#jock writes

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/John Price Characters: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, John Price (Call of Duty) Additional Tags: Trans Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Trans John Price (Call of Duty), Phalloplasty, metoidioplasty, Boot Worship, Piss mentioned but not acted on, T4T sex baby!!!, Established Relationship, Fauxcest (light), heavy religious imagery, Oral Sex Summary:

Tilting his head back, Kyle let John's cock slip that much farther to gag him more effectively. He neither needed nor wanted mercies. When his Captain demanded obliteration, his only avenue was to shut his eyes and brace for impact.

Here I am, back on my bullshit, writing stupid idiot boys in love. Enjoy this utterly silly AYCE BBQ modern AU 🍖

Show: Tomorrow

Pairing: Lim Ryung-gu/Choi Junwoong

Rating: E!! (Only in ch.2. ch.1 is T and basically standalone)

Excerpt:

Lim Ryung-gu wouldn’t say he hates his job at the local all-you-can-eat barbecue joint. Granted, he wouldn’t say he likes it, either, but apathy is pretty much his default setting, so that doesn’t mean much. But slinging meats at inebriated diners doesn’t require more than Lim Ryung-gu is willing to give, plus the tips are good, the owners are generous, and most days his shift passes relatively uneventfully. For all that the smoke gets stuck to his skin, there are worse ways to pay off his lingering debts.

…Or at least that’s what he tells himself when a table of teens tries to dine and dash, or an old man a few too many bottles of soju deep gets a little too fresh. Neither happens as often, anymore. Possibly (probably?) because of Lim Ryung-gu’s habit of dispensing bloody noses in retribution.

What can he say – he’s a professional, not a saint , and old habits die hard.

Read more on AO3!

Thwack.

Ghost didn’t even turn this time. Still, Gaz piped up, “Moskie on you.” That, more than the swat, had Ghost’s shoulders creeping up.

There hadn’t been a mosquito, of course. At least, not on Ghost. For one thing, it would have had to bite through an inch of sodden fabric anywhere it landed. For another, its brethren had found several tasty spots on Kyle already, who had unwisely rolled up his sleeves. There was no point in rolling them back down now. He’d still take being a bug buffet over being sous-vided in his own sweat and the damp of the muggy forest they’d been dropped in.

He didn’t quite know how Ghost was still upright in the wet mask. The man had been waterboarded before, Kyle supposed.

There was also his clear delight of getting to wield the machete. That, along with the general level of spite that kept Ghost upright under all manner of conditions, was one hell of a selling point. One that kept him out of the Jeep with Price and down in the brush with Kyle for their return to exfil. Why Kyle himself had accompanied the lieutenant rather than calling shotgun ahead of Soap…

Thwack.

It didn’t really matter.

Ghost paused in his hacking at the innocent trees. Looked back over his shoulder with one narrowed eye. Gaz held up his hands in surrender.

“Moskie on you, sir. Swear down.”

The answering grunt was barely audible over the sound of the wildlife around them. Mosquito whines included. Adjusting his grip on the machete, Ghost turned back around and kept brutalizing the underbrush. Gaz kept trudging through the path he cleared.

It was downright unethical to unleash Ghost on this forest. Not more than anything else they did, but enough to give Kyle a giggle or two. The masked menace would get a reputation among the chattering birds above to match his notoriety among his fellow humans. Maybe that was why Kyle had joined him there. Yes, field experience under a different commander than Price, yes, exposure to more environments, yes, a decent workout, but at the end of the day it was Ghost’s presence that had made his hand go up. Watching the hulking shadow carve his place in the world was always a treat. For someone who wanted to loom large, it was a masterclass. Making Captain was Gaz’s ultimate goal - he’d never not be a disciple of John Price - but he wouldn’t pass up catching a guest lecture in being pants-pissingly intimidating.

He’d been scared of Ghost once. Still was, in bursts. The correct response to someone exploding into red mist was not a low chuckle and accented quip. But honestly, after seeing the sides of The Ghost only shown to his team, it blunted some of the teeth on the legend. Some of them.

Thwack.

Enough of them.

This time, Ghost turned right around and levelled the machete at Gaz. “Whot’re you after?” he growled. Gaz raised his hands again.

“Forest’s full of them, sir. I’m just watching your six.”

He’d seen livelier eyes in severed heads. Ghost turned the machete blade-down and raised it high.

Resisting the instinct to step back made some part of Gaz rather proud of himself. The more mammalian parts, the ones designed to keep him safe from things like Ghost, were less enthused.

One brown eye closed like Ghost was lining up a shot. “You ever think about partin’ your ‘air on the left?” he mused, dinking the blade just-so on the top of Kyle’s head. “Could do you here.”

Kyle bit the inside of his lower lip. “Done much barbering?”

“Post-mortem.” Whatever the fuck that meant. Ghost huffed like a bull - thick fucking slab of beef that he was, appropriate - and turned the machete, bringing the flat of it down on Gaz’s head. It made a metallic thonk.

“Agh, bloody-“ Gaz hissed, finally ducking away from further attack and scurrying back a few steps. Bringing a hand up to grope at the top of his head, his fingers only met sweat and a sore patch.

The hardshell mask shifted in a way that meant Ghost was grinning under it. “‘Bloody’ could be arranged.”

A mosquito took advantage of their slowed progress to land on Gaz’s forearm. This time, he couldn’t arrest his flinch as Ghost brought the machete down. It slapped the bug dead with the flat of the blade.

Thwack.

“Moskie on you.”

[I know QPR means different things to different people but to me it’s a deep enough bond that Friends feels reductive. Spouse and I are in a queerplatonic relationship, aroace and aro respectively, and got married about it. So there’s my qualifications.]

Both of their lineages stopped with them.

In Kyle’s case, that was a melodramatic way of putting it. His sister was pregnant for the second time, but her kids would be Patels, not Garricks. Their father had been an only child. If he stayed the course, his Y chromosome would be the last of its kind.

Simon’s line was a very real dead end. The last surviving Riley, and even then, only barely. Obviously, they never talked about it. Kyle wasn’t even sure if he still had the parts to procreate with. (The internals, at least - the bastard pissed with the door open enough that he’d gotten an eyeful of the rest). None of his business. Neither of them were the childrearing sort.

Which made the current debate all the more ridiculous.

“My pet. My name.” Mulishly, Simon pulled the box that held the rock closer to himself across the table.

Alright, pet rocks were for toddlers. They both knew. But neither of them were in the business of ‘making a house a home’ and when the topic came up, so had pet ownership. It didn’t matter a fig whether their rarely-occupied flat had blue curtains or green if it was cold and dead round the clock. Of course, ‘cold and dead’ was exactly what any normal pet would be after days, weeks, sometimes months without intervention. Thus, the rock. It - in its little carrying case and shite polyester cushion - had run them £4 at the shop where Simon bought his silly birthday cards and gag gifts, which had been its own argument, but at least there were no immunizations to pay for.

Unless they developed one for whatever was the matter with Simon Riley. That would be one hell of a veterinary visit.

“Our pet,” Kyle corrected, painfully aware of how easy he was to rile up. What did he care what they named the fucking rock? Because you love no-stakes arguments and so does he. Irritably, he waved away the thought along with Simon’s words. “So we name it together. We hyphenate.”

“Riley-Garrick?”

“Or Garrick-Riley.”

“That’s shite.” There was a meanness to Simon’s enjoyment. Not pigtail-pulling - not nearly - but the act of pissing Kyle off just to do it. Just to prove he could. It’s why they both did it, to be fair. How badly can I work you up before you take a swing? It hadn’t not happened. “I’d take Riley-Garrick. Needs to make good initials, though.”

Like an old married couple, they were. They couldn’t actually get married, with Simon’s persnickety status vis a vis reincarnation, but they were as good as. Every legality between them and their flat was under Kyle’s name. …which Simon could well leverage for rock naming rights, if it came to it, so Kyle pressed on before he thought of it.

“Alright - that leaves us with vowels.” Pretending to be counting on his fingers, Kyle used his other hand to subtly pull the box closer to his side. “ARG, ERG, ORG - it’s all a bit pish, innit?”

Simon’s pale paw curled around the box and unsubtly, pulled it right back to himself. “Needs to be S-A. Initials make Sarg - nickname the stupid thing Sarge.” Kyle had the mad impulse to cover the rock’s non-ears and scold Simon. For the hundredth time, he reminded himself that psychosis was not contagious. “Sally-Ann.”

“Like the store?” Kyle crinkled his nose and, conceding defeat over Rock Proximity, doubled down on Rock Labelling. “Also, we don’t know the thing’s a girl. Should do something neutral.”

“Bloke can’t be named Sally now?”

He took a deep breath. Wondered if their new pet would make a good weapon. Stopped wondering. “What about Sam Alex? Not hyphenated. Nice and neutral.”

Simon’s face didn’t move. “It’s shite.”

Kyle’s did, into an indignant scrunch. “You’re shite.”

And all at once, he’d fucking lost. Ad hominems were an instant failure and they both knew it. Over a pet rock from the joke shop.

Something Ghost-adjacent rang in Simon’s smirk as he scooped up the rock in its box and looked down at Kyle near-pityingly. “Slagging off your superior over a fucking toy sound professional to you?” he goaded. “Grammar school behaviour. Fucking juvenile.”

“You’re juvenile,” Kyle grumbled, having no lower to go.

“In front of the damn baby.”

“It’s a rock.”

“Rock that bears our names, Garrick. Congratulations, you’re a parent.”

Crammed in a tent together for some reason and Price starts grinding against Kyle who wakes up immediately but doesn’t stop him….. And the whole time he’s going ‘this is so wrong, this isn’t what he’d want’ but DOESN’T STOP HIM… and at some point Price wakes up and pauses, but then keeps going, and he’s very obviously awake now but ISN’T SURE KYLE IS and Kyle definitely lays as still as possible and wonder if Price knows, if this IS what he wants, etc etc

Only to hear him cum, huff, wheeze, and (ok branching path cus I can’t decide which is better)

Either roughly reach around Kyle to get him off in return

Because Gaz is a first rate Sergeant and everyone knows it. He’s more than earned the special treatment. And honestly? So has Price. It wasn’t Kyle’s idea, but he’s chuffed to bits about it. Even if Soap sounds a bit disbelieving, a little derisive (certainly plenty curious) at first, Kyle just shrugs.

“Cap’s got needs too. He’s good. Real good.”

He can see it when Johnny’s mouth goes dry. It’s a toss-up who his fellow Sergeant is thinking of in that moment. “Aye?”

Kyle only grins. “I’ve been told m’not half bad either.”

At that, Soap’s focus definitely narrows in to just Gaz. Pure temptation - forbidden fruit with some cockiness to test out. Too bad for him that Price has first and only dibs.

Still. Kyle’s a loyal soldier, but not a goalkeeper. Price never told him specifically to stop others touching, only that they weren’t supposed to.

Which is how he winds up flat on his back in the field, trousers scrunched around his left leg while his right is hitched over Johnny’s shoulder. Price had his tithe that morning and their Captain’s cum lets Johnny slide right in.

Soap’s curiousity is like a fish hook through the bellybutton. The whole time he’s fucking into Kyle, he’s blathering. “D’you ever top him? Does he give head? Does he eat arse? How’d he ask? Or did you ask? What’re the rules? Does Ghost know?”

Gaz just luxuriates in being coveted, knowing that every drop of Johnny’s spend will be licked out of him later. “He’s going to be proper mad at you, mate. I’m exclusive, I am,” he pants, his smile falling somewhere between mischief and indolence.

“He won’t. Will he?”

“Sure. Get done for insubordination, if you’re lucky.”

"'ow much is that doggy in th'window?"

You knew why you had to be there. The new thermal scanners were still in a temperamental enough phase to need on-hand assistance from their dedicated tech - you - and that included a simulated in-situ test. Given that the tech skills of the 141 seemed to range from 'Proficient With iPhone 12' to 'How Do I Turn On My Printer', you'd also had to calibrate the scanner for the thickness of the walls, compensate for the reinforced stairwell, adjust the eyepieces, and, at the urging of the Captain, allow for its wearer to go for a quick jog to check that it was securely hooked into his tac gear. Followed, of course, by a repeat calibration. Your cheque, you were assured, would fully reflect just how necessary you had become to the project.

"The one wiv the schupid 'air."

It just may not cover how damn unsettling your test subject was.

The 141 had flown into the base a few days earlier. Somehow, they'd jumped the queue for use of Britain's most sophisticated model infiltration setup (almost the size of a city block, complete with a fully-staged apartment building and a duplex set that you were honestly jealous of) and the queue for the new thermals. Someone upstairs liked these boys a lot. You were still finding your feet with them. The sergeants were sweet enough, but the Captain had a bad habit of tilting his mustache at you and referring to you in terms closer to a primary school teacher than a skilled contractor. And forget the weird lieutenant.

"Can see you when you press toight t'the wall loike that, Johnny. Gwon and get central."

On your eyepiece, you saw the vague outline of a person through the wall of the building waver, distort, and fade back into the visual noise. After setting the scanner to ignore the outer wall and its wiring, you had a creepily good view of the sergeants sneaking around the model flat. Getting the wavelength for the inner rooms right was trickier, but coming along better than expected.

It helped having such diligent guinea pigs. And alright, that was an upshot to the lieutenant. He drilled his men around the course as if he really was using the new tech on a batch of enemies. Or... maybe as if he was the enemy, watching his men. It didn't make much difference for your side of things. At least, not practically. And your supervisor had been very clear about forbidding live rounds on the course. You just never could have expected-

"See yor 'at over the second story sill, Garrick. Don't even need th'new gadget."

– rommy

One of the many, many things that made Kyle an exceptional special forces operative was his ability to identify and exploit a weakness. It was a tendency that, without fail, both infuriated and aroused Price to distraction. He could manipulate like a sculptor, but Kyle, his protege, took it to the level of surgery. Applied to targets, it was devastating. Applied to himself? Lethal.