautiful shot, Vi."

Soap and Ghost moved in swiftly, getting the now dead target out before his comrades showed up. Viper pulled away from the scope, her eyes finding two little, distant figures running around that she knew to be them.

She rested her forehead against the back of her hand, her mind spinning and reeling at a million miles an hour.

She knew that Price would hear about this -- the fact that she missed the first time. He had put so much faith into her and bragged about her to everybody. How would he react to this?

Even worse than that, how was Soap going to react?

Soap had put his blood, sweat, and tears into shaping her. He spent more time and energy on her than anyone else ever had in the last seven months. He taught her everything he knew. Every tip, trick, and piece of advice he had -- she knew it by heart.

How could she repay him like this?

"Meet us down here at the cabin," Ghost's voice returned to her ear. "Need to be heading out."

She predicted that Ghost wouldn't say much to her for the rest of the night. Not because he was angry or disappointed, but because he felt like not addressing it at all was the best way to protect her feelings and her pride.

Viper knew she needed to meet up with them quickly, and they needed to get back to their base for the night. Her entire body shook as she packed up her gear, the trembling was both from the cold and the severe anxiety that she was feeling at that moment.

She felt like a complete and utter waste of Soap's time. She felt like all his attention and effort that was used on her was for nothing. She almost blew it.

Viper used everything she had to keep it together as she worked her way down the hill. The last thing she needed was to fall apart in front of them, because then she would be a failure and weak.

At this point, she was just wondering if she still had what it took.

___

She had been staring at the fire for over an hour.

The chill in her bones had faded long ago, but she couldn't bring herself to stand from where she sat -- huddled up in front of the fire, contemplating everything that she had been doing in the last several months.

She could feel the heat radiating off of it, the same heat that might've saved her from hypothermia if she had stayed out in the cold Russian wilderness for too long.

The flames burned bright orange and dark red, dancing and casting long shadows against the far wall behind her. The flames were reflected in her glassy eyes, a painted picture of disappointment and questioning of her own abilities.

She hadn't said a word to Soap or Ghost since meeting back up at the cabin. She was too embarrassed to even spare either of them a passing glance. She felt like she had failed worse than she ever had.

Soap and Ghost gave her space for a bit. They ordered her to sit in front of the fire to get warmed up after being covered in snow and ice for so long. And that was how she found herself stuck in a daze, staring into those burning flames like they were her only source of life.

Their "base" was hardly anything at all. It was a one floor structure that you might could call a house.

This house was nestled in the vast expanse of birch trees that were dusted with snow and decorated with solid icicles. It was a small three room house with a kitchen, living room, and bedroom.

It was a relic, really. Long forgotten and abandoned by someone who was long gone by now. The wooden walls were weathered by the harsh winters and summers of Russia, but the structure was firm and resilient.

As she stared into that fire, Viper wondered what sort of stories and memories this house contained. She wondered what kind of history and life this place had. At least now the house was serving a purpose.

Unlike herself. Or, at least, that was how she felt.

Viper isolated herself in the living room, sitting on the hand-woven rug and ignoring the way the creaky floors made her bottom half ache. Ghost and Soap were cornered in the kitchen, which was only separated from the living room with a singular adjacent wall.

They were crammed together at the small table in there, basically just waiting for enough time to pass before they felt it was right to talk to her.

For Soap to talk to her.

Soap wasn't planning on yelling at her. Soap wasn't sure if he could ever bring himself to yell at her for anything at all.

He thought that maybe she wasn't ready for the kind of pressure this mission put on her. Maybe he was so in love with her that everything she did seemed to be extraordinary...which in turn blinded him to the fact that she needed more time.

But Soap (as much he did love her) felt confident that if this was truly, 100% her fault -- then he would know. Besides, she technically didn't fail this mission. The assassination was successful after all...but he knew that she was hung up on the plain fact that it almost wasn't.

Soap stood from the wooden table, sighing to himself as he mentally prepped for this conversation.

"Go easy on her, Johnny." Ghost said. "She's still learning."

Soap wasn't angry at her in the slightest. If anything, he felt like she should've been angry at him.

"What do I say to her?" Soap asked his lieutenant.

"Encourage her. Reassure her that it's not the end of the world," Ghost said. "And just be you when you say it."

Soap nodded. He understood what Ghost was saying. After all, it wasn't lost on anybody how Soap felt about her.

Soap left Ghost behind, entering the living room that was bursting with warmth. His heart stung at the sight of her so down and discouraged. He needed to fix this.

Soap was silent as he approached her, his footsteps heavy against the creaking floorboards. He lowered himself to the floor, sitting next to her without a word.

She knew he was there. And now that he was there, she had a million thoughts sprinting through the track of her mind. She was scared to speak first, because she didn't know how he was feeling.

"Talk to me, Vi. I'd feel a lot better if you did." He meant to say it as a command, but it came out as more of a request.

She couldn't look at him. She only continued to look at the fireplace in front of her.

"I missed," She said, which was obvious of course, but it was different actually hearing her say it out loud. "Almost twice."

Her voice was meek and insecure. It just wasn't like her.

"Yeah, you did." Soap remarked, his tone neutral and not showing any hard emotion.

"How did I miss?" She stared down at her hands that felt like they were weighing the rest of her down. "I was so prepared..."

"You were prepared -- as prepared as you could'a been." He agreed.

In a weird way, she wanted him to be angry. She wanted him to scream in her face and shake her around until she was begging for another chance and to keep her job. She wanted to suffer for making it look like he had failed to teach her.

But he wasn't going to do any of that. Not to her.

"Then how did I miss?" She was almost scared to ask.

"Unexpected wind. You felt rushed or distracted," He listed a few possibilities. "You got nervous under pressure...I put too much pressure on you."

Viper didn't believe that, even if it was partly true.

"Real soldiers don't get nervous." She remarked, her words sharp.

"Bullshit," He scoffed. "That doesn't make you a soldier. It makes you human."

Viper didn't say anything after that. She felt as if her natural reaction (as a result of being human) to a high-stress situation is what caused her to be unsuccessful in her mission. She hadn't let just herself and Soap down, she had let her entire team down.

Soap was still struggling with how to talk to her. He knew what Ghost had said, but which approach would she react best to -- her sergeant or the guy who had grown sweet on her?

"C'mon, Vi. You took him down," Soap said. "Stop beatin' yourself up."

She shook her head at her sergeant. His sudden casualness almost made her frustrated. She didn't say anything for a few more moments, before she did say something that made Soap immediately begin to panic.

"I'm putting in my resignation when we get back."

Soap processed what she said about as fast as she said it. His heart collapsed to his feet and fired back up into his throat. She couldn't quit. He wouldn't allow it.

He wouldn't lose her like this.

"What?" He blurted, realizing that his goal now was to prevent her from doing something stupid. "You can't leave."

"I missed, John. You can't just miss shots like that."

"Everybody misses," He stated. "And you still took him down the second time. Why can't you understand that?"

A quick beat passed. The crackling of the fire sounded loudly.

"You don't." She mumbled.

"What're you talkin' about? 'Course I've missed," He remarked. "And I've missed enough t'know that everybody misses."

"Okay," She said, her words sharp and defensive. "So what am I supposed to do now?"

He ignored her harsh tone. He kept talking to her as he had been.

"Come back home with me. Keep practicing. Make a perfect technique even more perfect," Soap said. "I promise you, doll -- keep at it n' you won't even think anything of what happened tonight."

She found that hard to believe. How could she ever get over the fact that she almost lost her very first high-pressure mission? The first of many?

Soap was out of things to say. Nothing that he was saying to her seemed to be making a dent. She was stubborn for sure, and now it wasn't working in his favor.

He had to be transparent with her. It was the only way he could talk her out of leaving the team.

Out of leaving him.

"You can't leave, Vi. You just can't," His voice was steady, despite the turmoil inside of him. "I know this life isn't easy, and screwin' up in this profession sucks worse than anything else, but...

Soap felt his heartbeat begin to quicken when she rested her head against his shoulder. It pounded in his chest in a way that made breathing feel difficult, and in a way that made him have to calm himself down. His eyelashes fluttered as he closed his eyes, hues of orange and red still visible from behind his eyelids.

Such a simple, seemingly meaningless touch made his legs feel wobbly and had his stomach doing somersaults. He was so infatuated with Viper.

Her talent, her skills, her determination. Her eyes, her smile, and just...her. Soap could say without a shadow of a doubt that no one had meant this much to him in a long time...no one had meant this much to him ever.

Soap's gaze was fixed on her. Her eyes were filled with uncertainty, which was a stark contrast to the woman that he knew Viper to be. Seeing her so discouraged and so unsure of herself broke his heart.

"I want you to stay...I need you to stay." His plea hung in the air between them, a testament to the depth of his feelings for her.

She finally looked at him then. The flames of orange and red reflected in her eyes as she tuned into what he was telling her. If her day hadn't already been complicated and taxing on her emotions enough, he would've kissed her.

She wouldn't have minded that in the slightest. At first, Viper thought she was in trouble when she first noticed how she felt about Soap. She felt doomed at first because how could she ever be able to pursue him? He was supposed to be her mentor, despite the fact that he was only a few years older than her.

She was worried at first because she feared that she had fallen for someone who she could never have. How was she supposed to live like that?

But as time went on, she noticed that her affection wasn't one-sided. She caught Soap gazing at her from afar more than once. She didn't miss the way he had a feather-like touch whenever he adjusted the position of her hands on her weapon. She knew that all of Ghost's passing comments and jokes didn't come from nowhere.

And on more than one occasion, she had heard about how much he talked about her.

She knew how she felt about him, and she also knew how he felt about her. After tonight, she was pretty sure that he would have that all figured out as well.

He settled for touching her hand instead, his rough fingers brushing against her delicate hand -- skin that didn't have the hard work experience and hardships that he did. He held her hand in his, a showing of something that extended far past him seeing her as just the soldier he was supposed to train.

He was showing her that he loved her for the woman she was.

Soap knew that he sounded desperate. Mainly because he was desperate. Viper had become such a massive part of his everyday life in the last seven months. Trying to imagine not spending every day with her pained his heart.

After all, she had become the most important person to his heart.

"Okay," She said, her voice serene and smooth. "I'll stay."

Relief rushed his system because he felt like he had another chance. It would take time to rebuild her confidence and teach her to be patient with herself again. But it was a task he was more than willing to take on.

"On one condition." She added.

She cracked a small smile then, which was enough to ignite the fireworks that were ready to explode in his chest. He would do literally anything to keep her around.

"You name it." Soap grinned.

"We have to start practicing and training an extra hour every day." She said, and Soap almost laughed.

That was more than okay with him.

"Deal," He said. "If you're lucky, I might even tell ya why they call me Soap."

Her eyes lit up then, and he almost felt bad for teasing her like that.

Almost.

"Really?" She asked, shifting closer to him to where she was almost snuggled into his side.

She rested her head on his shoulder again, and this time he wrapped an arm around her to pull her closer.

"No." He smirked.

They shared a small laugh before falling into a comfortable silence, the kind that eased any kind of tension or anxiety. He was soaking in her presence, thankful that it wouldn't be last time he would ever get to enjoy it.

As soon as they were back and settled, he was asking her on a proper, real date. As much as he loved it, he figured that somewhere outside of the range was in order.

The two of them sat like that for a long time, basically until the last of the fire had burned out, and all that was left was ashes and smoke. When Soap shifted to stand, he realized that Viper didn't move.

When he craned his neck to look at her, she saw her eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and steady. She had fallen asleep on him.

He nearly exploded through the ceiling.

He had to contain himself and not wake her because he wanted her to get as much rest as she could. He was careful as he moved to scoop her up, hushing her when she stirred and made mid-slumber noises of discontent from being disturbed.

He carried her and whisked her from the living room, cutting through the kitchen to get to the bedroom to put her in bed. Ghost, who had been on watch this entire time, saw this encounter and couldn't help but smirk.

"I assume all went well?" Ghost asked, and he felt proud at the beaming smile on Soap's face.

"Yeah. You could say that."

[writeforfandoms]

Shadows 2

Find the John Price masterlist

For @glitterypirateduck O, Captain! Challenge. I used #18 for this chapter.

Trying to find a new normal after everything is hard, but Price makes things a little easier. A late-night conversation helps you both.

Warnings: Swearing, mention of past events, scars, past injuries, nightmares, unsettled emotions.

Word count: 1k

The town was amazing. You hadn't seen anything like it in a year, at least. 

Probably, anyway. Time had been a little hard to track while you'd been with the men. 

But the world had ended almost a year and a half ago, you were assured. 

The four who'd rescued you, albeit unknowingly, seemed to be the center of the town. The protectors. Everyone knew Gaz and Soap, the two most friendly of the four. (And also both taken, as you discovered on your first night there, a boisterous kind of family dinner with both of their significant others. That inspired a kind of ache that you pushed down out of long habit.) 

Ghost was quiet and watchful, probably the least trusting of the group. But in those first days, you saw how gently he treated the two women, voice gruff but sincere in his thanks. The single wandering sheep that meandered up to the house got gently but firmly redirected back to where it belonged. You'd known men like him before. Gruff, grumpy, soft as a marshmallow deep down. 

But Price… Price was something else. He made you feel safe. Probably just because he'd been the one to find you and cut you free, but still. He never raised his voice to you, never minded when you settled near him to read. 

That wasn't a feeling you were so willing to give up. 

Price had told you that you'd stay with them for a few days at most, until they found a better spot for you. You understood why - the house was a little crowded, with Gaz and his significant other, Ghost, and Price there full time. Soap seemed to bounce between the house and his parents’. 

But you didn't want to go. 

Oh, everyone in town was nice. Welcoming. Word got around that you were a nurse, and it didn't take long for people to start showing up asking your opinion, or asking you to look at something. 

Price just huffed and dragged the furniture around in the main room, giving you a corner with some privacy. 

A few days turned into a week, turned into two. Price didn't push about finding you another place to stay, and you never asked. 

You thought maybe he understood. Maybe he was being kind, giving you time to settle in, before bringing it up again. 

Three weeks into your stay, you woke from a nightmare, the lingering cruel laughter and screams still echoing in your ears. You sat up, hands shaking as you pushed the blanket off yourself, hunching over to try to breathe more normally. 

You hadn't had a nightmare in… a long time. You'd have been happy not to have another. Ever. 

Well. Might as well put the kettle on. 

You shuffled into the kitchen, simultaneously tired and vigilant, moving as quietly as you could. Tea was a calming ritual you'd gone without for a long time, but the muscle memory and timing hadn't left you. (And if you were oddly proud of the fact that you made the only cuppa the American would drink, well, nobody else had to know.) 

You'd just sat with your tea when you heard a stair creak. You tensed automatically, shifting your weight, fingers clenched around your mug. 

Price stepped into the kitchen, nodding to you. You returned the nod, shoulders uncoiling. 

“Still hot water left?” He asked, voice hushed.

“Plenty,” you agreed, waving a hand for him to help himself. “Shouldn't need to be reheated yet.” 

He got down his own mug, the soft sounds of him making tea helping soothe you fully back into the present. The warmth of your tea seeped into your hands, just on the verge between comforting and too hot. 

Somehow, you were still surprised when he sat across from you, gaze far too alert for the middle of the night. 

“Trouble sleeping?” 

“Mm.” You dropped your gaze to your mug, fingers tracing the handle. “You?”

He just shrugged, taking a sip of his tea. In the low light, a flash of color on his wrist caught your attention. You moved without conscious thought, one hand gently catching his. 

Both of you froze. 

“Sorry.” You started to pull your hand back. 

Price just switched his mug to his other hand and placed his hand back in yours. “Nothing to apologize for.”

You blew out a slow breath, looking into his eyes briefly before lifting your linked hands, just enough to get a better look at the scar near the heel of his hand. “What happened there?” 

He tipped your linked hands to look and then chuckled. “Burned myself on accident as a kid,” he said, shooting you an amused little smile. “Surprised you saw it.” 

You shrugged. “Must have been the lighting,” You dismissed, giving his hand one gentle squeeze before you released him. 

The two of you sat in comfortable silence together, drinking your tea. It was odd, how comfortable it was. You hadn't felt so at ease with anyone else since… before. Not all the way before, before the world ended, but before the men. Before the fire and the screaming. 

He was just… easy to be with. For you. 

“Alright there?” He kept his voice low, hand touching yours again briefly. “Look like you're about to nod off into your tea.” 

“Hm?” You blinked rapidly and looked at him. “Oh, I'm okay. Just thinking.” 

“Anything you want to share?” He kept the question mild, gentle. A clear invitation. 

You bit your lip, gaze refocusing on him. He held up steadily, unmoving, at ease. “Just… thinking that this is… comfortable.” Face burning, you dropped your gaze again, chewing lightly on your lip. 

You startled, just a little, when he took your hand again, warm fingers curling around yours. You looked back at him to find him smiling, just a little. 

“I'm glad,” he murmured, low and rougher than usual. “You deserve a safe place, and I'm happy to provide that for you. Here, or anywhere in town.” 

Your lips parted, eyes going wide, fingers clamping around his. 

He just smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and let you keep hold of his hand as he finished his tea.