Simon can see the way you stiffen, the way your walls start slamming back up between you. His thumb presses down slightly harder against your pulse point where he holds your wrist, as if trying to ground you.
He leans in closer, towering over you, face so close his breath fans over your lips. "Use me."
It’s instinctual to tense, eyes fall to his lips as your noses brush against each other. “…I don’t know how.”
Simon's chest twists and constricts at the quiet words; coming from you it’s a confession, not just at the words themselves, but at the way you sound so small and scared in that moment. He reaches up his free hand to rest against the side of your face, thumb rubbing back and forth against your skin slowly; coaxing a timid animal to come out of hiding. “Use me.”
He can only stare when you look like that. Eyes so bright while you smile.
Captain John Price with a breeding kink this, Captain John Price with a breeding kink that.
What about his wife? What if his wife is the one who has the obsession?
‘Captain’ John Price
Triggers: Age gap(unspecified), breeding kink, manipulation, baby trapping(if you squint?), Slight NSFW (literally 2 sentences)
Captain John Price, age 37, who has never wanted a child in his life, never cared about getting into a relationship. The SAS is his whole focus. The Coalition is his career and purpose. His whole life is sacrifice and hardship; then he meets a younger woman who spins his world on head.
You and John married after a year together. He didn’t need more than a few months to know he wanted to put a ring on your finger, but figured he should take it slow. Do things right; slow, with poise and charm. Be a gentleman. The two of you agreed that no children would come of your relationship- despite him knowing your kinks. He’s busy; often deployed. “Wouldn’t be fair to you or the kid, love.”
That doesn’t stop you though. Soft, silky, smooth words, spilling over your tongue after your honeymoon of how frequent he’s gone; how you need someone there for you, how you don’t wanna be lonely. “One baby won’t be so hard to take care of by myself when you’re gone, John.” That pregnancy test pops up positive very soon after; and John does his best to be there for you throughout the pregnancy, and job be damned, he’s there for the labor. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, dove.”
Hormones are no joke though, fuck the doctor’s words, your baby needs a friend to grow up with, right? Smoothing John’s concerns over about his long deployments, “How hard could it be? One is easy enough. Thought you liked being a daddy?” You end up with Irish twins.
To John’s credit, he really did try to hold out for that third one. You mentioned going to the doctor to talk about birth control and John trusting his loving sweet wife, didn’t think she was capable of manipulation. He should’ve known better. You’re just as bad as him. That third pregnancy test pops up and he asks you “I thought you were on birth control?“ To which you reply “I decided against it I didn’t want to deal with the hormones while breast-feeding“.
With three under three, John made sure that you got on birth control. It lasts for about a year and then he decides that he wants a child this time; but he also wants to punish you for the last. To remind you of your manipulation- which he thinks was petty. If you really wanted a child that badly, love, you could’ve just taken it from him. So, he swaps your pills with sugar pills. Wants it to be a surprise to you whenever you end up carrying his fourth… That is until he catches you tossing a pill into the trash one morning.
“It’s not fair, dove.” He coos; his hand pressing your head into the sheets, the other grasping your hip tightly. Tilting your hip and arching your back almost impossibly as you moan and keen under him. “This one was supposed to be mine.” That’s when you know you’ve been caught.
The fourth is a year younger than their brothers, and his little girl. Captain John Price, a hardened man who, when he saw his little girl’s blue eyes decided it was time to retire.
His fifth was a total mistake. Both of you had decided that with a full house, you didn’t need anymore.
All I see is writing about Simon being craven like a dog. Ready to bite into flesh, leaving bruises, and carnal marks of his ownership and possession.
Or about how he’s so repressed by his traumas that he’s gentle and soft. That he swings to the extreme one way or another. As if the man would loose control in a situation where he truly feels comfortable, as if he isn’t the Ghost.
Calm, collected, trained. As if he isn’t cracking jokes during stressful missions. As if he isn’t just a man with some shit inside his head.
But what about Simon who does feel comfortable enough to relax? Not that the man would ever give up control over a single situation no matter the circumstance, he’s got it drilled into his head to be on guard. Never be caught where he can’t be in control. But what about when he feels relaxed enough around you to finally not have to have you pinned under him? When he feels comfortable enough to think about his own pleasure outside of “sex is good”? When he rests enough to let you top him, hips rolling lazily to match your pace as his fingers hold comfortably at your hip? Leaving red mark, yet no bruises? Not afraid to hurt you, but he can’t find himself to want to mark you. He’s burly and brutish at work, he doesn’t want to leave a mark on your skin. The same body he finds solace from violence in? It would be blasphemy to his belief.
No. He prefers the temporary darkening red that tints your hue, leaving sign enough that he has you for the time being. He doesn’t need darker shades than that, the strength it would take to be controlled and not actually hurt you would be difficult when he’s used to fighting for his life.
Besides, if he wanted to mark you permanently, he would give you a ring… and he just might.
Imagine being an American and having a kid with any one of the 141 men; and the baby watches Bluey. Some British/Scottish Australian American mixed accent…
Thinking of a fic for 141 COD based off this age old post.
Idea: “Bioweapon” gas exposed to the public during its testing, meant to cause radiation in the cells and produce a rapid cancer; but instead it “hyper charged” electrons in atoms of the affected people(s).
The hyper charge causing atoms to become “static” to their counterparts. Atoms causing electric charges their polars’.
Soulmates being shocked with electricity when they touch their soulmate leaving dark burns behind. Soul marks.
Really it all happened so fast. Him running to the chaos, civilians away from it.
The blast was relatively small in comparison to what it should’ve been. The bomb destroyed one building, the same one used as a lab; a parking garage, abandoned at that, but, it was still enough to cause panic to surrounding locals and tourists. It’s been like this for months. Small bombs, terrorist projects popping up around the world.
The 141 has been spread thin chasing the “experiments” down, but it’s been hard. It’s not just one organization; it’s multiple groups. Simon’s never been particularly good at science, and the height of his math skills is calculating the trajectory for a well placed bullet; but even he could see the appeal behind the mad scientist who sold a hypothesis on the dark web which kickstarted this shite.
“Polarized electrons and nuclei? (Hypothetical) Evolution of The Human Race and Advancement of Nature.”
That’s what Laswell read during the brief eight months ago. “They want to basically fry atoms in the air with nuclear radiation, and kickstart survival of the fittest to see what’ll happen.”
“So, mad scientists?” Price summed up with annoyance. Thumb drumming on the table as he leaned back in his chair.
“The hypothetical seems… Enlightenin’, ay?” Scottish brouge mocks. Voice grating as gum pops.
“Easy, Johnny.” Masked weight shifted in his chair, arms crossed; eyes glowered at the screen through balaclava. “We handle this like we handle the rest, aye?”
“Not exactly… It’s experimental right now.” Laswell gestures to the screen, click of the remote in hand; slide show flickering to the next page. Deleted and encrypted forums from illegal sites. “Intel managed to decode a majority, but compounds in the equations got scrubbed by the site’s moderator. We’ve got about half the equation on the board for bow, and it’s not pretty from what the Snoops gathered.” She glares at the formula on screen. “Basically, from what I was told, they charged the bombs with electricity by polarizing the nuclei before they split them. Kinda like forcing two magnets together until they shatter. Fortunately, because the shards after the explosion try to rotate and magnetize, we won’t see an explosion like world war two but it’s still pretty destructive.”
“Well, that’s assuring. Jus’ us against a clock then, no?” Gaz’s knee bounces; steady tap of heel dulls against the tile as his boot makes contact.
They found out later that the bombs were worse in other ways. The radiation had a larger area of effect; it started off with small reactions in people. Feelings of numbness in bodies, higher electrical conductivity that killed people with pacemakers and other assortments of medical devices… The bombs got more advanced with each “failure”; got more deadly… Then the narrative changed.
“Re: ‘Nuclear charged electrons and nuclei. Evolution of The Human Race and Advancement of Nature.’ What if we used 2 positive polars instead of 2 negative polars?”
Intel managed to scrub the site for the location of the new bomb, even though they didn’t get a time, it was still enough to deploy.
For some reason, his luck always seems to run out in the most inopportune moments; and his skin feels like it’s on fire as electricity chases up his veins… Shit.
They got there as the bomb had gone off. Landed not even 40 minutes prior, they’re lucky in all honesty that they didn’t make it into the garage; but that doesn’t stop the air that feels like bricks slamming through their chests, the impact after getting knocked off foot isn’t a new feeling… But the charged air is.
Thick, heavy, suffocating; it reminds him of Mexico, being buried alive- that’s not the jarring part… The electricity is; a dense charged fog that clouds around their feet in a dusty orange. A static shock with every ragged breath, every movement subtle or not. Slow electrocution, that’s what it feels like.
“Johnny?” Simon manages up to his knees, head tilted to glaze the Scotsman still laid out. He breathes despite the pain when the brunette groans, rolling onto his back.
“Aye, gona’ need ‘a pint aft’ this’, LT.” Soap mutters; breathing shallow and labored.
Price got the worst of it, always in lead. Gaz kneeling over him. “Broken, Cap’?”
“Not,” a huff, “yet, Sergeant.” He slowly sits up with help of the younger man.
“Never simple, ‘init?” Simon rumbles reaching his feet finally, head on a swivel; rumble, car alarms matching the ringing in his ears, civilians laid out. Some screaming, some silent; the consistency? Horror and shock, pain and fear. He huffs. “Orders, John?”
Deep breaths sound from the Captain as he catches air; trying to fuel his body past pain as he stands. Knee twisted no doubt by his limp, hand raising to his chest where his calloused hands grasp his radio. “Bravo Six to Watcher, do you copy? Over.”
“Watcher to Bravo Six, copy. Over.”
“Got a situation down ‘ere, Watcher. Timing was all off, bomb detonated. Over.”
A brief pause that Simon recognizes, no doubt Laswell cursing off comms.
“Copy, change objective. Aid and retreat. Clear site; sending EVAC. Over.”
“Copy. Over and out.” John nods. They have their orders; they organize and move.
It’s methodical. Swift. Local government doesn’t take long to send in guard and emergency personnel; code victims, organize, and aid.
Physical contact proves to be some disaster though after a few minutes of evacuation.
A shrill scream paired with a baritone cry; both dropping to ground where lightning seemingly struck between bodies… Then again, two men. Next an elderly couple who made it out alive on the sidewalk.
Blue. Purple. Gold. The light doesn’t discriminate, nor the order of choice to strike. It’s seemingly at random. Smell of burnt flesh, and angry scars…
“Bloody hell!” Price’s voice rings, dragging a body by vest away from a woman. Gaz, the first of the team to drop, out cold, but alive.
“Steamin’ Jesus!” Johnny, the closer of the two rushes to aid, med kit already out and open as his knees make contact with concrete. Torch in gloved hand checking the colored man’s eyes for dilation.
It’s enough to put pause on rescue. Everyone freezing in place as eight people almost simultaneously collapsed at first attempts to help.
Dark eyes scavenge for answer. The man and woman, the two men, the couple, gaz- gloves. Bare skin.
Orders, and people follow. EMS extra attentive; local forces grabbing gloves from pockets, police officers grabbing rubber gloves from kit.
Simon looks at his own gloves; the knuckles scuffed and tore from the blast when he landed in the street. Protective plating torn from the thick leather. Thank God for gear.
He has orders, his gaze lifts to John. A shared nod as they both move once Garrick coughs and wakes. Disoriented but fine otherwise by what MacTavish can tell. They have a job to do, no matter the circumstances.
Simon works alone, pulling people from rubble before handing them off to a medic/firefighter/cop on standby.
It was an accident when his grip slipped; his eyes meeting bleary pained ones, and Shit. He understands, eyes locked with yours as your hand wrapped around his in attempt not to fall back down, fingertips brushing against his bare knuckles.
Fireworks? No. Thunderstruck. That’s what the jolt feels like when electricity chases up his arm. Contact arcing like lava as the skin whelps instantly to scar. Like a knock to the jaw, stunning function of brain.
Yeah, he gets what that lightning means.
It means when he wakes up, he ain’t lettin’ you go, luv.
If someone wants to make a fic based off this please for the love of God do, and tag me 😭❤️🙏
You were relaxing in your room before falling asleep while watching a movie on your phone. A common practice in your evenings; and you with today being your birthday, you needed to unwind.
Bundle of nerves.
The universe is a fickle thing; likes to play with fate. Likes to play roulette with people’s lives; everyone has a chance to have a ‘soulmate dream’ on their birthday- but only on their birthday.
Dream walkers, soulmates- whatever you wanted to call them, the universe would pick a random birthday and show you who your cosmic other half is.
Nothing more, nothing less.
You notice something strange though as your mind wanders; a red string tied to your left ring finger. You feel groggily… cotton stuffed head and light; not in control as you stand from your resting position to follow the string, bunching the delicate thread in hand as you walk towards your front door.
The wood swings slowly from frame, and your eyes settle. Nothing in view save for the red line which leads to a larger man. His back towards you; frame broad and stature tall. Bucket hat, donned uniform and gear. Gun slung over back as his hands are firmly planted by his chest resting on his vest.
Awe hits first; then the desperation.
Lunging forward with heavy movement; feeling as if you’re wading through water, before finally reaching forward and planting a hand on his shoulder. He glances back over his shoulder, blue eyes piercing with weight that no man should hold alone.
But as soon as you open your mouth to speak, you wake.
