#cod fics

[yeyinde]

when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go. It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog.  Of course he's going to take a bite.  He thinks you ought to have known this by now. 

SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.

AO3 MIRROR

John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His. 

And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts. 

It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him. 

It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain. 

He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it. 

And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious. 

This is, and always has been, about yearning. 

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go. 

Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity. 

Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it? 

And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?

The child would never write him out, either. 

Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool. 

Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way. 

It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm. 

Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.

Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.  

But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners. 

The rest, though? Spare parts. 

(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—

His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)

But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible. 

It's why he isn't married. 

Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface. 

But the real reason is because he knows better. 

He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own. 

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all. 

(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes. 

They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.

A pair of packless, stray dogs.)

But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face. 

It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child. 

It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy. 

Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge. 

He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction. 

And really—he’s just not a good man.

He thought you'd have known this by now.

He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet. 

(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)

Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—

It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head. 

He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber. 

You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—

Who was he to deny you? 

Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating. 

He let it. Encouraged it. 

“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you. 

And, oh—

The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment. 

Fuck. Fuck—

John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead. 

It worked. Works—

Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—

His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth. 

“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”

(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—

But—you do know that, don't you? 

Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)

“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”

He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?” 

“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.” 

His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”

You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”

And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, “right?” 

Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement. 

He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps. 

“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape. 

He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants. 

There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills. 

John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled. 

The little seed that started germinating blooms. 

He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black. 

“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being. 

Your dyadic has always been built on permeance. 

John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy. 

Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two. 

“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.” 

He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.

“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.” 

You smell it, and shiver. 

It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite. 

And so, of course he does. 

John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up. 

Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—

Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy. 

He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips. 

There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title. 

This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander. 

(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)

In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills. 

It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—

A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing. 

That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—

You're a dog just like him. 

In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection. 

And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct. 

You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs. 

So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants. 

John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind. 

(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)

It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you. 

He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash. 

That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—

You turn to him instead, knuckles white. 

“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped. 

He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—

John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed. 

His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath). 

The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in. 

You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat. 

This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood. 

He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—

He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective. 

Seven pills in a row. 

He files it away, lost in thought. 

The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath. 

When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper. 

You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down. 

(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)

“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. ���Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.” 

John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish. 

It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether. 

As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off. 

That, too, he files away. 

John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion. 

There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him. 

(Only him.)

He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it. 

So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too. 

John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn. 

(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)

It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression. 

But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs. 

But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you. 

That's all for him. 

(Nasty old bastard.) 

And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him. 

Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it. 

(Nasty, nasty—)

But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't. 

And that simply won't do. 

So, he plots. Plans. 

The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it. 

He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No. 

He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way. 

Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up. 

It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb. 

And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through. 

“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”

“But—”

“It’ll be fine.” 

And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty. 

(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)

John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb. 

It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—

He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this—the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence. 

“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”

His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust. 

But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent. 

What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—

He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue. 

“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”

“But, John—”

The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick. 

And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after. 

“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”

You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease. 

But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape. 

He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace. 

“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.” 

“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed. 

You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot. 

John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed. 

You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—

There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin. 

“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.” 

You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep. 

(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)

“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill. 

“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.” 

“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.” 

He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat. 

“Could stop taking it.” 

It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud. 

You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins. 

“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”

You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—

A boomslang. 

One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike. 

Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world. 

“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”

He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead. 

“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”

Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is. 

“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in. 

You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—

You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts. 

Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—

His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum. 

It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments. 

You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans. 

He decides on a different route to the same end. 

Damnation at your own hand. 

John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face. 

With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this. 

And one with more opportunity.

Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up. 

He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip. 

The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.” 

“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste. 

With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper. 

You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea. 

He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim. 

It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle. 

You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him. 

“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image. 

He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart. 

“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”

You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle. 

You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear. 

With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside. 

It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—

He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it. 

John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you. 

When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below. 

He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it. 

The push-pull of this little game stretches on. 

Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.

The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual. 

And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—). 

He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing. 

In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all. 

The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break. 

You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar. 

John notes it down. Tucks it away. 

And then he amps up the pressure.

John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it. 

He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now. 

Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic. 

“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?” 

It's a tease. A test. 

He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him. 

This will be your cacoëthes. 

He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this. 

This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining. 

You want this. He wears the axiom like armour. 

And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat. 

The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess. 

And fuck—

The thought alone makes him throb. 

He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper. 

John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart. 

He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick. 

Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for. 

He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing. 

He can't wait to ruin it. 

If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs. 

Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new. 

His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it. 

“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt. 

His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls. 

You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—

The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it. 

Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—

As many as you'll let him.

And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent. 

The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva. 

“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation. 

To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh. 

He tastes salt and sin on your skin. 

(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)

“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.” 

And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds. 

But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart. 

Like this, though—you melt. 

All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock. 

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”

(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)

He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”

It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it. 

“Fuck—”

He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more. 

But even with the respite, he knows he won't last. 

John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down. 

Go easy on your pretty cunt.

(As if.)

John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape. 

Reshape.

He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you. 

“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”

You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat. 

He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout. 

Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—

“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”

“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”

You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—

“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”

He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—

As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone. 

(His, his, his—)

When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead. 

“Are you okay, John—”

He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach. 

He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape. 

“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.” 

“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk. 

“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”

It does. Of course it does. 

He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—

“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more. 

“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat. 

There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound. 

“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”

Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs. 

You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”

He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.

Cheeky little—

“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.” 

The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.

In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing. 

Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today? 

He just needs to wait things out. 

But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week. 

Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time. 

He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home. 

It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home. 

His bones ache for it. 

Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan. 

While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual. 

Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.

You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.” 

He tucks it away, lets the matter drop. 

If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff. 

“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”

He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this. 

A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown. 

It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—

Yet. 

You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank. 

He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call. 

But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.

It eats at him. 

He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in. 

His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you. 

An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie. 

He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank. 

His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used. 

Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars. 

He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next. 

Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt. 

His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew. 

Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks. 

A card, and—

His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular. 

—a pregnancy test. 

He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning. 

A pregnancy test. 

Fuck—

(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)

He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing. 

“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”

“Something bad happen?” 

His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”

It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—

Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt. 

In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured. 

Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything. 

She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”

“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”

It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.” 

“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”

“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”

“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.” 

“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin. 

“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.” 

“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”

“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.” 

Lucky him, indeed. 

On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog. 

Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.” 

He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't? 

Oh, fuck—

You better not be. 

But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel. 

This is happening, then. 

You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack. 

It shifts—

You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts. 

It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue. 

John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart. 

His. His.

—and then it all falls into place. 

Yours.

He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear. 

A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need. 

Until it becomes too much. 

“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”

“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”

“Oh, no… please take your time.” 

Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more. 

John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned. 

“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.” 

He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—

His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise. 

Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—

A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat. 

Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take. 

His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins. 

John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play. 

Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.  

In the back of his head, the beast purrs.

“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.” 

You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.” 

More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart. 

“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”

Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”

He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated. 

When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away. 

A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.

Will help him fill. 

#this was supposed to be posted earlier but i was too busy watching dead meat #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #this was a) not thought out and b) def not edited #Unhinged John Price is my roman empire #call of duty fics #cod fics #captain john price smut

[efingcod]

Lipstick Masquerade - Chapter 1

Captain John Price x fem!Reader

You are a bartender at a high-end club that serves very powerful and dangerous men. Price is Price. He's undercover.

TW: The general kind of misogyny you would expect from the clients at an establishment like that. Mostly hinted at, if I can avoid stating outright. Sexuality.

This idea has been floating in my head for some time so I knew eventually I would get it out.

The vinyl of your boot creaks as you stretch out your ankle. It’s been such a long night. You take a deep breath and check your makeup in the mirror. You slip two fingers between your corset and your breasts, producing a tube of lipstick, Blood Red, which you swipe over your lips. You tuck the lipstick safely away and stick your finger in your mouth to remove the excess lipstick. No sense in looking this hot if you have lipstick on your teeth. Then you blow your reflection a kiss.

You back away from the mirror to get a good look at yourself. Your ass looks amazing in your surprisingly comfortable leather pants. Your outfit was chosen for both comfort and sex appeal. Hard to find, but you knew where to shop. You yank your corset up and, heels clicking on the tile, exit the employee bathroom.

The booming music of the club, muted in the bathroom, now fills your ears. Things have begun to quiet down a bit after the rush in the evening. It’s always like this on Tuesdays. The clients check into their hotels, get a steak at The James Tavern, and then head here. They get a drink and see their favorite girls in the back. Despite the fact that the only thing you do for money is serve drinks, for some of them, you’re their favorite girl. Some would love to bring you to the back. They see you as a challenge. In your experience, some men, even when placed in front of a row of beautiful women, will always eventually turn their heads to see what else is out there.

And that’s fine by you; you pour heavily and leave with a fat wad of cash every night. Everything is in cash. No one wants a transaction from this place on paper.

You grab your towel and do a quick wipe down of the bar counter. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a man approach the bar. You saunter over, a smile widening across your face. You look at him through your long fake eyelashes and say, “What can I get for you?”

Oh, he’s good looking.

Not that you don’t see good-looking men come in and out of here. Even the hot ones buy it from time to time. But this one, he looks a bit more down-to-earth. Even in his nice suit and with his hair slicked back like that, the uniquely styled facial hair tells you he's not like some of these other overgroomed and sculpted assholes. He places his hands on the counter. Fingers cleaned up, buffed, no hint of even clear polish. Someone had a job working over his callouses, but you didn’t miss the remnants on the pads of his knuckles.

Well, perhaps he was hired muscle.

Either scoping out the place for his boss or cashing in on his employee appreciation gift. It made no difference to you.

He orders a whiskey neat. Not top shelf either. A man who knows what he wants and he doesn’t seem concerned with impressing anyone.

Interesting.

You’re also not surprised when he speaks with a gruff British accent. Again, the facial hair gives it all away. “Thank you,” He says as you pour his drink and hand it to him. You note that not once in the past five minutes has he even looked at your tits. That’s practically a record. You doubt most of the regulars, besides the ones who favored you, of course, could pick your face out of a lineup. Which was good; you didn’t need anyone hounding you while you were shopping at the grocery store. Now, your décolletage - well, that was a different story. You smile warmly at him and tell him the price as you pass a tray to him.

There’s a hot second where you wonder if he’ll balk at it, but he just grabs his wallet. Nice leather, nondescript, and practical - a brand you don’t recognize. He counts out the cash, clearly familiar with the currency, and places it on the tray.

You take the tray and return the bottle on the way to the cash register. As you count it out you realize he’s left you a nice tip. You already knew you were going to like him and you're always pleased when you've got a good read on someone.

When you turn back around, you see he is still facing forward. He wasn’t staring at your ass, nor was he enjoying the floor show.

Unusual.

But as you think that, he turns in his seat toward the stage. Sandy is currently hanging from the pole, doing the splits in mid-air. She tried to show you how once, but you decided you were never going to be that flexible. The tips of her long strawberry blonde hair just brush across the stage. The light picks them up, making the strands seem to sparkle. You can’t recall if that’s her actual hair or a well-applied wig. Not that anyone cares, she’s beautiful and skilled; it would be hard for anyone to keep their eyes off of her.

With no one to serve and nothing to clean up for the moment, you lean on the bar and watch. Even though you’ve seen it before, you’re always impressed when she spins around the pole upside down and, at the same time, manages to remove her bra with one hand. The newcomer chuckles good-naturedly and turns his attention back to you.

“Talented gal, isn’t she?” You grin at him and make a soft humming sound of agreement. “Can I get you anything else?” You ask. He puts a hand up and shakes his head. “Long night?” “Something like that,” He says. “We do have quieter rooms,” You suggest. “Nah, not ready for that yet,” He says with another chuckle. You note something in his eyes and wonder if he’ll ever be ready. Most of the men who come through here have a certain way about them. Posturing. A little money, and they can own every woman in the room.

Well, almost every.

That’s part of what they pay for, of course. That feeling of power. This guy didn’t seem to want it. Or maybe you prefer to think that.

Were you just getting a little sucked in by those soft gray-blue eyes?

“What’s your name?” He asks. “Uh- Jessie,” You say. It takes you a moment to recall your fake name. It’s not like you’re going to give the clients a real name, not that most of them ever ask. “I’m Owen,” He offers. You know a fake name delivery when you hear one. And that’s fine. Most clients preferred their anonymity as well. “Nice to meet you, Owen,” You say.

He looks ready to say something else when a group of several large men- bodyguards- walk through the door. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see Owen straighten up. You glance at him, apologetic, but he waves you off. The bodyguards part to make way for their boss. It’s a bigwig. Everyone just calls him Mister.

You conjure his usual order with fast but controlled movements. It’s in front of him before his ass hits the stool. You note that he’s wearing a particularly gorgeous gray suit of silk wool. A suit sold by a store that requires a referral letter and a credit check before you step one foot in the door. The way you hear it, the place doesn’t publish their address. Word of mouth, just like here.

“That’s why I like you, Jessie,” He says, giving you a wink. You’re one of his favorites. Luckily, he respects your boundaries. You mix the finest Manhattan he’s ever had, and he’d never do anything to interrupt that process. He had actually said that to you once. The thought made your skin crawl. You don’t know what he does in those quieter rooms. But the girls he chooses come back with red-rimmed eyes and purses filled to the brim with cash. Some of them take long breaks, some never come back. You smile your Blood Red smile at him.

You wait for a moment in case he needs something else. Despite his favoritism, he doesn’t have a high tolerance for you waiting on anyone else. But this time, he seems content to watch Sandy dance. He says something disgusting about her breasts. Then he speaks in a low voice to his head bodyguard, Lars. Lars looks like an extra from a Thor movie. But he’s not someone you should mistake for a meathead. There’s a reason Mister chose him as his head bodyguard. He speaks to Lars as if you’re not there. He always does that. You know more than you’d like about the ins and outs of his business because he thinks you’re just some dumb girl who’s never going to do anything about it.

Sometimes, you imagine going to the cops, telling them everything you know, and taking down every bastard who frequents this place. But you know that no one will listen to you. And you’re sure that some of them line their pockets in cash.

Mister doesn’t seem interested in you at the moment. It seems he’s found a companion for the night. You breathe a sigh of relief when he and his entourage leave your bar and move to one of the rooms in back.

Then you glance in Owen’s direction. Against your better judgment, you've found his presence comforting, but his stool is empty.

#captain john price #john price x reader #call of duty #modern warfare #cod modern warfare #cod fics #trashy premise but make it fashion

[captainjamster]

convincing ghost to paint your nails <3

"No," he grumbles gruffly, eyes trained on the pages in front of him. You scowl, looking at him with displeasure. "Why not? I could use your help!"

"Won't be neat like ya want it, you'll be upset."

Huffing, you stalk down the hallway, opening the bedroom door and rumbling through the closet. Simon sits, looking unimpressed as you come back down with papers in your hand.

You unfurl them, holding the papers out straight for Simon to see, light illuminating through the tight-knit cluster of holes that are almost identical on each one.

"Simon Riley, 2017, Simon Riley, 2019, Simon Riley, 2020; and I only grabbed three."

You lower them enough to glare at him. "You can shoot like this and you can't keep your hand steady enough to paint a goddamn nail?"

His gaze flickers between you and the papers before his face breaks into a dramatic scowl, rolling his eyes as he moves his book and the pillow. "Hurry up and get your ass over here."

You beam, tucking the papers under your arm as you flounce back to the bedroom, only to bring a rattling box out with a devilish grin as Simon groans in dismay. "What colour should I pick?"

#his real reason? smelly make his eyes hurt :( #jams shorts #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x you #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #cod fics #cod fanfics

[icarustypicalfall]

Commander's last love

masterlist • ao3 • fic masterlist • part 4

summary: Training till draining, where tears spill and pride kills. He just wants peace.

Warnings: bad self image, self sabotage, scars, sparring, wounds.

note: i hate u tumblr for deleting the first one >:(. also if y'all want to be added to the tag list tell me :3

tags: @unicorngirly1

**

"Dis moi, est-ce-que tu m'aime? Je suis emprisonné de tes yeux, de ta douce voix. Dis moi la vérité."

Mission [A2626]

Location: [CLASSIFIED]

Time: 15:20:34 - 24/10/2022

What on earth could have prompted Shadow's esteemed company and revered member of the military to rise at such ungodly hours and become the sidekick to two young people?

Well...

After yesterday's meeting (Phillip might start following them from bed) he was certain of two things: the mission was progressing smoothly despite numerous obstacles, and he had a strong urge to push that Sky Diver out of the helicopter at the earliest opportunity. He might even consider pulling off the Gaz move in this unit.

As he sat beside you and Sky on the way back to the base (a logistical oversight), all he wanted was to return home and rest. However, you and Sky seemed to be engaged in playful banter and meaningless arguments out of nowhere. Pardon Phillip's manners, but he couldn't find his blanket and had only managed to sleep for less than five hours. He was on the verge of losing his temper with Martin.

Phillip groaned as the unusual noise grew louder. He snapped, "Is there anything the two of you are better at than opening your mouths?" It wasn't like him to be snarky or mean, as he usually preferred playful taunting. But in that moment, he couldn't deny that he felt... jealous?

Yes, absolutely.

He was also sleep-deprived and in need of a hug. Apart from that, he was perfectly fine.

He had been here for over two weeks, yet he felt as if there was now more distance between you and him than there was between his own shadows and logic.

You stared at him, your brows furrowing over your usual mask.

He wished you would feel safe around him, or at least trust him enough to reveal the hidden beauty that you chose to veil from him. You often let your guard down around your colonel and her husband, as well as some of the other soldiers. Even Sky got to see you. Why couldn't Phil?

It was like a precious pearl locked away in a chest, afraid of thieves. But he wasn't a thief; he would never dare to steal you away from your life, from where you truly belonged. The only thing he wanted to steal was your heart, but apparently, that was as difficult as cupping the surface of the moon and sealing it with a kiss.

Nevertheless, he was determined. He wouldn't give up, even if it meant getting hurt along the way. Even if it meant facing the failure of his broken heart shattering. He didn't want to creep you out; he just wanted to understand the reason for your disdain.

You interrupted, squinting your eyes with what he assumed was a smirk, "Yes, Commander, we train to ensure our joints don't start cracking at 30."

Oh, wrong move.

He glared at you, crossing his arms as he spoke with an air of confidence, as if your remark hadn't affected him at all. "No, doll, I certainly train as well. But what I've seen from the two of you is pathetic. I highly doubt you would have passed boot camp."

Push, prod, bait... anything to leave a lasting mark. A constant reminder of your rejection.

Sky chimed in, his carefree spirit making Phillip want to throw himself off the moving van. "What if you give us proper training, Commander?"

Phillip, providing you and Sky with training? Making you sweat and curse at him? Supporting you as you struggled through your reps? Sparring with you?

His prayers had finally been answered. He tried to hide the grin spreading across his face with his usual proud smirk. "You won't last a single minute."

You laughed, and his heart fluttered. Phillip wasn't exactly old; he was in his thirties, but he still possessed the spirit of a young man. You made him rejoice in those moments of familiarity.

Since childhood, Phillip had always been left out, hated, and bullied. Even his own family favored his sibling, leaving him to live in their shadow. He had thought that joining the army and fulfilling his father's wishes would earn him a modicum of respect. But he was wrong.

That's why he had severed ties with his family, only visiting on rare occasions. He would watch as his brother basked in the limelight. His brother, a renowned lawyer with a beautiful wife and a young son. Phillip grew distant after his mother's death, burying with her the last remnants of affection.

Phillip looked at Sky and felt a pang in his heart. The young man had everything: success, friends, money... and you. The way you shared laughter and giggles made him envious of that connection.

He longed for love, acceptance, friendship, anything. But he had never been good at being vulnerable. All he could do was watch and pray for a miracle to happen. Maybe one day, or perhaps never.

This was the bitter reality that Phillip had to swallow since the day he came into this world.

Later on, the three of you convened in the training facility, finding it empty. It was evident that Phillip had discreetly dismissed the three rookies who were miserably failing at their sparing session. He stood alone, anxiously waiting as the clock's ticking intensified his nerves. To drown out the demons of his loneliness, he turned up his headphones. The reminders of his solitude were silenced.

Having arrived, you entered the room dressed entirely in black. A nod of acknowledgement was exchanged between you and Phillip before you began your warm-up routine. Shortly after, Sky joined the group, offering a brief excuse for his delay. Phillip's gaze lingered on you for a moment, admiring your strength and the flawless execution of your moves, which he doubted he could ever replicate. Caught staring, he coughed nervously before uttering, "Well, sweetheart, care to show me what you're capable of?"

Your laughter filled the room, a soft giggle that felt like the first rays of sunlight in winter. Approaching Phillip, you positioned yourself in the sparing section. He followed shortly while Sky cheered from the sidelines.

Phillip was about to make a snarky remark, but before he could, your fist swiftly found its mark on his chest with a forceful punch that stole his breath away.

Coughing, he grabbed hold of your arm and threw you onto your back. Pinning you down with his knee on your stomach, he lifted your chin, locking eyes with you. "Told ya, sweetheart. No chance," he declared.

Your laughter only caused his heart to ache once again. The grip of your bare fingertips on his bicep burned, torturing his soul.

"No, Commander, she was going easy on you," Sky interjected, causing Phillip to frown.

Easy on him? Was he this old?

Releasing his hold on you, he stood up, attempting to conceal the pain etched on his face as he took a sip of water. Finding a spot to rest, he watched as Sky and other soldiers showcased their impressive moves shirtless. A sigh escaped his lips as he cursed his aging body and the unsightly scars that adorned it. He leaned back, contemplating removing his shirt but ultimately opted to clutch his water bottle tightly till his knuckles turned white.

After the intense training session, you found yourself drenched in sweat, ravenous, and above all, exhausted.

Deciding it was time for a quick bath followed by a well-deserved nap, your eyes roamed the room, landing on Commander Graves who was venting his frustration by pummeling a boxing bag.

To your surprise, your prejudices faded away as you observed him. The man wasn't half bad, and you could even acknowledge some of his positive attributes. However, whenever you caught a glimpse of him, memories of a past life, someone you despised with every fiber of your being, resurfaced.

Driven by curiosity, you approached him, addressing him gently by his rank. "Commander?"

He stared at you in shock, perplexed as to why you were there and not with the rest of the group. Letting out a sigh, he forced a smile and replied.

“Yes, sweetheart? Anything else you want from this old man?”

In that moment, something within you shifted, causing you to abandon your animosity towards him. Without hesitation, you found yourself standing before him, gently holding his bruised hand and carefully bandaging it. He looked at you, feeling defeated yet momentarily at peace. Your cold hands cradled his, softly tending to his wounds as you reassured him, "No need to be upset, Commander. Everyone admires your abilities." Vulnerable to the core, he gazed at you, his guard lowered.

Before turning away and heading towards your room, you whispered, "Oh, and Phill, comparison is the thief of joy."

Phil?

If anything, this encounter healed every doubt he had. He couldn't believe that his name had left your lips. As he watched you walk away, he pondered what had just transpired.

Later that night, as Phillip prepared for bed, a smile adorned his face. However, his happiness quickly dissipated when he received a call from General Shepard. The weight of despair settled upon him as he listened in silence, absorbing the General's words.

No.

Not again.

#𓆩♡𓆪 faith writes #call of duty #commander's last love #fluff phillip graves #phillip graves x fem reader #phillip graves x female reader #cod philip graves #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves #philip graves #phillip graves x you #phillip graves fanfic #mw2 fanfic #mw3 fanfic #cod modern warfare #cod fics #cod angst

[keegansversion]

reader, who is part of task force 141 is wrongly accused of being a traitor. but for some reason, despite all the torture they endured, they still forgive them.

hi guys :D im still quite new to tumblr and this is my first fic im gonna be starting. i have written before on ao3, wattpad, notes (for practise), a failed unfinished book so hopefully this will go well!

writers block may happen at some point because im kinda planning for it to be a series, if not, just a one-part fic. chances are, i wont have the energy to proof-read so if there are mistakes, please dont mind it :)

i got this idea from @ghostslittlegf . i have reblogged the post that they made that gave me the inspiration. <3

anyways, enough rambling, enjoy! <33

!tw! : t0rture, mentions of g0re, abvse, swearing, foul language, manipulation

part 1

it wasn't you. not your fault.

days pass, and all sense of time was lost for you. you don't know how long you have been bound to this chair for, and the same nauseating scent of old blood and soil was not making it any better.

the task force placed you in a holding cell underground. the entire place was empty; it was just you, and the chilling, hollow echoes of whatever slight movement you bore from the tight knots gnawing at your wrists and ankles. your skin was blistering from the constant friction of the jagged ropes and stinging. fear was eating you alive, consuming more and more of you as each day passed. hell, it felt like an eternity down here.

the task force, the previous week, had encountered a leak in information that meant the entire team was put under danger. they were sure it was someone within the base, as nobody else would just have access to such private information.

one day, you were just in the gym training when a few men took you aside, captain price at their heels. his eyes were dark and you could see levels of anger rising inside him. you were confused, obviously. had you done anything wrong? no, you hadn't. the next thing you knew, you were here. bound and restricted.

but you didn't do anything?

"you will tell us the truth, is that clear?" price spat as he bent down to meet your eye-level. behind him were 3 other people with pistols in their hand, loaded. you couldn't make out their faces as it was dimly lit.

"truth? what do you mean?" you question, utterly confused and a little scared of this situation. your eyes dart around the cell. you've never been down here before, and everything seems so foreign. the walls were slightly cracked, the large bricks uneven in placement. moss grew from the cracks, and the stench of wet soil creeped into your nose. it was cold and damp, and disgusting. these were the holding cells you never wanted to go down into, yet here you were, forced to be in one as a prisoner.

"dont play dumb." price sneered, his face closer to yours. you backed away instinctively, looking away to avoid his gaze.

"i really don't know what you mean..." you reply with some thought whilst slightly shaking your head, trying to make sense of this whole situation. price grabs at the arm-rests of the chair with some force. it startles you but you listen to him carefully.

"we know you betrayed us. that information that got leaked? yeah, well now the entire base is in danger. we're sabotaged, all because one little birdie decided to run their traitor mouths to enemy bases." he says, sing-songingly on the last part.

your eyes widen a little at such an accusation. never would you even think of betraying the task force. they were like family to you, and the accusation sickened you deeply. even the thought was sickening. "what? you're accusing me? but why!? what's your evidence?" you desperately pry for answers. all this was so sudden.

"oh, evidence? there's plenty of evidence, sweetheart." he replies, a sarcastic and irritated chuckle woven into his speech. he stands back up and looks back at the men behind him. he nods and they walk towards you.

"what? price...what are they doing?" you cry, your voice shaking and unstable out of fear. you watch as one walks behind you, the other two standing in front on either side. price walks away, pulling the cell door open and leaving.

"price? price! captain!" you yell, but no-one answers other than your screams that reverberate emptily off the cold, damp stone.

you wake to the sound of your cell door sliding open. it slams forcefully when it reaches the other side, which jolts you back into your senses. you blink away your exhaustion and look up at the dark figure that walks towards you. you try make out their face, and distinguish them as simon.

"simon...is that you?" you weakly mutter. your body was on the edge of breaking from the week-long physical and mental torture you had to endure.

he doesn't say anything and just walks towards you. his demeanor seemed calm and stoic but you knew what was about to happen. you took a deep breath to the best of your ability, your ribs hurting in the process, as you anticipated what he was going to do to you.

"listen, we've been a'this for a week now. you still refuse to tell us the truth. we've been too gentle with you. now, tell us the truth. or else i'll 'ave to resort to more...brutal ways." he stared at you, his gaze of pure rage that he managed to keep controlled.

"i'm innocent...i truly have nothing to say." you mumble, knowing it wasn't going to change anything.

suddenly, you feel the brute force of simon's fist against your cheek. you go limp at the pain of the punch, but you bite back tears.

"tell. me. the. truth." he demands, his voice becoming more stern and loud.

"i really don't have anything...i promise you the evidence against me are forged, and the accusations are false!" you whine, voice breaking.

another punch.

"i forgive you all for this...once you find out i'm truly innocent." you mumble with a sob in your voice, a warm, twitching smile on your face as tears brim in your eyes.

simon's eyes only narrow at you.

"i don't give a shit for whatever trickery you're pulling right now. i want the truth! so spit it out!" he demands again, just below a yell. you look away as you try contain your tears from the pain.

"i wont hesitate you batter you right now. i won't go easy like i did before, just a harsh hit here and there. tell the truth! the truth!" he yells this time, but you stay silent. your lip quivers as you try think of what to say, as you truly had no 'truth' to confess. you're not the traitor, you're innocent.

another hard blow hits your face, then another, and another. the abuse slowly turns into a result of his anger. simon had his denials, but the evidence changed his mind immediately. he was mad, infuriated that you betrayed the entire team, or at least, he thought.

"i'll forgive you, i promise." you choke under your breaking breath, trickles of blood running down from your nose and mouth.

"the truth!" he yells again before delivering another hit.

"i'll forgive you all...no matter what."

#cod #cod fics #i just love angsty guilty fics so much #angst #simon riley #ghost cod #task force 141 #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #captain john price #soap mactavish #cod hcs #reader insert #cod fanfic #betrayal #false accusations #call of duty #i am cringe but i am free

[gildedkrone]

KINKTOBER 2023 M.LIST

Righting the world, one smut fic at a time. green means go.

Oct 2 — Electrostimulation · Milking & Gaz 🟢

Oct 6 — Cuckolding · Femdom & Valeria · Alejandro 🟢

Oct 10 — Financial Domination · Semi Public & Price 🟢

Oct 14 — Handsfree · Somno & Soap 🟢

Oct 18— Body Worship · Finger Fucking & König (FTM READER) 🟢

Oct 22 — Threesome · Overstimulation & Price · Ghost 🟢

Oct 26 — Cock worship · Cock warming & Ghost 🟢

Oct 30 — Brat Taming · Teasing & Price / König 🟢

Oct 31 — Religious Imagery · Dacryphilia & Ghost 🟢

more dates might be added depending on availability, which is why you should use the request box on my page

Do not edit, reupload or translate my works without prior consent || masterlist

Regular requests will be ignored from now until the end of October.

#GK's ramblings #Kinktober #Kinktober 2023 #cod fics #fanfics #cod fanfics #requests are open #male reader #gn reader

[asteriasgarden]

i….? ????? am completely? caught up on soapghost fics.

???????

what the fuck….what the fuck do i do now?

#ao3 #fanfics #help #goap #ghostsoap #soapghost #cod #cod fics #ghost cod #cod fic #soap cod #why am i this fucked up over a cod fic lmao #cod modern warfare #cod posts #cod mw2 #ghost mw2 #johnny soap mactavish #ghost x soap #cod mw soap #simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #ghost fanfiction #john soap mactavish #soap mw2 #soap call of duty #soap mctavish #ghost posts #ghostie #cod mw fanfiction #cod mw ghost

[krowsnotes]

"You are a wonderful artist"

'You were everything...'

Angst

We all know Soap is a good artist, but what if Simon, not Ghost, but Simon knew how to paint. His (previous) therapists recommended him to try painting as a way to express his emotions.

In fact he was great at painting, most of his works expressed grief that he couldn't outwardly describe before, his most beloved painting was a portrait of his family without his father, of course.

But he didn't just want to express grief into his art, he wanted to do something more, something positive.

When he met Soap, he was the yellow that was missing in Simon's palette of blues, reds, and purples, the sun that was in the center of his universe, his muse.

Day by day, little empty canvasses filled with yellow, which Simon described as the color of happiness or what brought happiness, he made a proper painting of Soap, his Johnny.

Simon decided he would gift Johnny the portrait when he would ask Johnny out, he made painting with devotion, he poured his heart to it, the yellow on the canvas even stained his bare hands when he worked on it.

It made him very happy that his muse loved his painting, his heart bursted with yellow, the same yellow that stained his hands, the same yellow that reminded him of Johnny.

But painted portraits only immortalize the image of a person, who the painter see their muse as.

Despite the yellow in the portrait, it felt like deep ocean blue, the kind that didn't bring calmness but grief and sadness, the blue that always appeared on rainy days, on stormy seas and dark lonely nights.

Simon grieved again, he swore he wouldn't lose another but a new face was added to his family portrait, Johnny, the warm yellow now turned to lonely blue, despite his efforts to keep himself from falling apart, Simon just couldn't, without his muse, what was he? Johnny was his muse, his everything.

"You are a wonderful painter, Simon" Johnny's voice echoed in his head as he stared back at the portraits of his muse, the yellow that warmed his heart, now taken from him.

"..You were.. Everything..." Simon muttered back to nothing, he missed Johnny, his blue eyes, his smile, his warm touches, just everything.

He painted and painted like he did before, he had forgotten how Johnny's voice sounded like, the smile he carried, the pout he did, his laugh... His everything, Simon only remembered how he looked in his hazy memories, and now, he couldn't remember what he looked like at all, he didn't look right, his smile wasn't the same.

Yellow turned to orange, then to red, to purple and now blue. Simon had forgotten his muse, his everything, the only reminder he had was his family portrait with his muse.

Johnny who was once yellow was now a part of Simon's blues.

Sorry for the angst, I recently got my shark week as an afab person and it feels like shit

And I felt like being sad so dinner is served

#ghoap #ghostsoap #call of duty #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #angst #i felt silly #KrowsFics #cod fics

[snootlestheangel]

*loudly clears throat*

The cryptid!Ghost with cryptid hunter Soap AU is finally here!!!

@stuffireadandenjoy @joltom (anyone else want tagged for this fic?)

Honestly gonna be getting another chapter out soon probably cause we broke the writer's block, babes!

#cryptid hunter au #cryptid ghost #of earthly things #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #cod fics

[somethingtodowithreaders]

Radio Silence

Chapter One

Price x Female Reader Warnings: Violence, Gore, Smut, Cursing Summary: You think your saviors have come. They are anything but. Note: This got longer than intended, so I hope y'all enjoy reading a chapter fic for this challenge.

You shivered, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself. Time passed oddly while trapped here. It felt like weeks but you knew you’d only been here for less than forty eight hours. You could hear shuffling from others outside but that only made you squeeze tighter into the corner. The quiet mumbles of repeated phrases echo throughout the hall.

You flinched hearing the sound of gunfire. But the sounds did not instill fear in you the way it would have before.

Now. Hope blooming in your chest, warming your cold limbs.

Now, the sounds of shells hitting the ground rang like bells of freedom. Bells of safety.

Without a thought you ran to the door, ignoring the way your body protested from being in the cramped room. Opening it quietly, you poked your head out, looking up and down the hallway. Before you could step out fully, the barrel of a gun peeked around the corner. You froze feeling your heart race in your chest. You shook seeing a large man with a skull mask round the corner, gun moving slightly back and forth.

He paused seeing you but soon moved on, scanning the hallway behind you. As he walked passed, steps careful and measured, more men followed. A younger man followed. And then another. He gave you a small smile and nodded. An older man with facial hair brought up the rear. The man barely gave you a glance before he stepped closer.

“You’re here to rescue us?” You said it like a question but you could feel deep in your bones, these men were not here for you or anyone else. The callousness of their demeanors spoke volumes on how they viewed the others in this building.

“No.” The man with heavy facial hair said, walking right past you. “You’re someone else’s problem.”

As he followed the others, you felt a fresh hot wave crash over you. The feeling boiled in your belly and made your mouth water with a sour, bitter taste. The last man that left you in that room had promised it would all be okay.

No food.

No water.

Just wait.

Someone was coming to help.

Just be safe.

Fuck these men.

Fuck this man.

Fuck him!

“Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” You screamed as all those hot boiling feelings bubbled past your lips. It spilled out uncontrollably. Each word scalded your tongue and made the fear in your stomach untwist and lash around like a barbed whip. Tears stung your eyes. You had been terrified for your life for so long the flight was long since gone.

Now all you had left was fight.

You could barely get a gasp out before his hand covered your mouth and shoved you against the wall. Your skull bounced off the wall with how hard he slammed you. There was no kindness in his eyes. It was just cold, blue bloodshot eyes staring at you.

Blood.

Your eyes flickered down to a line of what was clearly blood trailing down this man’s neck from four deep scratches just under to the left of his jugular. This close you could see sweat beading along his forehead. Heat radiated off of the man and he puffed like an angry bull. Just waiting for a reason to gore something.

“Shut ya, yap.” He growled, hand tightening and dimpling your cheeks painfully. The cold claws of fear raked at your stomach and brain, fighting with the searing heat of your anger still skimming along your skin. The two emotions wrestled with each other making your body freeze, unsure of how to react to the new threat.

“You pull something like that again and I’ll-”

“Price.” The man, Price, was interrupted by the man with a skull mask as he walked around the slightly ajar door that led to the room you’d come out of. The man’s eyes flickered to yours before looking at Price again.

“Gaz has a hit on its location. I’ll take care of this.” Price nodded and released you with no amount of gentleness. He quickly left you alone with the man that scared you much less than Price. You could still hear his heavy panting as he walked away.

“Get back in the room and do not come back out.” The skull man said, his voice more even, hand pulling the door more ajar. Compared to Price, this man’s voice was soft. Almost gentle. His touch was too as he guided you back into the room, hand hovering over your mid back. When you turned around, his fingers were twitching and tapping against his gun.

“Please.” You begged, the last remaining prey part of your brain jumped forward seeking comfort. The man’s eyes, deep behind the skull mask, softened a little but that softness quickly disappeared.

“Stay here. Someone will come to get you.” And with that he shut the door. The click of the door felt like the final shovel of dirt on your grave. Your chest tightened and your breath came out in sharp gasps. Willing yourself to not panic, you took calming breaths.

You were not gonna die here. You refused to die here. Slipping back out you made your way in the opposite direction of the men. You paused seeing bodies laying every few feet. You waited a few moments but none of the bodies moved.

Carefully you stepped around bodies and got about halfway down the hallway before a loud static noise filled the hallway. Your eyes scanned everywhere and landed on a body that looked different than the people of the base you tried not to recognize. You could hear the commotion through the radio of the dead man laying near you.

“That’s an order, MacTavish!”

“Gaz, we have to go!”

“We can’t leave him! Not like this!”

“Simon, get them out of here!”

You could hear the commotion growing louder and louder, echoing around the hallway. Unsure of where to hide, you fell to the ground stomach down and pressed your face against the dirty tile.You grabbed the dead man next to you and pulled the dead man partially over you. Squeezing your lips and eyes shut, you held back the whimpers and sobs building in your chest. You tried laying still but the shaking wouldn’t stop.

You laid flatter against the ground hearing rapidly approaching footsteps. Gunshots echoed around the hallway, ringing your ears. You tried not to flinch with each shot. The group of men quickly ran passed, not slowing down even a little or pausing. The repeated mumbled phrases followed them.

But for once…

Finally for once, you caught a break and the group of monsters stumbled passed. You held as still as possible for a little while longer, the sound of gunshots and cursing drawing further and further away. Sliding out from under the man you looked back the way the men had come. All the monsters were being drawn away from that direction. You hoped this was a smart decision.

Quickly, you walked down the opposite way back towards the room you’d been staying in. There was an exit way in the back this way but it would take a bit of walking and maneuvering around the monsters.

Zombies?

Rabid people?

You still weren’t entirely sure what happened to these people. People you knew. Sort of. You’d been brought in as an expert in biochemical weapons but you’d never seen anything like this. All of your research was based out of a lab. You studied microbes not human beings.

When they had brought you in to study the soldier under quarantine, things had gone from bad to worse to apocalyptic real fast. You had set up in a room to study blood samples when a soldier had grabbed you and hid you in the room you were previously in. He said it had been used for faux interrogations so it was secure.

And then he left.

You’d been so scared hearing all those awful noises. The sound of people dying. Gunshots. Screaming. Bones breaking. It had all been to much. Way to much. You’d closed your eyes, covered your ears and shut the world out for hours.

But now here you were. Stumbling down a hallway to what you were pretty sure was an exit. You stopped as you turned yet another corner to see a man heaving. Blood covering him but not of it looked like his if the bodies further down the hallway were any indication. You stepped closer and he quickly aimed his gun at you. Hand shaking he dropped it realizing who it was.

You looked down at the man leaned against the wall. Price. He was struggling to not only catch his breath but also speak. Words coming out in pained gasp. But you couldn’t understand them. You kneeled next to him, eyes never wavering from his, and could feel the snarl tugging at your lips. A sick, twisted satisfaction blooming in your chest.

“Looks like I’m your problem now.”

#cod fics #price x reader #x reader #female reader #zombie au #my fics

[homicidal-slvt]

Ok ok- everyone hear me out real quick.

I see Bunny!Reader and such a lot and I love it so it got me thinking- Deer!Reader or like Doe!Reader.

Your welcome.

#i should really sleep now #if this idea inspires you then you're more than welcome to it #if y'all write anything like this please tag me cause i wanna see #cod #cod fics #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #mw2 x reader

[captainjamster]

I'm interested to hear from people that feel under-represented in COD fics! As the point of writing reader/self-insert fanfiction is to create a character that readers can see themselves as, writers often aim to depict a character with stereotypical, easily generalisable features and appearances.

However, the natural trade-off of our desire for non-specific traits and appearances is an exclusion of specific conditions and appearances that many individuals may have.

The result is that there are a disproportionate amount of representative fics - hence why fat!reader, tall!reader and other !readers tags and works appear. This isn't a complaint or a call-out post. I'm passionate about understanding and writing about individual minority experience, especially as a fat, poor, gay and disabled trans person 🥴

Instead, I'd love the opportunity to contribute towards more representative COD fics. If there are disorders, conditions or other afflictions or traits that you'd like to see written about, I'd love to hear through DMs, asks or any other way!

I will write for NSFW or SFW for:

- all of 141 (including Kate, Roach, and '09 versions of Price/Ghost/Soap).

- Kortac (Konig, Horangi)

- Los Vaqueros (Ale, Rudy, Val)

- Others (Makarov, Nikolai, Yuri, Graves)

If you have a character not specified here, you're welcome to request them, but you will be testing my knowledge so it might be a little OOC! 🐇

‼️Please be aware of two things‼️

This is not a guarantee I will complete your request, or write for the exact character if you specify one, but I will certainly try my best. I cannot promise it will be perfect, but I will absolutely do my due diligence to research and create an accurate depiction of any !reader request.

More importantly, I will absolutely write NSFW involving these readers, but I am NOT writing fetish content - I will not centre fics around the sexualisation or fetishization of disabilities or disorders. My motivation for this is that I genuinely really appreciate the unique experience of every living person, and I want to provide an opportunity for readers with conditions such as amputations, disfigurements, impaired abilities, chronic conditions, etc. to explicitly read about themselves within a fic. Any request that is inappropriate will just be deleted, this isn't the blog for that, sorry.

#cod fics #cod x reader #141 x reader #cod requests #cod fic requests #cod fanfic #jams writings #fic requests #rep!reader writings

[icarustypicalfall]

Commander's last love

part 5 • fic masterlist • main masterlist • ao3

summary: Hold me, tell me it'll pass. I am afraid I'll never know peace.

warnings: mw3 events, inaccuracies, mentions of death, the slow burn is burning fast.(i am lazy)

note: this part is highly based on mw3 events, also might be high timeline inaccuracies. sorry about that.

tags: @unicorngirly1

"Striving for change, yet trapped in a cycle of sameness, a poignant reminder of life's melancholic reality."

Mission [A2626]

Location: [CLASSIFIED]

Time: 07:09:23 - 25/10/2022

When you entered the mess hall that morning, the first thing that struck you was the serenity. No chaos, no shouting, and no proud American man bellowing his national anthem. It was a tranquil scene.

You didn't pay much attention to it. Commander Phillip was most likely still fast asleep, them higher ranks had the luxury of a good night's rest. You sighed, shaking your head with a hint of amusement. Weeks ago, you couldn't stand the man, but now you were dropping formalities and exchanging jokes with him.

It was terrifying, in a way that completely captivated you. The feeling was too powerful to ignore. Not a nagging headache or a throbbing wound. No, it was a heartache. One that gripped you every time your eyes met with the commander's.

From the moment he set foot in the base, you knew he would be trouble. A persistent force, like a charming Hydra. You had let the Hercules swrod down, along your guard. you've lowered the defences and the built up walls, surrendering to his charm.

Perhaps the commander deserved a chance. Every attempt he made to get to know you was proof of his dedication. It was almost laughable how the tables had turned. He had managed to charm his way into your thoughts. You decided to end rapidly your reports then pay him a visit, as you hadn't caught sight of him in quite some time.

Despite all the hardships he had endured, it was the last call that Phillip received that truly shook him. It wasn't just his nervous system playing tricks on him or the stress wreaking havoc on his stomach. It was genuine fear, a past regret that he thought he had buried when he left Las Almas.

Life presents us with limited options. You either patch up your wounds, move on, and forget the past, or you let the wound fester, remaining open and growing larger with time until it consumes you entirely. Phillip's life fell into the second category. It always had and always would, from the moment he entered crying to the moment he'll dying.

He found solace in the brief moments you two shared. But now, all his anguish resurfaced upon receiving new orders from the general. He didn't leave his room, informing his soldiers that they would receive the new orders through Martin.

Phillip lay in his room, reminiscing about the previous night's events. His fury boiled within him as the older man gave him orders with a careless smirk.

"You know what to do, right? If they refuse our deal, you..."

Phillip cut him off, his face a picture of denial.

"General, you mean..."

"Yes, blow up the entire base. It's nothing new, right?"

Heartache struck once again. Forever and always. Peace would forever elude him. His lips trembled as his mind wandered back to you. No, he can't...

"You are paid to follow orders, Graves. I can find someone else to do your job for half the price, with no negotiations. You understand that, don't you?"

Another display of the general's power play. Phillip remained silent, absorbing the words like poison. He knew it would make him sick when the time came. Slowly, it would kill him. He pleaded for a little more time. He couldn't do it. Not again.

Phillip had grown weary of being the villain. All he wanted was to be happy. He understood the sacrifices that came with being in the military, the lives you would lay down to achieve your objectives. But there had to be a limit, right?

He had already lost everything. Family, friends, lovers. TF141 and Los Vaqueros despised him, yet they had once made him feel like he belonged, like they shared a bond. But that bond shattered the night he took over their base. He had deceived his way through life, only to have it all fall apart when he tried to change, to be better.

A knock on the door interrupted his misery, prompting a groan from him.

"Martin, I've told you twice, I'm fine. Can't a person rest in this stupid place?"

You poked your head through the door, eyes narrowed and face concealed by a mask.

Playfully, you uttered:"Now who's base are you calling stupid?"

Phillip jolted upright, his eyes darting around in a frenzy. The evidence of his anguish lingered, temporarily pushed to the recesses of his mind. He managed to muster a forced smirk, but his trembling lips betrayed the falsehood. "Well.. I never thought it would be you, sugar.."

You observed him. He was wrapped in the comfort embrace of a soft blanket, his eyes reflecting a deep crimson, concealing untold torment. Phillip appeared utterly miserable, to put it mildly. He hadn't bothered to shower or leave his bed all day. Sniffing, he averted his gaze, not out of embarrassment, but out of fear that you would see the truth hidden within his eyes.

You spoke up, attempting to break the uncomfortable silence with a touch of amusement. "What's the matter, Phil? Did something get in your eye?"

He chuckled sheepishly, shaking his head. For a brief moment, it seemed as if his face brightened before plunging back into the abyss of melancholy.

Shaking off his thoughts, he refused to spoil this moment. He knew that words had the power to taint this heavenly jiffy. He longed to seize it, to feel its edges softened by weeks of vulnerability and profound conversations. After a moment, he let the words slip, his gaze fixed on you, his blue eyes locked onto yours, imagining that you were looking at him with the same intensity, dressed in white and surrounded by loved ones who'll witness the legacy.

"No, sweetheart... It's just... No... It's complicated..." he trailed off.

You raised an eyebrow, sighing. "Martin was looking for you. He said they wanted to discuss something about a certain 'secret.' What's that all about?"

Phillip choked on his own saliva, staring at you in disbelief. You shouldn't have known about the new orders, and neither should any other member of this base. He responded defensively, his words rushing out. "It's nothing... Why don't you go join your boyfriend, huh?"

The words stung him, but he couldn't help himself. Jealousy and agony had blinded him, unable to bear witness to you and Sky, laughing together over dinner while Phillip watched from a distance, yearning to be the one who brought a smile to your face.

"...Boyfriend?" The uncertainty in your voice left Phillip bewildered.

He raised his hand, pointing at you, then mimicked a fall from the sky to the ground. Confusion filled his voice as he spoke. "You and Sky... You are a thing!"

Silence hung in the air, followed by the most genuine laughter. You wheezed, slapping your knee and giggling uncontrollably. The sweet melody of your laughter was pure, something he had sorely missed. His ears had grown accustomed to screams, gunshots, and explosions, not the gentle giggle or the tune you hummed. Warmth surged through his insides, radiating from his heart and enveloping his mind. Blushing, he looked down.

"Where on earth did you get that idea, Phillip? Sky and I are friends, we've known each other forever!" You paused, wiping away a tear before playfully crouching down. "I never thought you would fall for such gossip."

Oh...

He rubbed his neck, feeling shame wash over his face. You continued to stare at him, your eyes narrowed yet filled with a glimmer of light.

"My mistake, doll... I thought..."

"You thought what, Phil?"

He closed his eyes, your perfume filling his head. The stars got red and the night is blue. He didn't want to say something foolish or scare you. God forbid.

In your presence, he felt as though he was in the company of a gentle creature, a beautiful pearl he never thought he would need in his life. Unfortunately, you were too good for him. You were a sun that would blind him if he stared for too long. God only knew how far he would go, willing to burn in flames just for a glimpse of you.

You were crouched beside him, a few feet apart. You could see the specks of grey in his hair, the blond locks carelessly resting on his forehead.

A surge of courage built up within you. Your eyes met once again, capturing the soft blend of his baby blues and your gentle gaze. You could swear you saw a cry, a helpless wail, hidden within his irisis.

Holding your breath, you reached out your hand as if to soothe his demons. He surrendered, his pupils dilating with an overflowing longing. He leaned into your touch, and you smiled. With tender care, you brushed his hair behind his ear, tracing your hand gently along his face, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips.

"What's inside here?" you insisted, cradling the side of his head. He smiled.

"Just stupid things, doll. It's nothing... just stupid things."

You sighed, nodding. You knew he didn't want to talk about it. Perhaps, for the sake of preserving whatever bond you two shared, it was best to let it go.

Phillip closed his eyes, letting out another long sigh. The weight on his shoulders seemed to ease, leaving nothing but a sense of relief behind.

He flinched as the phone rang, abruptly interrupting the silence. He shook his head, motioning for you to stay close. He didn't want to deal with whatever tantrum General Shepard was having. All he wanted was to rest. Answering the call, he carefully chose his words, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on you, wearing the same smile from ages ago. He would tell that old dog where exactly he should put his plans...

"Commander Phillip Graves," a harsh voice spoke, and he frowned. "General Shepard is dead. Killed by Captain John Price. There's no need to proceed with your last mission. Or the one suggested by him." Phil's eyes widened, recognizing the voice as none other than the captain of TF141.

"Oh, and Phil..." John spat out, "Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish is KIA."

The phone slipped from his grasp. Uncertain, you uttered, "Phillip?"

No. Not again.

#𓆩♡𓆪 faith writes #call of duty #call of duty fanfic #phillip graves x fem reader #cod philip graves #phillip graves x female reader #phillip graves #phillip graves x reader #philip graves #phillip graves x you #fluff phillip graves #Phillip graves angst #cod angst #fluff #mw2 fanfic #mw3 fanfic #cod fics

[slasher-cam]

tw- Rant Post*

Okay so i get why people like dark fics and why they're so popular on tumblr because it itches that dark part of the brain in a mostly safe way. I KNOW because i read dark fics MYSELF!! Im into slashers, its my name for fuck sake!!

BUT sometimes I feel like some of the fics just go a bit too far. Like i already didn't really like yandere ideals in fics if it wasn't mutual idk. Like what bothers me is that they take this character but take out all of their character traits of what makes them, THEM but skew into something that doesn't resemble the character at all (I'm not talking about slasher fics mostly but alot of COD fics)

Like the traits of stalking, murdering for reader/character and stuff like that i don't really mind but when you start making characters cheat, torture and start kidnapping reader/character as a form of punishment I just feel like its taken a bit too far.

A tumblr user @shoukiko made a really similar post about the same thing and i fully agree, i believe this goes with almost 100% all characters widely liked on tumblr. You can find their post here.

I know i shouldn't judge and i really don't (I dont go leaving hate comments and being mean to the writer about what they like to write)but its just not my cup of vodka

#Idk if people agree but this is my two cents about it #tell me what you guys think #dark fics #idk man #I've been on tumblr for a while and it just never was as bad?? #cod fics

[asteriasgarden]

making up bullshit for things you don’t know the answer about in fics>>>>>>>

#horangi #horangi cod #konig #konig cod #korangi #cod #ghostsoap #soapghost #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #cod mw fanfiction #cod mw ghost #cod posts #cod fics #könig cod #cod modern warfare #ghost cod #soap cod #cod mw2 #ao3 fic #ao3fic #ao3 stuff #ao3 pls #fanfics #fanfic things #apparently #i dont know #it’s my first time here #ghost x soap #horangi x könig

[krowsnotes]

What I won't/can't write

Nsfw/Suggestive (I can't write smut even if held at gunpoint)

Children (Will make exceptions for Ghost's nephew or Soap's nieces/nephews |fanon|)

Pregnancy trope (Uncomfortable topic for me)

Pass around fics/Barracks bunny fics

Cheating trope (except for other people outside of the ship ex. Ex partner or something)

Any type of kink

Ships I don't write for

AleGraves

PriceGaz

SoapKönig

GhostKönig

AleVal (Alejandro x Valeria, sorry I see them as exes that are still connected/frenemies)

KatePrice (Laswell x Price, I see them as wlw and mlm solidarity)

Ships I do write for

Ghoap/GhostSoap

GhostSoapRoach, SoapRoach, GhostRoach

RoachGaz

SoapGaz, GhostGaz, GhostSoapGaz (can be platonic or romantic)

PriceGraves, NikPrice, NikGravesPrice

AleRudy

Körangi

Laswell x her wife (HC/Fanon)

#KrowsFics #CoD fics #call of duty