Spending his heat with two alphas was ill-advised. Spending his heat with a Captain who wants him dead when he isn't aroused and a pilot who'd kill him on behalf of said pilot if it came down to it was just moronic.
Getting pregnant as the founder of a private military company at his age is just idiocy at its finest.
Graves knows there are signs already. The subtle change in his scent, that milky undertone that sends heads turning his way if he's in a grocery store because he chose not to wear scent blockers. Feeling nauseated by red meat, despite his biggest joy in life being the break in his diet to demolish a fat cheeseburger. The night in which he ate an entire pack of sugar cookies and could have eaten at least six more.
He feels like a fool; he's been accused of acting such on various occasions, but never has he so wholeheartedly lived up to the name.
But he's a tactical man, and survival is typically useful, so he utilises his situation to the best of his ability and happens to accidentally stumble across one John Price and his partner on their own turf in the UK. Coincidentally, he left his scent blockers at home. Tragic how these things happen, really.
Nikolai looks both unfathomably fuckable and amused when he slips into a seat at their table in their apparent old-timey bar of choice. John's fist clenches on the table, and the man glares at him through steely, narrowed eyes.
If Graves could have recorded the look on their faces as realisation hit, he would have. The change in Nikolai's posture, from comfortably slouched in his chair to a straight back and shoulders. John's eyes widening, the flare of his nostrils as he takes in the change in his scent and the implications of it.
"Well, fellas, I think we have some talking to do."
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.
Every time one of the 141 bullies Graves for being the shortest, he starts talking about the advantages like the fact that Price can pick him up while they’re Fucking and suddenly the joke ain’t funny anymore
Price x Graves, Canon Universe, Not Canon Compliant/Pre-Canon. Restraints. Lemon.
When Price thinks about Graves, he doesn’t think about the man first. Sometimes, he’ll think about the figure the man cuts, the sharp-tongued leader of Shadow company, when he catches a glimpse of Graves with his men, a smattering of shrouded figures Price can’t keep an accurate count on but knows to keep Ghost close to heel all the same in case he devours one and slides seamlessly into the empty masked place. But that isn’t what dominates his thoughts as he stares down at the other man splayed across his desk, colour high in his cheeks and his arms tangled in his own ridiculously expensive dress shirt.
Price thinks of a lapcat, some wiry mouser coaxed into resplendence and now demands it of every being around him.
“What’s funny?” Graves asks, his eyes narrowing, a bat of his manicured claws. He spreads his legs wider, Price’s gaze dropping from his face to the offering in front of him, likely Graves’ plan all along. He’s achingly hard pressing against the seam of his tailored trousers, not quite soaking through the pale grey fabric and that feels like a challenge.
Price grins up at Graves, bypassing the swell of the other man’s cock in favour for his cigar, hastily stubbed out in the ashtray by Graves’ hip when the other man descended on him like a tropical storm, scrambling onto Price’s lap and getting tangled in his clothes in his own haste to strip. He plucks the lighter out of Graves’ pocket — engraved, because of course it fucking is — and lowers his face to the small flame. Graves looks a curious blend of furious, his lip curled and the sharp edge of a cutting remark glittering behind his teeth, and so turned on that he couldn’t walk straight if he tried.
Price blows out a plume of smoke, taps his tongue against the roof of his mouth to make a ring. “Boys are all going off base, guessing yours are too.” He’d seen his set off earlier, the offer to join them extended and denied as gently as he could bear. It would do them so good to spend some time stretching their wings away from his nest. “And then you’re here.”
He leans close to Graves, trailing blunted fingertips over the plane of his stomach, the faint red marks cresting over his hips, before he settles his palm over his cock, stroking over it roughly. Graves groans, his legs gone slack, barely fighting his self-made restraints anymore.
“All tied up with a bow for me.”
Graves doesn’t whine; it isn’t a sound woven into his being, but he grins slowly, his eyes dark and half-lidded. “Not all my boys hit the town.”
Price hooks his hands over Graves’ hips, pulling him closer with a yelp that breaks into a laugh, breathless, trailing on a groan as he grinds himself against Graves, letting him feel every inch. “I noticed.”
He leans down to tug on the tags around Graves’ neck, drawing the chain taut against his skin. The mark it leaves is faint, would be barely noticeable by morning, but the memory of it will linger. He continues, lowering his voice to a rumble, a few specks of ash falling from his cigar, “Guess you’ll have to put on a show for them then.”
