Pride Month Is Over

pride month is over

OH MY GOD OUR COD OCS ARE SO SIMILAR HELP??????

Alexei Orlov | Callsign Kit

Call of Duty OC! I really enjoyed doing all the research to pull together his backstory details, and now I know that the British Military has a website dedicated to archiving like every kind of weapon ever, their uses, and when they were popular and why, which is incredibly helpful <3

Read below for Lore!

Alexei was born in Russia, but his parents move to Manchester when he’s 10 years old. He experiences a lot of neglect as a child, often left on his own, and tends to get into fights easily. He joins the BAF at 16 for the bed and regular meals. He excels within the structured routine and expectations of the military (it’s the undiagnosed autism) and moves into special ops by the time he’s 24 years old.

He joins the SAS and specializes in reconnaissance, sometimes functioning as a sniper when needed. He possesses an ungodly amount of patience, and crawling face-down for several kilometers doesn't bother him because of the repetitive motion. His keen eye for detail and ability to sketch out markers and guesstimate accurate distances lends him well to the role. 

When he is 26 he is sent on a mission as a part of a task force to remove a drug kingpin in a city near Novosibirsk (chosen for his speciality and fluency in Russian) who has been making efforts to amass weapons of war. The objective was to find evidence on his supplier and then take him out. Things go wrong when intel provided to the task force does not account for the amount of men and the heavy guns they already had. Alexei’s own reconnaissance revealed slightly more men than expected, but the rest of the forces had been hidden, so the squad had thought they were prepared.

They are taken captive after being overwhelmed quickly once they move in on their target, and comms are jammed. Most of the task force is killed, but Alexei is used for translation purposes as he and what is left of the rest of the squad are tortured for information. Pretty soon the kingpin realizes that they won’t break/don’t know anything helpful to him, and discards the rest of them. Alexei had his tongue cut out in frustration by his captors when they could not extract information, and believing that the blood loss will kill him quickly enough, they move him into the pile to be burned with the rest of his squad that night. They were messy however, and missed the artery in his tongue. He manages to crawl into the shadows and eventually further into the woods where the bonfire has been set up. He packs his mouth with snow and ice, and once he makes it far enough away, cauterizes the wound. Once he makes it to Novosibirsk he receives medical treatment, and is then debriefed.

He enters back into the SAS once he finishes his recovery, partially because he doesn’t really have anywhere else to go, and partially because during his recovery when he is on leave, he desperately misses  the lack of routine.

His callsign is ‘Kit’ which originates from several different places. It starts on one of his first mission swift the SAS, where he has to sit for so long in one spot in the middle of winter watching the target, that a group of feral cats curl up with him because of his body heat. He ends up scaring his Lt. half to death when he’s late back to base because of it, and his squad will never let him forget it. They start to call him ‘Kitty’, and additionally because of his silent tendencies, even around base, when they’re looking for him  they’ll call “Hereee kitty, kitty, pspsps” As though they’re calling a cat. 

Also, because of his tendency to doodle on his clothing, he often gets asked by other soldiers and higher ups that are unfamiliar with him ‘What the hell’s up with his kit,’ which becomes another double meaning for his Callsign.

At this point, and especially after his escape from capture, he’s learned to deal with the nicknames, and from those he is close to in the SAS, he appreciates the jokes. His squadmates don’t even think about it, and will shout from the common area kitchen “Want some Coffee, Kitty?” and Alexei, who has just introduced himself to a new soldier as ‘Kit’ will just have to sigh and accept it. (One time an FNG tried to call him p*ssy as a joke, but Alexei just decked him then and there, and that was the end of the matter. He didn’t get in trouble despite his Lt. standing right there watching, because the man essentially told the FNG that ‘hey man, you were kind of asking for it at that point’).

Common attributes/symbols: Prefers the AW Covert, AW50F and compact Glock 19, and a Fairbairn–Sykes fighting knife when in close combat. Tends to scratch doodles into his kit when he’s bored, and many of his clothes he wears on duty have cats, birds, and bugs sketched on the sleeves or on the thighs of his jeans.

Common activities/hobbies: He likes to keep track of the stray cats he sees around whatever base he’s stationed on in a small notebook organized by color, breed, and type. He also is often listening to music (when he can get away with it/when it’s appropriate), leaning towards mostly russian rap like Miyagi, Truwer, and Markul*(his favorite).

Simon Riley has never understood why military personnel get married so quickly

Logically, he understands; most soldiers move often and want their partners to be able to move with them, and getting married means living off base, which has benefits all of its own. But he’s never wanted or needed any of that. Johnny goes where he goes because they’re a team, and they both have everything they need on base. They’re perfectly happy right where they are, no rings or vows needed.

And then Johnny goes MIA, presumed KIA.

After the initial shock, the anxiety, the helplessness, the overwhelming urge to do something, anything, to get his Johnny back… There’s the Board of Inquiry, where the entire 141 essentially testifies about what happened leading up to Sergeant MacTavish’s disappearance, and he’s declared officially KIA.

His belongings have to be returned to his next of kin which… isn’t Simon. Because they were never married. Instead, he has to pick through his room, collecting the pieces of Johnny that he’d stockpiled over the years; his sketchbooks, his headphones, his extra identification tag. He boxes them up and gives them to Price to be shipped to Scotland, to Johnny’s real next of kin, and he aches with regret.

Because he suddenly understands.

Marriage wouldn’t have saved Johnny; nothing could’ve. But it could’ve kept Johnny close, could’ve preserved some of Johnny’s memory. Instead, his room is cleared and cleaned and filled with the next soldier, and Simon is left with nothing to remember the love of his life by.

He had never even bought a ring.

Joeover

Any music recs for the playlist? Put in an ask and maybe I'll add it :3

weeoing weep eyyg shhh HH this brought me to tears eyyy

Can I request Graves x Price with some hurt comfort (the betrayal didn’t happen), Graves betrayed Shepherd and lost a lot of men and goes to Price for comfort. Have a lovely time zone friend!

🪶

I GOTCHU

I've never written pricegraves before this was fun :D hope you're having an awesome time zone!

Pairing: Captain John Price x Commander Philip Graves

Word count: 2.8k+

CW: Blood, violence, implied death, Shepherd

I Know It

Las Almas was cold. Was it the rain? No, he didn't feel that, sliding down his skin, unaffected. It wasn't the wind. He could hear it outside the windows that wouldn't close.

Shepherd's call had ended, his laptop sitting discarded on the bed next to him. They were supposed to secure Sin Nombre, get the missiles back, and keep their heads down. Not any of this.

The General's warnings echoed in his mind, seeping any warmth from his soul. He didn't have a choice.

"They're getting too close to the problem, Philip. You need to lock it down." He had said.

"You can't expect them to not ask questions, General!" He snapped. "You know that we'd never be that lucky, someone was bound to catch on. No off-book op ever stays hidden, you know that!"

"I don't think you understand what we're dealing with here. What I'm dealing with. This is the immediate future, Commander, I need you to shut it down and take care of it."

Philip stopped dead in his tracks. Take care of it.

Take care of it.

"You ain't asking me to-"

"I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. That's an order." Something in his voice told him everything he needed to do, and that he had no choice. "I'm sending you reinforcements. Make sure you have it managed, Philip." It was them, or it was him.

How could he possibly kill them? All of them? Soap, Gaz, Laswell, the Lieutenant, the Vaqueros.... Even-

No. That was his final straw, he wouldn't. That's against everything he ever fought for, everything he opposed. He thought when he enlisted he knew what war he was fighting in.

He was wrong.

His mind started running a mile a minute. What could he do? He could run, leave it all behind, vanish off the face of the earth, and hope his Shadows could do the same. Hope that the task force made it out alive too. But that was cowardly.

Philip Graves was not cowardly.

The Task Force hadn't even returned from the oil rig yet. That gave him time.

He was speaking into his radio before he had even realized his shaking hands had picked it up.

"All Shadows Stations report to Point Tango, urgently. We've gotta bit of a change in plans."

The radio stations flicked ominous static throughout the emptiness of Price's truck. Vargas' base sat in front of him, but something told him not to enter just yet. He'd watched a transport van enter, but not one big enough to hold his team. Laswell had sent them here immediately following them finishing up in Europe. The sun had fallen, casting dusted shadows across the landscape. Where were his boys?

Gaz groaned into the seat next to him. "Cap, what are you even waiting on? We've been here a few hours, can't we even go on? I gotta piss, and-"

"That's it. There." He lowered his binoculars, following three other vans up the hill and pointed. Gaz perked up in his seat, following the convo with his eyes. He saw Graves standing near the entrance gate, he saw him stop the convo before he entered. The Lieutenant and his Sergeant got out. There was a load pop and he ducked before Graves grabbed Soap by the shoulder and shoved him out of view.

"What's....?"

The static sharpened for only a moment, letting a desperate shout echo across the station.

"RUN!"

Philip tried to be discreet. He really did. But the General had eyes and ears everywhere, and he could only do or say so much before the chain around his throat was pulling him back to his place. They called him Golden Eagle for a reason.

He ran through the halls like a madman, he had no time to lose. They wouldn't give him a choice when the reinforcements arrived, he had to get everyone out without Shepherd finding out.

Could he?

No, he had to.

"Sergeant Parra!" He skidded to a stop outside the office door, trying the handle. Locked. "Sergeant Major! Rodolfo!!"

"Que pasa!?" Rodolfo pulled open the door, a concerned look on his face. "Commander, what's-"

"We need to go! They're- they're-" His chest ached with his heaving breaths. He felt like he was going to throw up. "You need to get your men out of here, Shepherd's sending enforcements to take out the Vaqueros and the 141. We're all done for if we don't leave now."

The Sergeant Major looked like he was going to object before seeing the desperation in his face and believed him, a hard resolve settling over his expression. He handed Graves a slip of paper, and he hurriedly pocketed it. "RV there. Good luck, Graves."

The two turned away, but Rodolfo stopped. "Graves!" The shout turned him around in a panic. "Gracias, hermano!"

He nodded his head, and he was running again.

That's how he had ended up in the courtyard, surrounded by men who he did not recognize.

"Scuse me, soldier-" He tried moving off past them, but one blocked his path to the main hall.

"Are you Philip Graves?" The taller man asked. His voice was gruff, smoky, but distinctly American. What was worse was the beared that he could see that looked almost blood colored in the setting sun.

Graves swallowed, trying to keep his composure. "I am. And I have somethin' I needa attend to-" He tried to push past him again, but a needless hand shoved him back.

"Graves, I see you've met Colonel Tobias Wilkinson. He'll be... assisting you." Said a voice in his ear that nearly froze him to the spot. The General. Of course.

He knew he'd never be lucky enough to set his plan in motion. The other half of the base lay in unknowing wait of a slaughter. Wilkinson put a forceful arm around him, spinning him around, and pushing him towards the doors. Towards the main gate.

This was no suggestion.

"I see you're going the wrong way, Commander. You get lost?" Wilkinson sneered close to his ear.

This was a command.

The new troops not-so-kindly escorted him to the front door. He did not dare glance over his shoulder at whatever Vaquero had dared to ask the men who they were.

He didn't think this was a kidnapping, but a little voice in his mind told him to never get in a vehicle, because they can take you to a secondary location. You'd never be found then.

If Shepherd knew what he was doing, then he hoped someone good would find him.

He got in the car.

Colonel Wilkinson drove down to the entry gate, began barking orders in such jumbled Spanish that even he noticed. The gates slid closed.

A pit formed in his stomach. This was it now.

The men pulled masks over their faces, they looked like his Shadows. His mouth dried as headlights appeared over the hill. He had no way of telling them. He could only pray at this point that something would interfere.

Hatred burned the pit deeper into his stomach as he watched Wilkinson smile before pulling his mask up. Something tasted foul in his mouth, coppery, and with a muted shock he realized he had bitten down hard enough on his cheek that his teeth drew blood.

Three cars rolled to a stop in front of him, the windshields tinted just enough so that he could barely see inside.

"The immediate future." Wilkinson said lowly, twitched towards his weapon warily as two doors opened.

The pretend Shadows filtered through the area as Soap and Ghost spilled out of their cars. Alejandro stepped out, he was closer, and Graves wiped his face of any emotion.

"Graves, que es-"

Out of the corner of his eye, Wilkinson raised his weapon, and Graves acted without a thought.

He wasn't sure when his gun was in his hands, but he aimed for Wilkinson first. Shots rang out between he and the other side, and he turned a split second, shoving Soap out of the way. Part of him felt smug at the shocked expression on Wilkinson's face as he went down.

His radio was on, and he screamed to both the Task Force, his Shadows, the Vaqueros, and anyone else who could hear him. "Run!"

Thankfully, the others had regained their wits, and Soap tried his best to help by firing off a few rounds before Ghost dragged him off into the darkness. Alejandro had taken cover behind one of the armored vehicles and was doing his best to take out the threats as they spilled from his base.

There was a tinny voice from his radio, but that was muffled by blood roaring in his ears.

With Wilkinson went the chain that snapped, the constriction that Shepherd had held him on, and he knew that this was the right decision.

His breathing came choked but he was still going, firing each bullet at his faux masked counterpart.

He wasn't sure when he ended up on the ground, but someone was pulling him up by the back of the vest.

The leash.

The chain.

"No-!" He shouted, trying to fight against the ghosts of a hand, before coming into contact with a tactical vest.

"Graves, we have to go!" Soap shouted at him, searching his eyes in a panic. "We don't have time ta keep at it like this!"

"No! We've- my men are- I have to-" He felt like he couldn't breathe. He wouldn't let this happen again, he couldn't let this happen again, not again, not-

"Graves!" Soap shook him slightly, snapping out of it. He cast a glance back at the base. There were.... too many.

"C'mon! I have a place we can go, esos putos bastardos!" Alejandro cussed angrily, gesturing them. It seemed like he too had an issue with leaving, but knew it was no good cause in staying.

With shaking hands, Graves pulled a bloodied slip of paper from his pocket. "Sergeant Parra- he gave me this.. that's where he said to go." He offered.

Alejandro gave him a grave look, before turning away. "Follow me."

And they did, trying their best to stay unaffected by the shouts and the gunfire from the Vaqueros' fallen base.

At one point, Graves' radio fell silent. He had stopped dead in his tracks when it had, trying to recover his brave face, but nothing could mask the way he paled considerably.

"Shadow Stations, report."

Static.

"I repeat, all Shadow Stations, report."

The silence was unbearable, and they pushed on.

The thoughts pushed inward. He failed. He failed them. He failed to stop them. How many men could he have lost? They were his brothers. He trained them himself. They were better than he was. Why should he-

They arrived at the safehouse, a large, barn looking thing. Alejandro surged inside, quickly followed by Graves, then Ghost and Soap. A few people were already inside. Hope bloomed in his heart as he spotted a few Shadows, and Vargas sped off to find Parra.

"Sergeant!" Graves spoke, his voice almost hoarse, and one of the Shadows perked up hopefully. The younger man was getting his side patched by a Vaquero. Bullet wound, he could tell. This was Shadow 2-3, but his name was Sergeant Connor Saury.

"Yes Commander!" His voice carried across the vast space, and the man turned a few shades of red in embarrassment. "Sorry-"

"How many of you-" Graves did a quick head count of all he could see. Five was his most, but maybe there were others in the other rooms, or still outside. "Made it here?"

Saury's face fell. "Uh- I'm not sure how to tell you, sir, but-"

"Spit it out, Connor."

"Yes- yes sir. Most of them stayed to- well- they weren't gonna let them take us so easily, sir, and a lot stayed behind. They thought the General's men got you, and-"

He raised a hand, and the sergeant stopped, looking down to the floor. "Connor... Where's everyone else?"

He didn't answer.

"Conn-"

"It's just us, sir." He whispered, and Graves felt like he was gonna throw up. There was- no, this couldn't be happening again... "Are... are you bleeding, Graves-?"

"Philip, you with us lad?" He heard Soap say.

His radio was still silent. He doubted it would make sound again. Had anyone else gotten out? What happened to the rest of the Vaqueros?

He was walking. Someone stopped him. He kept walking.

"-just shut down. Hasn't responded to a thing we've said." Someone else, Ghost said, before a light was shined into his eyes. He felt like he was feeling everything underwater. Slow, sluggish, dreamlike.

The only difference between then and now was that there was no missiles gone missing. They... were still gone, though.

A twinge in his shoulder. He felt himself wince. Doctor.

The oily texture told him there was blood on his hands, literally and figuratively.

"The Captain's arrived. Should we tell 'im?" A ghost of a whisper kissed his hearing at some point.

"....Laswell's doing some digging...."

The air morphed and pinpointed around him, the fog around his brain cleared in a split second.

"Where is he?" Philip asked. His tongue felt heavy, his lips dry. How long had they been here?

"Back with us, Graves?" Ghost's gruff voice asked him, somewhere in the dark of the room behind him. He ignored him.

"Where's the captain?" He repeated himself, and Soap pursed his lips.

"Doon th' hall. Second door on th' left."

Less than a minute later, Graves stood outside the given door, hand poised to knock.

But it opened before he had the chance.

Price was running a hand over his face tiredly, having apparently not seen him, but then he looked up, and Graves felt his shoulders fall slack.

"...Phil-?"

"John-" He breathed, and practically threw himself into the man's arms. Price backed up, holding him tightly, and kicked the door shut.

"Hey, hey, what- what's wrong?" He felt the Captain wince at the question, realizing how stupid it sounded. "Take a breath, love, breathe..."

"They're gone, they- they thought- I should've- John, I f-fucked up, it's my fault- John, I failed them, I failed-" His voice broke, and he unwillingly sobbed into the man's shirt.

"No, no, hold on, you didn't fail them, Phil..." He murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his forehead, rubbing his hand through Graves' hair. He was shaking horribly as he sobbed, fists balling the hem of Price's shirt. "C'mere, let's sit down now."

Price's voice stayed gentle, a soothing quiet, guiding him to the edge of the bed in the room. He couldn't stop the cries that ripped their way through his chest, clawing like a beast freed from eternal punishment. Soft hands guided their way up and down his figure, comforting, hovering over his shoulder. Graves hissed a breath as a sharp sting shot down to his elbow. "Pip, are you injured...?"

He didn't know how to respond. Had he been injured? That would explain the doctor he thinks he saw before, and the constant stinging ache. Had it been bandaged? Maybe, but he thinks he had left before the Vaquero could finish. So instead, he hummed in defeat, hiding his shameful face in the Captain's shoulder. Like a child who believed that if he could not see his mother, then she could not see him, he believed that if he hid closer, Price would not be able to see the sin written into the very being of him, the total failure that he was.

"Hey, breathe, look at me. You need to breathe, love, you need to, or you'll make this all worse. In and out..." He was rocking him softly, back and forth.

He tried. In- in and out, in- "John, th-they're dead-"

"I know, shh.... You're alright, you are..."

"They're dead because of me, I f-failed-"

Price took his face in his hands suddenly, forceful, but still calm, shocking a part of him from his stupor. "You didn't fail them, Philip, none of that now. We're all alive because of you." Price said, and Graves hesitantly opened his eyes, peering at the man above him. Instead of finding a cold look of betrayal or disgust, John's face was nothing but concern written softly into the lines of his face. He took a breath. "Because of you, everyone in this building is here. The others..." Price hesitated, but wanted the man to have some hope. "They might be on their way. Some of them, at least. Takes a while to get here, if you don't know where you're goin'." The ghost of a laugh whispered its way through the room, lightening the darker part of his thoughts.

A watery look crossed his tear-stained face, but a bit of spark flashed in his eyes. "You- y'think-?"

"Aye, I know it." Price nodded, pressing his nose into Graves' sandy mop of hair. "I know it."