half a dog

23. mdni. hey you ever heard of call of duty

[silverlullabies]

Johnny MacTavish who heard the priest say “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth.” during Sunday Mass and developed the biggest breeding kink as a result.

As a lad, it was just words, rote scripture drilled into him alongside Hail Marys and Our Fathers. But as he grew, hitting puberty, it twisted into something profane, a burning itch under his skin. The verse became his gospel, fueling fantasies that had him waking sweat soaked and hard as steel.

In a perfect work, he was a virile force scattering his seed across continents like a storm. He’d picture it in vivid detail: pinning a lithe operative from MI6 against a Berlin safehouse wall during a layover, her legs wrapped around his waist as he rutted into her.

“Take it all, lass,” he’d tell her in the fantasy, flooding her with hot spurts, imagining her womb clutching greedily at his cum. Months later, in his dreams, she’d be back in London, belly distended like a ripe fruit, stretch marks mapping the conquest of his DNA reshaping her body.

Or that sultry informant in Kabul, her dark hair fanned out on sandy sheets as he bred her deep. He’d visualize the aftermath: her cradling a fat, chubby babe against her swollen tits, the infant’s eyes opening to reveal that piercing, astonishing blue- his blue, a genetic brand.

The fantasies escalated in intensity, borders blurring. A backpacker in Sydney, fucked senseless in a beachside hostel, her cunt milking him dry, pulling out just enough to watch his seed drip from her puffy folds, only to shove back in and plug her tight. Two girls in Tokyo- friends he’d claimed in a neon lit love hotel, alternating between their slick heats, breeding them both in one frenzied night.

Soap’s cock would ache at the thought of their transformations: breasts heaving with milk, nipples dark and leaking, cunts perpetually slick and stretched from carrying his brood.

He’d imagine the sounds- the wet slap of flesh, their pleas turning to moans as he stretched them wide, the guttural cries of labor birthing his kids. Left him dizzy, knowing he’d altered their very biology, left them marked forever, multiplying his line until the earth teemed with echoes of him.

But the SAS was a jealous mistress, chaining him to the grind of ops and ops alone, the ceaseless cycle of infil, exfil, and debriefs- all smothered the fire, turning it to embers.

Demolitions became his outlet, the boom of C4 a pale substitute for the explosive release of his fantasies. He’d channel it into the fight, but at night, alone in his bunk, the verse would whisper back, urging.

Until he saw you.

Soap clocked you instantly in that dim pub. You were sipping a drink, oblivious, but he saw it all in a flash: your body, perfect and primed, swelling grotesquely beautiful with his babies.

Hips widening to cradle multiples- twins, triplets- your skin taut over the mound he’d pump full night after night. Tits ballooning, leaking sweet milk he’d lap up while rutting into your drenched, pregnancy sensitized cunt. Those blue eyed kids clinging to you, more on the way, your womb never empty.

The intensity hit him like a gut punch, cock straining against his jeans as he pictured breeding you feral- tying you down if needed, flooding you until it took, over and over.

A smile curved his lips as he stood. But, he needed to be smart about this- he needed to charm you, take you home, eat you out so many times you were too fucked out to question not using a condom.

And if you did… well… first, before he approached you, Johnny ducked out back, fingers closing around the sewing kit in his vest as he did so.

[quarterlifekitty]

Something something bear!hybrid!Price something something breeding you full of his cubs…please?

I’m gonna do some RECYCLING here

Imagine Grizzly!Price introducing himself on the day you move in. And he’s never seen a bear like you before. You’re a bear for certain— the fluffy ears and tail, the scent of fruit and honey, it pulls out instincts he’d long forgotten about.

But you’re so little. And you have that funny little ring of fur around your neck. And that long tongue. And you can’t stand the cold. No hibernation instincts whatsoever.

A sun bear.

And he feels this tremendous itch when winter comes. He always feels this sort of dull ache— sleep is calling him. But he’s the kind of man who can’t help but keep an eye on everything going on around him. And you’re not prepping at all. Where are your crates of groceries? Your house has a cellar for God’s sake and he hasn’t seen anything go in there. Each time he sees you through your window, just enjoying yourself and ambling around the house— it’s like dry kindling is being tossed onto the embers around his heart.

He always felt this hard drive to nurture, to provide, to nest— he can’t stand seeing you so vulnerable and unprepared. And you’re so small! What’s going to happen once you get snowed in and you barely have enough to last you a week and a half?

Which is why he keeps coming around. Bringing his own things, preserves, jerky, canned goods— all under the guise of having “made too much”. Proving he has what it takes to care for you. You don’t really get it, he can tell from the look on your face, but you appreciate the treats.

He can’t get the image of you licking into a nearly empty jar of blueberry compote with your too long tongue out of his head. Of course his girl wouldn’t be wasteful.

Price only gets broodier as the dead of winter approaches. A blizzard is forecasted— and he all but demands that you stay at his place. He has a generator, firewood, a full larder— you don’t. You follow easily, like a dog rolling over to have its belly rub. What’s to protest?

He insists you sleep in his bed. Why waste the body heat when you could share? He barely has to prompt you before you’re rolling around, playing in his sheets, rubbing your scent everywhere. Sun bears mate year round, so you always smell just a little ripe and juicy— and it drives him crazy.

Having you in his bed, keeping you warm, feeding you…. It pushes him into that state of mind. You’re not in a man’s house anymore, you’re in a bear’s den, and his body knows what comes in spring, even if yours doesn’t.

He grinds up against you in his half-asleep daze, his nose buried in your neck as he mutters about what you’ll look like all fat and happy from overwintering with his cubs inside you. You might be a bit too small to take his cock at first, and it might be a bit of struggle to carry his brood, but you’ll have him to get you ready. He’ll look after you every step of the way, so just don’t worry your pretty head about it, ok?

[valiants]

Can- can you draw ghost big cheesin’ too? 🥺

I would draw anyone big cheesing...

[valiants]

On topic

[brainlice]

his tower fell _(┐「ε:)_

[bravo666]

i love the phrase ‘bullying his cock into you’ its so evocative. like yeah be nasty and mean about it

[3neety]

simon likes chinese food he told me himself

items vaguely referenced from simon's characterization in this fic. it changed my life but heed the warnings. yah there's pretzels in the paper bag.

[bravo666]

mdni

sharing a safehouse on a months-long op with price. it’s a shitty place, but the walls are fairly thick and well-built…except for the knocked out crack between the room you’ve claimed as your own and price’s. you don’t really notice, but he does, especially when enough time passes and you feel comfortable enough for your hand to slither down to the band of your underwear for a little nighttime stress relief.

relief never comes, between the general discomfort of the safehouse and being in your head and your lack of anything better than your own hand. you spend minutes, hours even, with your hand between your thighs, only to groan in frustration by the end of the night before rolling over to sleep. it drives price batty, grinding his teeth for weeks on end as he’s forced to listen to you chase a high that never comes—enough for his tenuous self-control to finally give in under the weight of those delicious, pitiful sounds his subordinate keeps making, barging into your room, folding you in half before you have a chance to ask why, and bullying his cock into you because if you need relief that bad, sweetheart, you should have just asked.

[shotmrmiller]

who do you think out of the boys has the better pull out game (i say better instead of best bc i think we all know not a single one of them has self control when it comes to their boo thing) i think johnny is the worst with it cause his ass is not listening to any plea to pull out right when he’s ab to come his brains out

price i think. he's the one with the iron-clad self-control plus i bet he uses pulling out as a form of punishment. ya went and gave him lip yesterday and now look at what you've made him do :/ came all over your pussy, what a waste.

[bravo666]

i think being john price’s dead wife from a dead wife montage who then is revealed in some way still be alive/brought back from the dead but nonetheless came back wrong and different would fix me

[yeyinde]

slowly being led into a very (bad and) codependent D/s relationship with Price is all I can think about right now.

It starts off small, too. Casual touches. It's what he's known for—tactile; a man of raw, untempered physicality, and you wonder if the absence of touch makes his palms itch sometimes—and you let it happen. Let it grow. Evolve. Shift from a breath to a kiss. Morphing from a ghost to something substantive. Corporeal.

His knuckles grazing your forearm when he stands beside you. His hand on your lower back. Correcting your form with both hands. Smothering his chest against your spine. Then—

His hand on your thigh. Slipping lower down your back until his pinky lifts over the curve of your ass. Possessive. It reeks of ownership. But you don't tell him to stop.

It's grounding. You're not sure why. It just is. Like counting to ten. Focusing on some distant object. One, two. His hand on your wrist. His thighs pressed tight to yours. Hands on you, always, until it feels as natural as breathing. Three, four.

These touches usually accompany his voice. The low grit of a command dragging over gravel. Nails against sandpaper. Whispered demands just for you. Only you.

Or, at least, that's how they start.

Optional. Suggestions. Things you can prise apart with your own will. Agency still glueing to your throat but—

Not for long.

His touch finds its way there, too.

Fingers against your neck. Your jaw. Cheek. It feels natural to let them slip between your lips. And as strange as it is (isn't), there's nothing really dirty about it. It's not sexual. Not yet. It's just—

(there's a hole in your throat aching for his fingers to fill)

Five, six.

He offers another suggestion, but when you go to answer (agency, autonomy), his fingers find their way inside your mouth, snuffing out the protests between thick, grizzled knuckles. Something inside of you shifts, a subtle subluxation, at the raw, heavy taste of him on your tongue.

He lowers your chin with a slight pressure against your jaw until you're staring at his throat. Submissive. He groans, fingers twitching. Calls you a good girl when you keep your gaze there. Always. Even with other people around. Alone. Supplicant.

It becomes a routine, much like everything else, to have his fingers inside your mouth; pacifying. Stealing the voice from between your teeth.

And choices—so many of them, too. You hadn't realised how many decisions you had to make in a day until it was muffled between the salty, geosmin tang of rough, calloused fingers stroking your tongue. Freeing in a way that you can define in simple words. Can't explain to your friends when they ask why you're acting like you're feening for a cigarette whenever he's away from you. Jaw gnashing. Pacing. Skin itching. Burning. Unsettled. Raw. Nothing makes sense without his hands on your body. His taste on your tongue.

You try to replicate the feeling on your own by shoving your knuckle between your teeth at work when the noise, the choices, scream too loud in your ears. Your head. In your bedroom—two fingers down your throat, two sliding between your folds. A lit cigar burning, untouched, in the ashtray you bought. Perched as close to the edge of your end table as you could get it. Musk, leather. Something strong. Something that smells like him drenching your sheets. But it's not enough. It's never enough.

It isn't him.

You edge around this perverse neediness like its an open, infectious sore. Something has to give. Something has to break—

It doesn't take long until your mouth falls open at the sight of him, eager. So eager. You need it, and nearly sob when he peels his fingers away from your needy mouth, and tells you he has to leave again. But his gaze slants towards the case of cigars with a little grunt that makes your mouth water. A quiet good girl uttered as soft a rustling sheet, stuffing the hole in your throat for a little while longer. Soothing the ache.

Seven, eight.

Somewhere along the way, it just makes sense to sit on his lap instead of a chair. To keep your tongue tucked between two fingers, swallowing down the taste of him as he goes about his own routine. As if you're not even there. A paperweight against his chest.

Maybe he needs this as much as you do, too.

And that's good, really. Because you can't focus without him. The world is too much, too loud; too big.

It makes it easier to give in. Cut your lease. Let him pack everything you own into the back of his car.

(He groans like you've gutted him when you tell him you've already handed in your resignation two weeks ago.)

In private, in his office (your home now, too), you kneel on a satin pillow (when you're good), head bowed against his thigh, breathing in the heady musk of him. Gasoline. Iodine. Agar. Smoke. His hand falling down every so often to stroke calloused fingers against your nape. Tobacco. Worn leather. Fresh ink.

Your head is empty in these moments, forehead pressed against the cotton of his trousers. Deliciously so. You hadn't realised how much you think, either, until he cupped his hand around the back of your head and pushed your nose into his thigh. Mind reeling. Looping. Crowded. Loud. Until—

The scratch of a pen on paper. Metal sliding against wood. The hollow thunk of his hand dropping against the surface. Breaths. The whine of his chair when he shifts. A grunt. Empty, empty—

And when the catch of a zipper fills the air, you let his hands guide you to where you need to be, lips already parting at the slightest brush of his knuckles on your cheek. Open, willing. Empty.

He feeds you his cock without a word because none needs to be said. You know what to do. He's been training you for this moment from the onset. And the realisation of it settles around you like a blanket; that thing inside of you shifts again, sliding into place.

This is where you belong.

His hand on your crown. His growling voice in your ear. "Look at me when you swallow my cock, sweetheart—mm, that's my good girl."

(Nine, ten.)

[honeyhobbs]

idk how Soap can focus on the mission....

[quarterlifekitty]

Love the trope of Price mentally constructing a nursery in every home and apartment he’s ever known, in the house of everyone he’s ever dated— it’s the first thing he thinks of (right after where on his body he’s gonna tattoo their name).

He has his dream nursery memorized. It’s his mind palace. He wants cream yellow walls, because his baby is going to be the sun, the same way his wife is his moon, with the away she has over his heart of the sea. He wants an accent wall with wallpaper in a classic motif— the kind they use in pediatricians offices, to be honest. Building blocks, fluffy clouds, circus animals.

John loves tradition, generational passings on, well-crafted things that can last centuries if cared for well enough. He wants his nursery furniture, all of the stuff in his house, really— to be solid wood, handmade (he promises that he’ll make the bulk of it himself, the rest antique). He’d rather die than buy a brand new house without any history. No craftsmanship, all straight lines and 90 degree angles, no consideration to what makes a home feel like home.

Despite being such a trusted member of the team, he knows precious little about your home life. Fine by him— your past is your own, he has no right to it. One day, as you’re about to pack up for leave around the holidays, you ask to speak to him as a friend, rather than a captain.

It’s well known that Price doesn’t have the family he’s dreamed of. An old war dog, bridges burned with the ex wife from his youth, he doesn’t hold out a lot of hope. Maybe in the next lifetime, it will be different. He’ll have that yellow nursery.

You tell him, with an astonishing amount of composure, that your parents passed away almost a year ago. They’ve left the care of the family home to you. It’s quite an undertaking— large, as it used to host all manner of aunt and uncle and cousin generations ago. But now, people are in the spirit of moving far away. Old wounds and grudges, new opportunities. Your parents had their own issues conceiving— leaving you an only child.

Gaz has his family to go home to, so does Soap. No one knows what Ghost does, but everyone suspects he follows Soap home for the holidays. Price has been invited time and time again, but always politely refuses. He doesn’t want to be reminded of the dream out of his reach.

But you tell him this will be your first holiday alone in the house, and that you need him. You don’t know if you can bear the silence for the season. Not to mention all of the upkeep you’re behind on. He figures it’s as good a place to be as any, and he’s the type who needs his hands busy to find any peace.

He falls in love with your old place. Sure, the bannisters could do with being refinished, a bit of carpeting could come up, a few fixtures are spotty— but it’s a beautiful place. Still very much full of love and warmth, the traces of you and your little family are everywhere. In the tarnished silver picture frames, the fraying knitted potholders, the penciled in height markings at the kitchen door.

On the tour, he’s stopped dead in his tracks at one open door. Faded yellow walls, slats of chestnut. A crib.

You explain to him that it used to be your nursery. It had been your mother’s, too, and many more. They kept it perfectly in tact when you’d grown up and moved into another room, hoping that they’d give you a little sibling. The day never came. You’re wondering yourself what to do with it— your career hasn’t left you with much time or appetite for romance. There’s a stinging sadness dripping from your words like lemon juice. You admit that you suspect this family, once monumental, will end with you— the house passed to someone who will strip off the carved filigrees of the stair railing, throw white paint over all of the walls, and put grey vinyl over the hardwood. That is, if they don’t just tear it down. Land could be divided up into a few new apartment units.

You’re barely listening to yourself talk— just ambling along, as if you haven’t just revealed to John Price what his life’s been leading up to all this time.

[alnilaem-deactivated20250410]

i talked about this a while ago but there’s just SOMETHING about popular tiktoker reader who’s known for making cute recipe videos in pretty dresses and embroidered aprons and Simon who never appears on her account that tickles me. then one day he appears in the background of a “pack my husband’s lunch with me” video and he’s huge and muscly and covered in paint spattered clothes and has the meanest mug on and everyone in the comments are just like………..hey girl are you….safe?

[quarterlifekitty]

When you got plushies on your bed and you’re abt to fuck

Gaz: is turning them around so they don’t see

Soap: is lining them up so they ALL see

Ghost: is shoving one under your hips so he can raise up your ass and fuck it

Price: is putting one in your arms so you can hold it and squeeze it when you’re overstimulated and squirming

Nik: putting it in your arms and involving it in the dirty talk tbh (“Carrotcake and I are so proud of you, milaya— taking papochka’s cock to the base like this. Did you fuck yourself in this bed while thinking of me, makýshka? Did your silly rabbit know what a slut you are for me before I did?”)

[guhbwuh]

another gaz study ehe

[spurbleu]

to me it’s an inherent truth that ghost is socially “ugly”

scars that are uneven and pucker skin because he had hastily sewn lacerations together. burn scars on his back and hands, with skin that wrinkles like haphazard gills across his abdomen. blonde hair gene that makes his eyelashes and eyebrows near invisible. a crooked, broken nose that hardly works unless he brings whatever smells right to his nostrils.

and it wasn’t a sob story. he’s wasn’t insecure because to him it really isn’t all that important. at the end of the day the body he’s been put in sleeps, eats, and kills. fucks good, if it feels like it. that’s all he’s ever needed.

it’s not until you come into the picture, domestically enough, that he does start to care.

starts small, like checking if there was anything in his teeth, or smoothing out that one hair that likes to plant itself over his forehead.

the trivial, small details that furrow in between his ironed apathy.

then, insecurity blooms. found where one scar begins and the next ends. he stops lingering at the mirror, and wears thicker clothes because “london’s fuckin’ freezin”. keeps his eyes trained ahead when you shop downtown, so he doesn’t catch a glimpse of himself next to you in the store windows.

doesn’t realize how bad it had gotten until you, who had picked up on his lack of subtly and libido, asked him to take a bath.

with you.

and suddenly he’s rendered a quiet, awkward bastard in your flat bathroom, that is much too small for him.

you run the water to a boil and put relaxing salts in while he strips. he sits down with his mouth in a firm line because what the fuck is he supposed to say when his bird massages shampoo into his hair and hums a song that isn’t his favorite but becomes one when she kisses his cheek while at the chorus.

watches with wavering interest as bubbles form from the soap and the water begins to cool. hasn’t said a word since you started the strange routine that makes him feel raw and vulnerable in a way that he characterizes as childish.

“you’re so handsome, si.”

you’re swiping lotion onto his face. he hadn’t even realized you’d been staring.

“what?”

you laugh and swipe a thumb under his crooked nose, over the cleft lip. fingers trace the scar that runs up his cheek.

you hold his ugly in your hands. and you find him…handsome. he’s seen a liar and you can’t be one for the life of you. it disturbs him, that whatever comes from you lips isn’t just a compliment, but an observation.

what a foreign thing, to be given someone’s truth so easily.

the room gets quiet aside from the foam whispers and sputter of water when his legs shift.

“I said,” you kiss him gently, “I think you’re handsome.”

the apathy to his appearance never returns. however, the harshness is retired for however long you continue to hold him.

he will be whatever you want him to, and if that means he’s handsome, then a good place to start is believing you when you tell him so.