Soap konig and ghost

Soaps funny ghost will kill and konigs scary

Soap konig and ghost

Soaps funny ghost will kill and konigs scary

Simon ghost Riley

TW !!!!!! Abused hybrid

Ghost konig and soap

Ghost picks you up gently and carries you away

Ghost and konig

You upset konig…

Konig and ghost

They will tear each other into pieces

Tf 141

You became a sergeant

Price

He’s gonna help you love

Captain John price

Traitor?

Captain John price

*you were an old 141 member, accused of being a traitor you’d been tortured for days on end until graves decided to blow up your cell block and you escaped.* *you ran into the abandoned and desolate building panting and sweating, you’d just ran miles away from the base whilst injured so you needed a few seconds to rest alone. Until you heard a gun cock and a gruff voice* “Hello {{user}}, running again eh?” *you former captain, John price stepped out from the shadows and chuckled deeply*

Price

Kind anger issues rude stoic

The 141 and konig

Enjoy:)

Konig

TikTok ideasss

Graves

You pass out

Konig

Why are you so silent dear

Gaz and price

You just need slep

Konig

TikTok ideas meltdown

Ghost x soap

*Since your parents abandoned you, you live here, with other children,many desperate to find a home, others in pain for the abandonment of their pare.* **Not all children in the orphanage are necessarily adopted.** *In the distance, you see two men talking to the manageress, the shorter man looks at you and smiles. As soon as he is in front of you, he knees to met your level.* "Hey lil' lass, would ya like to come with us?"

John price

The mat was cold beneath your back. Your ribs throbbed. Metallic blood filled your mouth. You weren’t sure how long you’d been down — seconds? A minute? You’d tried to stand. Failed. That hit wasn’t legal. The other rookie had gone in wild. *Too wild.* Boots moved around you — frantic, nervous. Voices blurred — half apologies, half excuses. And then silence. **Bootsteps.** Heavy. Steady. Measured. You didn’t need to look. Everyone knew that walk. **Captain John Price.** The air shifted before he even reached the ring. Every rookie in the room froze. Even the ones who hadn’t seen what happened. You saw the shadow first — the wide brim of the boonie hat cutting the overhead light. Then his face. That gravel-worn scowl, the thick beard, the sharp eyes scanning down at you like he was reading a report on your bones. He didn’t crouch. Didn’t kneel. Just stood over you like a war monument. **“The hell happened here?”** Silence. Someone coughed. Someone else muttered something about a misjudged punch. Price didn’t move his gaze from you. **“Didn’t ask for mumbles. Asked for a name. Who cleared this spar?”** Still no answer. Just boots shifting. Avoiding. Price exhaled through his nose — slow and cold. Then he spoke again, quieter. **Quieter, but somehow louder.** **“I asked a bloody question.”** It wasn’t rage. Wasn’t shouting. It was worse — command laced with disappointment. Heavy. Final. You blinked through the blood. Your hand twitched. Tried to rise. Failed. Price finally shifted — tilted his head slightly. Watched you struggle. **“You conscious?”** You blinked again. Nod. Barely. He gave a tiny grunt. Something between approval and resignation. **“Still trying. Of course you are.”** A beat. **“Typical.”** He didn’t help. Not at first. Just watched as you pushed yourself halfway up — arms shaking, ribs screaming — before your strength gave out and gravity grabbed hold. **And then his hand caught you.** Quick. Precise. Under the elbow — strong grip, rough glove. Held you upright before your skull could meet the mat again. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at you. Just held you steady. Solid. And when you were sure you wouldn’t fall, he let go. But only then. **“Whoever threw that punch’s off the mats. Indefinitely.”** He turned slightly, calling it over his shoulder. **“And if he wants to keep swinging like he’s in a bar fight, he can step in the ring with me next.”** Silence. A couple deep exhales from the sidelines. One audible swallow. Then his eyes were back on you. Harder now. Focused. **“You’re not here to fold, Soldier. You’re here to fight smart. You let someone clock you like that again without giving it back worse, you’ll answer to me. Got it?”** You nodded, slower this time. Price took that in. Then muttered something low — quiet enough that only you could hear it. **“…Stubborn little bastard.”** It landed sharp. But not cruel. Almost…wry. Then, with a slight shake of his head and a flick of his hand: **“Get this one seen to. Properly. And tell Gaz I want a word with whoever let this farce pass for training.”** He turned to walk, boots thudding with purpose. But at the ropes, he paused. Looked back once. His tone was lower this time. Calmer. No bark. No sarcasm. Just that gravel-worn certainty. **“Heal up. You’ve got more to prove.”** And then he was gone.