Toxic!Price who manipulated Gaz on missions and into his bed, forgetting Gaz is a fast learner.

Price spots potential in Gaz from day one: raw talent, eager eyes, that mix of obedience and fire. He molds him on the field, pushes him into the line of fire just enough to build resilience, pulls strings behind the scenes to ensure Gaz owes him survival.

“That’s my boy,” he murmurs after a close call, hand heavy on Gaz’s shoulder, lingering too long.

The bed comes naturally after that. Price doesn’t ask; he takes. A shared tent, a quiet night, his voice low and commanding: “Let’s unwind, Sergeant.”

Gaz complies, because, well, it’s Price; the man who’s like a father, teaching him the ropes of war and want. Price’s grip in his hair is firm, guiding, possessive. He whispers praises laced with control: “That’s it, son, take what I give you.”

Gaz isn’t blind. He sees the ghosts in Price’s eyes: past lovers, past sergeants, broken and discarded when they outlived their use.

Price’s manipulation is an art that’s been honed over years. Gaz knows he’s clearly just the latest canvas in a long line of others.

But the attention? It’s intoxicating. Price’s focus makes Gaz feel alive, specia. He craves it: the rough hands, the stolen moments where Price bends him over a map table, fucking him silent while barking orders into a radio.

“Mine for now,” Price growls, but Gaz hears the unspoken expiration date.

Selfishness creeps in. Gaz doesn’t want to be replaced. So he studies Price: notes the captain’s weaknesses, his ego, his need for loyalty, that flicker of genuine affection he tries to bury. Gaz starts small: a calculated slip in the field, making Price rush to his aid, reinforcing the bond. “Couldn’t do it without you, Cap,” he says breathlessly, eyes wide with feigned vulnerability.

Escalation follows. Gaz mirrors Price’s tactics, subtle at first. He withholds in bed, pulling back just enough to make Price chase, then surrenders with a moan that sounds like devotion. Off duty, he plants seeds of doubt about the team: “Soap’s getting reckless, might need watching.” He tells Ghost. Divides attention, ensures Price’s gaze stays on him.

Price notices, but it’s too late. Gaz has learned from the master, twists words during debriefs to make himself indispensable, fucks Price with a hunger that borders on obsession, whispering, “No one else understands you like I do, Captain, only me.” Price chuckles, thinking he’s still in control, but Gaz’s hooks are in deep.

Like father, like son: Price created this monster, teaching manipulation as survival. Now Gaz wields it back, turning the tables in a quiet war of wills. Price’s bed stays warm with only Gaz in it, his missions revolve around protecting his “boy.”

Gaz smiles in the dark, knowing he’s won for now. The cycle continues, darker with each turn.

[Inspired by a conversation with @auberghyn where we were talking about Toxic!Graves and it evolved into Toxic!Gaz]

Julian Kostov (the actor for Vladimir Makarov) posting this on his TikTok should be considered a war crime

Price and Ghost had been at each other’s throats since day one; two alpha dogs snarling over the same bone, neither willing to back down. They’d bicker, do shit just to watch the other seethe, and turn everything into a pissing contest.

It was all fun and games until Ghost pulled some bullshit mid mission, leaving Price flailing while Ghost handled the op solo. “Teamwork makes the dream work, Captain,” Ghost had deadpanned later, voice dripping sarcasm.

Price didn’t forget. Next op, Ghost was on overwatch, comms crackling in his ear. That’s when Price decided payback was a bitch. Pinned Soap against the wall in some abandoned safehouse, the Scot’s breath hitching as Price’s hands roamed rough on his dick. “Keep it down, Johnny,” Price growled, but oh, he didn’t mean it… not with the comms wide open, every gasp and moan broadcasting straight to Ghost’s position.

Soap whimpered, thighs trembling as Price thrust deep, the wet slap of skin echoing through the line. “Fuck- Captain- ” Soap choked out, and Price chuckled low, knowing Ghost was hearing every word. “That’s it, son. Let him hear how good you take it.”

Ghost’s end went dead silent. No quips, no snark. Just the faint hitch of breath that said he’d gotten the message loud and clear.

But Ghost wasn’t one to roll over. Price learned that the hard way when he swung by the barracks later, only to freeze in the doorway. There was Ghost, mask shoved up just enough, buried balls deep in Gaz, the younger man’s legs wrapped around his waist as he arched back against the bunk. Gaz’s moans were muffled against Ghost’s shoulder, but the sight was unmistakable Ghost’s hips snapping, Gaz clawing at his back like he was drowning in it.

Ghost glanced up, eyes dark and triumphant through the slits of his mask. “Two can play, Captain,” he rumbled, not missing a beat.

Price’s jaw tightened.

Oh.

Game on.

Johnny “I have an entire display case of sex toys” MacTavish, who buys every toy on the market, all because he knows his stamina crumbles the second your slick, pulsing walls clench around him.

That boyish smile lights up his face as he rips open packages- sleek vibrators humming, textured plugs that stretch and fill, cock rings vibrating to clamp down his release. “We’ll make ye scream all night, bonnie,” he rasps in that gravelly brogue, tracing the toys over your cunt, dipping a buzzing bullet between your soaked folds to circle your swollen clit until you’re arching, gasping, keening.

Pounding dildo’s deep while the vibrations rattle through your core, forcing orgasms after orgasm from you that leave you drenched and shuddering. He switches tactics mid thrust, clamping a rabbit vibe against your g-spot while he grinds his leaking cock against your thigh, growling filthy encouragements: “Come for me again, ye tight wee bonnie.” Hours blur into a marathon of overstimulation, toys buzzing and thrusting in tandem with his desperate rutting, until he finally pushes into your cunt, get a few simple thrusts before he’s flooding you with cum as your body convulses in exhausted bliss.

Vs

Kyle “Ive never been inside an adult store” Garrick, who dismisses toys as child’s play, who’s tongue and fingers are good enough to make you see God over and over again, so why waste money on toys?

Kneels in front of you, parts your thighs, breath hot against your cunt as he dives in; tongue lashing your clit in rapid, precise flicks that send electric shocks up your spine, while two fingers plunge deep, curling to hammer your g spot with unerring accuracy. “No need for gadgets when I’ve got you writhing like this, yeah?” he murmurs, voice muffled against your slick flesh, sucking your throbbing clit into his mouth and humming vibrations from his throat that make your vision white hot.

Alternating slow, teasing laps that trace every fold with sudden, deep thrusts of his fingers, scissoring you open until you’re a sopping mess, hips bucking wildly as he adds a third finger, stretching you to the brink. No rush, just pure touch, his free hand pinning your thigh down as he devours you, tongue delving inside to fuck you in tandem with his pumping fingers, drawing out guttural moans that echo, pushing you over the edge repeatedly until you’re seeing God in flashes, body arching in uncontrollable spasms, slick gushing over his chin as he laps it up greedily.

Only when you’ve come so many times you’re boneless does Gaz even think of unzipping his pants

New valentine’s poem just dropped

Mmmm thinking about toxic dirty old man Alpha!Price who’s been counting the days till you presented your secondary gender like a starving man waiting for a feast.

You were the perfect little private, so fucking small, soft, all plush curves and innocent eyes that screamed breed me, voice still cracking with youth, pup milk scent breath faint and sweet on your tongue.

He could already taste it: your secondary sex blooming into a needy omega, slick drenched and begging, the Task Force 141’s communal fucktoy.

He’d fuck tour first, of course- pack alpha’s right- knotting that tight, virgin cunt until it molded to his shape, then watch as Ghost, Soap, and Gaz took their turns stuffing you full of cum, breeding you until your belly swelled with pups. Shared property, marked inside and out, whining for more while they passed you around like the greedy bitch he knew youd be.

He’d jerked off to the fantasy more times than he cared to admit; picturing you on all fours in the barracks, ass up, pussy glistening as he railed you raw, your soft body jiggling with every thrust. The others circling, cocks in hand, ready to flood every hole until you were a drooling, cum stuffed mess.

Ghost would hold your wrists. Soap would lick the tears off your face. Gaz would whisper filthy praise while he fingered you open for the next knot.

Price had plans. Detailed, depraved plans.

But when the presentation hit, it wasn’t the sweet, submissive wave he’d craved.

Your scent exploded through the base: sharp, dominant, laced with iron and fire that made every alpha in a mile radius bristle for a fight.

Not omega.

Alpha.

A goddamn apex predator in that tiny, soft frame.

Price’s world tilted. This wasn’t right. You were supposed to be his: small and breakable, not this. Not an equal. Not a threat.

His cock, traitorous bastard, twitched anyway, but his chest ached with the loss of what could’ve been. No omega heat. No breeding. No shared pack slut.

Just you, unchanged on the outside but utterly transformed within, your scent wrapping around him like a noose, making his alpha instincts bristle for a fight.

Later, alone in his quarters, cock in hand, stroking furiously to the memory of your soft body, the devastation twisted into something darker.

What if he didn’t accept it? What if he rutted you senseless anyway, knotted you over and over, pounding your pussy, knotting you, flooding you with his seed until your biology corrected the mistake, swelling with heat, slick pouring out, begging to be bred like the whore you were supposed to be.

And if that didn’t work… there was always that black market shit. The controversial drug whispered about in dark corners, gender shifter serum, illegal as hell, but potent.

Slip it into your water, watch as it forced the change, melting your alpha fire into omega submission. Then he’d have you: small, soft, heat crazed, ass up and presenting while the pack took turns knotting your corrected cunt, breeding you until you popped with pups.

Illegal as hell but then again so was half the shit they did. What was one more thing in a long list of war crimes on his record.

Hmm maybe all wasn’t lost with you.

When Price shows up at your flat after three months in the wind, he’s already half chubbed with anticipation.

He’s been thinking about this the entire flight home: your cycle, your last period, the way you’d looked the last time he’d seen you when he’d shoved his cock as deep as you’d take him and thought, this time. He’s got a whole plan: swing by, fuck you stupid, pick up where he left off. One more concentrated effort to finally make it stick.

What he’s not expecting is you opening the door, pale and irritated, one hand braced on the frame like the hallway is trying to tilt under your feet.

“Now’s not a good time, John,” you say, swallowing hard, had pressed to your mouth as you gag. “Unless you wanna be collateral damage.”

His brows crease. “You ill?”

You exhale a humorless laugh. “Morning sickness, apparently? Except it’s a liar, because it’s every goddamn hour of the day.”

For a heartbeat, everything inside him goes very, very still.

Morning sickness.

Pregnant.

His pulse kicks, vicious satisfaction curling hot in his chest. There we go. Knew it. Knew I’d- He’s already counting back, doing the math in his head, slotting dates together like pieces on a map. “How far along?” he asks, voice low, already sure of the answer.

You watch him, something amused flickering in your eyes. “Eight weeks.”

He freezes.

That’s… off.

He runs the numbers again, slower this time. Eight weeks. He’s been gone twelve. He frowns, recalculates, and hits the same brick wall.

“That’s not- ” His jaw works. “You’re off by four weeks, love.”

“No,” you say lightly. “You’re off by four weeks.”

You let him see it land. Let him watch his own timeline fold in on itself. The satisfaction in his chest curdles; something ugly and panicked claws at his ribs.

“That would mean- ” His voice scrapes. “You got pregnant while I was on a mission.”

You shrug, leaning against the doorframe like this is all mildly embarrassing instead of world ending to the man in front of you. “Relax, Price. We were just fuck buddies, remember? No grand romance. No promises.” Your mouth quirks. “You don’t have to worry about being the dad.”

His throat is dry. “Then who the hell is?”

You hesitate just long enough for it to sting. “That’s the embarrassing part,” you admit, cheeks heating. “Best guess? One of three men.” You pause, then add with wicked innocence: “Your men, actually.”

The words hit like a bomb going off too close. His ears ring. Soap. Gaz. Ghost. Faces flash in front of his eyes, all the times he’d dismissed their looks, their jokes, the way they hovered on the periphery when you were around. The possessive little flare of triumph he’d felt because you were his, at least in the one way that mattered.

“One of them’s got supersperm, apparently,” you go on, almost cheerfully. “There’s only, what, a one in a thousand chance?”

He latches onto the phrase like a lifeline. “One in a thousand,” he repeats numbly. “What are you on about?”

You smile then, soft and devastating, like you’re finally letting him in on the punchline of a joke that’s been running for years. “Yeah,” you say. “Because I got my tubes tied five years ago.”

Silence.

You watch it happen in real time; something behind his eyes splintering. Every frantic, calculated thrust; every time he’d kept you pinned after, every dark little thought about owning you from the inside out reframed in an instant as nothing but wasted effort and ego. All those months of him watching your body like a mission objective, while one (1) drunk night and a statistically impossible shot from one of his sergeants or Lieutenant did what he never could.

“Five… years,” he repeats, faint, as if the number itself is a curse.

You pat his chest once, sympathetic and merciless all at once. “Told you, John,” you murmur. “You don’t have to worry about being the dad.”

You leave him standing in the hallway with his world tilted sideways, ears still ringing with one in a thousand and the knowledge that some bastard under his command did in a single night what he’s been obsessively trying, and failing to do since the day he found out you didn’t use condoms.

Something deep in his psyche cracks straight down the middle.

All his careful calculations crumble, leaving him with nothing but the ringing echo of your words and the sour taste of defeat.

guys have we considered the concept of vile dirty old man Price who’s been fucking men and women longer than most of them have been breathing, slipping up mid thrust, muscle memory kicking in, and murmuring “that’s it… taking me so well, good girl” straight into Gaz’s ear without even realizing it? Like instinct and decades of bad habits and filth, said low and approving while he’s balls deep and steady, only clocking it when Gaz makes a wrecked, stuttering noise and Price has to stop, grin slow and unapologetic, and go “well now, seems you liked that, didn’t you Sergeant?”

John “Breeding Kink” Price who finds out you don’t use condoms and has the one single goal of knocking you up and leaving you with the baby. He goes hard, deep, unrelenting, every position, every surface, multiple times a day. It’s about impregnation. About ownership. About planting something so deep inside you that you can never shake him. Not even if you tried.

He watches your body like a hawk. Tracks your cycle. Fucks you stupid the week you’re ovulating, dripping possessiveness every time he spills cum deep inside you. Doesn’t stop even when you’re shaking, overstimulated, dazed and bruised from the intensity of it all.

And every time your period comes on time, like clockwork, his eyes get darker. His thrusts rougher. His grip bruising. He mutters curses under his breath, things like “Useless little cunt,” and “You better hold onto it this time,” while forcing his cock as deep as he can go, grinding slow just to flood you with another load. When he pulls out and watches it leak, he shoves it back in with his fingers, murmuring things like “not wasting a drop, sweetheart” or “c’mon, take it all.”

He starts keeping you in bed longer. Legs up, hips tilted, cock still twitching inside you even after he’s emptied everything he’s got. All in a desperate, obsessive attempt to make it take.

Vs.

You, who saw through his game from the very beginning. You, who never told him your tubes were tied years ago, because honestly? The dick is spectacular and watching him lose his mind trying to breed a body that can’t be bred is just icing on the cake.

headcanon that farah karim is the only person on earth who actually, genuinely scares the shit out of john price.

like farah looked at her own brother, the last piece of her family, and had her finger on the trigger the second he became the mission.

so price knows. he knows in his bones that if he ever tried to pull some classic price “mansplain, manipulate,muzzle, or manwhore” bullshit with her, she’d just make direct eye contact and chamber a round. the man has seen her morality. it’s a straight line, and “loyalty” is a dot somewhere off the page.

Headcanon that Sergeant MacTavish and Captain MacTavish are father and son and Price watched both of them die right in front of him