#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. 

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[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

[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.”

[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.

[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

[resident-idiot-simp]

Would love to know more about the CIAs thoughts of the 141 wip

(List)

Ok so the first section is done

However it's supposed to be a 5 in 1 and I have to do more with it ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯.

The idea is the CIA interactive with Laswell and thus the 141. So pretty much they hear off the wall stories of illegal activities and just mayhem with really no context.

I mean I would kill to know what they think about the 141

A snippet-

It was a normal Wednesday when it happened, Laswell, a station chief who up to this point had been nothing but an angel stormed through the door. She looked frazzled and was all but sprinting to a conference room. In her way she grabbed O'Connor and quickly told her, "Nothing you hear is to be spoken of." With that ominous statement the door was slammed closed and the glass darkened.

She opened her laptop and tapped frantically until on the projector screen sat a video feed of some compound that was in hell. Fire, bullets, bodies, and rubble surrounded the building.

Laswell was still frantically typing and soon voices sounded from her computer, they were indescifrable from all the cursing that came from every line.

"Watcher has eyes on give me a sitrep boys." Laswell ordered and waved O'Connor closer to where a notepad sat with a pen.

O'Connor got the message as she prepared to wright, "TITS UP-" A voice started only to get cut off by another, "SOAP FUCKING HELL!" A third could be heard sighing before talking, "Ambush, we are cornered in building 5. This was a trap."

O'Connor wrote down where they were, "Ok, is anyone injured? I mean at all, not just if you are no longer able to hold a gun." Laswell asked quickly adding on the last bit.

"..Besides Roach no, but he's good enough to fight." Yet another voice answered. O'Connor continued to write as Laswell asked a few other questions.

[bitchysouljellyfish]

Soliloquy

Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

Dedicated to @yeyinde and @moondirti for their incredible writings! Seriously I haven't written this often in years so...let's go! Song this was inspired by ⬇️

Simon was alone.

Alone on the roof, mask off and a cigarette in-between his lips and a beer bottle hanging precariously from his fingers. He had nothing but the multitudes of thoughts doing sprints in his brain, a rare chance when he wasn't aware of his surroundings and he could just...be.

He'd been on this mission all of two weeks when he got a call from you, going straight to Price to make sure you wouldn't be delayed. At first he thought the worst, someone had broken in, someone had targeted you, an enemy from his past had showed up and had you hostage and this was the last time he would hear from you.

He wasn't sure what to expect, but it wasn't two words he'd never thought he'd hear.

Simon took a long drag of his smoke, focusing in the cherry red end go brighter before dulling, the soothing feeling of smoke entering his lungs and tobacco on his tongue easing his mind somewhat. He had no idea what to say, hardly said anything to you before he had to hang up and go over the plan with the team before they were dismissed for the evening. Simon should call you back, but still he had no idea what to say.

"You alright Lt.?" Soap's familiar comforting accent cut through the otherwise quiet night.

"Johnny. Thought you'd be at the bonfire."

"I was, then I noticed a certain Ghost wasn't haunting the area." Soap grunted as he sat beside him, passing him another beer before cracking open his own. "Saw you take that call, was it your hen?"

Soap was the only one other than Price who had known about you, and had been at the elopement ceremony simply because you two needed a witness and he was right there. He was about to go on a deployment for months with no guarantee he would come back, and Simon wanted to make sure you would get his pension if the worst did happen. So, a quick run to the dress shops and then to the courthouse and you were officially Mrs. Simon Riley. He'd gotten you a better ring when he did return, a rock as big as Soap's head and a house away from the city to make up for all the time he's away. That was a year and a half ago now, and he still liked calling you Mrs. Riley.

That wasn't the only reason to marry you, he should clarify, he did want to spend the rest of his life with you, a sense of belonging when he came back home and a reason to stay alive. He supposes he has another reason to come home now though.

"Yeah," he knocked off the ash and took a swig.

"Yeah? Everything alright?" He took one look at the far away look in his eyes and felt his heart break for the man. "Dont tell me it was a Dear John call."

"No, no, she wouldn't-" Simon hoped you wouldn't, "it's not that. She's pregnant."

Why did that leave his lips so easily? He could barely wrap his mind around the idea of you with a lad inside your belly and it being half of him and half of you and-

"Fuckin' hell she's pregnant." He said it again, snubbing out his cancer stick and standing with his hands on his hips.

"Steamin Jesus." Soap breathed out behind him. "That just hit ya?"

"Shut the fuck up Johnny." There was no real venom in it, too focused on the more important revelation at hand. What would he think of him? The lad could call him the old man or some variation, toddling on his little legs to him with his arms out stretched for his dad to pick him up. What could he teach him? Sure, he could teach him to fight or to swim but that was it. He had no life skills, no domestic traits that he could pass on to a son.

"Fuck am I going to do? The hell am I going to do for Jack?" He muttered, pacing a few times before sitting back down next to Johnny.

"Well, you're gonnae do ok if you've already got a name picked out." Soap leaned back on his hands and nudged him with his boot. "What do you think he'll look like?"

"Probably be as big as me. Tall and as a tough as a bloody tree. Can't imagine having to squeeze out this head through you." He knocked on his head.

Soap had never seen him like this. He was...hopeful, dare he say it. Ghost had probably never thought about something like this, never had the opportunity to think this far in his life before. God knows Soap was the most confused he's ever been when Ghost told him to put on a tie and get to the courthouse and lo and behold he had a sweet lil Bonnie lass he was marrying that day. Now, hes got a bairn on the way?

"I think you're forgetting a very important part of the pie, Simon."

He turned to him with a fire in his eyes, arms crossed over his chest and venom in his voice. "What?"

"Jack could be Jackie."

His eyes went wide in a rare display of emotion. "What the fuck am I going to do with her? I can barely handle the woman I'm married to how the fuck am I gonna handle a daughter? Fucking Christ, I can just imagine her...if she looks anything like her mother I'm fucked. Might as well get a bloody shotgun to hang on top of the fireplace..." Simon ran his hands down his face, doing just that and imagining a little girl attached at her mother's hip. She'd be sweet and loving, like peaches and cream from the shop his own mother would take him when his father hadn't drank their money away.

Or perhaps it could be two? One of each or two daughters or two sons and they'd be the apple of his eye. His heart began to pound, imaging the life his children, God his, yours, a family. An honest to God family and he didn't want to miss a moment of it.

"I need to talk to Price." Simon tossed his cigarette over the roof and dumped the rest of his beer out.

"What for?"

"To go home!"

Soap watched him leave with a laugh, cheering to him behind his back. "Good luck, brother."

Price managed to get him home in another two weeks after he worked his ass off to finish the mission. He hardly had time to wipe his ass he was so focused on getting home to you. He hadn't even called you which was a massive fuckin mistake on his part, yes he knew, but he hoped the bouquet of flowers and tiny beanie he had bought on a whim would make it up to you along with a promise that he wasn't going anywhere for a very long time.

Price got another call about nine months later, inviting the team to meet his wife and daughter. June was her name, and he had been right. She was the spitting image of her mother.

[personwhowrites]

Reality

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[rosiethefurry101]

Hallo! It has been quite a while since I’ve been on here and posted something, but I have come back bearing gifts!

I have been quite the busy bee working on playlists on Spotify, and I have decided to share a few with you all! Right now I’m only going to show you all the playlists I’ve made for Call of Duty: Modern Warfare, but if you all like this enough, I will most likely do a part two to this, showing more of my playlists that I’ve been working on.

⚠️Quick warning before you get to the playlists! Some playlists may have disturbing themes, while others may have kind of sad themes. Especially with the recent release of Modern Warfare three, there may be a few sad playlists mixed in.⚠️

I just felt like I should warn you all about that.

Anyways, enough of my blabbering onto the playlists!

(Important Note: I had to redo the playlist I made for Simon as me being the dumb-dumb I am, fucked it up greatly. So if ya had the old version saved, yer going to have to save the new version of it now…. I’m sorry ;~;)

[dracobrooklyn]

141!Monster x Reader AU Masterlist

Huge HUUUUUUUGE Credit goes @bluegiragi who gave me permission to use the idea of the monster forms they let me use for the x Reader! Their art is fantastic and I highly recommend you check them out!! Note: this will NOT be connected to their comics or stories they have created, for the respect of their content so readers won't get confused, I am only using the monster forms and making my own headcannons. || MDNI || 18+, these mini stories very much will have adult themes and also will have Smut, Violence, Language, and Dark Themes. You have been warned. This is also a Fem!POV for the Reader just a heads up! Requests: Closed Asks: Closed

Summary: You are the Nurse/Doctor to the Task force 141 the case of 4 strong cryptic gentleman that have inhuman abilities. It's your job to make sure they are in check with their health, check their vitals, and make sure they are home safe. It takes a toll on them doing what they do. Perhaps you will grow closer to them... maybe even more than that.

Note: This is will not be a Poly x Reader BUT I am thinking about making small one shots with Poly stuff cause the ideas are cute in my head. These will be in different POV with the Reader, depending who your favorite is, or you just want to experience them all.

John Price: A Green Fire breathing Dragon, and the Captain of the group. Under those green rough scales is a man who craves to have companionship, but he's not gonna tell you that, Dragons have plenty of secrets.

Masterlist: WIP

Ask's: None

Headcannons: None

Simon "Ghost" Riley: Lieutenant of task 141. The Dark Shadow Wraith that has a dark secret beneath his gift, will you be the light to his Darkness?

Masterlist: WIP

Ask's: None

Headcannons: None

John "Soap" MacTavish: Sargent of the Task 141, did we also mention he is also a werewolf. His cocky attitude with his loyal personality could warm your heart, but he has a little trouble controlling his wolf form... in many different ways. You could possibly teach an old dog new tricks.

Masterlist: WIP

Ask's: None

Headcannons: None

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick: Also a Sargent of Task 141. Known as the Harpy of the group. The man having a wide wing span of an eagle and very much in tune with his gifts, probably a little cocky thinks he can take on the world from the high skies. Maybe you can keep him grounded, and keep his head out of the clouds.

Masterlist: WIP

Ask's: None Headcannons: None