Hello! You can call me Crab. Welcome to my blog! Here I'll post drabbles/headcanons(/maybe fics) for fandoms I'm currently into.
I'm not the most active on here but you can always find me on my b//sky!
Words: 900
Ship: PriceGraves
A/N: Set during the breakout mission in MW2. This is literally just crack treated seriously. Hidden marriage, anyone?
Original Thread.
When Soap had managed to grapple up the wall of the side of the base, the last thing he expected was for Gaz to be the one to grab his outstretched hand and haul him up onto solid metal.
Now, that alone was a surprise enough. What only confused him and Ghost more, however, was the fact that Gaz very much seemed to be on his own. "Where's the Capt?" Soap asked, voice raised over the sound of gunfire and quickly peering over the wall as if the answer would present itself to him.
"I'm gonna be really honest with you," Gaz replied, looking somewhat sheepish and concerned rolled in one. "I've not a fucking clue. He broke off from the rest of us, said he 'had a plan' and I've not seen him since." The timing of the front gates to the compound opening up was somewhat comical.
Standing there, in all his pissed off glory, was none other than John Price. His entrance seemed to capture the attention of nearby Shadows and Soap was already raising his weapon to try and protect his clearly suicidal Captain-- but stopped. So did many of the Shadows closest to Price.
They stared at the Captain. He stared back, face mophing into a horrendous scowl. Ghost, Gaz, Soap and whatever remaining Vaqueros remained on the wall (Alejandro and Rudy included), stared in a growing cocktail of shock, confusion and borderline mortification when the Shadows saluted. Saluted.
Saluted at John Price as he stalked past like a man on a mission-- like they all knew the man.
"Phillip fucking Graves!" Price shouted, his voice booming and echoing loud enough across the compound that slowly any Shadows still firing weapons stopped. Like a damn spell.
"Phillip, get your sorry arse out here!"
"... I think I hit my head when I fell out the heli." Gaz whispered beside him and Soap would have to ask him about that later because right now, he felt like if he blinked he would miss whatever the hell was unfolding in front of him.
Soap himself thought that he may have been an actual victim to his blood loss earlier and all of this was some sort of lucid dream when, as if summoned by the dark arts, Graces appeared from one of the nearby buildings. He looked sheepish. Sheepish and embarrassed like he had been caught doing something that he shouldn't have.
"H-Honey plum!" The sergeants exchanged glances, mouthing 'honey plum' to each other with raised eyebrows. Gone was the PMC Commander. Gone was Phillip 'I don't make threats, I make guarantees' Graves and in his place was some... timid chastised child.
But honey plum?
"What are you doin' here?" Graves continued, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he approached the furious SAS Captain. "I-I'm, well, a little busy at the moment, pumpkin--" Ghost turned away from the scene and Soap was about to ask if he was alright when he saw it.
Price reared back, his expression thunderous, as he pulled his arm back and punched Graves square in the face. Soap spluttered in growing horror and he could hear Alejandro cursing up a biblical nightmare. From the way Graves stumbled, it was very obvious that Price didn't hold back. Graves staggered back a few steps, hand instinctively coming up to cradle the side of his face that had made good friends with Price's fist.
"Sweetie pie--"
"Sweet talking ain't gonna work this time, Graves, you put a hit on my men!"
"Honey--" Price looked ready to punch him again.
"On your husband's men!" Everyone froze. The Vaqueros stopped. Soap, Gaz and Ghost stopped in their tracks. "This is like some telenovela." Rudy murmured behind them and Alejandro hummed in agreement beside him. Husband? Husband? Not only was Price married, he was married to Graves?
He was married to Phillip fucking Graves. Shadow Company Commander. The man that took over Alejandro's base, that hunted Soap and Ghost through Las Almas like dogs. That Graves.
"I was only following orders, sugar plum, I didn't know they were yours--" Wrong thing to say. Price looked like he was winding up to punch him again and Graves held up his hands in surrender.
"So you were gonna kill members of the SAS?!"
"No! No, sweetie, hey, why don't you and I take this somewhere private where the kids ain't watching--"
The kids? Did Graves just call the other Shadows the 'kids'? Oh God. This was fucking priceless.
"I'M GONNA MAKE THEM WATCH ME DIVORCE YOU." Soap peered over the edge of the platform and managed to catch the eye of a few Shadows waiting at the bottom. Their weapons were lowered as they watched the unfolding scene and they offered a shrug of their shoulders at Soap, who returned the gesture. Clearly nobody currently knew how to deal with the situation and right now watching a lovers' spat seemed much more ideal than killing each other.
"What happened to 'death do us part'?!"
"I'll fucking kill you and make it death do us part!"
So John Price was married. To Phillip Graves. And, stupidly, Shepherd thought that making Graves unknowingly kill his husband's men was a good idea. Soap didn't know whether to be relieved or stressed about it. From the way Price began to threaten castrating Graves, he imagined that the former was better than the latter.
Graves: I’m Mr. Shepherd's right-hand arm man. I’m Mr. Shepherd's everything. I’m his confidant, his best friend, his silly rabbit.
Laswell: His WHAT?
Graves: His silly rabbit.
Laswell: Is that what he calls you?
Graves: No :)
It doesn’t happen often, but it still happens too many times as far as Nik’s concerned. Quiet nights where he and his love are blessed with the opportunity to sleep in the same bed together. A sweetened and priceless luxury that Nik would never be able to afford.
Where he was able to hold his Captain in his arms as they drifted to sleep together, soft snoring filling the room like a soothing symphony. Sometimes nightmares would find them, some more violent than others. Left one of them screaming in the dark, only soothed by soft words and comforting touches.
But it was the nights that Nik woke up to a cold bed, brain muddled as it tried to decipher what had woken him. It’s the soft sound of crying that has him sitting up immediately, an ever present ache throbbing in his chest. Price is usually sat at the end of their bed. Rarely in the bathroom anymore.
Before, during the first times Nik would catch him, Price usually hid himself in the bathroom, sobbing muffled as to not disturb the Russian. It had only become a more recent development that Price remained in the room when the tears began to flow. Nik was grateful for it.
It meant Price trusted him with this— with what his Captain perceived as weakness. What Nik admired as nothing but strength.
“Don’t turn on the light, Nik. Please.” Price whispered, voice hoarse and catching in his throat. He’d been crying a while, then. That wouldn’t do.
“My beloved,” Nik rumbled, trying to keep his voice soothing. Reassuring. “Come to me, you are too far away over there.” He always had to tread carefully. Price was somewhat like a cat— move too quick, act too suddenly and you would end up with a scratched hand and wounded pride.
Price didn’t like to be seen like this. Not even by Nik. By Laswell. His boys. The years of his suffering alone before their relationship haunted Nik’s thoughts. His poor love, weeping, all alone. Believing himself weak. Unlovable. His desire to be strong was poisonous sometimes.
It meant it festered, matured into something ugly— something that hurt when it was finally released, leaving a scratched throat that felt like sandpaper and a chest in a vice like grip. Price was yet to move, face buried in shaking hands.
Price only wept more. Nik sighed to himself and shuffled until he was able to position himself behind his love, pressing kisses to his heaving shoulders.
“Shh, my love. Hush,” he whispered, wanting nothing more than to fight the demons that plagued Price and hating his inability to help.
There was little point in asking what had happened. Price had moments like these— where the guilt felt too heavy on his shoulders. The grief burrowed a cavity in his chest. The shards of cracked fortitude chipping away at an already bruised heart that forgot the very reason it beat.
Nik selfishly wanted to be the reason it remembered. Large hands massaged Price’s shoulders, coaxing warmth back into goosebumped flesh. Price heaved another sob, the ferocity making the bed shake. Nik pulled him backwards into his chest, humming absently.
“Lean on me, John, there we go.”
The second Price would let himself curl up against his chest, Nik wrapped his arms more firmly around the man— curled around him. A shield. A cracked one, sure, but stalwart and adamant. Price would fall asleep like that, bawling like the world was ending. Nik would let him.
Because he knew in the morning, Price would need to be strong again. Would need to lock up the guilt and grief into a little box int he back of his mind, only letting it unlock in the dead of night when Nik was there. And Nik would welcome the darkest parts of Price with open arms and a kiss.
Because even those darkest of shadows were part of the John be adored. His John. His Captain. His love. His everything. He comforted him this night like he had several before. And would always comfort him for the many to come.
Part 1 of 2.
Words: 2.5k
CW: Trans!John Price, Graphic Descriptions of Periods and all the problems that come with it, Gender Dysphoria, PCOS, Hurt/Comfort
Ships: Implied Poly141
Summary: Price has his period for the first time in 6 months and, as someone that suffers with PCOS, it's just as bad as he remembers.
A/N: I also want to preface that this entire thread is based off of my personal experiences with periods and PCOS so what better way to make Price suffer than give him my pain. This also got unreasonably long so I'm splitting it into 2 parts :D
Original Thread.
It starts on the Sunday. Sleep had been difficult from the second he laid down and he was sure he could count how many hours he had gotten on one hand. If said hand only had 3 fingers. When he opens his eyes, though, something just felt... off. Above the lack of sleep, anyhow.
When he rolls over to slap his alarm to shut it up, he was very quickly seized by dizziness that left him immobilised for several seconds, not daring to move lest he make it worse and vomit over himself. There was a pressure in the back of his head, like someone was pressing down on it.
His right eye is twitching, too, adding to his already heightened irritability. Furiously, he scrubbed and dug his fingers into the socket to try and relieve the twitching but it, naturally, didn't work. Sunday was his day off, blessedly. No paperwork or training. No prep for the next mission.
Just time to relax.
Was the lie he commonly told Laswell. Huffing and convinced he wasn't going to heave on his sheets, he gets out of bed and hates the lightheadedness that follows.
Dehydration maybe. Probably hunger. Who knows. People said to treat one's body like a temple. He treated his own like a ransacked one. The dizziness continued throughout the day but was manageable-- easy to hide from the others. He just had to be careful how quickly he got up and how much he smoked.
Monday it continues.
The dizziness and headache are gone. But his body aches. Price feels like he's been run over again when he returns to the waking world despite his best efforts not to. There's an aching in his bones that feels like he's run a marathon. Which, to be fair, he did on Saturday. But the aches don't usually take 48 hours to kick in. Nonetheless, he has a job to do. If he can give a debrief two hours after coming out of surgery after being shot, a few aches are nothing he can't handle. The more he moves, the less he notices it. It's only when he's hunched over his desk writing reports that his skeleton reminds him that it's not happy.He decides it's best to go to bed early. But spends several hours adjusting his position when it feels like he can't get comfortable.
There's no improvement on the Tuesday, he puts it down to getting ill from his last mission when he had to stake out in the rain.
By Wednesday, the dizziness is hardly noticeable unless he turns his head too suddenly-- but his body decides to tap in an all too familiar ache that leaves him curled up on his bed and panting. It feels almost as bad as being stabbed in the stomach. And he has been stabbed in the stomach. Twice. If he hunches more to the left it relieves the pressure in his lower abdomen and, if anyone notices, they don't say anything.
Thursday he notices spotting in his boxers and he groans, knowing what's to come. As much as he wants to prepare, he doesn't know if it's just spotting or the first period he's had in six months finally coming back with a vengeance. The throbbing around his hips tells him it's the latter. He sighs as he gets the biggest night pad he has and curses his body for existing the way it does.
Friday morning he's stopped spotting and there isn't a drop of blood in sight.
On Saturday he has to forgo the jog he usually takes with his team around the base and waves off their concern when they ask if he's alright. He doesn't have the heart to tell them that he can't find it in him to get out of bed. He's so exhausted that he flits in and out of sleep the entire day.
Price doesn't realise he's missed Breakfast and Lunch until Ghost knocks on his door with dinner. The second his Lieutenant is gone, Price throws it away, gagging at the smell and dry heaving at the mere thought of putting anything in his mouth.
Nobody sees him on Sunday.
On Monday he wakes up wet.
And not the good type of wet. His boxers stick uncomfortably to his thighs and there's the awful sound of slick when he moves. There's blood between his legs and he whimpers when he rolls out of bed and staggers dizzily to the bathroom. Even blinking makes the room spin.
He has to sit down on the toilet as he peels off his ruined boxers, tossing them carelessly into the bath to deal with later, followed by his trousers that are equally as ruined. There's a heavy pressure in his bladder and he feels like he's about to burst but no matter what he does, nothing comes.
Showering is much more of a task than its ever been and he can't even bend down far enough to retrieve his ruined clothes. He nudges them to the side as he prioritizes washing himself. He's barely even out of the shower then he feels blood dribbling down his leg and it's a frantic hobble to his wardrobe for a pair of boxers-- and then a string of curses when he realises he forgot to grab a pad and then it's /another/ pitiful hobble back to the bathroom to get himself sorted.
When he stares at himself in the mirror, he sees a man who definitely shouldn't even consider working.
Half an hour later he closes his bedroom door behind him with a click. The walk to his office feels like climbing a mountain and he catches himself holding onto the wall for support every so often, snatching his hand back when someone walks past him. He's got a briefing with his boys today. Which means, at least in his eyes, a day off is out of the question. He'd dealt with his crappy biology for his entire life-- another period was nothing to him. His office feels too bright when he turns on the light and he rakes his blunt nails down his face, biting back a scream.
The ache in his abdomen is worse again, the waves coming and going and Price doesn't know how to stand comfortably without bending over and clinging to the sides of his desk. He feels hot despite his office being one of the coldest rooms on base and he knows he must be pale but flushed. Unhealthy looking. Disgusting. He scratches furiously at the side of his head, not caring at the red welts it leaves by his sideburns. It doesn’t help, so he scratches around his head with frustration, knowing his hair would hide the redness. Of course that only makes him feel worse and the headache threatening to emerge behind his eyes throbs with a twisted hello. Trudging to his desk, he’s only just about to pull out his chair when his bladder gives a dangerous throb.
He curses and has to clamp his thighs together to stop the sudden urge to piss– he doesn’t think he’ll make it. He does, by the skin of his arse. Nothing comes out but blood and he wants to punch his uterus. Even worse when he sits there and waits for the feeling of nausea to pass. Price catches the face of his watch when he wraps his arms around his stomach and he almost cries when he realises he's late. He was supposed to be briefing with his team 5 minutes ago but he was so distracted trying not to piss his pants that he didn't notice the time passing.
It's pathetic. He's an SAS Captain. He's started and ended gunfights worse than this. But here he is, hunched in the bathroom like it's his first period.
Price doesn't know how or when he extracts himself from the toilet, but he really does consider punching his uterus when the need to piss grips him again and he has to run back into the bathroom for another bloody piss. Literally. He hasn't drank anything in 24 hours.
It's just blood.
He's almost 20 minutes late when he enters his office. Predictably, his team are already sitting and waiting inside, their chatter quieting when they see the state of their Captain. He knows what he looks like. He spent 2 minutes staring at his pale face in the bathroom mirror.
"... sir?" Gaz starts and he waves him off, trying his best not to hunch when it feels like someone's decided to use his lower body as target practice with knives.
"Let's get started." He grumbles, pulling out papers from his desk and not bothering to apologise and explain why he was late.
10 minutes.
10 bloody minutes was all it took before he needed the bathroom again. He tries to hold it-- really, he does. The last thing he needs is to draw out this sodding meeting longer than he already has with his tardiness but he can't hold it.
He excuses himself-- and scratches his hands over his face when he sees that he'd already bled through his biggest pad. Replacing it isn't the issue. It's the fact he has to do it in the first place. He knows it's his hormones out of alignment but all he wants to do is go back to bed and cry.
Why him? Why did he have to go through this shit? Why couldn't he have just been born a man right from the fucking start? He replaces his pad and reenters the meeting like he isn't on the verge of a total meltdown. He's warm again and it feels like there's sparks singing down his spine.
Rationally he knows his office is the right temperature but he's so warm he wants to claw his skin off. Briefly, he catches his men sharing concerned looks and he knows that he's not hiding his suffering as well as he should be. He clenches his jaw and straightens his back even though it makes him feel like someone's stabbed him with a hot poker.
10 minutes.
Another bathroom break.
5 minutes.
Another bathroom break.
15 minutes.
Another. And a new pad.
Four bathroom breaks in less than an hour-- and it was all entirely blood.
He ignores the next tug.Price refuses to go a fifth time. He clamps down on whatever muscle he can even though doing so makes it feel like he's next to bursting. He can barely focus on the briefing anymore, but he has to. His men need this information. Somehow he distracts himself just enough he can start wrapping it up. The meeting finishes 30 minutes later than it should have and he knows his men are annoyed. He doesn't blame them. He's always on their arses about being on time-- doing things in time slots and here he was wasting theirs.
"Dismissed." He grumbles, gathering the files back into the folder with his back to the others.
Nobody moves. He clamps his thighs together tighter.
"I said: dismissed." He doesn't want to look at them, but he has no choice because nobody will fucking get the hell out of his office. He turns a little too suddenly, the room spinning.
"What?!" he snaps.
All of their eyes are on him-- no... not /on/ him per ce. They aren't making eye contact. They're staring at… He looks down, wondering if he'd spilled ink or something on his--
Oh.
Oh no.
No, no, no, no…
He'd leaked through his pad. The pad he only changed 20 minutes ago. Distracted as he was trying to make sure he didn't piss himself, it hadn't occurred to him that the damage had been done, red blooming on his trousers. He can feel it sliding down his legs and his face burns bright red from embarrassment and shame.
"Dismissed." He repeats with a strength he doesn't feel. Gaz is the first to get up from his chair but he doesn't move to leave, he moves towards Price and he flinches back like he's been scalded.
"Sir, you're--"
"I bloody know I am! Get the fuck out of my office!" He's almost screaming at them and he feels the hot burn of tears.
Fuck-- no, God, please-- he couldn't embarrass himself even more than he already has now by crying in front of his team. This was an entirely new side to their Captain they would have seen and he doesn't know how they'd take it.
They know he's trans. Very well aware of it. Intimately. They know about his usual (or what's supposed to be usual) bodily functions. Told him dozens of times that they don't care.
But this? This is different.
And none of them fucking move.
"That-- that's an order." His voice comes out rougher than intended and the tears are making his vision blur.
Why did he have to be like this? Pitiful. Half a man.
Don't get him wrong, he had the beard and body that many men envied, but it was the cunt that was attached to him that made him feel inferior no matter what he looked like.
Even more so when comparing himself to the others. Sometimes he wishes he could claw off everything that was wrong with him. He wishes that his doctors listened to him when he said he didn't want children. Had listened when he said he wanted his ovaries out. He still remembers the day he was told about the cysts on his ovaries. How it would affect his ability to have and carry children. How his periods would be harder than others, how he could go months without. It was a silver lining, in a way, even more so with the hormone imbalance.
But he still had a vagina. That's what it boiled down to.
And he couldn't do anything with said vagina because doctors still believed at some point that he'd want his own children despite insisting otherwise when he was in his teens.
A soft cry echoed in his office, bouncing off the walls and mockingly in his ears.
"Please leave." He tries one last time, hunching in on himself when Gaz stops in front of him. There's droplets of blood at his feet and he knows he's making a mess.
"No." Kyle whispers, shaking his head and looking down at the forming puddle of blood and whatever else forming at Price's feet.
"Fucking hell, John, you should be in bed..."
Price is shaking and probably crying from a mixture of frustration and humiliation, but as he inspects their faces through the blurriness of his tears-- nobody looks disgusted. Nobody's laughing. They're not making fun of him.
The fact he wouldn't have stopped them or defended himself if they did was telling enough about his state. Johnny moves into his line of sight, hoodie in hand. Kyle silently moves to the side and lets the Scot come closer, wrapping the garment around Price's waist to hide the worst of the stains.
"Just until we get ya back to ya room." Johnny whispers softly, tying the sleeves around Price's waist. It's loose though, not tight enough that it squeezes uncomfortably around Price's hips.
"I-- I'm sorry." Price hiccups and Kyle soothes him.
Words: 3.3k
Warnings: Referenced Drug Use/Poisoning, Major Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Price really suffers in this trust me, Mental Health Issues, Dissociating, Suicide Attempt, Angst with a HAPPY ending (trust), DEAD DOVE.
Ships: PriceSoap, Implied Poly 141
Summary: Set during the events of MW3. Price is rescued by the skin of his teeth from the sarin gas. Except it's not that simple.
A/N: I was sitting on this idea for around a year before I decided to use it for PriceSoap week on blsky! Really proud of it if I'm being honest-- not to mention most of this is a homage to the 09 games
Original Thread.
It starts after Price is barely fished out of the sarin gas. He can't quite put a finger on it, but something just doesn't feel right. It's his vision that he notices a change in first. How some colours in his surroundings seem to flicker between different shades. A darker brown here. Lighter there.
Usually when he blinks it's gone. He puts it down to exhaustion. But then his hearing starts too, too. The call of his name by a familiar but not so familiar voice, but when he turns around nothing's there. Full conversations in other rooms, only for him to find it empty when checked.
He's pouring over documents late in the evening, marking and highlighting errors or important information, brow furrowed and mind focused.
"Price."
A blink-- had his walls always been the colour green?
"Y'alright, love?" MacTavish asks him, leaning in so their shoulders brush together.
Price looks down at his hands, fingers spread across the wood of an empty desk. Hadn't he been scribbling on paperwork a second ago?
"Your tea's gettin' cold." He looks owlishly at the man beside him. MacTavish looks... different. Older. A scar across his eye. Had that always been there?
It.... it must have been. Price just mustn't have noticed it.
"Right." Price rasps, reaching for the cup of tea in his line of vision, hand trembling slightly as he tries not to let the confusion get to him. Exhaustion. That must have been it. Trying to find leads for the next mission was taxing.
The warmth of the mug seeps into his skin and he sighs, eyes closed and face hovering over the steam. A hand on his spine startles him as MacTavish leans in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
"You're lookin' out of it, lamb. Sure you're okay?"
"... yeah. Yeah, I'm alright."
The hand on his spine remains, a warm reminder that he isn't alone.
"Thanks, sergeant."
MacTavish snorts at him, nudging him playfully.
"'m Captain now, remember?"
...right. Right. Of course. Captain MacTavish. He'd been promoted while Price was... elsewhere. The memory slips through his fingers.
"Y'sure you're okay?" MacTavish cradles the side of Price's face and slowly turns his head to look at him.
"... just need some sleep, I think."
MacTavish doesn't look convinced but doesn't push it. They finish their tea in silence and MacTavish coaxes him to their bedroom to sleep.
Hah. Sleep. If only.
The night is restless and uncomfortable and Price spends most of it tossing and turning, trying not to wake the man lying by his side. When he goes to the bathroom at about 2am, he stares at the man in the mirror of the little en suite bathroom.
He doesn't recognise the man that stares right back at him. He doesn't remember looking this old. Like he had more than the weight of the world on his shoulders. When he lifts his hand to touch his face, the reflection follows.
It's him.
But it isn't.
He blinks. So does the reflection.
He must have been standing there for almost an hour when MacTavish appears, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and coaxing him back to bed. Blessedly, sleep finds him. But so do the nightmares.
Sleep eludes the both of them when he wakes up screaming. MacTavish strokes his hair. Price only cries.
The sunrise signaling the next day is a bitter reminder of how little sleep he'd gotten-- the same with MacTavish, but the other Captain doesn't seem to hold it against him as he climbs out of bed once their alarm goes off.
They dress in silence, with MacTavish steadying his hands when they shake.
Debrief.
Riley and Roach are there, the former leaning against the wall and the latter sitting quietly at the desk where they have documents spread out.
"We'll want to go in through here." Price says, pointing and circling a doorway on the map with his finger. He doesn't recognise the map.
But somehow he knows it inside and out.
"How do we get inside without being seen?" Riley asks.
"Guard rotation is every five hours. The forecast at 0200 hours is torrential rain. The weather will cover our tracks and mask the worst of the noise, the rain will be good for us."
He blinks.
"What's that about the weather, cap?" Ghost asks and Price is all too aware of the sudden brightness of the room. Had someone turned on the lamp or something?
"The rain should help." He repeats dumbly, looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time. Where had Roach and MacTavish gone?
It's just himself and Ghost. He's standing at his desk, and Ghost is sitting on the couch in the corner, looking at Price with a concerned look.
"Help what?" Ghost says slowly, as if trying to assess if he'd missed part of a conversation. Or maybe Price had.
"... the..." Price trails off.
"Nevermind." he waves off Ghost's concern and a shake of his head. "Ignore me, just rambling to myself."
"Whatever you say, old man."
Somehow he musters up a smile at the comment and throws a crumpled up piece of paper at the Lieutenant.
"Cheeky muppet."
The walls in his office are grey.
Because they've always been grey. Of course they have. He picked that colour because he hated all of the other options presented to him when he picked this room as his personal office. He doesn't see the worried look Ghost fixes him with as he leaves, plucking his hat from the hook by the door.
He goes for a walk to clear his head-- and somehow manages to get lost. He's scratching his head in confusion, wondering when there was a supply cupboard here when he could have sworn it was the fire exit that he'd usually go through to get to the smoking shelter.
"'avin' trouble, cap?"
Soap's sudden voice makes him jump and he turns quickly, relaxing when he sees the scot. The other man looks... concerned. Fuck.
"No, I'm fine. Just... lost in my head for a second and took the wrong turn."
"Happens to the best of us." Soap jokes and Price notices the scar across his eye is gone.
Had he imagined it last time? He must have done-- or it was a trick of the light. That must have been it. Soap accompanies him on his walk, bumping their shoulders together when they're alone. Soap invites himself in to Price's room when they finish their walk, lounging across the bed.
Price crawls in beside him, buries his face in his chest and promptly falls asleep.
The following day is a blur of planning and gathering intel on their next steps-- briefing and more planning. It drives Price up the wall and all too soon he's sitting at his desk again, head in his hands.
"Ugh." He groans, feeling a headache coming on. "Gaz."
He reaches out with a palm up, "Pass me a coconut water from the minifridge, will ya?"
Nobody moves and Price has to grit his teeth to stop himself swearing at the blighter.
"Gaz, I'm not in the mood." Nothing. "*Gaz.*"
"Price?"
Price looks up from his hands and into the eyes of MacTavish.
"Who were you talking to?"
"I... I thought Gaz was here." Price stammers, looking around the training room as though the answer would jump out at him. When had he gotten here? He was in his office a second ago.
MacTavish looks at him like he's just grown a second head and takes a seat on the bench next to Price.
"John." He says hesitantly, as if talking to a wounded and wild animal. Price hates it. "Gaz was KIA 5 years ago. Just after you were taken."
KIA? Gaz... dead? Gaz was dead?
But... but he remembers chatting to him during breakfast. He swears on his life he had been talking to him over which jam was better to go on toasted bread. A cavity forms in his chest, like a rock through thin glass. Dead. Half a decade. How could he forget? Why did it hurt to remember?
"Right." He says with a strength he doesn't feel. "Right... yeah. Sorry, just... slipped my mind."
MacTavish reaches out-- squeezes his trembling hand.
"'s alright. Happens to the best of us."
"C'mon, we're supposed to be on the tarmac soon."
MacTavish gets up-- Price can only follow.
-- -- --
"Ghost! Come in, this is Price! We're under attack by Shepher's men at the boneyard! Soap, hold the left flank! Do not trust Shepherd-- I say again, DO NOT trust Shepherd! Soap, get down!"
He should have trusted his gut. Should have listened to it the second he made eye contact with that double crossing snake and pathetic waste of oxygen. Why-- why didn't he just trust his instinct?! Why, why--
"No, no, no..." He had lost Gaz. He had lost Roach. He had lost Ghost. No... no, no more... "Soap-- SOAP GET DOWN!"
He's screaming into his comm. He can't lose him too.
A bang startled him and he raises his empty hands-- where had his rifle gone--?
"Price?!" It's Soap. The man is wearing a shirt and loose tracksuit bottoms. His eyes are wide with panic and fear. Price looks around his room, disorientated, and wants to vomit at the lingering stench of burning flesh. The sheets are tangled around his legs and he kicks them off with a choked off sob, covering his face with his hands. Soap rushes into the room, barely halting in order to close the door behind him for privacy. He climbs into bed, gathering Price in his arms.
He holds on tight, squeezing Price in the vain hope that he would be able to keep all of the little shards of the man together before he shattered completely.
"Shh, shh, 's alright, love, you dunnae need to scream for me, 'm right here. I'm real, this is real."
Price weeps. Soap rocks him.
Price screams. Soap holds him.
Price blubbers something hardly distinguishable as a sentence. Soap shushes him and kisses the top of his greasy hair.
"We're alright. Everyone's alright. This is real."
Price's fingers feel tingly, like he had just been shocked at the fingertips.
He can feel Soap rocking them both, but he can't feel it at the same time. He feels like he's floating on air, body waving with the wind that didn't exist. He doesn't know where he is anymore.
The following morning is just as much of a blur as the night.
Gaz is there. And Ghost. He thought they were gone. Kate is there, too, at some point to hug him. The hug is warm-- he thinks it is. He hopes it is.
He's been so cold lately.
But there is a mission, Price knows that his team needs him just as much as he needs them. He won't fail them.
-- -- --
"What the hell's this?"
"The crossroads." Price spits, wanting nothing more than to put a bullet between the bald bastard's eyes. Shepherd. The traitor. The man who killed... no, no he hasn't. Ghost is here. But he's just as angry.
"A choice."
"Do I have one?"
"No."
Price watches the interaction in silence, trigger finger itching to the point of burning.
"... and I'd bet they'd be..."
"Well, they'd be all ears. Wouldn't they, eh?"
Shepherd. Farah. Back to Shepherd. Gaz. Soap--
"'Keep the prisoner focused on their own self-preservation and eventually they will break'."
Price can't help but smile. It's a brittle and sarcastic thing. His hands burn-- part cold. Part wanting to strangle the bastard out until the light dimmed from his eyes.
"Good to see you remembered your training, eh... General."
"You screw me on this, John... And you'll be sorry you kept me alive..."
Did he think himself safe? Ha. Shepherd would die one day soon-- and Price would take great pleasure in it being himself when the time comes.
"Let's move--"
He turns to walk away, stiffening when his wrist is grabbed. He whirls, throwing a punch--
Which is quickly caught by MacTavish.
"Easy, love. Sorry, you were in your own world there."
"What..." Gone is the crunch of snow, the long white plains of white.
Everything is difficult to see and MacTavish's face becomes blurry. The sob that falls from his lips is wet and desperate and confused. Knees can no longer hold his weight and he would have fallen to the floor had MacTavish not been there to catch him, gathering him up in his arms.
"Easy, easy, love... Easy, you're alright."
"I don't know what's happening anymore." Price cries-- nothing is linear. Nothing makes sense. What was happening to him?
"What do you mean, lamb?"
"Nothing feels real-- I don't know what is real. I'm so-- I'm so confused--"
"Hey, hey, 's alright love." A calloused hand cradles the back of his neck, forcing his face into a warm and broad shoulder. "This is real. I'm real. This is real."
More tears soak into MacTavish's shirt.
"That's what the other you said."
MacTavish holds him tighter and Price regrets talking.
The next morning comes-- is it morning? Price doesn't even know what day it is. What year it is. The scar on MacTavish's face keeps flickering-- his vision splintering in the corners. He misses sleeping.
"You know that no matter what happens," MacTavish starts after several minutes of silence.
"No matter what happens, don't forget: I love you."
No matter what Price does. No matter what he says. No matter how crazy he might seem-- MacTavish will always love him. They've never said those words to one another before. Never needed to. But it makes Price feel even more raw than he is.
He opens his mouth.
"--I don't forget anything."
Heat and the loud blast of jets taking off and landing. Price's eyes are still wet. His feet are already carrying him towards his sergeant.
"Gaz."
-- -- --
"It's over, John... We nailed that bastard to hell and gone."
"Yeah, that's what we said about your little shadow, Graves, yeah?"
"Makarov's dead, Cap'n. Don't let him live inside your head. Eagle out."
"Shepherd only sees what he wants."
"His name on a win... Another medal on his chest--"
Smoldering sand replaced with brick and mortar.
"-- What do you see?"
"Bugger all, mate. Looks like Makarov's late for his own funeral."
"Sit tight until we can get a clean shot. Then you can put as many rounds on him as you like."
"It'll only take one."
Price can't help but grin.
-- -- --
"-- move your ass!"
Yuri comes trundling in and Price feels a wave of rage and disorientation. The snow is gone from underneath his boots, replaced by creaking old wooden floorboards. Snow? What was he talking about? There wasn't snow. There was never snow, it was desert. No... No, where was he?
"... Price... Yuri..."
Price's eyes snap down. There's blood on his hands. MacTavish's blood. No. No-- MacTavish. No, not him. Not MacTavish. Please-- not him. Anyone but him.
"Not now, Soap. Just rest. Get a medic! C'mon, stay with me, sunshine!"
"Price..." Wheezed breaths from collapsed lungs.
"You... need to know..."
Price is pulled forwards and he helplessly leans in until he can feel MacTavish's breath on his ear.
"Makarov... knows... Yuri..."
A final breath and MacTavish falls still.
"Oh, no, no, no no no! SOAP! NO, NO! NO! SOAP--"
"-- said we cut together-- on '3'-- copy?"
Wood.
Stone.
Wood.
Train tracks.
Metal.
Wood.
A dead body on a table.
A dead body on stone.
Blood dripping on wood.
Blood spreading out on the ground.
Blood.
Blood.
Red.
Red.
Re--
Green...? Gas...
Ash?
"He was the best of us."
"-- ashes to ashes--"
"The toughest."
"--dust to dust--"
"He'd have fought the world bare-handed."
"Who dares wins... Sleep easy, soldier."
Sleep easy, MacTavish.
Soap.
MacTavish.
Johnny.
John.
Wasn't he supposed to be John?
"Rest in peace, Johnny."
"Goodbye, Captain Price."
A body hung by a cord. Was it his? No... Whose, then? Roach? Who was Roach? Soap? MacTavish? Were they the same?
Something tells him he needs a cigar. Who was he to disobey? He strikes his lighter with bloodied and trembling hands.
A spark-- like the sunrise. Snuffed.
Again.
A spark-- like sunshine. Snuffed.
Again.
A spark-- nicotine filling battered lungs. He toys with the pistol he still somehow managed to keep hold of, staring at the metal, feeling the warmth of it in his hand. One bullet. It'll only take one.
That's what his sunshine said.
Only one.
He raises the pistol, presses it to his temple-- closes his eyes.
Pulls the trigger.
And opens his eyes to the grey wall of his office. His hearing returns in short bursts, and then all in once.
"Price? Fucking hell-- Price, put down the gun!"
Gaz...?
"John, talk to us--"
Ghost...?
"Price... Price, it's okay."
MacTavish.
No-- Soap. Johnny.
At the doorway are his boys, all pale and pleading. They close in on him and he stares. Stares as they come closer. He watches the rise and fall of their chests. Alive. Breathing.
He almost pulls the trigger again-- but thinks better of it. Numb fingers let it drop to the floor and the wail that he lets out is heard almost throughout the base, followed by the most anguished cry that anybody had ever heard him make.
His boys surround him-- hold him.
Even as he drools, even as snot drips down his face and soaks into his beard, they don't move. They're steady-- his shields. His sunshine. His moon. His star.
-- -- --
Kate threatens him with early retirement the moment she enters the hospital room. She's unkempt, clothes rumpled.
She'd come here in a hurry when she had heard what had happened, dropping everything and pulling any strings she could to make sure she could touch down on base within the day. Price knew her well enough.
"John Price, don't you ever scare me like that again." She hisses into his ear as she hugs him.
Price can feel its warmth. Her warmth. It's nice.
His boys are waiting outside, ushered out just for a few minutes for privacy. They haven't left his side since they found him with his gun to his head. Poor Soap had taken it the worst. Barely even recovered from a shot to the head, and now he had his Captain to worry about.
"Don't. I can see what you're thinking, John, stop it." Kate flicks his forehead-- and Price laughs more than he has in what feels like a lifetime.
The drug tests come back positive. The potency has been diluted now, naturally flushing out of his system.
The doctor explains what had happened but he barely listens to them where he's curled up against Soap's side, eyes closed and face pressed into the Scot's neck. He hears bits and pieces of the conversation but he knows his boys are listening so he doesn't have to, but some words catch his attention.
Soap kisses the top of Price's head and he hums, settling again to go to sleep.
It takes another two weeks before he's deemed fit to be discharged under the strict orders to take it easy.
He's never left alone-- not even for a single second. Even bathroom visits become a communal thing. He doesn't mind too much. He's standing outside base, cigar half forgotten between his fingers.
Someone calls his name and he turns to see MacTavish walking up to him.
He blinks.
It's Soap again, the man leaning his bandaged head onto his Captain's shoulder as he asks if he's alright. Price smiles-- a small and brittle thing, but genuine.
Words: 1,950
Warnings: NSFW, Smut, Dom/Sub Undertones, Choking, Possessive Behavior
Ships: GhostPrice - Dom/Top Ghost, Sub/Bottom Price
Summary: Ghost watches Price goes down in the heli during the Ghost Team mission and assumes the worst. He finds his Captain alive, of course, but has to remind him that he's not allowed to die. Not while Ghost has a say in it.
A/N: Originally had this in bs.ky but decided to upload it onto here-- I will eventually also be posting it on AO3!
Original Thread.
PriceGhost but they’ve been sleeping together ‘No strings attached’ for years— they both love each other a lot but admitting it would mean that there ARE strings attached.
What they have going at the moment works just fine, the last thing they need is to throw a spanner in the works.
Until the Ghost Team mission.
And Ghost has to watch and listen as Price goes down in that helicopter, unable to do anything to stop it. He goes to find the crash as soon as he's able, leaving Rudy & Soap to deal with Graves because Ghost knows he won't be any help until he knows his Cap is okay.
He gets there and, lo and behold, the stubborn old man is very much alive and cursing up a storm as he drags the unconscious pilot out of the cockpit and away from the smoldering wreckage of the heli.
Price, miraculously, is fine. A few bumps and bruises, nothing he can't handle.
Price is okay-- but Ghost isn't. There's something primal growing in him when he stalks towards the older man, eyes set like a predator on its prey.
Price's head snaps up when he hears him approach, though his shoulders relaxing marginally when he sees who it is.
"Help me with the pilot."
Is the first thing out of Price's mouth and Ghost only grunts, grabbing the back of the unconscious Vaqueros' shirt and rudely dragging him several feet away from the heli. Blessedly, the flames are already dying out on the wreck so it'll likely stay safe but it's better to be cautious than sorry.
"You didn't have to come 'n get me." Price snorts and Ghost has to remain silent for several seconds as his fractured thoughts try and piece themselves together. He's relieved to see his Captain alive and uninjured, of course, but part of him was very much preparing for the worst.
A charred corpse amongst the wreckage, bone protruding out of the flesh of his neck. Price could have died in that crash. Ghost became close to losing one of the few things in this world that he had left that still reminded him that somewhere inside his chest cavity was the remnants of Simon Riley.
There's a waft of cigar smoke
"Ghost." Price murmurs, eyes catching his. "You still with me?"
Brown meets blue and Ghost surges forward. He slaps the cigar out of Price's hand, ignores the way he's cursed at and seizes Price's wrists in one hand, his other yanking Price's mask from his face.
"Simon--" Price barks, hair fluffy and wild from being under the mask for so long. He's the most beautiful creature Ghost has ever seen. He throws the blasted mask to the ground, his own following half a second later. Price is still cursing him out, telling him to calm the fuck down– Ghost captures Price's lips in a kiss. It's dry, frankly unpleasant, but it's desperate and wanting and everything the manc needs in this moment. Price senses it too because he lets it happen instead of pushing his Lieutenant away to scold him for the loss of one of his best cigars.
The ones Price has on him and only smokes after a close call like this one. Ghost doesn't care. Doesn't care as he breaks the kiss to drag his lips feverishly across Price's jaw, his throat.
"Simon." His name again. A warning. This was neither the time nor the place. Ghost doesn't fucking care.
He needs this. Needs the contact. Needs Price. Needs to feel his Captain's heartbeat in tandem with his own. They're far enough away from the fighting that there shouldn't be a chance for anyone to sneak up on them. There's the case of the unconscious pilot on the ground.
Their breathing is regular and even-- nothing to worry about. If it is, they can worry about it later. But right now, they can sleep off the worst of whatever headache they'll likely have later. He leaves them with their head propped up on their bag a short distance away.
Ghost backs them up until Price's back hits the wall of a nearvy building they were using as cover. The Captain opens his mouth to argue again, but Ghost is faster, cutting him off with his tongue breaching his mouth. The kiss is deeper-- filthier.
It's all teeth and tongue and Ghost makes sure to draw blood when he bites down on Price's lip. "Fuck sake, Ghost--" Price has the audacity to act like he as any control whatsoever and pulls away. Ghost growls and tangles a hand in brown hair, curling his fingers between strands and pulling.
He takes advantage of the gasp of pain, smothering any other sound with his own mouth. Their tongues tangle together and a low groan forms between them. Ghost doesn't know who made it. He wants to hear it again. The grip he has on Price's hair is bound to be painful and he knows a few strands have come loose in his palm. Good. He breaks the kiss himself this time, snarling at Price to stay right where he is, slack jawed and weak at the knees, eyes blown wide with arousal. Simon kneels between Price's legs, hands working quickly-- first the belt, then the zipper,
Price's trousers and boxers are only pulled down past his thighs when Simon lifts a thigh over his shoulder, hands pawing at the fat globes of Price's ass. He uses his thumbs to part the man's cheeks so he can stare directly at his Captain's hole. He gets a smack to the back of his head for his gall.
He roughly shoves Price's hips so his back hits the wall, pinned in place. Part of him knows this is far from appropriate. Far from anything they've ever done together. They've fucked, sure, they've slept together more times than he can count, but it was always in the safety of base.
Behind the double locked door of his room or Price's. Never out in the open-- never so vulnerable. But Ghost would never forgive himself if he didn't take what was his here and now. Any other complaint Price may have had is lost when Ghost's gathers saliva on his tongue and /spits/.
"Did you just spit on me--?!" Price barks but Ghost can see how his cock twitches with arousal. He's enjoying it more than his Lieutenant is. Dirty old man. Ghost watches, enraptured, as his spit slides down the crack of Price's crack and then leans in, trailing his tongue from where its dripped
and back up to his hole. He tastes like sweat, smells like the same. It's the best combination as Ghost feasts on the man like they aren't currently in an active warzone. Price's hands find his hair, tangling into it just as roughly as Ghost had earlier. He eats him out like he's being paid to,
barely even breathing between each suck and swipe of his tongue. He's rewarded by Price grinding on his face when he nips on his inner cheek and then sucks on his rim. He must look a state, spittle dripping down his chin and mouthing at his superior's cock, taint and hole.
When Ghost is sure Price is prepared enough to his liking, he pulls away with a reluctant groan, spitting on his hole one more time for good measure.
"Turn around." He growls, voice low and harsh. He groans a second time in approval when Price doesn't even try to argue anymore.
The older man plants his hands on the wall, juts his backside out like a paid whore. Simon almost wolf whistles. He'd gave paid a pretty penny for a one as pretty as Price is like this. There's far less preparation this time around and while Simon internally reminds himself to be careful,
it's Ghost that reminds him that they're on a time limit. He unbuckles his trousers, opening his zip just enough to free his thick cock. He spits in his palm, slicking his length up before he lines it up with Price's hole and sinks in. He doesn't stop to let the other man adjust,
just pushes his hips forward, forward, forward until his hips meet Price's arse. Doesn't even give pause as he pulls out-- and slams back in. The pace he sets is brutal and animalistic, uncaring of either of needs. Its purpose is to just feel. The drag of his cock, the way Price flutters around him.
Ghost starts talking before his brain can even register what his mouth is saying.
"You're not allowed to do that," he growls between thrusts, ignoring the way Price cries out and arches into him. "The only way you're gonna die is if I fucking do it myself. Do you understand?"
Price's head moves in some resemblance of a nod but it's not good enough for Ghost. He snarls, his hand trailing up to grab Price's throat, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his neck. But he doesn't loosen the hold. Not even when the skin around his fingers grows red.
nor when Price starts choking as his air supply is cut off. Simon only tightens his hold even more, mind focused only on proving his point to the both of them. He uses each thrust of his hips to count the seconds as they pass by. He knows how long Price can hold his breath for.
Knows his limits. He careens the older man towards them at speed. It's only when Price's face is tinging on purple and he can feel a tapping on his arm that he loosens the grip so Price can breathe again. Rough and ragged gasps, broken only by harsh coughing and a strangled 'fucking hell'.
Ghost leaves his hand where it is-- uses it to serve as a reminder.
“See? Only I can do that. Only I’m fucking allowed to do that. Not some fucking helicopter crash. Because the only one who’s gonna kill John Price is Simon fucking Riley.”
Neither of them last long after that.
Price cums seconds later, Ghost peaking a few thrusts later. He spills inside his Captain, rolling into him and thrusting shallowly to keep every last drop inside.
"Don't waste it." he warns, purring in satisfaction as he pulls out. He gets them both dressed quickly, pulling up Price's trousers and buckling his belt after tucking himself back in. Ghost doesn't even react when Price's legs turn to jelly, just silently lowers his Captain to the floor and props him up against the wall, next to the dripping stain of his seed on cracked paint. They catch their breaths in silence.
The pilot is coming round a few feet away from them, groaning as they slowly regain consciousness. Neither men move to help them just yet. Instead, Price does something that he's never done before in the 2+ years they've been sleeping together. He rests his head on Ghost's shoulder.
Ghost doesn't push him off. If anything, he goes stiff and stares at the smoldering wreckage of the heli that he thought had claimed Price's life.
"... I love you too, Simon." John says, in the very same tone as earlier when Simon had taken his mask off for the first time in... how long?
John says it like he doesn't expect Simon to say it back and the manc is grateful for it. His hand finds John's and he interlaces their fingers and squeezes and hopes that that's enough to convey how he feels.
hey hey! just realised its been a long time since i was really active at all on here;;
I actually have gotten back into writing for COD again recently, and I'm hoping to start cross posting on here. For now though, I'm on bs.ky! come and find me there <3
In case people don't know , unfortunately , the head mod made this post to the @sunshine-soap-zine accounts on twitter and Instagram with an update. I'm so sorry to anyone who purchased this zine. These are screenshotted from their twitter:
I want to say explicitly I WAS NOT INVOLVED IN THE PRODUCTION OF THIS ZINE. I was only an art contributor, and I'm posting this just because it hasn't been posted about yet here on Tumblr, and buyers and contributors alike deserve to know.
These posts were made by the head mod Micky for this zine. I do not support a witch hunt or sending them hate, but none of the other mods knew about this, they had no idea this was going on or played any role in this.
Such heartbreaking news. I'm so sorry to anyone who purchased from this zine. I feel so bad for all the people who worked so hard and passionately on this fandom project. Them and buyers alike were taken advantage of by this head mod, and lied to.
And yes, this mod also lied about donating the money to charity. No money has been donated to charity on behalf of this charity zine.
I contributed a piece of page art, and the cover to this zine, which I'll now be sharing on my own time in the coming days. 💔
a small preview of my piece for the SFW @sunshine-soap-zine ! it's been such an honour and a pleasure being part of this wonderful project and I can't wait until we get to share it all with you!
find zine links here <3
Here's Chapter 5 for @pricegazweek week!
Chapters: 5/7
Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/John Price
Characters: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price (Call of Duty)
Additional Tags: Presumed Dead, Blood and Injury
I know I'm a few days behind, but I should hopefully finish the remaining two chapters by Wednesday <3
“I expected... more from not just one– but two SAS soldiers.”
“Undo these ropes and I’ll show you exactly what we’re capable of.” Price spat, very much a spitting image of a large, and furious, animal. Gaz, who was kneeling beside him, remained quiet– but his eyes burned with a rage that matched that of his captain’s.
Poor intel was part of the job, gaps missing in the portfolio, sending soldiers in blind– shit like that happened. It was Price’s entire job to adapt to any situation thrown at him– to change plans at the drop of a hat. To keep his men safe. There was only so much he could do when intel was not only flawed, but falsified completely. And Price had led himself and Gaz right into danger with little to no backup.
‘Just routine.’ he had said to Ghost after his Lieutenant had asked if he needed him and Soap on standby. ‘We should manage just fine.’
‘Something doesn’t feel right about this, Price.’ Ghost had said as he poured over the copious amount of files and reports– months worth of investigations and surveillance.
‘Intel’s from one of Laswell’s agents. I trust her judgement.’ SImon had looked like he wanted to say something more but Price had brushed it off. If it was important, then the mancunian would have spoken his mind without a second thought. He should have pushed him– pressed him to speak his mind because then maybe he and Gaz wouldn’t be stuck in this situation– at the mercy of some greed driven arms dealer. Even as they were climbing into Nik’s heli, Simon had that look on his face– the one that said something wasn’t quite right. Why didn’t Price ask? He had never had a problem listening to his men before, appreciating any input anybody had– he wouldn’t have shut Simon down. He would have brought all four of them on the mission if the Lieutenant was that worried.
Although, that may have meant all of the team would have been captured instead of just half. Hindsight was a petty bitch and, if Price got out of this alive, he would have to have a stern word with her. And maybe Laswell, too, to watch her agents a little more closely. He flexed his hands, tensing to feel the knot wrapping around his wrists. If given enough time, some leeway, and a little bit of luck, he might be able to shimmy his way out of them. He just needed to keep Sergey talking. It must have been the bastard’s first capture, because the idiot had left most of their gear on in his haste to get them tied up and kneeling. Amateur.
“What do you want from us?” Gaz asked and Price’s eyes flicked over to his lover, worry flashing for only a moment before he schooled his expression back into a mask of fury.
“Information.” The arms dealer, Sergey, said. Sergey was a sickly looking man– wiry yet fat in all the wrong places that made his body bulge in strange parts. He wore an ill fitting suit that was clearly too small for his size but also somehow managed to look too big at the same time. In all honesty, he looked exactly what one would expect when thinking of what an arm’s dealer would look like– right down to the untrustworthy moustache. Not to mention he looked like he was almost constantly constipated and, from the way he was holding the pistol in his shaking hand, he had never wielded a weapon before. Ironic– a man who had never sampled his open products that he was illegally shipping off to the highest bidder. Not one to get his hands dirty– but more than happy to dip them in blood.
“What sort of information?” Price spoke up before Gaz could open his mouth back up. Attention on me, Price’s face screamed. Don’t look at him. Look at me. The more attention on him, the less likely that Gaz was going to be put in harm's way. Price could deal well enough with being tortured and interrogated– could handle it better than the sergeant.
“Just a little bit of information, that’s all I want, and I’ll be happy to let you both go. And, depending on what you give, you may walk away with heavier pockets.”
Of course a man like Sergey would offer a bribe in exchange for information and freedom. Price expected that from someone who had never been told ‘no’ his entire life. If Price had taken every bribe thrown his way in the past 20 odd years, he would have been able to afford a private island with a complimentary private jet. Maybe one of those fancy yachts, too, so he could go out fishing in the ocean. With the amount of money he could have got, he’d be buying private islands for each individual fish he caught.
“Cold of you to assume we’ll give you anything.” He continued slowly, clenching his hands into fists and straining subtly to fight the rope. His wrists would be red raw by the end of the night but if it got them out alive he’d take a bullet too for good measure. Just a little more…
“I imagine that you will. I can be quite… persuasive.” Gaz snorted to Price’s left and he sent a scathing look his sergeant's way. Antagonising the man holding the gun was the last thing that they wanted right now.
“And if we don’t?”
“I kill you both.” An emphasis on his words with a point of his pistol to Price. He was shaking, the metal rattling from his trembling. Jesus wept– had he ever even held a gun before?
There– he could feel the ropes loosen ever so slightly, just enough for him to start sliding his thumb through. It would be uncomfortable and quite painful, but it was enough.
“Then you get nothing.” Panted through clenched teeth, masking his pain for anger. “Go on, then, shoot me.”
“No. I still need you, Captain. Your friend, however…”
Before anyone could do so much as blink, the gun moved to point at Gaz in all its shaking glory. Two clear shots rang out– followed by a body hitting the ground. Price’s heart kicked into gear– blood rushing in his ears, heart hammering against his ribs as if trying to jump out of his very chest in order to get to–
Gaz.
Price stared at the motionless sergeant, eyes wide and every instinct in his body screaming at him to move– to check on him. A small puddle of blood was already forming underneath Gaz’s body. No. No, no, no, no–
Couldn't get the usual link to work, but here's Chapter 4 for @pricegazweek !
Chapters: 4/7
Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/John Price
Characters: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price (Call of Duty)
Additional Tags: Non-Sexual Intimacy, Bathing/Washing
Personally, this one is my favourite chapter! As usual, preview below!
The mission was quite possibly one of the easiest that Gaz had been assigned to in quite some time (in writing, anyhow), Kate giving the order to take in a HVT alive and relatively uninjured, tie him up and leave him in a designated place for other agents to retrieve them. Easy enough– until the HVT had a tipoff just before Gaz and Price could nab him. Hours of Price staking out on a roof in the rain while Gaz was left watching the target in a nearby bar, completely and utterly ruined in seconds. Price gave Gaz the order to go after him, alongside the reassurance that he would catch up when he got down to the ground floor.
As Gaz ran, eventually he found himself at the nearby canals fighting rain, the wind and whatever overgrown shrubbery creeped onto the slippery path and cursing the dreadful weather for making such a simple mission all the more harder. The distance between him and the target was getting bigger– the soldier being unfamiliar with the narrow paths and low hanging stone bridges and all but running head first into them.
“Shit– where are you, Captain?” He huffed into his radio, squinting at the blur ahead of him. Where the hell was Price?! “He’s gonna get away!”
“No he’s fucking not.” Was Price’s crackled cryptic reply– then Gaz heard the sound of hard footsteps, branches snapping and Price appeared like a bat out of hell from the bushes next to the target, tackling them–
And sending them both plunging into the dark canal waters.
Gaz barked out a curse, coming to a skidding halt where he saw Price disappear. How deep was the canal? Shit, shit, he was sure it had said somewhere in the brief but he couldn’t remember because he didn’t think it was all that important at the time– he didn’t think they’d be going for a bloody swim in it! Not to mention that Price went under with all of his gear– if the water was indeed as deep as Gaz feared, the Captain would be getting weighed down by not only that, but the target.
“Fuck, fuck, shit, bollocks–”
Just as he was unzipping his jacket, a head broke the surface. Price gasped, shaking his head and coughing roughly. He took a deep breath and then dipped back down into the water, disappearing for only a few seconds before resurfacing with the HVT– holding them by the back of their shirt like a scruffed pup. Gaz watched, relieved, as the older man paddled towards him and wordlessly offered out the, understandably dazed, target. He knelt down, hauling them onto the path with a growl of warning in case they had any ideas. Confident he’d put the fear of god into them, he reached out to Price– who took hold of his arm to use as leverage to heave himself from the water.
“You were the one who decided to tackle them into the water like you were in the rugby league.”
“Got them to stop, didn’t it?”
He watched as Price knelt down, scruffing the target again and walking in the direction of the drop off point. Gaz followed behind, ensuring they didn’t try and escape again. Once the target was making good friends with the walls of a shipping container, where he would stay until Kaste’s agents came to pick him up in the morning, the pair made their own way to the assigned safehouse for the night.
A collection of oneshots based off of the prompts for PriceGaz week.
Chapters: 3/7
Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/John Price
Characters: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price (Call of Duty)
Additional Tags: Bottom John Price (Call of Duty), Top Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Chapter 3! Obligatory smut chapter despite the fact I cannot write smut :’) naturally, NSFW warning!
If someone asked Kyle Garrick 10 years ago what his favourite colour was, chances were he would say red. The park in his nearby park always housed the most beautiful flowers that volunteers tended to religiously. Chrysanthemums, camellia, bleeding hearts, roses, tulips, poppies– always changing depending on the season but always returning with that beautiful and rich deep red that he so adored. If someone asked Kyle 5 years ago what his favourite colour was, the answer would probably have been the same– albeit the flowers he had enjoyed half a decade prior had been trampled and destroyed some years ago, ransacked and ruined to the point the flowerbeds were paved over with tarmac. Yes, his favourite colour was still red. Or, more specifically, the shade of red that comes with the sunrise, bleeding across the sky before exploding into golden hues and banishing any lingering darkness.
Although should someone ask him the same question around 18 months ago, his face would soften and an affectionate smile would dance in the corners of his lips, the edges twitching upwards. Blue, he would say, and refuse to elaborate.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” John asked, peering out from under his arm that he had thrown over his face. Kyle had to stop for a moment, straightening and sitting back on his haunches to get a proper view of the man underneath him, reverently running his hands down his chest, biting back a moan at the feeling of his thick hair that littered almost every inch of his body.
John was absolutely fucking stunning like this. Laid out across their bed, skin flushed pink and glistening with a thin layer of sweat. His hair was a mess from how much Kyle had been grabbing at it and pulling it, forcing the older man to bare his neck for him for easier access. The flesh around John’s neck and jaw was littered with bites and bruises where Kyle had eagerly attacked the expanse of previously unmarked flesh. But despite the delectable feast laid out before him, he couldn’t stop trailing his gaze back up to meet his lover’s. It was no secret that Kyle loved John's eyes, notably the colour, but also how expressive they could be.
A collection of oneshots based off of the prompts for PriceGaz week.
Chapters: 2/7
Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/John Price
Characters: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price (Call of Duty), John "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Nikolai (Call of Duty: Modern Warfare)
Additional Tags: Misunderstandings, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Major Character Injury, Blood and Injury, Hurt John Price (Call of Duty)
Chapter 2 for @pricegazweek, time to work on 3! Preview below <3
“And what’s this, sergeant?” Price didn’t look up when a small stack of papers were slapped onto his desk like a wet rag and that only really ignited the anger that Gaz had been feeling for the past few weeks.
“My transfer request.” He gritted out through clenched teeth, posture guarded once he folded his arms across his chest. That seemed to snap Price out of whatever work he was doing. The captain lowered his pen, finally giving Gaz his full attention.
“Transfer?” Price laughed disbelievingly, “What do you mean ‘transfer’?”
“Exactly as I said, captain.”
He and Price had been struggling to see eye to eye lately. Whilst, yes, they had grown close since Price had taken (or rather, stole) him back in London, Gaz had always felt that he was constantly being held at an arm’s reach.
“And what brought this on?” An arched eyebrow.
“Call it an issue with leadership.”
Price’s face twitched and Gaz knew that he was wanting to say something in retaliation but didn’t want to make the situation even more worse than it already was. He tapped his fingers against the wooden desk, jaw clenched tight. Frankly, it was more than just an issue of leadership. Price was simply not the person that Gaz thought he was. Stupid as he was, Gaz had gone and fallen for the man. No, that wasn’t the problem. He would have been able to deal with that sort of rejection (he was an adult, after all)-- no, it was Price’s behaviour.
From a young age, Gaz knew that he wasn’t straight. He never flaunted his sexuality, he never wanted to be defined solely because of who he was attracted to, but he was never ashamed of it. If he thought someone was attractive, 9 times out of 10, he would tell them as such. Whether or not something happened from there was almost always a matter of the other party’s decision. Admitting that sort of thing to Price, though, was something else entirely. The man was his Captain, no less, and Gaz had never heard anything about a wife, partner, husband or otherwise at home. He didn’t have a ring– hell, he barely talked much about what he did outside of work. Family was always a topic he avoided like the plague– which wasn’t all that odd considering all of the 141 did the same. Gaz found out pretty quickly that at least half of their already small enough team had had poor experiences growing up and talked very little about, which was fine by him.
Not knowing where Price was on the relationship side of things, though, made Gaz curious. Price was only a few years older than he was, but he had that older and rugged charm to him despite only being 38. It would be even more shocking if he was single. He sported a divorced dad sort of vibe too, which Gaz didn’t mind. He loved kids.
For the sake of trying his luck, Gaz started flirting with Price. If he was in a relationship and stated as such, Gaz was more than happy to back off– the same would be said if it turned out that Price was straight (though Kate’s laughter echoing in his ears after he had asked still echoed in his ears). He went in hoping for the best, preparing for the worst. The worst being mild rejection.
The worst not being Price’s near disgusted face when he finally clocked Gaz’s advancements. Price being straight was one thing– what Gaz couldn’t even begin to accept was the captain being a raging fucking homophobe. At first he had convinced himself that it was a one off, that maybe Price was having a bad day. So he tried again and was met with the same reaction– disgust and an almost constipated look. With evidence like that, Gaz couldn’t help but believe it. Captain John Price was a homophobe– but had a best friend who was openly a lesbian and married to a woman. It didn’t make an ounce of sense– especially when Price and Kate had talked about how the man had attended said wedding! It made the hurt ache more when Price started distancing himself from the sergeant– remaining professional, but holding him at an ever longer reach than before. That had been four weeks ago, and Gaz had had enough.
“Does Kate know?” Price said, briefly looking down at the paperwork and then looking back up to meet Gaz’s eyes.
“I’ll be giving these to her after you sign them.”
“Bold of you to assume I will.”
“Doesn’t have to be yours, sir, I’m asking more out of courtesy.”
A collection of oneshots based off of the prompts for PriceGaz week.
Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/John Price
Characters: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price (Call of Duty), Kate Laswell
Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, slight imposter syndrome, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm
My first chapter for @pricegazweek is up! So excited to be taking part in this <3 Preview below!
John Price had smoked for as long as he could remember. He remembered as a boy, sneaking into his father’s study and swiping a couple of his cigars from the sizable stash– just enough so the man wouldn’t notice a few wayward smokes. It’s not as though he was home enough to notice anything, anyhow, and John’s mother almost never went into the study if she could help it– lest she get a black eye for her trouble. He took as many cigars as he dared, and a couple of matches that were spread across the table, shoving his prizes deep into his pockets and sneaking back out of the room. He had barrelled down the stairs quickly after, shouting to his mother that he was going out. She may have replied but John didn’t hear it. Or maybe she didn’t reply at all from her place day drinking at the dining table. He didn’t care either way and neither did she. John doubted she’d notice if he didn’t come back. He’d made his way to the park and into the nearby woodlands. Dense brush and overgrown foliage was enough to deter most– a perfect escape for him. A smattering of flowers were nestled between the blades of grass– wild poppies, dandelions and buttercups. A large oak tree stood in the middle of the greenery– decades old and untouched by any saw. He rounded to the back of it, finding the planks that he had nailed into the side a few summers ago to help him climb the thick bark.
He scaled the tree, ensuring he was careful as he climbed. The summer before, he made the mistake of going up to his hiding spot in the middle of the rain and had slipped just before he reached the top. The crunching sound when he landed still echoed in his ears, but not as much as his parents screaming at him when they took him to the hospital.
Once he reached the top, he grabbed onto the rope that he had tied around one of the thicker branches, using it as leverage to haul himself the last step. John collapsed into the bark where the branches all met, leaving a surprisingly comfortable seating for him. He had grown since last year, and he was worried that he wouldn’t fit in his little private space much longer the more he grew. He didn’t want to find a new hiding place– not when this one acted almost like a friend.
He reached into his pocket, digging around until he found one of the cigars and a single matchstick. He gave it a cautious sniff, wrinkling his nose at the smell. The first drag of the cigar was the worst– he coughed as he inhaled, resulting in him hacking for several seconds until he could breathe again. The second was no better than the first– by the fifth he had more or less gotten the hang of inhaling without choking. He camped out in the tree even several hours after he had finished the cigar out of fear the smell would cling to his clothes.
He started stealing more cigars whenever he had the chance. Sometimes, Price wondered if his father had known all along, but quickly crushed the thought. He would have been beaten black and blue if the man had ever found out his only son had been pilfering his much loved supply of Cuban cigars. When he was younger, Price would question whether or not his father loved him less than his cigars. Once he was older, Price knew that that was a fact.
His father never found out any had gone missing in the first place. At least, not until John left for the army and brought half of the stash with him. He wished he was there to see the old bastard’s face, walking into his office and seeing his desk drawers left open and several cigars littering the floor, carelessly stomped on by John on his way out of the door.
Smoking became an outlet for him– a crutch that he started relying on. It was unhealthy, he knew it was, even more so the longer he served. Missions gone wrong– lost teammates, lost friends, too many close calls– missions where he should have died. Where he shouldn’t have been the one to walk away– not when there were better people, better soldiers who had so much more than him left to live for. When Price was 25, smoking became less of a bad habit and more of something that he hoped would kill him without him actively trying. Despite his desire to end his life, he had much rather do it serving his country than be discharged for mental health problems. If he was getting discharged from the army– it would be in a coffin painted in his country’s colours. It was only by chance his lungs remained intact for him to reach Captain, taking over the mantle from MacMillan after he retired.
Despite the mindset, he wouldn’t have called himself suicidal. No, there were others in worse mental states than he was– ones that went to therapy once, or even twice, a week. It’s not as though he was judging them for it– hell, he urged a lot of the soldiers he knew to seek professional help when they were struggling. It was just that John didn’t dare take his own advice lest he admit too much and end up sectioned. What would he even tell them, anyway? That he hoped that smoking would eventually kill him? That he’d get cancer? That he’d let the disease kill him slowly– make him feel every ounce of pain that he believed he deserved? Besides, he wasn’t attempting anything, meaning he couldn’t be suicidal– right? Of course not. Depressed, maybe, but not suicidal because he wasn’t actively attempting so that counted for something, right?
Not to mention that Kate must have at least suspected how he felt on the inside– she had known him long enough. Then again, if she had any inclination whatsoever, would she have gone out of her way to form the 141? Probably not. But she couldn’t deny that Price wasn’t entirely the same man that he was when Taskforce 141 was formed– in fact, he liked to think that he was a better man. The sheer idea of not having the team he had now was one he didn’t want to think too long nor hard about.
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