#john price pov

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

Chapter 1

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

Word count: 3.3 k

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

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

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

[Can also be read on AO3]

Five years.

Five long years. 

Five long years. Alone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

cod taglist [opt in/out]: @imagoddamnonionmason @writeforfandoms @efingart @alypink @harmonyowl

@g0dspeeed @confidentandgood @loverofeverything41438 @simplegenius042 @voidika

@quantum-lover @strangefable @kyberinfinitygems @rc-dragons @direwombat

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

@tommyarashikage @aceghosts @inafieldofdaisies @raresvtm @cloudofbutterflies92

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

@theelderhazelnut

[sigh-tofm]

if you wear glasses …

… price

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

… kyle

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

… johnny

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

… ghost

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

[lokidbadguy]

STALKER CODED!

[temeyes]

studies

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Laswell and Nik watch Price play a Rugby match. Part 2.

cw: brief mention of injury, hand job right at the end.

Look, I just love the idea that Nik, Laswell and Price are good friends outside of work. I want to write more of it. All my work is self-indulgent but this is PURE self indulgence.

The plastic chairs were damn uncomfortable and Laswell was pretty sure she could have managed an extra pair of socks inside her boots, but the atmosphere was contagious. Jubilant, loud; people stamping their feet and blowing on their hands in the cold, old comrades meeting again after a long time, families gathered to see fathers, sons, husbands, play.

Plus, she had promised, hadn't she? And seeing her long term friend do something that didn't have the threat of a bullet mixed in was an opportunity she felt she deserved as much as he did.

"Here, Laswell."

A plastic cup of beer appeared in front of her face between the large fingers and thumb of her companion for the day, and she took it in two gloved hands. "Thanks, Nik."

"It tastes very bad," he informed her as he swung his leg over the chair next to her and fell into it heavily, taking a swig of his own with a grimace. "Da. Like barman pissed into a cup."

"Really selling it to me," she chuckled before taking a sip, nose wrinkling. "That is... quite the aftertaste."

Nik shrugged. "It is all part of the experience, and," he ferreted through his jacket, lifting his ass off the seat, and pulled out his hip flask, "ha." He offered it to her first, to which she shook her head, before he unscrewed the cap with his thumb and dumped a generous helping into the top of his drink. "How long?"

"They headed in from their warm up about ten minutes ago."

"Ah, he looked good, no?"

Laswell nodded, her eyes crinkling with her smile as she noted the blush of pride on Nik's face. John Price had, indeed, looked good. He had been rosie-cheeked and energetic through all the drills despite the cold, keeping up with the younger members of his team without any apparent issue.

And, perhaps most importantly of all, he had been laughing and grinning throughout, exchanging banter, and pausing to talk with someone he recognised in the stands, only ending the conversation with a handshake and bump of the shoulders when his coach - a Major something or other, according to the introductory leaflet - bellowed at him.

It was John's boyish glee that had caught Nik's attention more than all the tight woven shorts around thick thighs, the bulging biceps and full chests stretching through Underarmour base layers, and she had watched his eyes blow wide as he fidgeted in his seat, desperate clearly to be closer and bask in John's happiness rather than observe it from afar. She'd sent him for the beer to cool off.

It was an interservice friendly. Navy versus army. A pre-season warm up before the international competition began and the British armed forces would field a composite team of the very best. "Will they win this one?" Laswell asked, chancing another sip of beer and regretting it the moment it touched her tongue.

"Da. The Navy have uh, what to say, fast backs, but their forwards have bad... set pieces."

"Did you understand a word of what you just said?"

"Nyet." Nik grinned. He loved listening to John talk about the game and absorbed every iota of information he could to share in that passion. That didn't mean he was any better than Laswell in understanding what the hell was going on.

"Do you think he'll be selected for the internationals?"

"He has already been asked for his availability."

"Of course he has. Annoyingly, I don't think I've ever encountered an activity that John Price doesn't excel at."

Nik huffed a laugh. "He is an overachiever. Although, not such a good cook. I have never seen someone turn custard into rubber before."

"Aha! A weakness. I will store it for later use."

They lapsed into a momentary pause and watched the crowd find their seats. Nik checked his phone, and then nudged Laswell for a selfie to send to John. They toasted their crappy beers and Laswell conjured her cheesiest grin with a thumbs up. Nik sent it without filters, because he was brutal like that.

Nik (10.15): [image.jpeg]

JP (10.17): good-looking pair of muppets 👍

Nik (10.18): are you feeling ok?

JP (10:19): hammies tight but physio happy.

Nik (10:19): I will help with that later

JP (10:20): countin on it 👌💦😜

"You better not be sexting while I am right next to you, Nikolai."

Nik smirked at her and shook his head once. "He is fine. Nervous."

"You got 'nervous' from that?"

"Da."

"Nervous for a Rugby match but doesn't even bat an eye at leaping from a Hercules into an active firefight with a single page's worth of intel..."

"He feels out of practice. He missed the start of the tournament due to work."

"Ah. Story of our lives, Nik." They missed so much living due to work. Kate had missed the birth of both of her nephews, her brother-in-law's wedding, her sister's fortieth birthday party. So many big life events that would never repeat. But that's what made things like this special. It may be a forces match, but John was choosing to do it. He enjoyed it. Sharing in that enjoyment, that moment of happiness, that was special too.

"They are coming," Nik said like an excited boy on Christmas morning, having spotted the players at the mouth of the changing rooms. He stood with the rest of the crowd and Laswell rolled to her feet too, joining in the cheers and clapping as two lines of outrageously built men jogged out onto the pitch.

Nik and Laswell stood in respectful silence as the band played through the national anthem and the two teams lined up to bray along with it, hands on chests. The British national anthem was a damn drone, but at least it allowed everyone to pull it off. They sat down after the applause, when the two captains met with the referee in the middle of the pitch for the coin toss.

John tried to make the glance into the stands discreet, but the smile when he spotted Nik and Laswell - due to Nik's not so discreet full-armed wave - was difficult to hide. Hands on his hips, he looked down, scuffing the grass with his boot bashfully before turning to listen to the referee outline his expectations.

Sometimes she forgot about the sixteen year age gap between them; he was so brilliant at it all, so driven, so focused and relentless, he was her peer and her equal, but she had already been at the game for twelve years when he enlisted at 16. Whatever she felt in that moment at seeing John so pleased by their presence, his cheeks dimpling in that full-hearted grin he had, felt annoyingly maternal. She necked some beer.

Nik leaned in. "He will choose to receive."

"Mhm."

"Laswell," Nik said, feigning shock as she hid her smirk against her plastic pint.

The navy took the ball with them, the ref jogged backward with his hand in the air, and the two teams lined up. John was the 'fly half', which Kate understood to mean he was the decision maker of the team. It required effective leadership and communication to connect the forwards with the backline and navigate the enemy defence. The perfect role for one Captain Jonathan Price if ever there was one. Which explained the bright yellow captain's band wrapped around his bicep, clashing with the green and white jersey with its big number 10 on the back.

A single peep of the whistle marked the start of the game and the navy's number 10 put their boot to the ball, the rest of the team surging down the pitch behind it. One of the backline received the ball and immediately shipped it out towards the wings to begin making progress in the opposite direction.

The difference between American football and Rugby had always struck Laswell; the ball was the same-ish shape, there were set pieces for different scenarios, but that's where the similarity ended. Rugby was about keeping play moving. It was a relentless, brutal battle down the pitch, with hits that made her teeth shake and no padding between bodies and the impact.

The navy was playing aggressively, forcing the army's backline to reset. Every time the army's scrum half dug the ball out of the breakdown - which was what Laswell understood the huge pile of bodies on the floor to be called - John was there to receive it. He was agile, twisting, turning, everywhere at once; a testament to his own hard work to maintain his fitness and mobility.

One of the navy forwards was too slow off the mark and slammed into John once he'd passed the ball, bringing him to the ground hard with a shoulder to the gut. Nik was halfway out of his chair on instinct, and Laswell reached out a hand for his forearm. "It's part of the game, Nik. An honest mistake." The ref blew the whistle. Free kick.

John rolled to his feet, tugging the legs of his shorts down from the creases of his thighs before plucking the ball from the ground. He chose to kick into touch and gathered his team before the lineout. They hunkered down, listening intently. Laswell could hear his voice in her mind, imagined his tone, and when she glanced off to Nik and saw the look on his face, she knew he was doing the same.

John set the backline, barking over his shoulder and gesturing with his arm to get them in position, once he was happy, he indicated to the scrum half to take the throw in. The ball sailed over the heads of the two lines and found the hands of the army's flanker, who knocked it with practised ease into John's waiting palms. It sailed down the line quick, John sprinting behind the line. The navy thought they were going for a try at the wing and sent their players down to meet it. John cut in halfway and took the ball through a gap created by their miscalculation.

The hulking opposition forwards couldn't catch him once he had the space to open up with long strides, and he pushed one optimistic player off him like he was nothing. Laswell heard Nik breathe something in Russian, leaning forward in his chair, only to leap up the moment that ball touched the try line. She stood with him to clap and he threw an arm around her shoulder jubilantly. "He is so good, did you see? Like a jet, I cannot--" she missed the rest, because he was too busy celebrating, half his beer splashing onto the ground.

An orange five appeared on the scoreboard at first, and then John turned it into a seven when he kicked the ball over the middle bar between the two posts. "A conversion, Laswell," Nik informed her, toasting the scoreboard as it ticked up.

John's try seemed to turn the tables. Now that the army's side had seen the defence clinically dissected, it was like they were more confident in picking those holes. Seven turned to fourteen, fourteen to twenty-one. The navy managed to land a try shortly before half time but their fly half, John's junior by about fifteen years, missed the conversion kick, leaving the scoreboard at twenty-one to five.

Nik topped up their drinks while the two teams disappeared off the pitch, and returned with a flushed face after a suspiciously long time away. "You snuck into the changing rooms, didn't you?" She asked as she took the beer.

"Da," Nik confessed, shifting in his seat. "I did not stay long. He had a briefing to do."

"Of course he did," Laswell said, chuckling. No doubt Nik had gone to admire John in his kit up close; all that clinging lycra and polyester around John's frame. For a man, John had one hell of an ass. She was surprised Nik wasn't foaming at the mouth every time John bent over to receive the ball from the breakdown.

The second half started shortly after Nik's return. The army started with the ball this time, kicking it into the second half and chasing after it to shut down the offence before they could make ground.

The navy had apparently had what John would call a bollocking, because they were back to their form of the first twenty minutes, hitting hard and punishing gaps. Nik frowned as John was tackled for the third time in ten minutes. "They are targeting him," he growled.

"Oh yeah," a man to their left chimed in, "reckon their skipper told 'em to break that one's legs."

"Nik, it's trash talk," Laswell warned as the big Russian suddenly coiled with tension. "They will try to close down any advantages. He's one of them."

She, perhaps, spoke too soon, because the next hit made John stay down a bit longer, and he disappeared under a pile of bodies that dwarfed even him. When he finally got to his feet, there was blood streaming from his eyebrow. The ref blew his whistle and pointed at John's face, then the sidelines. He didn't even argue his case, chucking his armband to the scrum half's hand before jogging over to the medic, replaced by a sub.

Nik had been on his feet throughout, and now tracked John to the sidelines with his eyes, no doubt scrutinising his gait for abnormality. "It is superficial," Nik said, perhaps convincing himself not to vault the stands. "He will go back on."

"After being kicked in the head?"

Nik frowned, arms folded over his chest. He wasn't happy about it either.

As predicted, John returned to the pitch at the next blow of the whistle, his head wrapped in bandages and tape. The army had put up a valiant defence while he'd been off, and did so for the rest of the game, allowing only one more try to sneak through and returning it threefold. The final score at the end was forty-two to twelve in favour of the army, and the boisterous celebrations on the pitch carried on through the sportsmanlike cheers exchanged by both teams, followed by handshakes and cheers for the ref.

Nik and Laswell picked their way through the stands to the main bar to wait for John to emerge from the changing rooms. Another thing she quite liked about this sport in particular was that the players cleaned up in shirts and ties before they were allowed out. She had thought it was a services thing, a hang up about order and respectability, but no, they even observed the rule at club level. It was about respecting the clubhouse, the fans, the game and each other.

It took John about thirty minutes to arrive, his white shirt and green tie neatly pressed, wool trousers belted at his waist. Nik was on him in seconds, one hand taking his jaw, tilting his head left and right, to inspect the cut through his eyebrow. "Nik," John said through a soft laugh, "s'olright, been checked over."

"For concussion?"

"Yeah. Just a stud scrape. Nothin' dramatic."

Nik's hand slipped around the back of John's neck and Laswell could see the desperate desire to kiss his partner flash over his face, but in the end he only nodded and drew away. She sighed. So much had changed, and yet so much stayed the same.

"Kate, you made it," John said, that Quokka-smile in place and big arms enclosed her in a hug.

"Oh, I was in the area." She returned the embrace and then pushed the pint of bitter into his hands. "Well-earned, I think."

"Huh, yeah, 'm fuckin' knackered," he admitted, wiping the foam from his moustache after he took a sip. "A few of the lads want to do a crawl through the local bars, but I'm gonna turn in. Monday's chocka."

"I don't blame you," Laswell said, hopping onto a stool. "I thought you'd play soccer, you know."

"Rugby is a gentleman's sport and the captain is a gentleman." Nik sat next to her, his elbows on the bar. "Soccer is for thugs and idiots, no?"

"Hoohoo, shit, don't let Simon hear you say that, Nik," John said, leaning his hip against the bar at Nik's side. "You'd have to sleep with one eye open."

"So, the Liverpool scarf is just for show." Laswell recalled the tattered old thing hanging up in a frame in John's office. It sat right next to his medals of valour and a photograph of the 141 in Belgrade.

"Naw, once a Red always a Red."

"That means something very different where I am from," Nik said lightly.

Laswell chuckled low in her throat and John threw his arm around Nik's shoulder for a squeeze. They stayed until the man of the match was announced and, unsurprisingly, John had been selected by the team for his try.

He received the award in the same understated way he did his medals; a thank you to his team and to the panel, then 'all the best' before heading back to his drink. Once again Laswell watched Nik swallow the desire to demonstrate the affection bubbling beneath his skin. She was glad for Nik that John would require plenty of care this evening; an opportunity to dote to his heart's content.

Despite the generally positive experience, she was glad to flop into the backseat of Nik's hired Audi, watching the streets of London flit by as they left the pitch behind. By the time they dropped her off at the hotel, John was struggling to keep his eyes open, slumped low in the front seat, his arms folded tightly across his chest as if to hold himself together. She exchanged a look with Nik in the rearview mirror, the creases around his eyes betraying his knowing grin. John was clinging on for her benefit. Sweet, but unnecessary.

She opened the door but leaned forward to squeeze his shoulder before stepping out. "Well done today."

"Cheers," he said sleepily, one of his big paws parting over the top of her palm. "Thanks again. 'ppreciate it."

"Any time, John. I enjoyed myself. See you soon."

She patted Nik's shoulder too and he touched her wrist in return, before she left them to head to a well-earned rest in their Premier Inn. Hopefully a kiss too, or Nik might just implode.

--

Nik managed to convince John into a bath with the promise of a glass of whiskey. Without it, he would be stiffer in the morning and not in a way they could enjoy.

Once John was settled amongst the bubbles, Nik sat at the side with a pillow beneath his rear, one hand in the water to stroke whatever part of John happened to be near, while the other held a novel open against his thigh.

"Thanks for comin' today," John said in the comfortable quiet. His voice was soft, his eyes lidded. He had sunk lower, the waterline lapping at his collarbone.

"Of course. I enjoyed watching you in your element, John."

"It was the... uh, first time someone's come t' see me play."

Nik let the novel fall closed and twisted, resting his chin on the edge of the tub. "Have you not invited the sergeants, or the lieutenant?"

"Ah, they have better things to do 'n come and watch me play rugger at the weekend."

"I think you underestimate how much your team loves and admires you."

John hummed in the way he did when he wanted to argue but knew it was a losing fight. Nik got that noise more and more these days when it came to John's perception of other's opinions of him. He had an accurate and pragmatic understanding of his own abilities when it came to work, but that didn't seem to translate into a sound understanding of how much he was admired. The hum was a step forward towards acceptance, in Nik's opinion.

"You will invite them next time."

"Oh will I?"

"Da. And they will feel honoured by the invitation."

"What if I get my arse kicked? Almost did today."

"Then they will be there to pick you back up again, as they are in the field."

John fell silent, heaving a sigh through his nose. Nik gathered his legs underneath him and slipped his second hand in the water to caress the aching body within it. He ran the backs of his fingers over John's chest, down the valleys of his abdomen to the v-shape dips of his hips, and finally to his thighs.

"How are these?"

"Sore. They'll be fi--mm, Nik...'

"Is good?"

"Mmhm."

Nik rubbed his thumbs in firm circles, feeling knots and tension pop beneath them, and watched John's expression melt back into relaxation. He moved from one leg to the other, working his way up slowly across the large expanse of muscle to John's hip.

"Enjoyin' yerself?" John asked, an eye popping open to study Nik's face.

"Da. Watching your legs today was... hm, it made me want to spread them in the shower and demonstrate my admiration."

If it wasn't for the warm water, John would have flushed, but Nik was content by the shy smile he got instead. "In front of the entire team, eh? Filthy git," John mumbled.

"If you would enjoy others watching me make love to you, then I would consider it."

"Fuckin' 'ell, Nik," John said, scrubbing a hand across his face. His body betrayed him though, because the mere thought of it has caused his prick to harden enough to peak just above the surface. Nik tickled up the inside of John's thighs to his sac, fingertips stroking the heavy weight of it in the warm water. John's knees tilted out to give Nik access and he reached for Nik's chin with one wet hand, guiding him down for a kiss.

Nik kissed greedily as he played gently between John's legs, revelling in the vulnerability of his lover's exhausted body surrendering to the tenderness he offered. His tongue swept into John's mouth, licking the taste of whiskey from his teeth, the tip brushing the ridges of his pallet, sucking his tongue, his lips, before sinking lower to kiss his neck.

John made soft noises of pleasure, his heels skidding across the ceramic of the tub, damp fingers winding into Nik's hair. In the warmth of the water, his skin was soft, sensitive, and Nik knew how to touch him. Had spent many a night learning what made John moan and sigh, how his entire body was a map of erogenous zones desperate for a gentle hand that Nik was more than willing to provide.

When Nik encircled John's prick, stroking slowly back and forth, John let out a pleased sigh. "Fuck, Nik... Dunno whether I have the energy."

"You do not need it. Let me look after you."

"Would prefer t' give as good as I get. Ahh, fuck, Nik..."

Nik soaped his hand using the pump at the side of the bath and returned to John's eager prick. Tired he may be, but his body yearned for Nik as much as Nik's did for him. Nik kept a firm pressure, squeezing a little former on the upstroke, precum splashing over the edge of his fist. "John, you are so beautiful... You are so desperate for me."

"Yeah, Nik, haa, ah, god fuck, I'm close already..."

"Come for me then. Do not hold back. I will have you tomorrow, spread your legs and take what I want..."

"Fuck..."

"I know you wanted me to take you in that changing room, your blood running hot--"

"Ahh, Nik, fu--"

"--I know you wanted to touch yourself in the shower, thinking of me--"

"Mm, yeah, yeah, please, Nik..."

"I know what you need, I know how you ache for it, how you want to be filled by my cock and fucked well."

John latched onto the edge of the tub as he came, his thighs and stomach pulling tight, head pushing back as his cock pulsed in Nik's hand. Nik slowed his stroke, milking out the aftershocks as John gasped.

Nik kissed him lightly on the lips as his pleasure faded to throbbing embers, releasing his softening prick to rinse his hand. "Beautiful."

"Just nutted to dirty talk. Not sure beautiful's really the word."

"You do not see yourself as I do," Nik replied, admiring the brightness in those blue eyes, the ruffled hair, the flush. Beautiful was too empty a word for the majesty of John Price, but it would suffice for now. "Time for bed, John. Come."

Nik helped John out of the bath, teasing him about his shaking legs as he helped dry him with a second towel. John slipped naked into the soft, clean sheets Nik wasn't complaining; it would be easier to tease him open tomorrow morning. He was asleep and snoring softly before Nik had even switched the lamp off, the pillow clutched under his head.

Before Nik could sleep, he worked himself over to a swift and gutless orgasm that would allow him to sleep, knowing full well he would be satisfying himself in John come the morning. He fell asleep admiring the peaceful lines of John's face, eternally grateful he had the honour of calling John his.

[giotanner]

Lt. Simon "Ghost" Riley & Captain John Price (hatching is my thing)

Ko-fi | tiktok

[the-californicationist]

he doesn’t disappoint

Wrote this fic as I was inspired by the challenge from @sky-is-the-limit that asked for Price getting fed up with hearing his hot neighbor have really terrible sex.

“I came to do what your sorry excuse of a boyfriend can’t.”

MDNI/18+

AO3 Version here

Four long stories above the people and the pigeons, she sat, legs on the railing of her amazingly small balcony, reading and writing. Always dressed in that huge jumper with the fraying collar, it swallowed her, covering her little spandex shorts that barely managed to keep her thick arse from slipping out of them, and she had her hair in the braid again. It was his favorite. He liked the ponytails, too, but the braid did something to him. When she plaited her hair and let that heavy rope hang limply over her shoulder, she became Repunzel, and he was Gallahad - or whatever muppet was meant to be at the bottom of her tower.

Captain Price knew that, the moment his fingers flipped the lock on his window, he’d disturb her peace. She’d startle, like a doe, and turn to smile at him. He lived for that turn. Every few nights, he’d catch her out here again, and he could make her turn to him. Make her smile at him. Make her laugh and talk with him, until she went to bed. But, that was the problem. Lately, her bed was filled with the one thing that made Price’s body fill with frustrated rage: The Boyfriend.

The Boyfriend was such a typical Yank, it made Price’s eyes roll back in his head. From the boat shoes to the bad fade haircut, the lad looked like an Abercrombie advert had escaped from one of those oversized shopping bags and landed in her apartment. He was small, first of all, despite the gym-made muscles. And he was as smooth as an otter, fully hairless. Price shuddered back to the memory of watching him try to put up the fire escape ladder shirtless, struggling to lift it with those tiny hands of his, making a disgusted face at the dirt on his palms afterward, wiping it on her blanket without her seeing him. Disgusting little gremlin.

She kept giving this wanker chance after chance to figure it out in the bedroom, and Price had heard just about enough of it, and his gut twisted in his belly knowing he’d have to hear it again tonight. He knew The Boyfriend was here because she was doing her work outside. The Boyfriend insisted on playing his Battle Zone videogames on full volume, bothering her, and complaining like a child if she asked him to put on his headphones. Price enjoyed imagining how quickly he’d expire on a real battlefield. That little prick could scream all the obscenities he wanted but he’d be dead in milliseconds against a man like Price.

His darling didn’t know about that, though. She knew he was in the military, but she didn’t know that he was the leader of the deadliest special forces team in the world. He imagined explaining it to her, pictured the fear flooding her face, confusion and shock hanging out of her open mouth. No. He couldn’t tell her about himself. Usually, when they talked together on the balcony, he would smoke long, densely-packed cigars and sip his whisky while she confessed the sins of her day to him. She told him about grad school, about her poetry, maybe showing him a sample or two. It was beautiful. When she was upset, she’d even tap on his window to see if he was home, sometimes tearful, asking for advice on how to handle something The Boyfriend had done. On really bad nights, she’d lean in and hug him, crying on his enormous shoulder, telling him what a good friend he was for listening to her. She smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, and her warmth made his cock swell with furious need.

As the night dragged on, The Boyfriend would eventually remember her and call her inside. He’d croon all sorts of things to her. His little whining “come on, baby” and pathetic “I just really need you to” quips were the opening lines to the worst song on Earth. He’d then spend the next five to ten minutes whimpering away on top of her, the headboard slamming into Price’s wall without rhythm. If the gorgeous woman suffering beneath him ever had the audacity to actually be enjoying his attempt, he’d shush her, shaming her for making noises, telling her “the neighbors don’t need to hear that shit.” Meanwhile, The Neighbor would be plotting his slow, painful death.

The banging started, and Price wanted to burst through the wall and stop this trainwreck from happening to her again. Eventually, a short time after it had begun, the banging stopped. Then, an even shorter time after that, the jingle of keys and the “I have an early day tomorrow” and “I have to go” were the outro to The Boyfriend’s opus.

Enough was enough. Before he even knew what he was doing, Price had his hand, raised in a fist, knocking on her apartment door. 23B. Shadow in the peephole. The click and clatter of a lock chain.

“Oh! John, it’s you. Is everything okay?” Her voice was low and smooth. Her cheeks were flushed. She was standing in her doorway, wearing those shorts, that jumper, still full of her need.

“No,” was all he could manage as he looked at her, his blue eyes blown, mad with desire.

“Oh, okay. Come in, I’ll make us some of that delicious tea you bought me. What are you doing here?”

Price followed her inside, silently relocking the portal, stalking her into the tiny kitchen, a mirror to his own. He came up behind her as she was looking in her cupboard for their mugs. When he put his hands on her hips, she froze, startled, eyeing him over her shoulder. His voice was just above a whisper, gravelly and accented, and he said,

“I came to do what your sorry excuse of a boyfriend can’t.”

She was on her tiptoes, reaching for the cups, but as she registered what he said, she slowly lowered herself back down to the tile of her floor, turning to face her neighbor with a look of shock on her face.

“What?”

Price played with the end of her braid, turning the end of it over in his hand, wrapping it up along his knuckles like a rope. He snaked the other hand up underneath her sweatshirt, fingers lingering on her warm belly, searching for the smooth swell of her breast. He told her, snarling,

“If I have to hear him continue to use you like a warm fucking towel, leaving you wanting, I will lose my bloody mind. Call him. Tell him he’s done.”

“You could hear us?” She flushed quickly at that, recalling all of the times she’d been punished for her noises.

“And I always hear you afterwards, after he leaves, making up for his…shortcomings. Bit sad, innit? Needing to take care of yourself when he should be the one looking after you. Time for someone new. Get your phone, love.”

It took her a moment to register what he was suggesting, but she was fed up, too. She smiled at his comment, and she reached for her phone on the countertop.

“Put it on speaker, sweetheart,” he commanded her. She obeyed.

One ring.

Two rings.

“Uh, what do you want?” The Boyfriend answered.

“Hey, Dick,” Price snarled, “We got some bad news, lad.”

“I’m breaking up with you, Richard,” she spoke into the phone very clearly, wrapping her free hand around Price’s huge bicep, not able to cover even half of its circumference, exploring him as he fondled her, one fist still holding her plait cruelly.

“What? Why? Who is that?”

“Why?” She scoffed, “Because every time I’ve come, for as long as we’ve been together, has been when you’re not here.”

“Are you serious? Fuck you, bitch. You’re just a -”

“Tha’s enough, Dick,” Price barked into the phone, “Look, no worries, mate. I’ll take it from here.”

Click. Price hung up her phone and turned it off, tossing it back across the counter. It made a loud, plasticky bang as it fell. He pressed his heavy erection against her body, crushing her hips with his, and moved his hand back under her jumper, plucking at her nipple like a soft petal, pinching it to make it stand at attention, watching her watch him.

“John, you… you never said anything,” she looked up into his eyes, begging him to tell her the truth he’d kept locked away for months.

“This isn’t even the half of it, girl,” he started to kiss her neck, sucking at her skin, his body writhing on top of hers, mimicking actions it would soon employ once he could get her out of her clothes, “I’ve wanted you for so. Fucking. Long.”

She moaned at the way he was kissing her throat with his bearded mouth, licking her with his long tongue. She cradled his furry cheek in her hand, enjoying the feel of its coarse hairs, whispering to him,

“When he leaves, you’re the one I picture. In my head.”

She might as well have lit a bomb. That was all he needed to hear.

He was strong enough to hoist her up onto the counter with one of his arms, wrapping it around her waist and setting her on the edge, her thighs spread wide to accommodate his huge body in between them. He tugged on her braid, using it to expose her smooth throat. She gasped, reaching out to steady herself.

The captain stood over her, looming like a dark beast, warning her in his quiet, steady voice,

“If I ever, and I mean ever, hear that little prick banging your headboard on my wall again, it’ll be his last day above ground. Am I crystal clear, love?”

“Yes,” she whispered back, a little uncertain how serious he was.

“Good girl.”

Price let go of her hair and scooped her off of the counter, carrying her with her legs locked behind him, through the small flat, and crashed to the bed where she’d just been disappointed. He vowed to her, silently, that he would do anything but disappoint.

Clothes started coming off in peeled layers; shirts, bras, pants, underwear - everything was shucked away like the rind of a melon, leaving only the soft, sticky inside, ripe and ready to be devoured. Price made his way down her body, biting and sucking whenever he wanted to do so, leaving a trail of teeth marks behind. Eventually, he could feel the heat of her pussy against his cheek, and it made him shudder.

He had pulled her phone into his pocket, and now he wanted to twist the knife. He called The Boyfriend and sent his own number straight to voicemail, preparing to leave a delicious message.

As he began to eat her juices, sucking them off her folds like the drippings from a popsicle, he started to hear little mewlings, soft and sweet, but very reserved. He glanced up at the rest of his meal, wondering why she was holding back. Then, he remembered The Boyfriend’s number one rule.

“Look at me,” Price ordered from beneath her thighs.

She hesitated, trying to hide her shame, putting her face in her hands, breathing heavy and ragged.

He reached both hands up to grab her ribs, coming up and out from his position to let her get a better look at him.

“Look at me, love.” It was a softer, lower tone, and she came out of hiding to obey him. He continued to command her, gently, “I want to hear your pleasure, sweetness. The louder you get, the harder I get. I hope the whole bloody city hears you tonight.”

“Are you sure? You like it?” Fuck if he wasn’t about to hunt that man down and execute him, authority or not.

“God, yes, love. Let me make you scream.”

This voicemail was going to be incredible.

He returned to his duty post between her legs, excited to start his work anew. This time, as his tongue worked her open, fucking liquidly in and out of her pink hole, swirling up around her clit, and exploring every hidden gem between them, he listened to her keening. It was soft at first, but then, when he began to stretch her, pushing down with his two, rough fingers, thrusting them slowly in and out, she started to come. Her cries were incredible. She was screaming for him to fuck her, to take her, to do anything to her, and he loved it.

Crawling back over her, Price used his heavy cockhead to paint drooling precome all over her slick slit, soaking himself so he could more easily fit himself into her core. He didn’t want to hurt her, and other lovers had trained him to know that his was big enough to be a weapon.

“That’s my good girl. Do you feel good, you sweet little thing? You’re a fucking dream. Tell me that you’re ready for this cock in you. I wanna hear you say it. Tell me, love.”

She was shaking from her orgasm, looking at him, bewildered, and she rushed the words out of her mouth like fire,

“I need it, please. John, I need you to fuck me. Fuck me, please, John. Put your cock in me,” and, like magic, Price obliged. Just as good at taking orders as he was at giving them.

Feeding his length inside of her wasn’t the issue, it was the fact that she was coming while he tried to do it. Price had a hand steadily working her clit, wetly pressing it where she needed it, and she was clenching against him so tightly, like a wet, molten fist, that it nearly pushed him out of her. He grabbed her body, looping his enormous arm behind her back, and shoved her down, locking her against his hips, deliciously impaled.

Her face was twisted into the most beautiful kind of agony, and as she came down from her high, he began to move in her. After she bloomed around his cock, opening like a flower, he was able to fuck into her even deeper, groaning with each of his thrusts. She gasped,

“Oh, God. John, you’re so good. You’re not done yet?”

He laughed, out loud and brazenly, holding her tighter,

“Oh, lovely girl, no. No,” he smiled down at his pretty little neighbor, “Those days are gone. I’m going to be inside of you all fucking night.”

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Interlude A

Read on AO3

<<First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Chapter Index

Contains: No Y/N (2nd POV but Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Plus-sized Reader/OC, female Reader/OC, John goes to mandated therapy, Manipulation, domestic daydreams, abuse of CIA connections, hey Kate's here!

~3.3k - MDNI - Less of a darkfic at this point, but just be mindful

It’s strange to be back in London.

John still comes here once a week— A staunch refusal to switch to a new therapist, even if it would save him the short flight from Aberdeen Airport every Friday, his whole day eaten away by travel and the hour appointment with Dr. Clara.

He doesn’t like her. She thinks he’s stubborn and resistant.

She’s probably right.

For the first time, he thinks it might be a good idea to switch. Or stop coming in personally, conduct therapy online. Being away from Dalisay bothers him. He doesn’t like that she’s alone in the house. If something happened, he’d be so far away. She’d seen him off, kissed him at the door, said she’d make dinner for when he got back. She wasn’t going anywhere. She didn’t want to. He had to trust her, even if it was a difficult thing to do.

It would probably kill him if he came home to an empty house.

“How have you been, John?” Kate’s voice on the phone sounds worried. He must have been in bad shape when he saw her last week. He hardly remembers. He feels like his old self again, centred, steady.

“Good. Better. Soap introduced me to someone.” Introduced being a generous term for what happened. “She’s been stayin’ with me.”

“You’re seeing someone?” The surprise in her voice is palpable. “John—”

“She’s somethin’ special, Kate. You’d like her.”

Kate hums in a way that implies that she doesn’t believe him. “What’s her name?” she asks, faux-casual. She wants to look Doll up.

“Dalisay Valmorida.” In truth, he wants to know more too. Without any resources, he couldn’t find much. Doll kept her social media private, and snooping through her email hadn’t revealed much of anything either, except lead him to a totally anonymized profile on a kink website that told him that she was interested in submission and ropes (could she be any more perfect?), and had a few pictures of the prettiest tits he’d ever seen. She has a tattoo on her ribs, apparently, floral and intricate, and he wants to drag his teeth over it. Hopes he gets a chance to. “But I’m not worried. She’s a sweetheart, Kate.”

“She’s staying with you?”

“Yeah.” He wracked his brain for something that wouldn’t sound both criminal and insane. "She was living in a bad neighbourhood, and lost her nanny job. Soap—”

Kate makes an amused sound. “Thought you needed looking after, huh?”

“Somethin’ like that. We were in a position to help each other, I s’pose.”

“How long has she been there? You didn’t mention her when I saw you last week.”

“She’s only been there since Friday night. Her place got broken into, we moved up the timeline.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Kate, there’s lots of things I’m not telling you.

“John, when you say you’re seeing her…”

“It’s new. It’s nice. I have a good feeling about Doll. I’m trying not to rush things, but you know me.”

“Well. Let’s grab lunch after your session. I’ll see what I can dig up before then. Usual place?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Alright. See you then.” She hangs up, brusque as ever.

He gets off the tube at the next stop and walks to the low-rise office building his therapist works out of. Greets Brenda that works the front desk, sits in the waiting room. He’s fifteen minutes early, just like always.

He sends Doll a text while he’s waiting, just asking how her morning’s going, and gets a response almost right away, a picture of the puppy they’d gone to see last week. The picture’s blurry, the pup too excited to hold still.

Doll: Mel came by after she dropped the kids off at school. We’re having tea at hers (:

John: Have fun, sweetheart.

His chest loosens a bit. She wasn’t planning on leaving him. She’s making friends with his friends, putting down tentative roots. He didn’t have to worry. He didn’t have to worry. He thinks about talking to Melissa about adopting the little thing. Seeing Doll coo and fuss over a puppy would probably make him act like a fool, but she’s been forgiving about the more honest things he’s said so far.

"John?" Dr. Clara calls him in. "Nice to see you. How was your trip down?"

"Fine. Same as always." John sits in the usual chair, and looks around the room like usual, clocking everything in it's usual space, except the tissue box on the table and a trashcan sitting closer to the chair than it’s usual position. Every other week the appointment just before his is a watery sort of woman, but he had been looking at his phone rather than at the door, letting himself relax enough to not notice the woman leave the room. "How are you?" Its a perfunctory question, going through the motions of politeness.

"Good." Dr. Clara settles into her own chair, notebook out. She's close to his age, beautiful in a cold, precise sort of way. Thin, a perfectly straight razor sharp bob framing her face. "Who were you texting?" she asks.

This throws off their rhythm. Usually she starts by asking if he'd done any of the journaling she asked him to do (he never did), and then if he'd gone down to the local legion to connect with other veterans (he hadn't).

"I— She's a friend. Of Soap's. Stayin' with me for a bit. String of bad luck, poor thing, lost her job and her apartment got broken into in the same week." The half truth comes more easily the second time. "She was really shook up."

"And you don't find the introduction of a new person into your routine disruptive?"

John frowns. "I think her comin’ along was disruptive in a good way. I needed to change some things around."

Dr. Clara raises her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Eatin' better. Couldn't be arsed to cook just for me, but I'm gettin' three squares a day now. Haven't had a drink since Saturday. She likes a cuppa around the same time I'd usually have a night cap. Sleepin' a bit better." He bites back a smile. "The other day, I was workin' outside while she painted-- She's an artist, and a bloody good one— and she reminded me to rest my ankle. Still gets sore when I push too hard."

"Tell me more about her."

"We're still getting to know each other, but she's sweet. Patient. Not afraid to tell me what she thinks."

"Why would she be afraid?"

"I can be… well, you know how I can be. And she's just a soft little thing. Wouldn't blame her if she was nervous." John shrugged. "She's beautiful too.. Brightens up the whole room when she smiles. And funny. Makes clever comments. And has this way of celebrating moments for no reason at all. Had me spinnin' around in the rain the other day. Thinkin' about gettin' her a puppy."

Dr. Clara taps the end of her pencil on her notepad, clearly conflicted. This is the most John's spoken in a session without her having to pull it out of him word by word, but… "A puppy? John don't you think that might not be an appropriate gift for a woman you've known for, um…" she looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to fill in the gap.

"Well. A week," John admits. "But we've got a real connection. Something special."

"Is she planning on staying with you long term?"

"She might. I'd like her to."

"So you have intense feelings for a woman you don't know, and all your short-lived progress is based on her presence, is that what you're saying?"

John's eyes narrow. Of course it sounds crazy to her. She doesn't know Dalisay. "I know her."

"Do you? You met her just a week ago, John." Dr. Clara sighs. "Do you think maybe you see winning her over as a mission? That you're returning to that rigid military mindset that brought you to me in the first place?"

John shakes his head. "It wasn't the military mindset that brought me here. It was those damn pills."

"John—"

"No, I know what you're going to say. Don't bother."

“John. If you know what I’m about to say, I’d like to hear you say it.”

He huffs, and looks away, drumming his fingers against the arm of the chair. It’s hard to meet her steely gaze for long. He doesn’t like being scrutinized, and that’s all these sessions are. "You'd usually say something like, almost losing Soap led me to take risks I shouldn't've, that I blame myself for his injury, that the stress of trying to make sure my team never got hurt in a field where getting hurt is inevitable put me under tremendous stress, and that my own injury left me with nothing but time to contemplate my guilt. The pain killers were a way to turn the feelings off."

Dr. Clara nods, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "So you do listen."

"I don't see what this has to do with Dalisay."

She gives him a pitying look over her reading glasses. "You don't give yourself room to make mistakes, John. That inflexibility is the problem. If you build good habits on someone else's foundations, what happens if they leave? You'll be right back where you started."

“You’re so sure she’ll leave?”

Dr. Clara sets her notebook down in her lap and leans forward, hands clasped together. “It’s not about her, John. It’s about you. You are worth doing this work for. You have to be able to stand on your own two feet. People are fallible. Things happen, we lose people we care about. It’s part of living. The only person you can’t live without is John Price.”

He crosses his arms. “You told me I needed to make connections with other people.”

“I did. And you still should. But this is not what I meant and you damn well know it. Jumping into a relationship when you’re still struggling like this is not going to be healthy. You’re headed for codependency at best. If you really care about this woman, you need to consider what she needs too. If she told you she was seeing a veteran that struggles with substance abuse, that turns any negative feelings into anger, that can’t compromise or be flexible, that needs to be in control—”

“I get it. I’d tell her she deserves better.”

“So be better, John. Start with the journal. Actually buy one before you go home. There’s a stationary shop down around the corner.”

He snorts. “You get a commission for sending your patients there?”

“Yes, John, you’ve unearthed my diabolical plot. I’m in cahoots with the stationary store,” she says dryly. “It doesn’t matter where you buy the damn journal from. Write your feelings on the back of a receipt for all I care. Just try. If all you write down every day is that you hate that I’m making you do it, that’s still progress.”

“Alright, alright.” He supposes he can cede a little ground. Dr. Clara has been going on about that since their first session, so maybe there’s something to it.

He finds himself walking into the stationary store and breathing in the scent of paper and ink and glue. It reminds him of Doll’s art store. He wonders if she’d like a place like this. Probably. She’d probably tell him to listen to Dr. Clara too.

Running his fingers over the spines of the shelf of journals, he stops at one with a soft leather cover. He pulls it down and thumbs through the pages. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for exactly, but it has lines and a spot for the date at the top of each page, so that’s probably good enough. The man at the counter asks if he needs a pen too, and he glances at the one the man’s holding, a fountain pen with a shiny wood-grain finish, and swallows the no that nearly leaves his tongue.

“Sure. Yeah.”

He meets Kate at a pub not far from the London base. She’s still working, of course, just like he should be, but unlike him, she didn’t have a breakdown that cost him everything. When things happen that Kate can’t handle, she can beak down privately, and her wife puts her back together, better than new. He’s been envious of that for a long time, of that stability that Kate gets to come home to.

She’s working on something, tapping away at her phone when he settles across from her, but she glances up and gives him an apologetic smile. “Hey, John. Just give me a second, I have to finish replying to this email.”

He just nods, used to this. Kate’s always in the middle of something. He waits patiently while she works, and quietly orders a tea when the server comes around to ask.

He doesn't miss the questioning look from Kate. She sets her phone down and really studies him, eyes narrowed.

"What?" He asked.

"We've gotten together for lunch almost every week for the past year, and this is the first time you haven't ordered a beer."

"Don't feel like having one."

"You're sleeping better too. You look good, John."

He couldn't deny that he felt better. More like himself. Settled in his skin, engines rumbling, ready for anything. "I guess Doll's been a good influence. You looked her up?"

"I did. Not much of a presence online. Found an old art blog that she hasn't updated for years, has a couple of very sparse social media accounts. Was two years into a fine arts degree from Manchester university when she switched to english lit. Worked part time as an educational assistant in an elementary school, and then started working for Kevin and Isla Kinsey five years ago."

"That's it?" He's not sure if that's a relief or a disappointment. He knows most of that already.

"No. She's had some involvement in anti-war groups, nothing major, but I pulled that thread all the way to the terrorist attack on Piccadilly Circus back in 2019. Her parents were both killed."

"Huh." That explained a lot.

"Michelle actually knows her. She curated a show that Angela— her mother— was featured in. That's why they were in London in the first place."

"Christ. No wonder she dropped painting for so long."

"Has she picked it back up? She should call Michelle once she's put a few things together. She has what Michelle calls a compelling story."

"I'll let her know." He sighs. "Anything else?"

"She's an only child, but there’s lots of family in the Philippines, a grandmother in Aberdeen. A few cousins in Canada and the states. Pretty much all clean, keep out of trouble types. There's not much more I can tell you from my end, unless you want me digging through the filing cabinet at her old therapist's office. Old school, offline records." Kate shrugs. "I could. But I think you'd be better off just talking to her."

"Probably. Thanks, Kate. Kinda had it in my head that she was too good to be true." John flashes a smile at the server when she brings him his tea, and orders a salad, which really has Kate looking at him like he's mad.

"You keep this up, you could come back to work," she says. "You just need Clara to sign off on you. Which means consistency."

"Yeah. I'm tryin' her journal idea. Not sure that I'd go back anyway. Maybe it was just time." A few weeks ago, he would be chomping at the bit to go back. But now that there’s something else to give him some purpose, he’s not sure he wants to.

"Up to you. You're not there yet anyway. Now, I want to hear about this girl from your side." Kate picks up her soda (always diet, always something caffeinated) and gives him a pointed look.

He talks about Doll for a bit, gets a bit more work talk out of Kate, and when they part ways, they tentatively talk about Kate and Michelle coming up to meet her before long. It’s a nice thought. He'd like to get the lads back up too, but Kate’s a safer bet to start. Doll might forgive the boys if they grovel enough, and if things are looking promising between her and John. It's always easier to justify an overstep if the results are ultimately positive, so he has to make sure that Dalisay is happy and settled before he considers it.

It'll be a tough road if she doesn't want to reconcile with them. Not impossible, but he wants all of his people to get along. He wants his kids to know the men that have stood by him for all these years.

He sends a few texts to Dalisay, but there’s no response. He spends the short flight rationalizing why she might not have noticed her phone. Maybe she’d left it in her purse when she got back from Mel’s, or let the battery run out. She wouldn’t leave without telling him. She wouldn’t.

By the time he gets to his truck, he’s convinced that something’s happened.

He makes the hour drive back in forty minutes, parks erratically, and runs for the house, gravel sliding under his feet, his ankle twinging.

He tumbles through the door, half expecting a disaster, a crime scene, and instead sees something out of his most revisited domestic daydreams, set to some bouncy sort of pop music.

Dalisay is leaning over the stove, hips moving to the music, wearing a pretty floral skirt, socks pulled up over her thick calves to the knee, her feet sliding on the tiles as she moves. Her soft dark hair is up in a messy bun, a pencil and a paintbrush stuck through it. The whole house smells amazing, whatever she has cooking sure to be well worth the light lunch. There's a painting started on a canvas set up in the living room, just a soft gradient of blue and gold. And best of all, when she does a little spin and notices him at last, she beams at him. "John! You're home!"

"I am," he agrees, grinning back when she throws herself into his arms, squeezing him tight around the middle. He wraps his own arms around her shoulders, relishing the press of her soft little body against his. "How was your day, Doll?"

"It was really nice! I had a good time chatting with Mel, and I made dinner. And dessert even." She doesn't make any move to pull away, just looks up at him, pretty dark eyes fixed on his face. There’s an echo of relief in her eyes too, like she had been as worried about him, as he had been about her. "I'm glad you're home safe. You really go all the way down to London every week?"

He nodded. "I could change doctors, but I get lunch with a friend while I'm there— Kate. You'd like her. Maybe, once you're settled in a bit more, we could invite her and her wife up for dinner."

"Oh, that would be nice. So long as she's more sane than the friends I've met so far."

"Considerably. Can I kiss you hello?"

She hummed, as though she were considering it, although the laughing look in her eye said yes long before she gave a verbal affirmation.

He's the luckiest man in the world, he thinks as he leans down to kiss her soft lips.

Things are looking up. Things are good. And it's all thanks to to her.

He's going to make her the happiest woman in the entire world. She deserves nothing less. She deserves his best too, and he’s determined to be a better man than he has been in a long while.

She breaks the kiss by dropping her heels back to the floor. “Are you hungry? Dinner’s almost ready. We have time for a cup of tea first, if you’d like.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Image Credits: Banner - Banner Background - Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[starlightvld]

Bait & Switch, pt. 4

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 >>

Based on "I wasn't in that tunnel."

Call of Duty, soapghost // CW: angst, hurt AND COMFORT, MWIII spoilers

---

The man with Johnny's face has spent the past six hours fighting for his life in a locked down medical ward at the temporary base of operations for Ghost's solo op.

The complications began during the helo ride when the medics attempted to treat his injuries. The gas hissing through the helmet apparently contains a powerful cocktail of drugs, and the withdrawal kicked in the instant they cut off his vest and removed the helmet. He was almost dead before before they found the compressed vial of liquid in the vest, figured out what was happening, and reintroduced just enough of the drugs via IV to keep him stable. The doctors are currently trying to find something to counter the severe withdrawal symptoms.

Ghost knows all of this because he refuses to leave the man's room. 

He needs sleep, but he can't bare to close his eyes. His world has sped right past fantastical into the outright surreal. He's terrified of getting too attached and having to deal with the devastating loss all over again.

And yet there's no doubt the man in the other bed looks just like Johnny. The curve of his nose, the jut of his scarred chin... Ghost can't seem to rip his gaze away. He would think he's crazy if not for Laswell, who was waiting for them at the air field and immediately took charge. She's the reason they dragged a hospital bed into the room for Ghost instead of arresting and detaining him when he refused to leave. She's the reason the man with Johnny's face isn't hand-cuffed to the bed.

She pats Ghost's arm and sighs, though her gaze remains on the man in the bed. "You know... the chance that it's actually him—"

"Is almost nil," Ghost rasps. "I know. How much longer for the DNA test results?"

"Another few hours. But we don't know if that proves anything."

"What do you mean?"

Laswell shrugs. "We can compare his DNA with what we have on file for John MacTavish, but we cremated any other comparable evidence."

Ghost stills. "You mean from the... the other Johnny?"

"We'd need a blood sample. And even then... we have no idea what Makarov's done. If he's playing with genetic manipulation, even a DNA test might not be conclusive."

Ghost stares at the man who has tried to kill him hundreds of times. And who might also be the love of his life.

He wants to believe so badly, he's willing to do anything. He finally turns to meet Laswell's gaze.

"This is some sci-fi bollocks, but... Johnny's journal was in his tac vest when he was shot. It's covered in his dried blood. Or... the blood of whoever that was in the tunnel with us."

She covers her surprise well, but he catches the flicker of shock all the same. "If you can part with it, I'll see what the techs can do. It might be too late to get anything usable, though."

Ghost turns away to memorize what he can see of the new scars on the man's arms and what's visible of his face around the oxygen mask. Whatever can be said for him — enemy or not — he's not had an easy time under Makarov's thumb. 

The heartbeat line flickers in time with the steady beep. Ghosts hands are shaking. He crosses his arms to hide the evidence.

"I"ll call Price."

---

In the end, the lab techs, supported by Laswell, come back with both the initial DNA results and a drug to help with the withdrawal around the same time. Ghost is on his own drip now, the nurses tsking his dehydration and lack of sleep, and he watches through drooping lids as the nurses slowly introduce the new medication to the man with Johnny's face. A subtle uptick in the man's heart rate is the only result, and based on what Ghost saw when they sedated the man in the helo, he doesn't think it means what the nurses think it means.

As they watch, Laswell's phone buzzes. She reads the message, shakes her head, and blows out a long breath before looking Ghost dead in the eye.

"The DNA for this man is a perfect match with our records for John MacTavish."

Ghost's heart rate kicks up several notches to match with the elevated beeping across the room. He can only stare at her before turning his gaze to—

"Johnny?" he whispers.

Laswell doesn't say anything, but her hand comes to rest on his shoulder. It feels like the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. Nothing seems real anymore.

There's still a chance it's not him. Still a chance it's a trick, but...

"This is so fucking twisted," Ghost growls.

"I know," she murmurs. "But we'll get him."

Makarov.

Ghost's mind reels as the news truly settles. All this time, all these years, has his Johnny been right there in front of him? Trying to kill him and the others because of Makarov's sick game? Was Makarov laughing every time he sent Johnny to fight them?

It feels too cruel to be real. And yet when has his life ever been anything but cruel? Johnny was the one bright spot until that, too, was taken away.

But maybe... maybe this is his chance.

The nurses file out of the room, satisfied with the man's... with Johnny's progress. Ghost rolls himself out of his bed, biting back a curse at the strain to his stitches.

"Ghost!" Laswell knows better than to try to hold him back, but she does step in his way. "We don't know—"

"I need this," is Ghost's only answer.

His cracking voice conveys far more than the words themselves. He needs this moment. Needs to say what he never got to say to his Johnny, whether that turns out to be the man who died in a tunnel under the English Channel or the man lying in a hospital bed beside him.

Laswell stares him down, but he returns her gaze with equal determination. Finally, her shoulders slump.

"Just... try to keep in mind we don't know if this is real."

He gives her a curt nod. She sighs... and then helps him shuffle across the room, IV drip in tow, and gingerly settle on the edge of Johnny's bed. Much like Ghost, they've stripped Johnny down to nothing but a hospital gown, exposing a myriad of scars covering his arms and hands.

He's beautiful.

And alive.

For the first time since he thought Johnny died, Ghost's eyes burn with something other than impotent rage.

"I'm sorry, Johnny."

As if waiting to hear Ghost's voice, blue eyes flick wide open. A hiss from the other side of the room tells him Laswell has seen it, too, but the man he wants to believe is Johnny doesn't move to attack or even speak. He just stares. Ghost blows out a breath and pulls off his mask.

"I'm so sorry," he says again. "I shoulda done a better job protecting you. I... I failed you."

Johnny blinks and then narrows his eyes. "I'm the one who failed. I let Makarov take me. Let him turn me into a monster."

His voice rasps through the room, guttural and angry. But Ghost understands. If this is truly his Johnny, the anger could only be directed at himself.

"Don't be stupid. It's not your fault. This is all Makarov."

"Ghost," Laswell warns.

"It's true, isn't it?" he asks over his shoulder. "Even if this man isn't really Johnny, he wouldn't be here without Makarov pulling the strings."

Johnny's gaze doesn't waver, but there's a horrific kind of self-loathing swimming in his eyes. Ghost reaches out, hesitating for just a moment before brushing his shaking fingers over the back of Johnny's hand.

"I..." Ghost swallows around the lump in his throat. The words that finally escape are no more than a whisper. "I want to believe it's you. Promise me... promise me you're really you."

The twist of agony in Johnny's expression cuts through Ghost like a knife. "I don't know, Ghost. I think I am, but... There's so much I don't remember. The man in the tunnels... he thought he was me by the end, too, I think."

Ghost tries to pull himself back together. Tries to keep himself aloof. 

But it's no use. Now that the idea has taken root, he can't dig far or fast enough to uproot it.

"S'alright," he says in a soft voice. "Laswell's on it. We'll get it sorted."

Johnny stares at him and then slowly looks over at where Laswell is standing off to the side. She glances at Ghost, her face a study in stoicism. She shakes her head, and finally her expression melts into a wry smile.

"We're glad to have you back, Soap."

Soap blinks. The agony in his expression transforms into surprise before slowly morphing into the heartbreaking dawning of hope.

The moment stretches. 

And then Johnny surges upward and shoves himself into Ghost's chest. Ghost thinks he should probably fear the sudden movement, but other than a faint uptick in his heart rate, his body barely reacts. Hearing Laswell's admission about the DNA flipped some kind of switch in his brain, and whether he likes it or not, this man is now Johnny in his eyes. 

If that belief turns out to be misplaced, if this man is a... a clone or a trick meant to destroy him, so be it.

"Please," Johnny whispers. "Please, Ghost."

Ghost knows what it's like to come back from torture. He could barely stand anyone touching him after it was all said and done. He was like that for years.

But this is the man who always sought out touch in some way or another. Who probably hasn't experienced physical kindness in literal years. Ghost gives in to his weakest impulses, gently wraps his arms around the broad shoulders he remembers so well, and lets himself sink into the moment. Johnny's arms are trapped between them, his head buried in Ghost's chest and body shaking with increasingly violent tremors, though Ghost feels no tears seeping through his thin hospital gown.

Probably too much in shock to cry.

So Ghost just holds him, his embrace strong but gentle. He holds him through the first round of nurses, who check Johnny's vitals and exclaim over how well he's doing for a man who almost died a few hours ago. He holds him when those same nurses chastise Ghost for getting out of his own bed. He holds him until his eyes droop and his head bobs, exhaustion and the promise of sleep too potent to deny.

He even holds him through the arduous process of lying down in Johnny's bed, careful not rip stitches or get limbs or bodies in the way of either of their various tubes and wires.

If it were up to Ghost he'd never let go of Johnny again.

But Makarov is still out there, and if anything, the revelation of what that monster did to his Johnny makes him all the more eager to put a bullet in the man's brain.

For now, though, he'll stay by Johnny's side... in spite of Laswell's concerned glances.

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 >>

[daisies-daydreams]

Uhhhhhhh, doggy style with Price? (reader is fem) 🫠

Pairing: John Price x F!Reader Category: Smut (18+) Warnings: Oral Sex (F!Receiving), Doggy Style, Cervix Fucking, Penis in Vagina Sex, Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex (You Know the Drill), Creampie, Praise/Dirty Talk, Spanking, Hair Pulling, Dom!Price Word Count: 1k+

Author’s Note: Hello! Thank you for your request! I can definitely see Price as someone who’d take his girl from behind. 🤭 I hope you enjoy!

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI

You moaned as John licked a long, languid stripe over your slit. Your ass was raised in the air, John’s large hands spreading your cheeks as he eagerly ate your juicy, aching cunt.

“Fuck, you taste so good, sweetheart,” John groaned. You squealed when he laid a sudden smack on your ass. Not enough to sting, but enough to grab your attention. You wagged your hips as he pressed open mouth kisses to your folds.

“P-Please, John. I need you now,” you whined as you arched your back. His hearty chuckle reverberated deep into your core, sending sparks flying through your cunt. John gently tugged on your labia with his teeth before giving them a gentle peck.

“I’m here, doll. I’ve got you,” he reassured. It drove you up the wall to not see his rugged face, how his stormy blue eyes would grow with hunger for you when he’d fuck you like he usually would. How you'd grip onto his taut forearms, your legs spread wide open as he drilled his thick cock into you. But tonight was different. John came home frustrated...pissed, even. You, already pent up yourself, not so subtly offered to help him let off some steam. Thus, here you were: ass up, face down, and ready to be fucked senseless from behind.

John adjusted his hips, the tip of his cock kissing at your soaked entrance. You breathed through your nose as you heard him pump his cock a few times in his fist. Your mouth shaped into a wide “O” as his head breached your entrance. John groaned as he pressed into you, your walls greedily sucking him in. Both of you moaned as he bottomed out inside of you, his balls bouncing against your puffy clit.

“How are you feelin’, love?” your husband asked. You swallowed a lump in your throat, the fullness in your lower abdomen sending shivers down your spine.

“G-Good. So good,” you keened as his dick twitched inside of you. John grunted, his hands kneading the flesh of your hips.

“Good. You know…you look amazing like this: stuffed full of my cock from behind,” he murmured, his fingers tracing over the globes of your asscheeks. You shuddered and bit your bottom lip. “Maybe I’ll fuck a baby into you this way,” he said offhandedly. The comment made a whine bubble from your throat. He chuckled and rubbed your hips. “Would you like that? Like for me to make you a mommy?” John muttered with a sudden jolt of his hips. Your hands squeezed at the pillow, your breasts pressed flush against the crumpled, white sheets.

“Please, John,” you gasped. You weren’t sure if you were answering his question or just begging him to fuck you. Your mind was too drunk on the feeling of his cock molding your gummy walls to its shape.

“Can't leave my lady waiting,” John hummed. You whimpered as he pulled out, leaving his head snug inside. Chills ran down your spine as John slowly drove himself back into you, spreading you out deliciously. You clawed and gripped at the pillow as he rocked into you at a steady pace.

“God-you're so beautiful, you know that?” he murmured with a tender thrust. You moaned as his tip rubbed against your g-spot, making your vision blurry and toes curl. You shoved your face into the pillow to hide your loud moaning. His hand wrapped around your hair, tugging on it suddenly and making you hiss.

“Don’t you dare hide those sounds from me,” he snarled with a snap of his hips. You cried out, the succulent pleasure shooting into the deepest parts of you.

“Y-Yes,” you slurred. John grunted in approval, though he still kept your hair wound around his hand.

“I want to hear every little peep that spills from those pretty lips of yours,” he huffed. You gurgled beneath him, pussy clenching and uncleaning around his length. “Understand?” he said with another sharp tug. You nodded, your movements restrained with how tightly he held your locks.

“Yes!” you wailed when his cock drove into the right spot. He hummed.

“Good girl. Such a good girl,” he praised. You didn’t stop the cries and moans that erupted from your mouth as he picked up his pace. His heavy balls slapped against your clit, sending bolts of arousal straight into your womb.

“Love how your perfect pussy swallows my cock,” Price growled. "Fuck, you take me so well," he hissed through gritted teeth. You lurched forward as he slid his cock back into you, stretching your hole in all the right ways. You slurred out incoherently as you felt him release your hair to grab your waist, pushing your ass back to meet his hips. You quickly turned your head to the side. John's eyes were blown wide with lust, watching the way your ass would jiggle each time he thrusted into your plush, tight cunt. Wet slapping sounds filled the room as you pushed your ass back into his hips.

“You feel so good-fuck-gripping me like this,” he moaned loudly. Your walls squeezed and rubbed against his cock as he pressed himself deep inside you with each delicious thrust. Your mouth was agape as you rested the side of your head on your pillow, drool slipping down onto the white fabric.

“J-John,” you keened when the head of his dick pounded into your cervix. Your back arched as he leaned forward, his sweat-soaked chest pressed flush against your upper back. Just when you thought you were catching a break, he started to piston into you. Your throat felt torn up with how loudly you were moaning, hot tears of pleasure streaking down your cheeks. Your pussy was absolutely gushing, creating a ring of cream around his thick girth. Each slap of his heavy balls against your clit sent you closer to the edge.

“Gonna cum for me, (Y/N)? You gonna cum on my cock like a good girl?” John mused. You shook wildly beneath him, your body feeling like a freight train careening off the tracks. You clawed at the pillow and sheets as your clit throbbed, your walls tightening painfully.

“Yes, p-please don’t stop!” you begged. He groaned before snaking a hand below, pinching your clit. Your whole body tensed as you released a reverberant wail, the room growing dim to your bliss.

“Fuck,” John cursed as he felt your pussy clamp down around his pulsing length. You felt him still inside you, keening as ropes of his hot cum lathered your juicy walls. You panted below him, feeling every contraction of your walls milk him dry. You shuddered as you felt his cum leak from where he was plugged into your cunt. Your mind was warm and dizzy as you drifted down from your orgasm. John licked his lips before pulling out of you, which earned him a defiant whine.

“Shh. It’s alright, love,” he cooed as his softening cock fell from between your lips. He watched hungrily as his cum began to drip from your stretched hole. You squeaked as he massaged the red marks on your plush ass. "Oh, love. I'm sorry. Didn't realize how rough I was bein' with you," John apologized, genuine concern heavy in his voice. You shook your head and turned to him.

"N-No. I actually...liked it," you admitted, a dark shade of red crossing your cheeks. He raised his dark brows before a small, sly smirk stretched across his face.

"Yeah?" he hummed before shoving his loose cum back into your pussy with a loud squelch. You moaned at the feeling of his fingers reaching into your sensitive walls. "Well then, I guess we'll both have something to look forward to the next time I come home cross," John chuckled. You nodded and gave an airy laugh. Your eyelids began to feel heavy as he slid his fingers out. You flipped yourself onto your back, carefully to not let any more of his seed spill out of you. He smoothed some hair out of your face and kissed you deeply on the lips. His blue eyes were gentle now, watching as you smiled while he pulled away.

“I'll be right back. Gonna get something to clean you up,” John said softly. You could only nod, mind still reeling and drunk from your high. He pecked your lips before slipping through the door. When he stepped back into your room, you were already fast asleep. He smiled before sliding beneath the covers and softly kissing your temple, letting his own deep slumber overtake him.

____

Thank you for reading! ❤️

[mothmothmothmothmothmoth]

@angel-eyes-and-devil-hearts

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

[robiinurheart33]

Haha wouldn’t it be so weird if when soap was taken and brainwashed he was constantly being compared to this soldier named “ghost” haha

Anyways explicit descriptions of psychological torture and violent intrusive thoughts under the cut

He would be beaten and berated constantly. why wasn’t he stronger than ghost, why wasn’t he faster, more skilled, better, stealthier, healthier.

Ghost could’ve done better in worse conditions.

Ghost has done better in worse conditions.

Why was soap not better even after all this?

It drove him up the wall, the way he would wonder who he was, seething and bleeding by the lip. After all that he’s gone though, all that he’s endured, everything.

Why wasn’t be better? Why can he never, ever be better?

They drove his sanity to the ground, spat and kicked at it until there was nothing but a shell of who he once was, and rebuilt it to fit their ideals. Soap couldn’t remember who he was before this, before the experiments. He couldn’t think, do, say anything without being ordered to do so by someone else.

Some days, soap would pull on the thin stripe down his scalp, eager to find some semblance of control over himself, even if it were pain. He would always get punished.

“It was the only thing he can and will recognise him by.”

“Ghost likes that on you.”

It made him hate the Mohawk even more.

He hates Ghost. He was sick of it. He was done waiting. He was done being compared to. He was done with being second to him. He wanted to pull him apart limb from limb, feel the hot blood spill over his teeth and he rips his throat apart, hear the sickening crunch of his neck being twisted, feel the smooth muscle of his skin ripple and tremble in fear of the one that he was supposedly supposed to be stronger than. Soap will never, ever get anything else in his life but the pure, white-hot rage of revenge. He maybe thinks this had lingered on since he was younger, before everything. It felt like an old friend, more so than his other emotions.

His first mission.

He will be better. He will be better. He will be the best. He will be good. This might be his only shot. This is. He will be the best. He will succeed. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail.

He runs into ghost.

At first, he didn’t know who he was. Soap was in a room with a few others, guns up and masks drawn, ready to shoot anyone who tries to come into the room. They had been infiltrated, and soap wasn’t told more than that. He didn’t really need to know more. Shoot the hostiles, keep people safe. Suddenly, bullets start to rain from outside the door, and soon enough, more and more bodies start hitting the floor. Soap does not panic. He hides behind a bookshelf, waiting.

A big ass motherfucker in a skull mask walks into the room and it looks like the shadows are warping to his presence. Soap does not panic. He reaches for the knife strapped to his thigh, flicking it up and holding it ready. He waits patiently until he stalks near the bookshelf, tightening his grip on the knife. They make eye contact, and through the skull mask stained with blood, he can see jet black eyes staring at him in shock. Death incarnate. Soap does not panic.

“Joh-”

Soap quickly slips out of his hiding spot, wrapping a forearm over his neck and attempting to jab the knife right into his socket. He feels a hand grip tightly onto his forearm, and he goes weightless. All the air escapes his lungs as his back slams against the floor, his head spinning. He screams at himself to get up, fight, be better, before he hears the familiar crackle of a radio.

“Ghost, how copy?”

Ghost.

This is Ghost.

Ghost just fucking flipped him.

Soap does not panic. He does not panic but he feels a chill go down his spine as he sees red, scrambling back up onto his feet. The adrenaline starts to kick in now, and he lunges at him, ripping the radio off his vest and slamming it on the floor. He’s not completely sure why he did that, but in all fairness soap feels like he’s losing his goddamn mind, if his captors haven’t done so already. He punches Ghost, wincing slightly as his knuckle hit the cheekbone corner of his stupid skull mask. Soap starts to reach for his gun before Ghost punches back, hitting the mask clean off his face, pushing his back to the floor, one hand on his wrists. Soap starts to get really agitated now. After everything that he’s gone through, he’s still not good enough to beat ghost. He still hasn’t improved. He hasn’t gone anywhere. He makes eye contact with Ghost and is slightly taken aback when he is reflected with an equally crazed stare.

“Johnny.”

What the fuck?

Soap doesn’t say anything. Ghost’s eyes are brown, not black. Why hasn’t be killed him yet? Why isn’t Soap struggling? Ghost has blonde eyelashes.

“Where have you been?” To soap’s absolute horror, those brown eyes start to become glossy. He flinches back as if he’s been hit, and grits his teeth. No shit, he’s been here the whole time, where else is he supposed to be?

Soap surges forward and headbutts him in hopes of him letting go. He doesn’t, and it makes soap all the more dizzier, more frustrated. Why isn’t he fucking dead already? He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get his mind right.

“Johnny. Johnny.” Can he just shut the fuck up? It’s getting increasingly hard to concentrate for some reason. Shit. He feels overly exposed without the mask, feeling his body temperature rising steadily.

“Stop calling me that!” he growls out, twisting out of his grip and punching his across the face. The twisted skull mask looks almost comical out of place, but he can still see those eyes. Ghost’s hand comes to cup his cheek, and soap flinches back. His eyes look like Soap just mauled his puppy right in front of him. It makes him freeze in place, head awkwardly hovering between the floor and Ghost.

Images of blood spilling and needles, dirt and coffins fill his head, the sound of a neck snapping, gagging, screams and whimpers. Hands on him, eyes on him, never letting go. Stay. Soap snaps back into place, grabbing the mask and twisting it up, covering Ghost’s eyes. He quickly gets his other hand free and pushes ghost off him, sprinting out of the room.

“Wait-!” Is all he hears before flying down the corridor, back to safety, back to where it’s familiar, where he always is, where he always will be.

Loyalty has always been Soap’s best trait.

[cod-thoughts]

Day 22 of 31 days of COD

Words: 2k

Relationships: Team as family

Tags: 3+1, some hurt but mostly comfort.

Ghost stared, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. Soap had his own bloody room. Why in hell was he here, in Ghost’s bed, of all places? OR Three times Ghost found someone from the team in his bed and the one time he found them all there. Keep reading under the cut or on AO3

Simon "Ghost" Riley had always preferred working alone. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his team—Soap, Gaz, and Price were the best of the best—but there was a clarity that came with solitude. No distractions. No banter. Just the mission. His mask had become more than just armour; it was a barrier between him and everything else. It was easier that way.

Tonight was no different. The task was a simple extraction in the dead of night—in and out, no complications. Ghost moved through the facility like a shadow, his presence only marked by the silence that followed in his wake. He was efficient, methodical, and above all, unfeeling. The op went smoother than expected, and within hours, Ghost was on his way back to base, already pushing the mission from his mind.

The safehouse was quiet as Ghost returned, the familiar weight of exhaustion settling into his bones. He had done this so many times before—returning silently from another successful mission. He never expected anything to change. But as he pushed open the door to his room, something had changed.

Lying in the centre of his bed, sprawled out like he didn’t have a care in the world, was John Mactavish. One arm was hanging over the edge, his face half-buried in Ghost's pillow, his breathing slow and deep. He was fast asleep.

Ghost stared, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. Soap had his own bloody room. Why in hell was he here, in Ghost’s bed, of all places?

For a moment, Ghost considered waking him up. A sharp nudge and a few choice words, and Soap would stumble back to his own bed with a cheeky comment about Ghost being too soft. But as Ghost stood there, something stopped him. Soap looked… peaceful. More at ease than Ghost had seen him in a long time. 

With a quiet sigh, Ghost closed the door and moved to the far side of the room. He grabbed a spare blanket and tossed it onto the floor, settling down without a word. The mattress would’ve been better, but he wasn’t about to climb into bed with Soap there. No way.

The room was dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight seeping through the curtains. As Ghost lay down, he found his mind lingering on the oddness of the situation. Soap must’ve been knackered to crash here, but something about it didn’t sit right. Soap wasn’t careless—not like this. 

Ghost pushed the thought aside, too tired to dwell on it. Tomorrow, he'd confront Soap, maybe take the piss out of him for mistaking Ghost’s room for his own. But for now, the steady sound of Soap’s breathing lulled Ghost to sleep.

The next morning, Ghost woke to a crick in his neck from the hard floor. Soap was already gone, the bed neatly made, leaving no sign he’d been there at all, save for the faint indentation on the pillow. Ghost found himself staring at the bed, wondering if he’d imagined it all.

He never mentioned it. Not yet. It was probably nothing. Just a one-off thing.

But as Ghost moved through the day’s briefings, the image of Soap asleep in his bed stayed with him. It gnawed at the edges of his mind, a quiet reminder that maybe something was shifting. Maybe it was Soap. Maybe it was Ghost. Maybe it was the whole team itself.

Ghost had been on countless solo missions, but after the last one, something was different. Soap’s presence in his bed had left a lingering unease Ghost couldn’t quite explain. He hadn’t mentioned it, nor had Soap. Ghost assumed it was a one-off, but part of him wondered if it might happen again.

This mission was tougher, the stakes higher. Ghost was sent deep into enemy territory, operating alone for days on end. The isolation didn’t bother him—it was how he worked best—but as he moved through the op, his thoughts drifted back to the team more than he was used to. The memory of Soap asleep in his bed stuck with him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

When the mission finally ended, Ghost returned to base long after midnight, exhaustion pulling at him. As he entered the safehouse, he expected to slip back into his usual solitude. But when he opened the door to his room, he froze once more.

Gaz was in his bed.

Ghost stared, his breath stalling for a moment as he took in the sight. Gaz was lying on his side, tucked neatly beneath the covers, his arm resting on Ghost’s pillow. He looked far more composed than Soap had been, his breathing slow and steady, as if he’d been waiting for Ghost to return.

“What the hell…” Ghost muttered under his breath.

It wasn’t like Gaz to make such a mistake. He was meticulous, careful. Ghost considered waking him, his hand halfway raised, but then he stopped. This didn’t feel like a mistake. This felt… deliberate.

Ghost’s hand dropped to his side as he stood there, trying to make sense of it. Twice now. Twice, he had returned from a mission to find someone in his bed. It couldn’t be coincidence. 

With a soft sigh, Ghost grabbed the spare blanket once again and settled onto the floor. The hard surface wasn’t any more comfortable than it had been before, but as Ghost lay there, listening to the quiet rhythm of Gaz’s breathing, he found himself more at ease than he had been in days.

The next morning, Gaz was gone before Ghost woke, leaving the bed as neatly made as Soap had. But this time, Ghost didn’t dismiss it so easily. Twice was a pattern. Something was happening here, something unspoken.

And as much as Ghost tried to ignore it, a part of him—the part that usually stayed buried beneath his mask—began to wonder what it meant.

The third mission was different. This time, Ghost was sent deep behind enemy lines with no comms, no contact, and no backup. The op stretched longer than anticipated—weeks passed with no word from Ghost, and the silence weighed heavily on the team.

By the time Ghost finally returned, he was battered and bone-tired. The mission had been brutal, pushing him to his limits. His body ached from weeks of strain, and his mind was frayed from the constant tension. He wasn’t sure what he expected when he returned to base, but he wasn’t prepared for what he found when he opened his door.

Price was there.

The captain was sitting on the edge of Ghost’s bed, his hat tipped low over his eyes, his posture tense but relaxed enough to show he had been waiting. He didn’t look up when Ghost entered, but his voice cut through the silence.

“Long time, Simon.”

Ghost didn’t respond right away. He was too tired to speak, his body heavy with exhaustion. He crossed the room and sat down beside Price, the familiar weight of the captain’s presence grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“You were gone too long,” Price muttered, his voice softer now. “Had us worried.”

Ghost’s chest tightened at the words. He hadn’t thought about the team while he was out there—he couldn’t afford to—but hearing Price admit that they had been worried stirred something deep inside him.

Without saying anything, Ghost leaned back against the headboard, letting his eyes drift closed. Price didn’t move at first, but after a moment, he shifted, pulling his hat lower as if to settle in for the night.

For a long time, they sat in silence, the weight of the mission slowly slipping away. Price didn’t need to say anything more—his presence was enough. He was there, just like Soap and Gaz had been before him, and Ghost couldn’t deny the quiet comfort that brought.

The unspoken message was clear: they had his back, even when he was alone out there. They cared.

And for the first time in a long time, Ghost let himself lean into that.

This last mission nearly killed Ghost.

The op had been one of the most dangerous he’d ever faced, even for Ghost, it had gone wrong in every way possible. A brutal firefight had broken out, and Ghost had fought harder than ever to get out alive. His shoulder throbbed where an old bullet wound had reopened, and the exhaustion pulled at him like a weight he couldn’t shake.

By the time Ghost made it back to base, he was barely holding himself together. His body ached from days of strain, and his mind was clouded with the memory of how close he had come to not making it back.

When he opened the door to his room, Ghost stopped dead in his tracks.

All three of them were there.

His entire team.

They were all crammed into his small bed, somehow managing to fit together, though it was a wonder they hadn’t all fallen off. Soap was sprawled across the foot of the bed, one leg dangling off the side, snoring softly. Gaz was curled up on the left, his arm draped over Ghost’s pillow. Price was propped up near the headboard, his arms crossed over his chest, his hat tipped low over his eyes.

Ghost blinked, staring at them in stunned silence. He hadn’t expected this. Not all of them. But there they were, waiting for him, fast asleep, as if they couldn’t rest until they knew he had come back.

For the first time, Ghost didn’t feel confusion or irritation. He didn’t feel the need to question why they were there, or why they had all chosen his room, of all places. He knew.

They were his team. His family. And they weren’t just there on the battlefield—they were here, waiting for him. Every time.

Ghost stood there for a long moment, his throat tightening as the weight of the moment settled over him. They had been waiting for him. Every time he returned, they had been there. And now, after the hell he’d been through, they were here again.

Something inside Ghost cracked.

He wasn’t used to this. To anyone caring this much. To anyone waiting for him. But the sight of all three of them, crammed into his bed, hit him harder than any mission ever had. And before he could stop himself, he felt a tear slip down his cheek, soaking into his mask.

Silent, as usual and barely noticeable.

Ghost took a shaky breath, reaching up to tug off his mask. The cool air hit his face, but it did nothing to stop the quiet emotion building in his chest. He wasn’t sure what to do with it—wasn’t sure how to let himself feel this—but he couldn’t push it down this time.

He moved toward the bed, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn’t care that there wasn’t enough space. He didn’t care that it would be cramped. He just wanted to be near them.

Careful not to wake them, Ghost slipped into the small space between Gaz and Price. Soap stirred as Ghost settled in, shifting to lie across Ghost’s legs, his head resting against Ghost’s thigh as he mumbled something in his sleep.

Ghost let out a quiet breath, feeling the warmth of his team pressed against him. Gaz shifted slightly, his arm brushing against Ghost’s side, and Ghost could feel the steady rise and fall of Price’s breathing beside him. It was messy, cramped, and imperfect, but Ghost didn’t care.

He lay there in the dark, feeling the silent tears slip down his face, each one a reminder that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t alone. Not out there. Not here.

They had been waiting for him. And they would always be waiting for him.

Ghost closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the too-small space, his body aching but his mind finally quiet. He wasn’t just surviving anymore.

He was home.

[ghoulystay]

Interrogation gone wrong.

König and Y/N story.

Short story.

Mature themes.

18 and over.

Female reader.

"I didn't do anything!"

The whole team. Everyone was led to believe that you were the traitor. You were being tortured brutally. Unfortunately, there had been suspicions that someone was a spy for the enemy. The only hint that was given away was that the "mole" was a woman. There were a few women within TF141, you being one of them. One thing for sure, though, it wasn't you, but all the men were on edge.

Unfortunately, luck was not on your side one day. Apparently, another female from the team was telling everyone that she suspected you. She never liked you, since the beginning she hated you only because König wanted you and she wanted König but he turned her down. His eyes were always on you, and he was madly in love with you. She hated that. She hated the fact that König rejected her. She was known to get around, but König saw through her bullshit.

"Y/N, come with us." Captain Price ordered. You were led to a building on base that you knew too well. It was a place where hostages and bad guys were taken to get answers. "Answers, meaning getting the shit beat out of you.

Once in the room. You were ordered to sit on the only chair that sat in the middle of the room. Captain Price, Ghost, Soap, and König were all there. You feel yourself breaking inside once you see him standing there looking at you. You can see it in his eyes. He's hurt. He wants to save you. But he can't.

Price begins with questions. You deny everything. Ghost was the one ordered to torture you. Soap and König watching in disbelief. Your screams echo throughout the room, but you never broke.

"Come on y/n! Tell us who you work for, and it'll all be over!" Price continued to rant on. And your answers were always the same. "I'm..not..a..fucking spy.."

König couldn't stand watching you like this. He's about to break. He's already seeing red. Soap noticed König getting angry. "I'm sorry, mate. It has to be done." Soap tells König. That only pist König off more. He turns to face Soap. "Fuck you, MacTavish."

You were bloody and exhausted. You had taken some heavy beatings. It had been 3 hours at this point. Price and Ghost are already frustrated. Soap, making sure König doesn't do anything stupid. Everyone's feelings are all over the place.

Suddenly, Keegan barges in through the door. "Sir, it's not y/n. It's (girls' name)." Not to your surprise that it was the hating slut who hates you for being with König. Everyone looks surprised. "She's in the room down the hall, sir." Ghost and Soap follow Keegan out. Price and König stay back, König immediately breaks you free from the cuffs on your wrists. He helps you stand and holds you. "I'm sorry about all this y/n." Price says. He leaves you and König as he makes his way to the room where the other woman is for the next interrogation.

König decided to carry you out. He didn't want you to walk. "I got you, my Schatz."

[sabrielmoose]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And NATASHA AND GHOST FRIENDSHIP!!!

#heroes duties

#codxavengers

[giotanner]

A proud Captain John Price of his Lt Ghost

Tiktok | ko-fi