#ghoap fluff

[bigproblemsfunnylife]

The kitchen was warm with the smell of cinnamon and frying butter, golden sunlight slipping through half-open blinds and painting the countertops in stripes. Soap was already barefoot, shirtless, and covered in flour, leaning over the counter with far too much enthusiasm for someone who claimed he didn’t technically know how to cook.

Ghost leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, mask still on, but his eyes crinkled above the fabric, watching Soap try to flip a pancake that definitely wasn’t ready to flip.

“You’re supposed to wait until the bubbles pop,” Ghost said, voice flat but unmistakably amused.

Soap glanced back at him, spatula in hand. “You want to do it then, Chef Ramsay?”

“I just don’t want another one stuck to the ceiling.”

“That was one time,” Soap muttered, cheeks flushing. “And the pancake was rebellious. It had a mind of its own.”

“You screamed.”

“I yelped. There’s a difference.”

Ghost pushed off the fridge and came up behind him, reaching to adjust the heat on the stove without a word. Soap didn’t stop him, just leaned back slightly into his chest, letting the moment stretch out.

“You’re warm,” Soap murmured, then glanced up with a grin. “You should take the mask off. I won’t burn the pancakes, I swear.”

“Lies,” Ghost said, but his tone was soft. He let his hand rest on Soap’s hip for a moment longer than necessary before finally pulling away.

Soap flipped the pancake successfully this time, or sort of. It landed a little folded but edible. “Nailed it,” he said proudly.

Ghost handed him a plate, deliberately brushing his fingers. “A masterpiece.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“A little.”

Soap stuck his tongue out and leaned over to kiss Ghost on the cheek of the mask, right where the edge of black fabric met skin. “You love it.”

Ghost didn’t respond at first, he just picked up another mixing bowl and started on the eggs. But Soap caught the slight tilt of his head, the way his shoulders relaxed, and the faint warmth in his voice when he finally said:

“Yeah. I do.”

[waywardsou2]

Soap wears a skull mask that is jaw only

People think it's just another statement or a motif of his personality

He wears it to completed Ghosts mask...

Because together they are each others better half :)

[antomatkoen]

cheeky bastard soap at it again 🙄

[redfadedghost]

There are some days where Simon still struggles with waking up in a room that isn’t his but is in a house that isn’t his but is, next to a man who isn’t his but is in a bed that isn’t his but is.

He’s never really had a proper place of his own. In the first few years of his service, he’d stay at his mum’s house or in his brother’s guest room. After they passed he no longer had a place to go.

So he got the cheapest tiny bachelor flat that wasn’t his but was (price’s name was on the lease)

And Simon rarely stayed there. The white walls were empty and he only had the necessary furniture, the place never feeling like home.

When Johnny offered him to stay with him at his house for their extended leave, Simon was hesitant. He agreed, but he felt like a guest while he was there. Nothing of Johnny’s fault, the man doing everything to make Simon feel at home, it was just the way he is.

Slowly, over time, he felt a bit more comfortable being there, fit in better, felt a little bit more at home. Johnny even took him to the shops one day and made him pick some new stuff out for the house - a blanket, a painting, a couple knick knacks. With the added touches, the place slowly morphed from Johnny’s house to their house. Little bits of Simon slowly started filling in the empty spaces of the house, like his presence was missing the entire time.

The little voice in the back of his head never stayed completely quiet, some days piping up to remind him that this wasn’t his home, he was just staying there, even after years of spending every leave there, even the ones where only he was sent home, and after letting his lease expire on the old flat.

As the months went on, Simon got better at ignoring that voice and listening to Johnny’s instead. It’s your place, too, Si. No where else I’d rather be than in this house with you.

So even though some nights he wakes up in a place that doesn’t feel like it is his, Simon is still able to go back to sleep in a room that was his in a house that was his, next to a man that was his in a bed that was his.

[luxcuriousao3]

Simon Riley with a long, Roman nose that's crooked from how many times it's been broken. Simon Riley with a chipped front tooth, cracked in one of his countless fist fights. Simon Riley with deep furrows in his brow from stress but no crow's feet around his eyes because he never smiles. Simon Riley with a three inch scar that cuts right through his crooked nose and thin, downturned lips, giving him a permanent snarl. Simon Riley with greys in his hair because as much as he hates to admit it, he's getting bloody old. Simon Riley with half a Glasgow smile, exposing an unusually sharp canine tooth, sharp like it had been filed down. Simon Riley with a slit across his neck that should have killed him but didn't, because he just can't fucking die, trust him, he's tried. Simon Riley with round cheeks that turned hollow after years of starvation, never to recover, making him look like a skeleton even without the mask. Simon Riley who's fuck-ugly and knows it. Simon Riley who John MacTavish thinks is the most beautiful man he's ever seen anyway.

[whatev-i-guess]

Johnny with a smirk: Wanna play a game of chicken?

Ghost going down on one knee, taking out a ring: Sure.

[lahnabelle]

softies

[codtrashsammy]

Soft Ghoap Thoughts

Don't get me wrong, i'm a feral freak for all the dark!Ghoap content, too. ...but like... lil idiot soft boys who know they love you but also know they love each other and don't know how to use Google to properly define anything between y'all Maybe you met Johnny first and you guys just clicked and then somehow Simon showed up, and now you're all just a sweet little trio And it's not even sexual for the longest time- Simon would be far too traumatized to just go for that and Johnny has his whole manwhore persona, so he wouldn't want to risk pushing you away in the slightest. So you just casually have these two big ass military duded in your apartment (a house? In this economy?) that just casually exist with you. Simon cursing while trying to fix that leaky faucet you've had since before you even moved in, while griping and barking at Johnny to hold the flashlight steady and you're just sitting on the counter watching it all in amusement. (Simon: Bloody hell, just HOLD the thing Johnny: 'm tryin' real hard, LT, real hard Simon: You're clearly fucking NOT and really they're only doing it because of your little giggles and quips as you sit over their shoulder watching, such a pretty baby for them, just bein' around them and blessing them with your presence) Johnny with his arms wrapped around you after a bad day at work and Simon just comes over and flops down nearby like a cat who wants attention but isn't willing to ask for it- so they both just hand around and kinda comfort you, but really they just wanna touch you. You, who is so confused because one minute they're griping and bantering with each other and the next you have Johnny leaving little kisses on your cheeks with a dumb grin while Simon just happily interlocks your fingers with his when you're walking back home from the bar. Simon and Johnny both who are as obsessed and in love with each other as they are you but are too scared to put a label to it in case that's what finally scares you off and they'd rather have some of you than none of you at all. Okay, more soft thoughts coming later <3 I love these war gremlins sm

[al4thea]

Someone is asking me to draw in my squiggly chibi style. I said no but I still made it, here you go ﾍ(￣ー￣)ﾉ

[call-of-daydreams]

You: Having a boyfriend is great because I always have someone to gossip to, and he won't tell anyone because he wasn't listening in the first place.

*You glance at Simon*

Simon: I'm always listening to you lovie, I just don't share it because I'm not Johnny.

*Simon side eyes Johnny*

Johnny with a shocked look on his face: I'm not that bad Bonnie, I promise.

[bigproblemsfunnylife]

It starts out simple — a mission gone long, a cold safehouse with one working cot, and too little sleep for both of them. Soap, bandaged and grumbling, is already half-asleep when Ghost finally pulls off his gear and drops down beside him without a word.

At first, they sleep back-to-back. A respectful distance. Ghost doesn’t do touch, not usually. But in the dark, with the only sounds being Soap’s soft breathing and the wind tapping against the windows, something changes.

Soap shifts in his sleep and presses closer, arm brushing against Ghost’s. Ghost freezes… but doesn’t move away.

Next time, it’s Ghost who gets back from a recon mission soaked to the bone and cold down to his bones. Soap’s already in the cot, blanket over his chest, one arm slung behind his head. He lifts it wordlessly, inviting him in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And Ghost accepts.

They fall into a rhythm. It’s always Ghost who takes longer to fall asleep, always hyperaware, always half-ready to run. But when he shares a bed with Soap, something in him unwinds. He listens to Soap’s heartbeat, steady as a drum under his ear, and lets that anchor him.

Sometimes Soap talks in his sleep, little murmurs in his Scottish accent, soft and sometimes funny. Ghost pretends not to notice, but he stores every sound away like it matters.

By now, the cot’s too small and they don’t care. Ghost’s arm drapes over Soap’s waist. Soap’s fingers tangle in the hem of Ghost’s shirt. There’s no space between them, and none of the usual armor.

Just them.

[reddtulips]

something something ghoap staying at johnny’s family farm that’s less than two hours away from glasgow.

they barely reach the damn place because simon insists on driving and takes a wrong exit on the highway and johnny has to piss a hundred times during the drive.

the air is crisp and cold and frosts the tips of their noses and simon forces indifference when johnny’s fingers brush simon’s to hold the duffel bag so he can close the trunk of the car.

johnny knocks on the front door and his mother rips it open, hugging his son and without a second to think, hugs simon as well and ushers them inside.

johnny’s father is a simple man and gives simon a firm handshake and a pat on his back and shows him the dining room, a feast set on the table and every salad under the sun overflowing in hand painted bowls that johnny’s mother made when she did pottery ten years ago.

johnny’s sisters are there, his niece and nephews as well, all children and simon sweats thinking how in the hell he is supposed to talk to them. are the boys at the appropriate age to know about guns and knives? or do they look at encyclopedias of greek mythology and dinosaurs? does the niece like barbie and dress up? or is she one of those girls that like to collect bugs and draw hopscotch on the pavement with colorful chalk and wipe the excess from her fingers onto her pants?

they watch him with eager eyes and giggles smothered behind tiny hands, and watch in awe when he lifts his balaclava to expose his mouth so he can eat.

johnny does the talking at the table and simon can’t understand a fucking word he’s saying because he’s gone full scottish with his family, only hums and nods occasionally. he wolfs down every piece of food, the human trashcan that he is (and because he doesn’t remember the last time he had a home-cooked meal), and nearly combusts for a second time that day as johnny’s mam places a plate with a thick slice of apple pie in front of him, vanilla ice cream melting over it and puts a hand on his shoulder, “johnny told me ye have a sweet tooth, so i made it especially for ye.”

simon who does silent breathing exercises so he doesn’t cry because he misses this so fucking much. to sit down with a family and enjoy a meal together with loved ones and not fight, nor scream nor yell nor cry nor throw food nor break plates and it’s just laughter upon laughter upon claps on the shoulders and clutching at arms and pulling each other into side hugs and light jabs that mean nothing and don’t break into full blown fights and simon thinks he’s going to vomit.

simon who gets to see johnny’s childhood bedroom. it’s decorated in superhero posters and hanging medals and trophies from gymnastics and competitive shooting competitions. johnny turns sheepish when simon points them out, teases him and likes and fears the swirl of warmth in his chest when johnny’s ears and neck turn red. he’s told “still a better shot than you,” and if johnny were anyone else, he’s be given toilet cleaning duties for the next three months.

simon who wants to pull out and empty every drawer, check every nook and cranny and learn and suck in every single piece of information and story there is about johnny and what — there’s pictures of you as a kid? with a mohawk? fuck off, soap, lemme see.

johnny opens the left door of his wardrobe and it’s covered in baby pictures of him and his family and simon’s chest tightens but he doesn’t break his gaze. Lo and behold, Johnny points out a picture on top and holy shit, it’s him holding a fat, orange cat the size of half his body and he’s sporting a long mohawk. His cheeks are stained with tears but there’s a forced grin on his face and blood on his chin. johnny explains it was his 7th birthday, he fell off a swing, hit his chin and his mam still wanted a photo. the cat’s named ‘fergus’ and he’s still alive and has lost most of the weight. he explains more photos but simon’s eyes keep coming back to the first one and he just wants to lean down and leave a gentle kiss on the scar covering johnny’s chin.

the kids don’t leave simon alone, as much as uncle johnny protests and tells them to get tae and let ‘em rest, he’s been drivin’ all mornin’ but watches them from the kitchen with a soft smile as simon walks around with the kids hanging and clutching at his strong arms like they’re monkeys and simon can’t get enough of their giggles and ooh’s and ahh’s when he tells them heroic and child-friendly war stories about their uncle. he also tells them that he sucks ass at taking orders and sharing his MREs and that they should listen to their parents and respect their elders and share with each other. johnny smothers a grin behind his hand as simon uses his lieutenant’s voice when speaking to the kids about these things.

johnny steals simon away then, “gotta show ‘em the horses”, and simon keeps his distance and doesn’t dare get up on one of them. the cockiest, “scared, Lt.?” with a shit-eating grin from johnny makes him grab the reigns and climb on. johnny leads the horse down the field and they fall into a comfortable silence. simon can’t get enough of the peace and quiet and chirping of birds and gentle yet chilly breeze on his hands and johnny is suddenly coming to a halt.

simon looks down at his sergeant, and his cheeks are flushed red and there’s determination and well-masked hesitation in his blue eyes and before simon knows it, he’s being pulled down by the sleeve of his jacket and johnny is cupping the sides of his face and pressing a gentle kiss over the material of simon’s mask. it’s innocent, quick, almost like it doesn’t even happen and isn’t registered. but their gazes meet when they part and it’s over for both of them because simon is fervently pushing his mask up and cupping johnny’s cheeks and they’re both leaning forward again and pressing kiss upon kiss upon kiss on each other’s lips and simon finally thinks,

i’ve found it. i’ve found home.

[antomatkoen]

i like to think that soap designs some of ghosts tattoos and like, incorporates ghosts scars into the art piece?? essentially making them part of the masterpiece idk

this man does not know how to wink!!!!! this is my truth

[subliminalghoest]

Safe house 3

Ghoap x f!reader (read part one & two)

-the third instalment is hereeee

-Warning: Slow-burn, fluff, we getting real angsty with this part (you've been warned)

———————————————————————————

You didn't believe it—not really. But there it was in the scope. A perfect shot.

“Bloody hell,” Price said behind you, voice low with something between disbelief and pride. “That’s 1,750 metres. New team record.”

He clapped a hand on your shoulder. “What’s the reward, then, Lieutenant?”

All eyes flicked to Ghost. He was still looking through the spotting scope, unmoving. Like he needed to double-check that what just happened... actually happened.

It took a second before he spoke, like the words had to boot up. “…Bragging rights.”

It’s a tradition in the team that they never hand out literal awards for new records and such, only the bragging rights over the rest of the team. Nobody wanted trophies turning into reminders of those who didn't make it home.

You rose, still in quiet disbelief, and each member clasped you on the shoulder, offering their kudos—Soap practically lifting you off the floor in excitement, “Christ, I’m never hearin’ the end of it, am I?” he chortled as you helped him up.

You shoved his shoulder. Grinned. “Only fair.”

“Hell of a shot.” You blinked at Ghost quietly packing up the equipment, “You really are as impressive as your file said.”

Your cheeks heated, Simon had never really spoken to you out of choice—only ever orders or corrections during training. You were still relatively new to the team, still figuring out your place with them, and Ghost... Ghost was a fortress. But hey, the harder they are to break, the sweeter the victory.

You smirked, mock saluting. “Just getting started, Lt.”

A deep chuckle escaped him as the finished with the gear, straightening up and confirming that, yes, you still were unaccustomed to his sheer size.

“You are already solid. Don't waste your time proving yourself,” he hesitated “…and call me Simon.”

You didn't know this at the time, but you would grow to become one of the three people with the privilege of seeing the man under the mask.

Back then, it was all about bragging rights. Now... it felt ridiculous to care for something so insignificant.

This was the kind of record nobody celebrated—other than grim understanding of what it meant.

This was the longest anybody had been comms silent and came back to claim their title.

Soap was still out there.

His mission had been a solo recon assist—a quick in-and-out, they said. You and Ghost weren’t on the roster, just supposed to wait it out, keep things running here. But now it was 4 days later—no update. You weren’t on the mission, but your head replayed every worst-case scenario like you were living them anyway.

Your heart thudded heavy in your chest. You stared harder at the screen. Like maybe you could force your thoughts away if you glared long enough.

“Staring isn't gonna bring him back any faster.” Price startled you from your spot curled up in a chair in the tech room, which you had spent more time in than out of the last 4 days.

Rubbing your sore eyes you straightened yourself, “It’s my shift, Captain.”

Confusion crossed his face before he glanced above your head and saw Ghost entering the room, the same dark purple marking his eyes as yours.

“I’m not having two of my best dragging arse if we get the call.” Price pointedly looked between the both of you, “Off the clock means off. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“But we—” a sharp glare in your direction cuts off your objection. Price was your Captain, his word was the law to you, no loopholes.

You gathered the rubbish on the desk from your snacks and began to leave, noticing Ghost had left without waiting for you or uttering a single word—strange.

Sleep evaded you into the early hours of the morning, the base silent around you. Too quiet. Without Soap here it felt like your world axis had been shifted and there was a gap that wouldn't fill until he returned. He would return, he had to. Claim his record title and brag your ear off about it far into the future.

The ceiling began moving as your eyes unfocused from staring at it too hard, pressing your palm into the sockets to try and alleviate the sting.

Then—

A knock.

You sat up instantly, heart leaping into your throat. For one impossible second, you thought it might be Johnny. Back, smiling like always, grinning through dirt and blood.

“I’d like to see you last 4 days in the wilderness with no comms, fucking majestic I was—wish you could've seen it, eh?”

But the knock came again—slower. Heavier.

Not Soap.

“…Yeah?” you called, already getting up knowing who it would most likely be.

You cracked the door open, and Ghost’s hulking figure filled the space.

He lingered in the doorway, half-lit by the hallway light. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

You blinked at him. “You okay?”

He stepped inside and shut the door softly behind him. He looked more tired than usual. Heavy. Not in a physical way, but in the way he carried the silence around him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Didn’t want to sit in my head all night.”

You nodded and motioned to the bed. “Sit. I’m up anyway.”

He sat down without a word, elbows braced on his knees. You stood in front of him, waiting.

Ghost wasn’t one to spill his thoughts easily. But he looked up at you now, his voice raw in a way you rarely heard.

“I keep thinkin’ the worst,” he admitted. “Every time the comms go dark like this, I wonder if I’ve already seen him for the last time.”

Your breath caught. You hadn’t let yourself say that out loud. Not yet. But Ghost’s voice cracked something open in you. Tore off the bandage you’d put up.

“He’s smart,” you said, gently. “He’s been in tighter spots than this.”

“I know.” He paused. “Still... it’s different when it’s someone you—” He cut himself off. Looked away.

You blinked. Love, thats what he was gonna say—not in the brother in arms, die for eachtoher way. They lovedeachhother.

Still, you kept your voice soft. Steady. “That’s why you’re scared,” you said. “You love him.”

Ghost didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the floor between his boots. Then—barely audible—“Yeah.”

A silence settled over you both, you didn't know how to respond. Already too emotionally raw from the past few days to fully fill in the gaps of what this meant in your head. You didn't need to though, Ghost continued, “We’ve been together. For a while.”

A while.

Oh.

You nodded slowly, but it felt like something inside you had been suddenly carved out.

You thought the safehouse night had been the start of something. Some messy, fragile maybe. But this?

They’d already had their beginning. And maybe an entire middle, too. And you... you’d just been a brief detour.

Your stomach twisted.

You moved closer, just slightly, and let your fingers brush over his shoulder. “He’ll come back,” you murmured. “To you.”

Ghost lifted his head at that. His eyes were unreadable behind the mask, but he reached out—slowly—and caught your wrist. Gently pulled you forward until you were standing between his knees.

Then his arms went around you, and he tugged you into a hug—tight, grounding.

You stiffened for a split second, then let yourself melt into it. Even with your heart aching, you didn’t pull away.

He needed comfort. And despite everything, you wanted to give it to him.

You stayed like that for a long moment. Your cheek pressed to the top of his head, his hands curled around your waist. His breath steady against your stomach. You let your fingers run gently through his hair where his mask didn’t cover it.

The moment stretched on as you held each other, bordering on the kind of intimacy you had been working so hard to forget.

Finally, he shifted, tilting his head up. “Can I stay?”

You hesitated. Then nodded. You couldn’t resist sliding your palm against his cheek, your heart squeezing slightly when he leaned his head into your palm and smiled softly. He looked so beautiful in that moment, it almost hurt to look at him.

He peeled away with a kiss to your palm, pulled away and climbed into bed. Your bed. You joined him, keeping to the edge at first, unsure. Your back to him.

But then his hand found your hip.

He hesitated. You could feel it in the way he held his breath.

Then he gently tugged.

You let him. Took what was given.

His arm came around your waist. His body curved against your back. Cocooning you in a warmth which quieted your mind.

Peaceful.

He pressed his face into your hair, and you could feel the tremble in his chest. Like even now, even after everything, he was still coming undone.

You let yourself be held.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Just the quiet sound of breathing in the dark.

Then Ghost said, voice dry, “You remember the safehouse?”

You let out a soft sound, half-laugh. “Kinda hard to forget, Simon.”

“Hm.” He nudged your temple with his nose, “Didn’t take you for a cuddler back then.”

“I’m not,” you muttered. “That was survival. You two were warm. That’s all.”

“Right,” he said, clearly unconvinced.

You tilted your head back enough to look at him. “You started it, anyway.”

“Hmm, don’t blame me—Soap was the one practically drooling on your neck.” he added, almost fondly.

You laughed, and he chuckled low behind you. It warmed something inside you that had gone cold earlier.

But then he shifted again, and his fingers traced the curve of your neck—your breath hitched. “Don’t regret it, though. Best night sleep I’ve had in years.”

He remained there for a moment, testing your reaction to his hand tracing patterns on your neck. Cataloguing each hitch or stutter to your breath—how your legs softly shifted when he found a sensitive spot behind your ear.

He moved his hand higher, gripping your chin and tilted your head toward him slowly. Gently.

Your body shifted to face his, settling against each other just as easily as you had in that safe house.

Ghost stared at you like he was waiting for you to pull away first—like he was giving you the chance to take it back.

You didn’t.

You leaned in, just enough, and his eyes shuttered closed.

When his lips met yours, it was soft. Fragile. A question, not a demand. You answered with the same quiet need, sinking into him, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

He kissed you like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want this—but couldn’t stop himself anyway.

It deepened, gradually. Mouths pressing firmer, breaths quickening. His hands tightened at your waist, fingers twitching with restraint.

You could feel the rough fabric of his mask brushing your lips. A barrier stopping you from feeling him fully.

And then, without thinking, you reached up—gripped the edges—and pulled.

He stilled, just for a moment. But he didn’t stop you.

You peeled the mask off and tossed it to the side—didn’t care where it landed. You wanted him.

And he gave in.

The kiss broke for half a breath—just long enough to see his eyes, wide and searching—and then your mouths crashed together again.

No restraint now.

Your hands buried in his hair, his tongue sweeping against yours, slow and warm and desperate. He groaned into your mouth, raw and wrecked, and the sound shattered something in you, sent heat pooling in your core.

You didn’t hold back.

You let yourself get lost in it—chests pressed, bodies tangled, breath stuttering between kisses that bled together. Hands grasping at your hips pulling you further into him, feeling the need for you against your core. Twisting, his body now half on top of you as he pushed you deeper into the mattress. There was no precision. No careful rhythm. Just aching mouths and shaking hands and raw, quiet desperation.

You kissed like you were the only thing keeping each other grounded.

You kissed like it meant everything.

And maybe… maybe for a moment, it did.

But then—reality.

You felt it before you thought it. A crackle of guilt. A flash of doubt.

Reality crashed in.

You pulled back.

Not all at once. Just an inch. Then another.

Ghost chased you for a second, eyes still closed, lips parted—until he felt the absence and opened his eyes.

Hurt flickered across his face, subtle but unmistakable. His hands didn’t let go, but they loosened, unsure. Shifting back so he was no longer laid on top of you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, breathless. Touching your fingers to your swollen, sensitive lips. Feeling to make sure that had just happened, but also maybe a barrier to stop it from continuing, “I shouldn’t have…”

He shook his head, voice rough. “No. Don’t be. I shouldn’t have—”

“Let’s just not, okay?” You rested your hands against his chest, smiling softly to reassure him.

He didn’t press further. Just rested his forehead against yours.

“Okay,” he murmured.

He lay back, pulling you with him until your head rested on his chest. One arm stayed firm around you, hand rubbing slow circles against your spine.

You curled your fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

Neither of you spoke again.

Eventually, your breathing synced.

Tonight, you were just two people lost in the quiet, holding on to what comfort and warmth you could find while your friend was gone.

The morning came slow.

Sunlight leaked in through the blinds, painting thin golden lines across the sheets. The room was quiet—still wrapped in that rare hush that only came after long, heavy nights.

You stirred first.

For a second, you didn’t know where you were. A solid wall infront of you giving you no clues as your brain struggled to wake itself up. Then you felt the weight of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his chest against your back, the steady breath brushing the back of your neck.

Ghost.

Your heart kicked up again—but not with panic, not quite. It was a soft ache. Bittersweet.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

He was still asleep. You could tell by the way his fingers twitched now and then against your stomach, relaxed in a way he rarely let himself be. His face—half buried against your shoulder—was bare still. His mask lay abandoned somewhere on the floor, like it hadn’t mattered last night. He’d let you see him when the rest of the world couldn’t.

You didn’t know what this was. What it meant. But you knew what it had felt like.

You settled further into his arms, carefully threading your fingers through his resting in your stomach, bringing his hand up to the centre of your chest. Letting yourself enjoy it. Just for a little longer. You weren’t ready for the world outside this bed. Not yet.

But reality never waited long.

Ghost’s phone buzzed.

The sound was sharp—too loud in the stillness.

You felt him jolt slightly behind you, his breath catching. Then the arm around you tightened reflexively before pulling away altogether.

You watched him move in silence.

He rolled over, reached for his phone. Pulling you with him with his other arm, tucking you in firmly against his side. A short kiss pressed into your hairline, sweet, soft, a side of Simon you hadn’t experienced before but seemed so natural to him you wondered if this is what he would be like, waking up with him every morning, the thought felt dangerous.

Screen glow lit up his face. You saw the moment it happened—the second everything changed.

The message on the screen must’ve hit him like a shot to the chest.

“Johnny’s back,” he said, voice flat. Distant.

Your heart surged. Relief swept through you fast, hard—but it was eclipsed almost instantly by the shift in him.

“That’s good,” you managed, voice low. You sat up slowly, the sheet wrapped tight around your chest. “He okay?”

He sat up fast. Swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Started grabbing his things, pulling on his boots, his hoodie, reaching for the mask. “I assume so. Just got a general update. I’ll check on him.”

He didn’t look at you.

You ran your fingers through your hair, trying to shake the quiet, the stillness that had turned suffocating.

“So…” you tried, a bit too casually. “You heading straight over?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

Nothing more.

“Simon—” you started.

He just kept moving like the night hadn’t happened. Like the warmth you’d shared was some illusion.

You sat up straighter, sheet clutched to your chest. “Ghost.”

That finally got a pause out of him.

Half-dressed, mask still in his hand, he stood at the foot of the bed, back still to you.

“I shouldn’t have come last night,” he said. Quiet. Measured.

You flinched like he’d hit you.

No mention of the way you’d kissed him. No acknowledgment of the way he’d held you like he might fall apart if he let go. No sign of the soft, raw version of Simon that had laid beside you in the dark.

You bit your lip. Swallowed hard.

He looked over his shoulder—just barely. His eyes were unreadable again, that wall going up inch by inch. The wall you thought he’d let you behind for a moment.

Then he turned away. Pulled the mask back on.

The man who’d kissed you like he was drowning was gone. Replaced with the Ghost the world always saw. Cold. Sharp. Untouchable.

He reached for the door and suddenly you couldn’t let him leave like this. You knew once he left you would never build the courage to ask him what this meant. Would never know.

“Wait,” you said, voice cracking. “So that’s it? We just…” You didn’t know how to finish the sentence and the weight of it hung heavy in the air.

He hesitated—hand on the doorknob. The silence stretched.

Then, finally, “I can’t.”

And he left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

You sat there for a long time.

The room still smelled like him. The sheets still held the imprint of his body. But he was gone. You were alone.

Your throat burned.

You dragged the blanket off, beginning to recollect yourself—get ready to face the day, whatever state Soap had been found in.

And deep down, you weren’t sure which cut deeper—the fear of finding Johnny…or the certainty you’d already lost Simon.

You let the quiet crush you.

Next part here

[luxcuriousao3]

Call of Duty Masterlist

I write for Simon "Ghost" Riley, John "Soap" MacTavish, Kyle Gaz Garrick, Captain John Price, and König.

I write the occasional Ghoap fic, but mostly either OC or fem!Reader fics. I don't cross tag or mislabel them. If it's a reader fic, there will be no names (or y/n) used, it will be either exclusively second person or a mix of second and third, it will only be tagged as Character x Reader, and any physical descriptions will be minimal (pretty much just a mentions of Reader having hair that's long enough to pull/pet lol). OC fics, on the other hand, will have a fleshed out, fully described FMC, only be tagged Character x OC, and always be exclusively in third person.

Requests are always open, but I will be honest that I don't answer them in "first come first served" manner. I just answer them when I get inspiration for whatever prompt you've sent in. Please don't let that stop you from sending them--I am always happy to receive asks, I promise that as long as they are nice, they are never annoying! I am also a staunch supporter of SALS and YKINMKATO mindsets, so you never have to fear judgement from me about any of your ideas. If it's not something I am interested in/comfortable writing, I will just not write it, but I'll never shame you for it.

I do ask you avoid sending me requests that include a) breathplay of any type (even "light" breathplay--if it at all restricts the ability to breathe even a little bit, I won't write it), b) degradation, or c) the boys or reader engaging in infidelity, as those triggers for me. The only reason I mention them specifically, and not any other triggers/squicks I have, is because I know it's very prevalent. Again, no judgement if that's your thing. Just keeping myself safe :)

I welcome and encourage feedback of any kind, including constructive criticism, on my full form fics! I also welcome and encourage you to add your own additions to my blurbs. I would be delighted to see them.

Edit: My stance on writing fics inspired by/based off of any of my writing :) (Includes a great GazSoap fic someone wrote due to one of my Gaz blurbs!)

Bold = fic No bold = blurb

Ghost

Dove (A Zombie!Ghost Story) Masterlist

Ghost/General's Daughter!Reader

Fevered Mistakes (Alpha!Ghost/Omega!Reader) | Less Angsty Ending

Mutt (Ghost) | Alternate Expanded Version

A Little Misunderstanding

Bumblebees

Rich Girl!Reader

Virgin!Simon Riley

Soap

Mutt (Soap)

Stalker Soap | Part Two

Price

Urges

Price takes care of you after you drink too much | Part Two | Part Three

Dom Price

Musician Price

Repressed Bi!Price/Transmac Reader

Kink Headcanon

Gaz

Modeling

Gaz/Ugly!Reader

Comfort

König

Mutter (König/OFC) | Part Two

König ABO

Mommy's Sweet Boy

Collared

Obsessed

Perv!König

More König Mommy Kink

Oh noooo how embarrassing

Rubber Ducky

A Bloody Feast

Lactation

Pathetic König just wants to be loved

Drunk Sex with König

Not-so-Creepy Landlord König | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

Mother's Day

König's First Time

TF 141 (Poly/Reader, Individual/Reader, and Gen)

TF 141 + Eyes

Rut Inducers (TF141)

Undercover

TF 141 + The Best They've Ever Had

This Means War

Stuffed Animals

Captured!Reader

Duck

Wolf Hybrid!Reader | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Soap Interlude | Part 5 | Part 6

Doubt: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Ghoap

Ugly

Selfish | Cruel

Mer!Soap/Human!Ghost

Ghoap gets set up by reader

Intimacy Headcanon

[whatev-i-guess]

Johnny clinging onto Ghost while being drunk

Gaz: You good, Ghost?

Ghost ignoring it: Yeah, just let him be. He gets touch starved whenever he's drunk.

Johnny with a slurred voice: Who is my biggest boy?

Ghost dryly: I am.

Gaz, blinking slowly: I might throw up.