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pentrologram · 6 months ago

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What Normal People Do - 9

Feelings bubble over.

sjdkfjkslfk before we get into the good stuff, i js wanna say thank you to everyone who's left a comment so far <3 it truly keeps me going when i have dry spells of writing during school!! i love reading them and the only thing stopping me from printing them out and pinning them on a wall on my room is social norms lmaoo

ao3!

poly!ghoap/gn!reader

Not Shy of a Spark

You’re skittish now.

It’s the first thing Johnny realises when he returns to your flat. He had gone under the guise of returning a jumper you had left that Halloween night.

“Hi, bonnie,” he says, his voice nearly as soft as the cotton in his hands. He’s anxiously trying not to scare you, not keen to invoke the firey anger you had reigned on them the other day. You warily glance at the fabric in Johnny’s hands before hesitantly taking it.

“Um, thanks, Johnny,” you say shyly. “Uh, I’ve got to go now. Bye.” You shut the door on him, making him droop and drag his feet on his way back to his flat.

“Any luck?” Simon asks from where he is on the couch, Riley draped across his legs like a sort of blanket while he watches footie.

“No. Barely got anythin’ outta them,” Johnny says glumly, planting himself by Simon, and petting the top of Riley’s head.

"'S alright. Still got those reservations, don't we?"

"Well, yeah, but I dinnae want them to be mad at us," Johnny says, a pronounced frown on his lips.

"I don' think they're mad at us, love. Jus' confused, is all."

"What they said abo' the statue..."

"They wouldn't've done it on purpose, I'm sure. You saw 'em before, right, and they were half hammered," Simon says, scratching Riley's belly.

"I ken. They sounded bleedin' guilty t' other day, too," he remarks quietly.

"Probably beating themselves up abo' it right now. Ought to give 'em the reservations soon, mm?"

"Yeh." Johnny slumps further into the couch at the memory of you just minutes earlier, all meek and nervous.

"Johnny, love, 's gonna be fine. Things'll work out," he reassures, leaning over to kiss the top of Johnny's head. "You'll see." Johnny's dejected. For the first time in his life, someone that he likes an awful lot, seems... scared of him. And it scares him. He's not sure how Simon's so calm about it, so confident. Typically their roles are reversed- it's usually Johnny diving in headfirst to everything, ensuring the safety of Simon's prized personal space, his bubble.

The next day, Simon reaches out to you. Like all his prior texts, he's blunt.

Today 6:33 PM

- The Springfields, Manchester

- 8 PM tomorrow.

- ??

- wtf???

- See you then.

"What the fuck?" You repeat aloud to yourself as you lay on your bed, wallowing in self-pity after work. You'd been ignoring your neighbours for the better half of a week now and then... Simon springs a reservation to Ivy Springfields. The nicest place you've been to since you started work was a P.F. Changs once. But Ivy Springfields is a serious place- like, with a sort of unofficial, unannounced, unspoken-dress-code-serious, which makes you panic internally. You panic and dig through your closet, attempting to put something together that's loosely 'smart casual'- it's like looking for a needle in your piles of scrubs, jeans and soft, worn-out band tees. Eventually, you come across something that's acceptable, and as you go to steam it, you begin to reason why your neighbours would invite you out to dinner after a series of strictly casual and within the building dinners.

Perhaps they were going to put a hit on you- but that didn't really make sense. If they wanted to dispose of you they probably would've taken you to a McDonald's. Maybe they were going to put you down gently, then, explain that they've actually been secretly married for half their lives and just never told you- which seems a lot more likely, actually. You hadn't gotten your hopes up, thankfully, and hadn't deluded yourself into thinking that there might've been a chance that they liked you back. You didn't hate yourself, after all.

You sleep a little easier that night, knowing you had figured out their motives for taking you out to dinner- for wasting a perfectly fine Friday night on you.

Thankfully, Ivy Springfields isn't as fancy as you dreaded it being. It's intimate, sure, but it still felt casual. Seeing couples in jeans made you feel a little overdressed and suddenly a lot stupid- maybe dressing fancy would send the wrong message to Simon and Johnny? Maybe they'd think you were expecting better of them? You're panicking internally while a server takes you to the table Simon and Johnny reserved, wishing you could shapeshift to suddenly be more comfortable or better yet, more confident. Right now you felt like a bag of open nerves.

And-

Simon and Johnny don't look more casual than you. It eases you slightly. At least you were in the same boat together, you think to yourself, trying to maintain some degree of optimism. Johnny brightens and smiles as he sees you round the corner, and you wave awkwardly. It's a booth on the rooftop, and you're canopied by an arch of vines with a candle-lit lantern hanging over the rounded table. There's a quiet hum of other people talking at the tables around, but it's not obnoxious, just comforting.

"Hi," you say shyly as you sit down, a menu in front of you. You're prepared, mentally bracing yourself for the blow you know is coming within the next 30-45 minutes.

"Hey, love," Simon murmurs from your left.

"Hi, bon," Johnny says from your right.

They keep the conversation light, on purpose, you think, until the food comes. Johnny catches you off guard mid-bite.

"Bon, about the other day. The statue... We're not mad abo' it," he says gently. "Ye were a lil' tipsy an' all. Worse could'a happen." You look up at him, blinking.

"...Oh. Um, thank you. I really am sorry. I tried to throw it at the guy, but... Well."

"'S alright." Johnny soothes. He squeezes your shoulder before biting into his pasta.

"I feel really bad about it," you admit softly.

"Don't. Stuff happened and it wasn't the worst thing that happened then, wasn't it?" Simon says as he cuts a bite-sized piece of his ribeye.

"No, I guess not," Simon grunts in approval, and you let dinner go on almost silently. You feel like you're awkwardly existing with their peaceful dinner date, there only to spectate.

It's not a bad dinner. Just not-

-optimal. Maybe if the lighting was brighter and there wasn't a couple next to your table canoodling you'd feel better about it. Maybe if you weren't overly self-conscious about how you acted around the boys, desperate to make sure they didn't think you a freak, desperate to stay in their good graces, you'd be able to enjoy being at such a posh place. It's just fine. And that unnerves you. You were expecting fire and brimstone from them, all hell reigning on your back, expecting admonishment and social banishment from your apartment building. Not tagging along like a lost puppy to their date, but that was just how the cards fell, it seems.

At the end of the very awkward dinner, some couple dozen half-laughs and small, nearly-there smiles later, they offer to drive you home. You had Uber'ed there with the intention to Uber back, but if they were offering you a free ride home, well, who were you to say no?

You take the backseat which makes Simon look slightly miffed. He doesn't talk about it so neither do you, though. You're silent the whole way back to the flat complex, letting their soft conversations wash over you and lull you to sleep as Johnny drives. The food was good, your stomach was full, you were warm and the car's gentle rocking was soothing. Somewhere during the drive you fell asleep, and it wasn't until the car pulled into the apartment's parking lot did you wake up. Your cheek was smushed against the window, crust in your eyes and a bitter taste in your throat. You take a moment, picking through your memory before you remember where-

...and you panic a little bit because you had just passed out in the backseat of two grown men who probably had a little vendetta against you. And you're still panicking when you hear Simon get up from the passenger's side and go around to your end, and you're not thinking clearly when you pretend to still be asleep as he opens the door you were leaning on ever so hesitantly before scooping you up. You have enough sense to not go rigid in his arms, but it's a narrow thing.

Johnny fishes in your bag for your keys while Simon keeps you safely cradled within his grasp. They open the door to your apartment and Simon sets you down in your bed, leaving you there before taking off your shoes and coat. Then you hear a pen against parchment, and then Johnny's quiet "g'night, bon," and the warm feeling of his lips against your forehead.

You bolt up the second you hear them leave, mortified, your hand tracing over where Johnny had kissed you in a daze. It was-

It was confusing. You thought they hated you. You thought they thought you were a creep. Instead, Johnny's kiss- even if he hadn't meant for you to have known that it happened- seemed like a reciprocation. Right? It's hard to platonically kiss someone's forehead, after all.

It gives you the jitters because now you're even more confused than you were before. There was comfort in knowing that Johnny and Simon for sure hated you and were internally condemning you. The possibility that maybe they didn't hate you- on the contrary, rather liked you- was terrifying and you considered yourself terrified. You nursed yourself a cup of tea before relenting to bed.

The next morning, you read Johnny's note:

Hi bon,

you keep on faling asleep when you hang out with us! no hard feelings, tho, it's ok. we put your keys back in your bag. hope you slept okay!!!!!

Simon and Johnny xxxxxxxx

You silently stash it next to the other note Johnny had left for you.

Now, Simon and Johnny were plotting again, because their first try at goading you into realizing that they liked you back wasn't successful.

"A museum?" Johnny suggests as he scratches Riley behind the ears.

"No, we'll be whispering the entire time," Simon grumbles. "It needs to be more intimate. A cafe?" Johnny shakes his head.

"Canne hug from across a table. Maybe a wine tastin', then? New winery opened on Mosley last week, Ah think." You leave your apartment when the words leave his lips, right as Simon nods in approval.

"Right on."

This time, it's Johnny who reaches out to you first.

Today 11:43 AM

- Hi bonn!!!

- Simon and I were thinkinbg of going to a wine tasting on saterday.

- Salut Wines

- Youre invited :)

You stare at the text in suspicion while on your lunch break. The workweek had just started and you were just out with them. But still, the offer sounded nice and well-meaning enough.

Today 12:01 PM

- okay, will be there!

- what time?

- 1pm ok?

- okay! it's a date.

(On the other side of the screen, Johnny giggles, showing Simon his phone, shoving the piece of metal in front of the book Simon had been peacefully reading.

"'S a date," he echos happily. "Oooh, it's gon' be good, Si, I j's know it.)

You're savouring this week. Sure, it's a full week of work right at the start of November, but it's comforting. The calm before the holidays storm, you suppose. You deal with tots with runny noses, showing new moms how to use baby powder, taking temperatures and running diagnostics. Clean the arm, inject the arm and soothe the baby- you've got your work down to a formula, at this point, and the security of it soothes you. But time flies when you're having fun, and before you know it, it's Saturday and you're getting ready to go next door so the boys could drive you.

"Hey," you say as Simon knocks on your door, moving back to let you step out and lock it behind you.

"Hey. Johnny's in the car already." You walk in a comforting silence with him, not feeling pressured to talk like how you usually are when at work. When you reach the parking garage, Johnny looks up from his phone and grins at you from the backseat.

"Hi, bonnie," he chirps.

"Oh- hi, Johnny, I can sit in the back," you say nearly immediately, but he shakes his head, a mischievous look on his face.

"Nae, it's okay, Ah can sit back here tonight."

"Are you sure?" You ask nervously. "I would hate to impose, it's okay, I don't mind."

"It's just a bloody seat, love," Simon grunts as he gets into the car, having to bend forward to fit. Too anxious to do much else, you take the front seat, awkwardly avoiding Simon's eye as he gets onto the road.

"Put the radio on," Johnny whines from the backseat, not satisfied until Simon complies. You're unsure if it's on purpose but Johnny immediately begins to sing along poorly to the first pop song that comes on, and you watch Simon sigh.

"Does he do this often?" You ask curiously.

"Every damn time we're in the car, love. You were asleep for the last one."

"Oh." You both wince in tandem as his voice cracks. "Is it okay if-"

"Just say it."

"Is he bad... on purpose?" You ask, dropping your voice to a whisper, grateful for the space between shotgun and the backseat. You're rewarded with Simon laughing, a full-on belly laugh that sets butterflies ablaze in your stomach.

"Ha, no, I don't reckon he is."

The wine tasting is lovely and you thoroughly enjoy your company for real this time; no longer feeling like a third wheel the way you had at the beginning of the week. Maybe it's the alcohol emboldening you, but you find the courage to apologise for your whole outburst on Halloween, making Johnny's expression soften.

"Nae, it's okay, bonnie, we ken you go' a hard job, with all the wee ones. 'S only fair that ye get to scream ev'ry now an' again." He says like he had figured it out a long time before your apology. Simon just shrugs.

"'S really alright. And, y'know, you brought up some good points." He says calmly, casually, staring at you. You go rigid, immediately terrified.

"Um... really?" You ask weakly.

"Yeah," Johnny says, reaching across the table for your hand. You're immediately grateful that you had chosen a table closest to the back of the winery, the most secluded area, because you would hate for a stranger to watch you get put down gently. "C'mon." He nudges you up to your feet, taking your hand and leading you outside to the vineyard, Simon following silently behind you, eventually showing up again to your left.

"When ye said ye loved us," Johnny starts gently. "Did ye mean that?"

"U-um, well, I don't think I was in the right state of mind when I said that," you stutter out, immediately defensive. "I- uh, had a hard day of work. I think- Um, no, I didn't mean it, I was just angry and looking into stuff too much."

"Oh." Johnny seems to deflate, "well-" but he's cut off by Simon.

"That's shite and you know it," Simon says, staring daggers into you, making you stop in your tracks and subsequentially Johnny, too.

"Huh?"

"Tell me honestly right now that you don't love us."

"Well... Ah. Um, I don't?"

"Bonnie," Johnny pleads from behind you. "Say ye want this. Please." You swallow thickly, an uncomfortable mixture of nerves and nausea rising up your throat. "It's OK if ye don't, o' course, but don't lie. Please." Johnny's eyes are akin to a puppy's, big and pathetic and you feel a bit mean for lying earlier.

"Well..." You mumble, not realizing that Simon had stepped closer to you as your back was turned on him. "Well. I want this," you say, and no sooner than the words are out your mouth does Johnny pounce on you, your lips firmly against his own. Simon's arms wrap around your waist and rest on Johnny's hip, creating a comfortable sandwich.

Johnny's all smiles when he pulls away from you, and you can't help but smile a little back, tentatively, heart running a mile a minute. Simon presses a kiss to the top of your head, making you peer your head up at him.

"Thank you," he rumbles, content.

A feeling rises in your chest, one so powerful and all-encompassing that you can't feel your nausea anymore. It's still as scary as it had been in the Uber how many nights ago, but now it feels weaker. Conquerable.

And maybe you wouldn't hate yourself if you let it slip, just a tiny whisper, lost in the mass of their forms bracketing your own, but still there nonetheless:

"I love you."

<- back next ->

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luminousbeings-crudematter · 1 year ago

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IF MW3 was canon to me, and if I wasn’t completely and absolutely burnt out, then I’d write an Orpheus x Eurydice coded Ghoap one-shot where Simon refuses to accept Soap’s death. Just flat out refuses to accept that it happened. Never even goes to the funeral.

He doesn’t accept it, because he can’t believe it.

It was supposed to be him, right? How could Johnny have gone before him, in what universe was that okay?

Ghost is so desperate, clawing, grasping, fighting tooth and nail for something, anything. But first, he needs to get away. (Price looks at him with those knowing eyes. Price knows something’s not right, but what could he say?) So Ghost asks to go on extended bereavement leave and Price lets him.

And Ghost goes straight to Scotland.

Finds a crossroads.

Makes a deal.

When he wakes up in the middle of the night, Johnny’s there in bed beside him, breathing deep, looking so peaceful in his sleep. Ghost thinks it’s a fucking weird dream, only to wake up to the smell of frying eggs and coffee.

Soap seems to remember nothing about that last mission. Been havin the weirdest dreams lately, Si. Cannae believe how real some of them felt.

Something fundamental cracks in Simon’s chest at that moment. It’s real. The deal came through. Johnny’s really here.

Simon's happy to report that the rest of their life together is mundane. Even boring, to an outsider. They quit and move. (Simon takes care of all of it. Johnny never even mentions seeing Gaz or Price, but Simon never prods. It's all surreal, so what's another weird thing?) Their life together is happy.

But...

The real story begins when Simon realises that his time's up. The real story begins when Simon gets dragged to hell, goes with a smile on his face. How could he not? They'd crammed a lifetime of happiness in ten years.

The real story begins when Soap makes it his personal mission to bring Simon back, this way or that.

#soap x ghost #ghostsoap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish x simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish

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izgnanik-a · 1 year ago

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Kicking off Pride month with some Ghoap?? 🫣

cw: mutual pining, light smut, heavy grinding, a bit of aftercare, ftm!Simon

// MDNII // Don’t like? Don’t read. //

The bar had been something of a hole in the wall for the lgbt+ youth for some time until it actually became something. Once a week, the event turned into something fruity, something to cater to the “gay youth”, but it was all just some sad excuse to get in more income.

Despite knowing that, they still showed up because it was a single day they could connect with their people.

So, having been a frequent to the club on the usual days, Simon decided to pay the door fee to get in on said youth days. The music had been playing unusually loud, spotlights and a disco ball on the dj booth swirling, the smell of vodka was pungent as he passed a group of drag kings laughing it up against the pinball machine.

A single slot machine sat against a wall of ceiling-to-floor mirrors, and the local winner of the mega-bux was scribbled on a piece of paper above it.

If you’d had sneezed, anyone would’ve passed by the building if it weren’t for the music and piercing lights through the blackout windows.

Simon didn’t know where to stand at the usual dead bar top, having to wait by the ATM by the bathrooms to get a drink. He wasn’t a heavy drinker, but being overwhelmed by something that wasn’t his usual Friday night — he was considering leaving.

He should’ve brought a friend, he thought to himself. But what good would that do him?

The whole point of him coming out was to make nice with someone he could take home. The last time he’d been able to have a clear enough mind to woo someone was months previous, his toys and hands had been enough but he missed physical contact, even from a stranger.

He couldn’t take home a stranger if there was a friend there he’d recognized.

So, he found himself sitting by the wall of mirrors where drag royalty were fixing their lashes, looking at their teeth to make sure there were no smudges of lipstick, and the crowd progressively grew past fire code violations.

The crowds gave wails when their favorite iconic songs had come on, moving to the dance floor to form crowd around themselves.

Simon didn’t think he was that kind of person. He enjoyed being spotlights in small groups; lunch dates with friends, movie nights, and even going to the fair. He sunk further in his seat as the liquor in his drink got thinner, ice cubes melting it down.

He returned his glass to the bar to grab another. Eyes flitting to the drink menu above the bar, he missed the body hovering to his right, a hair’s distance from his shoulder.

The stumble of the crowd brought them together, and Simon’s ribs meshed with the high bar top.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” Said the stranger, patting Simon’s back softly before stepping off.

Simon looked up at the brute, and good god — he was beautiful. Blue eyes, pierced brow, lean, tanned, and tall. Everything Simon could want to be, and to be with.

He must’ve caught Simon’s blatant stare, because he was looking back. Giving a polite smile, and swayed in his step. “I hope you didn’t think I shoved into you on purpose.” Said the Scotsman. “I’d think up a better pick-up line than trying to spill a drink on you.”

Hitting on me? Simon blinked. All he could think of was TV static. The guy probably thought he was stupid for just staring at him, not saying a thing.

The bartender approached, and if Simon had been staring at the board instead of this man’s face, he’d know what he wanted.

“I’ll have the Regina, and whatever else this one wants,” he gestured towards Simon, “I owe it for bumping into you.”

Simon collected enough brain cells to look up at the menu, and utter the words of some gay icon gospel drink they’d had, the Leslie, or something. It was put before him with a pineapple and tropical umbrella.

The man smiled as he paid for the tab, and collected his drink with a sip. “Mm. Have a good night bud.” Patting Simon once more on the back, he turned for the crowd and walked towards the patio doors.

Simon grabbed his drink, having no interest in actually drinking it, and slinking in the direction of the patio doors. He hadn’t talked to a single person all night, and this beautiful man had shown him an ounce of attention. He heeled like a dog, watching through the blackout windows as the man came to the side of a group of smokers, giving them a smile and sipping his drink.

Of course he’d come with people, Simon thought. Someone like that would.

Left to cradle his drink alone again, Simon slumped to the cushioned seats across from the dance floor, sitting with his elbows on the table under the low light.

Simon wondered if he should’ve just gone home. At the bottom of his second cup, he twiddled the tropical umbrella in his fingers as the music picked up again.

When wandering eyes had glazed over his, he looked down in avoidance. He didn’t want just anyone coming up to him. Though there were few, none compared to the beauty who’d bumped into him and bought him a drink. He was left high and dry, and still wanted to know his name at least.

Simon contemplated it, and he was going home. It was final. He collected his empty glass, umbrella between his lips, and left his glass on the bar top. When he turned for the door, he watched the patio doors come open and the crowd shuffle in. That blue eyed devil following.

Simon watched in awe as the crinkles by his eyes only made him more attractive, he couldn’t have been much older than Simon; late 20’s? Simon thought. With his hand on the door handle to head out, his eyes caught those blue ones, and Simon felt all giddy again.

The man paused as he passed, arm’s reach from Simon. “Leaving so soon?” He asked.

Say something cool. Simon thought to himself. He leaned his elbow up against the push doors, “Not my cup of tea.” He shrugged.

The man nodded. “It was good to see you.” He held up his hand to fist bump.

Who was this man to treat Simon like an old pal? Simon bumped his fist and gained a smile out of it.

“Get home safe.” The man said to him, pointing, and turning for the bar with his friends.

Simon, gobsmacked, was taken by the door opening and excused himself as he walked past the people in the doorway.

He came with a task at hand and left with nothing. Completely outwitted by a pretty man with blue eyes.

The following week, when Simon didn’t have luck with the usual cis crowd, he headed back to the gay youth event at the bar. His eyes searching the dance floor and patio for that same blue eyes man who’d been sent for him, and didn’t find him. He sat at the bar this time, looking at each customer who approached, and none of them were him.

Simon had rum and coke in hand when a gentle pat against his back jostled him. He looked up to the recipient, that blue eyed man had walked up on him while he was lost in thought.

“Hey. Didn’t think I’d see you again.” He said, giving Simon’s nape a squeeze before releasing him. “How are you?”

Chills ran down Simon’s spine where his warm palm had grazed him.

“Get anything good?” He pulled himself into the stool beside Simon, leaned up against the sticky bar top with no hesitation.

Simon needed to play it cool, despite the red in his ears growing hotter. “Rum and coke.”

The man grimaced. “That’s it?” He withheld a chuckle.

Simon puffed his chest up. “Is that a problem?“

He put his sizable hands up, thick fingers and manicured nails drawing themselves into Simon’s memory. “No problem. I’m just a whiskey man myself.”

The heaviest drink Simon could get without any consequences was a 13% alcoholic wine that was near half a take-away meal’s cost. But even one drink was testing it. The coke and watered down rum was nothing.

“Well, whiskey-man, surely you can enjoy it quietly.” Simon quipped.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Pushed back the man.

Simon watched him lean up in his chair to speak to the bartender, reading their lips to confirm, and sat back in his seat. He had a cool aura about him as he spread himself out while Simon kept tightly in his seat.

The man held his hand out, palm up, towards Simon finally. “John MacTavish. My friends call me Johnny.”

Simon didn’t think he looked like a Johnny, didn’t think he even looked like a John. But he wanted to paint a pretty picture of this man, so Johnny would have to do. “And where are your friends, John?”

Johnny smiled, hand still extended out. “I could introduce them to you, if you’d like. Do you smoke?”

Simon had a few puffs of a smoke once or twice when he was in uni, and some endless day when he couldn’t sleep during bootcamp, but he wasn’t a social smoker. So he had no idea why he said “yeah.”

He was following Johnny out to the patio like a pup on a leash, holding the door for passing people, and coming to stand at the patio table by a collection of people.

Johnny introduced them singularly, and in pairs. He’s hers, they’re his, and they’re together — all those things. When it came time to introduce Simon, however, Johnny was at a loss.

“What’s your friend’s name again?” Asked one of Johnny’s mates, holding a cigarette between his fingers.

Johnny turned to Simon, and raised his brow. “He’s very secretive, actually.” He teased.

Simon looked to his friends who ooh’ed and ahh’ed.

“We love a good mystery.” Said one of Johnny’s non-binary friends, leaned up against their partner.

Johnny straddled the bench as he sat, gazing up at Simon from the promising height. “Sit, join us.”

Simon felt his nerves fire again when Johnny smiled. He sat in the bench, like a normal person, while Johnny remained facing him, practically bracketing Simon between his massive thighs.

Johnny was all types of fit, just enough for Simon to bite onto his skin and pull at it with his teeth, like a dog with a toy.

While Johnny’s friends were immersed in conversation, Johnny wasn’t one to butt in and speak. He just sat, admiring his friends, sipping his drink, and occasionally glancing towards Simon.

Simon’s knee began to hop just thinking about this man beside him. How he’d greet him kindly every time, give him flirty little gazed and smirks. Comments that were deliberately provocative, pushing back when Simon would be bratty. He was all kinds of hot.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Johnny’s whisper in his ear made him turn his head, realizing he’d leaned in until his chest was up against Simon’s shoulder. His head turned behind Simon’s so he’d have to turn cheek to cheek to hear him proper.

Meeting Johnny gaze was a mistake, because the Brit was nodding blindly, following to stand.

“Going for a walk.” Johnny gestured for a smoke, and one of his buddies gave him their cigarette box and lighter.

Johnny and Simon abandoned their drinks in favor of walking through the lot. Simon didn’t know what he was doing, what was originally supposed to be him finding someone to bring home and fuck turned out to be yearning for this man. This stranger.

Johnny took a cigarette from the box before holding one out to Simon. Compelled, Simon watched Johnny light his first, watching the coveted glow of flames light his face under the night sky. He took the offered lighter from Johnny, finger tips grazing his, and lit his own smoke.

They leaned up against unknown cars, taking puffs between silenced stares.

Johnny took a puff before speaking. “You alright?”

Simon furrowed his brow around the filter, fingers touching his lips.

“You anxious?” Johnny asked, and when the bewilderment grew, he spiked again. “Leg bouncing, and lip chewing. I’ve seen enough people to know when your heads too full on thoughts.”

Simon sighed smoke through his nose. “It’s nothing.”

Johnny hummed. His eyes panned to the starlit sky, and back towards Simon. “You know, I didn’t think you’d be back. I thought maybe it’s the drinks, but they’re shit. No one really likes them unless they’re plastered.”

“Are you saying I have other motives of being here?” Simon’s nerves kicked in again. He felt himself shaking with adrenaline. He wanted this man on him.

“You said it’s not your cup of tea. So what are you doing here?”

Simon regretted even trying to be cool. Surely this man didn’t think he was a cis guy just trying to get a few free drinks, he wasn’t that pretty.

Johnny eyed him, almost at the end of his cigarette.

Simon wished it would go in forever, that they could stray from the club and stay in this spot alone. Even in silence, despite Simon burning inside. He couldn’t spend another week waiting to see this man again.

“You know,” he pinched his cigarette between his fingers. “You’re one to talk. I mean, really. You greet me like we’re old pals, and buy me drinks. I’d say you have anterior motives, MacTavish.” Simon pointed at him briefly, a coy smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he stepped closer. “Even thought to share a smoke with me, all alone in this lot, where no one but the drivers can see.” He tut his tongue at the taller man. “Do you think you’re so well kept?”

Johnny only stared at him with lowered lids, taking a puff before putting it out under his boot. “I was actually quite transparent with you from the start. You were too focused on the drink menu to even notice me crossing the bar for you.”

Simon sputtered, all functions lost, traction making him lose his focus on the race. He stared at Johnny’s smug face.

“I didn’t think you even wanted anything to do with me, considering you didn’t interact with anyone that first night.” Johnny put his hands on his buckle, leaning back against the car. “Just sat down with your drink most of the night.”

When Simon had thought he was being perceptive, he was just plain blind. He blinked at Johnny, near eye level with him leaned down now, and his cigarette had burned down to near filter.

Johnny cleared his throat, pinching the cigarette from between his fingers, bringing it to his own lips. He took a drag as he stared into Simon’s eyes, and huffed it aside. “If that’s not your cup of tea, then I apologize for even saying so.”

Simon kickstarted from his shock to take the cigarette from Johnny’s lips, bringing it to his own to finish, and stomped it under his heel. With his exhale, he blew it over Johnny’s face softly.

Johnny shut his eyes and relished in the whisper of breath over his face. He reopened his eyes and Simon leaned his palms against the car, bracketing Johnny in. “Yeah?” Johnny gave a teasing smirk. “You wanna be a big man now?”

Simon’s face hovered over Johnny’s, forehead grazing Johnny’s Mohawk as he stared into his eyes. He felt Johnny’s hands circle his hips, massive hands stroking up his waist to his ribs. He was rippling with chills, sighing a breath over Johnny’s lips.

“Come on, big man,” Johnny teased. “Show me what you’ve got.”

When Simon’s mouth met Johnny’s, he tasted like smoke and bourbon with a hint of vanilla. He was rough with his hands as he lapped at Simon’s tongue with care, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth before dragging Simon into his body.

Simon felt the heat overtake him as Johnny groped his ass, mouthing along his chin to his jaw and throat. Simon didn’t realize he was relinquishing his position of power until he was gasping against Johnny’s tongue on his throat. Sucking soft bruises along his pulse and ear, Simon collected himself by pulling Johnny’s hair back.

He gained a hiss of pain from Johnny, lips reflecting with spit under the starlit sky. Simon wanted on him again. “Are you going to just keep kissing me or are you going to actually fuck me?” Simon huffed.

Johnny only smiled. “I thought the kissing was pretty hot. I didn’t know we were going to fuck. I would’ve brought protection.”

Simon nearly died to those words.

“I could eat you out.” Johnny offered. “But I’m not doing it in a car.”

The front door to Simon’s apartment was sticky and had to be shouldered open sometimes, but Johnny didn’t seem to care as he was tonguing Simon down against the door. They’d finally gotten in and nearly slammed the door off its hinges.

Johnny kissed Simon’s neck again, grinding against him as he brought his leg up to his hip. “God. Where do you want-“

“The couch.” Simon uttered between tears of Johnny’s teeth against his lips.

They dragged each other to the worn couch, and Johnny was tugging Simon over him. With his hands tight in his clothes, Simon didn’t realize he was grinding into the man’s stomach until he was practically giggling against his mouth.

Simon looked down at him in confusion, and Johnny waved his hand at him. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” He insisted as he rubbed his hands up and down Simon’s thighs. “This is nice.”

Nice? Nice?? Simon was spiraling. This man was shoving his tongue down Simon’s throat, holding his thigh the entire drive over to his house, and this was nice??

Johnny smiled up at Simon, hot hands resting on his thighs. “Did I ruin it?”

Simon pressed his palms into the couch at his sides. “Yeah.”

Johnny blew a breath from his lips. “Smooth.” He told himself. “I was just thinking how we shared a cigarette and then had our first kiss.”

“Is that what you were thinking?”

Johnny hummed.

“Getting hung up on the first kiss?”

He smirked as he hummed again.

“That’s a new low.”

“Lowest bar you’ve ever seen?”

“Hard yes.”

Johnny hummed as he walked his hands up Simon’s thighs to his hips. “I liked that grind we had going before.”

“Yeah?” Simon leaned over Johnny’s face, holding the couch above his head.

“Yeah.” Johnny sighed against his mouth as he kissed him, softly this time as Johnny maneuvered his hips how he liked.

The grind of Simon’s hips against Johnny wasn’t scratching the itch that he needed. Needing just an edge to get that right spot. Simon shifted his hips towards Johnny’s hip, catching against his hip bone, and practically breaking the moment his jeans pressed against him in the most delightful ways.

Simon hummed and whined into Johnny’s mouth, rubbing until he felt faint, like he could cum in his pants right there. But that wasn’t the point of bringing Johnny back — no. Johnny said he wanted to eat him out since he didn’t bring a condom to fuck him.

But there was an obstacle to be hurdled.

Johnny’s wandering hands clasped themselves to Simon’s ass, grinding him a little firmer against his side, and all thoughts left Simon.

Simon trembled in his grip, gasping in his ear as Johnny pressed their cheeks together. He groaned and moaned, desperately writhing under Johnny’s direction. Shushing him sweetly when his hips stuttered against him.

“That’s it. Good boy. Cum for me, won’t you?” Johnny gazed down at Simon drooling against his shoulder, combing a hand over his cheek. “Nice and slow for me. Of course you needed something to grind up against. To make you feel better. Poor thing.” He cooed softly. “Cum for me. Be sweet for me and cum, using me as a toy to get off.”

His words amplified Simon’s bubbling orgasm, and he wanted his hands in his pants already. But his orgasm was climbing, and he needed an out. He shoved his face deeper into Johnny’s neck as a ghastly grunt escaped him, chills running down his body as he came in his briefs, followed by heavy panting.

Johnny’s soft assuring strokes through his hair made him float off in consciousness. “Good boy. You did so well. Good boy.” He soothed kisses along Simon’s shoulder that had him making soft pleased noises with every breath.

Simon could fall asleep like this. In another person’s arms, cradled by warmth and softness. He should be embarrassed for cumming so easily in his pants to just grinding against someone’s hip. God. He could feel the shame rising slowly in him.

Did Johnny want to leave? Was he only comforting Simon because he was crushing him to the couch? Did he think Simon owed him because of it? Was this awkward now?

Johnny’s hand cupped the back of his neck, gently scratching his nape, and his tension eased. “I’ll leave if you want me to, but for now, we can just lay here like this. Don’t even have to say a word.”

The reassurance was nice, and Simon didn’t know if he wanted the man to leave him. He was comfortable and warm, but Simon feared looking him in the eyes again and having to relieve such a horrible sexual situation.

Simon’s whole plan was to use someone to get off, to have a fraction of time with someone again. So why did this feel off?

Simon opened his eyes abruptly, not realizing he’d fallen asleep from the languished touched to the back of his neck to the warmth Johnny’s body gave off. His panic ebbed when he realized he was alone in his apartment, and the lights had been shut off.

Sitting up in the dark, he sighed as he searched for his phone to find that it was well past midnight. He didn’t remember when he’d left the club, but it must’ve been early night considering the moon hadn’t even crossed the middle of the sky yet.

A sticky note bumped his fingers as he glanced at his phone, and he stared in confusion. Reaching for the light switch behind the couch, he blinked at the pack of sticky notes on the coffee table with a pen from his knitted basket.

xxx xxxx -Johnny, thank you for tonight, call me ;)

Simon was livid.

This man had a heavy make-out session with him, let him grind against his body like some horny teenager, and soothed him to sleep by scratching and kissing his body. Only to shuffle away in the night, leaving a note like a lovesick Cinderella who had to return to his life.

Simon sat up, feeling the moisture from his briefs clinging to him. Sticky note left to haunt him, he wiped himself clean and fell back into bed.

Next chapter

Fic masterlist

#cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod mwiii #cod mw3 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley cod #john soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #cod smut #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #ghoap #simon x johnny #t4t cod #izgnanik-a

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ceilidho · 2 years ago

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coworker johnny is great but have you thought about ghost showing up to his house checking up on how his sergeant is taking to civilian life only to find him balls deep in his pretty lil coworker, moaning in unison and delirious in pleasure

truthfully, you can’t remember how you even ended up here, maybe you had one too many drinks with the rest of the staff at the company party, can just barely touch the memory of johnny looping an arm around your back and telling everyone he was taking you home. it hardly matters now. its hard to think straight with johnny rearranging your guts and spilling your brains all over his bedsheets

the both of you are too lost in the sex to even notice ghost is there until he comments “so this is what you’ve been getting up to when you don’t answer my calls huh pup”

the thing is he’s known about you for a while: a few offhand comments from soap about a coworker he’s been chatting up. they’re sort of a work couple, he’d brag, civilian life was far easier a task to accomplish than ghost said itd be

you still have just enough frame of mind to be alarmed at your apparent skull-masked voyeur, but johnny cant seem to care any less even when you tell him, “johnny—ah—th-there’s someone—s-someone—“ “d-don’t care—shit—don’t fucking care—“ man just keeps fucking you, pussydrunk, not minding the audience, even seems like his pace becomes more frantic, the sounds in the bedroom becoming so loud, wet and obscene that it’s embarrassing. you think you’re crying, hiccuping at each rabid tilt of his strong hips, it’s too—too much and he isn’t stopping, chasing to get that nut in you before its too late

ghost manages to rip your assailant off of you right before he can cum inside, pulling your mouth to his half-hard cock, pulled free from his fatigues and guiding your head in sucking him off. youre so out of it and horny from johnny’s rough work on you and ghost’s deep hypnotic voice and his firm hand in your hair that you cant help but obey. ghost ends up cucking johnny just like that, maybe even fucks you properly a few times before letting his pet have a turn. a lesson in humility maybe; don’t ignore your owners calls

once again, i have NOTHING intelligent to add to this, but hooolllyyyyy shiittttt. ghoap x reader just hits different.

there's also something about johnny going mindless during sex and just tuning out the whole world that just kills me. very @ohbo-ohno's dlmliyh coded.

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eiraeths · 2 years ago

Text

more assorted 141 headcanons

idk what really is considered a trigger warning or a content warning but there’s mentions of ocd tendencies and trauma responses. also the impending feeling of doom that comes with being a solider at war.

soap is a dirty charlatan. going back to my previous headcanon of him being a punk teenager he might of shoplifted from big companies and what not anyway since he’s an adult with responsibilities he doesn’t do that anymore. instead, it turned into making elaborate schemes whether it be a game of cards or pilfering random items from people only to give it back to them to see the shock or confusion on their face

ghost can pickpocket. him and soap once had a long game of who could steal the most stuff off of each other’s persons before the other notices. price had to put a stop to it after they got a little too over-zealous with it

ghost can sew and uses this skill for evil. he find out someone he doesn’t like is superstitious and he’s making a miniature effigy of them and terrorizing them with it. not in an explicit way either only implicit. probably makes it look just like them and leaves it where they can find it and its just mini them in a hazardous situation. no one but price knows it’s him.

gaz is super into formula one racing. he gets soap into it and tries to get price into it but price would rather watch football/soccer. price will still watch it with them but doesn’t understand a damn thing going on

soap is good with cars. bro is a full on mechanic. this may be because he wanted to see how many different ways he could turn a vehicle into a bomb and got really into the mechanical aspects instead. he still figured out the bomb stuff though

soap is very number oriented. counts ceiling tiles and passing cars religiously. may of stemmed from running out of bullets before. this could be seen as a trauma response compulsion or ocd compulsions tbh. feel like its not really an active thing he does but rather an action without conscious thought behind it

gaz once wore eyeliner and everyone short circuited because god DAYUM he’s hot. it was definitely lower lid heavy and pointed down or followed the tilt of his eyes

ghost is a bird freak and can mimic a lot of different bird calls. oh side snippet time y’all know that nursery rhyme about counting magpies? the one for sorrow two for joy? anyway thats very ghoap coded now i gotta write something with that. anyway ghost uses his powers of mimicry (its echolalia and we all know it is) to distract enemies in the field. like the assassins creed whistle except its just bird whistles. he definitely loves infodumping to the 141 when different birds cross their path. when soap learned about birds like great tits or blue tits he had a field day. ghost still hasn’t told him about other birds with vulgar sounding names for that very reason.

a nod back to my previous headcanon about soap collecting pretty rubble from explosions, the team adds onto this for him when they can. price finds him rubble with specific shapes (there was in fact a cock shaped one and price had an internal debate if he really wanted to give it to him knowing what it’d spark. never in his life had he heard so many dick jokes in such a short amount of time. he considered separating gaz and soap because of it. ghost ended up doing it for him by manhandling soap into a different seat and staring at him until he closed his mouth) gaz gets him rubble with specific patterns on them like mosaics and tile. ghost tries to find him specific colors whether it be one of each color of the rainbow or a single color with various shades and hues

ghost separates stuff by color. he mostly wears black but also has some clothes that are like dark blue or green. i don’t see him wearing warm colors at all no matter the shade

price once received a present of cigars from around the world and it’s one of his most prized possessions. even if he sticks to one brand (og price smoked villa claras so we’ll go with that)

gaz and soap make plans to build a race car despite knowing they’ll never get the time to do so. an entire journal of soap’s is dedicated to this car. its got blueprints of the body, motor, and electrical system.

ghost makes soap a quilt with the mactavish clan pattern (i forgot what the actual term is. tartan?) being the key focus and soap cries

all of them try to carry gum for soap (bro definitely got an oral fixation)

okay thats all for headcanons for now. any of y’all got headcanons for price or gaz i can steal and add onto cause its harder for me to come up with mundane things for them

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karlachismylife · 8 months ago

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Francesca by Hoizer is Ghost coded. Maybe Ghoap coded. I will NOT elaborate.

You won't, but I will. I went and listened to it (yeah, sorry, I have like one Hozier song in my playlist and know maybe one other) and read on it a bit (quite clever, I myself love me some Dante references. my favourite part is the suicide forest though.)

There is no hope for them, when Gost and Soap start falling in love. There can't be any hope, it can't even be allowed. It's not even about breaking the formal rules, it's about Ghost looking directly at the sunshine that Soap is and feeling his blood boil in his heart ventricles, viscous, red and hot, blisters showing on its surface from the invisible sunbeam grip of a fist Soap slid between Ghost's ribs in spite of all the closed off coldness Simon tried to protect himself with. There is no ice cold enough for the sun to be unable to melt it.

It's about knowing full well that allowing his heart to get so sensitive, tender and vulnerable for a man of war can never end well. It's about tumbling downhill in a painfull, grappling embrace, pent up emotions lashing out - it's about ups and downs, the searing hatred for how painful and hard it is to feel something so strong again and the searing kisses melting the pain away. Simon's hand are dead cold, and Soap is the hot water that hurts so bad when they're first submerged, but then warms them up slowly until they're alive again.

They're doomed by the intensity of it all.

Yet when they finally hit the bottom of the pit they've been falling into and Soap bleeds one last time from his temple, Ghost bleeds from all the burns sun left on the piece of raw meat he has for a heart, and yet he still can't make himself regret what they had.

On the other side, he'll get hit by hurricane Johnny again. He just needs to wait.

#juju's replies #mcd #ghoap #ghost x soap #soap cod #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghost cod #call of duty #cod #this might be #angst #but i say #they get happilly ever after in the afterlife #also fuck you for making me cry #thanks for the ask #love you #anon comrade

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storeecbrcod · 1 year ago

Text

Whump Drabble/fic where Soap suffers realistic trauma from MWIII (though we’ll put a bandaid over his ultimate fate lol).

TW: explicit medical injuries and treatments, angst with a bittersweet ending, will likely be inaccurate in some way seeing as I’m not a medical professional nor a trauma doctor/nurse (I’m just a girl fr), Ghoap✨

Ghost had been wrangling with this worm of guilt that chewed at his heart, something that he thought he had grown accustom to over his life but was now back with a vengeance. When he wasn’t clawing his skin from his bone to try and find the fucker, he was with Johnny.

He had thought the hardest part of this would be overcoming that guilt, but he quickly realised the coma was much worse.

He’d followed soldiers after they’d suffered significant GSW trauma before, of course he had. He’d caused many himself, knew how to engineer one that would guarantee a kill, knew how impossible it seemed yet possible it was to survive a shot to the temple, nearly point blank. He knew what recovery entailed.

Yet, he didn’t know what recovery entailed when it made the soft birdsong in his life silent and still.

He was a sniper and a stealth operative, he was used to sitting in one place during recon, unmoving and hyperaware for hours on end, days or weeks or even months at a time.

Yet, he wasn’t used to searching for a heartbeat and willing it to keep going rather than aiming to stop it.

He’d never felt so restless in his life, cataloguing every detail of the man on the bed in front of him every day. He watched as bandages turned red, watched as the side of his head swelled and bruised and went so black it was like staring into space. He read the words ‘Pressure relief DO NOT TOUCH’ scribbled on the vacuum-sealed, open wound on the back of a window in his skull over and over and over until swelling bowed the dressing and the words didn’t make sense.

He watched air be pumped through tubes down his throat when his brain couldn’t do it for him, and saw urine pool in a bag next to the bed. He watched nurses exercise his body, watched the shut door as they cleaned him up with sponge baths. He’d watched the codes be called and watched from outside the room as ribs were broken in the frail, pale body that was a fifth of the size it used to be and void of the usual tan.

He watched it all. He watched everything.

Just watched.

He knew people in comas could often hear what’s going on around them, he’d learnt that when he rushed Tommy to the hospital after a particularly bad overdose. But it was like his lips were fused together, vocal cords totally lax and frozen. He couldn’t speak, wouldn’t speak, scared of what would tumble from his tongue and leave in the open when Johnny couldn’t even respond.

Spontaneity was a common tactic on the field, as much as they tried to negate it. It wasn’t very often a plan went totally right. Damage control and problem solving were heavily exercised skills that Ghost possessed.

But he couldn’t solve this. He could wish death on Makarov as much as he did before, he could research the best trauma surgeons and doctors and nurses and therapists in the UK, he could monitor Johnny’s condition obsessively all he wants, but he can’t fix it. He can’t heal the snapped neurons, he can’t dig into Johnny’s veins and fish out the blood clots that continued to threaten his life or limbs. He couldn’t crawl into John’s skin and nest there in his warmth, protect him and feel protected. He couldn’t.

Helplessness wasn’t something he’d felt in a long time, but he’d much rather be clawing out of his own grave as ravens cawed again than have to put John in one, still and unable to dig to join Simon.

So when Soap eventually does wake, it felt like an endless tunnel came to an abrupt end with blinding lights and trees, waiting for birds to call their greeting.

He made his own greeting, his imposing yet solid presence next to the bed as tubes were removed and the body was propped up and assurances were given. He was eager, after 4 months of pure silence about to be filled with music again.

But it was off key.

“Where am I?”

“Hospital, Johnny.”

A furrowed brow.

“Who th’ fuck ah you?”

Simon thought that the worst part of all this was the coma, the silence, but he was wrong. It was the recovery.

Simon had learnt that the temple was the perfect place to locate the parts of the brain responsible to speech, decision making and rationalisation, and memory. He’d learnt how irritating it could be re-explaining the same thing over and over every few minutes could be, he learnt of the shame that followed the irritation knowing that Soap couldn’t help it. He learnt how much it hurt to be escorted out of the room for routine check-ups because the once unrelenting trust between him and Johnny had relented to the shadow of unknown.

He had learnt that nothing is permanent.

His visits became less and less. Unsurprisingly, John (not Johnny; only his family calls him that) didn’t want a mountain of a man, full of angst and anger and sadness, haunting the corners of his hospital room. He only wanted his ma and pa, and as much as it hurt Ghost, he respected his wishes.

For months, Ghost isolated himself, got lost in his work. For months, John worked at recovery, regaining his smart mouth and witty remarks, slowly relearning his impulse control that wasn’t really as much control as it was pure will power to restrain himself.

For months, Ghost sought birdcall in the gurgles of his enemies’ throats, revelling in the garbled melodies that never matched the one he remembered, but breaking off just the same.

Beware the mockingbird, Johnny would say.

Yet here he was, searching for a blue jay’s song among the mouths of the unknown and wicked.

He got so used to the warped record that he often found himself forgetting what the original chords sounded like when they reverberated through his chest, right to his heart. Was it sweet, like the pull of a blade through supple skin? Was it explosive, like the crack of body armour in the gap between Kevlar plates? Was it deafening, like the rounds discharged that aimed for his heart?

Was it quiet, like an unmonitored heartbeat over nighttime?

Was it gentle, like the lingering touches left on his waist that still burned his skin months later?

Was it still there?

“Simon.”

Ghost blinked, looking up to Price. He hadn’t realised that he’d let his gaze wander, his mind even further.

“You need to go see him.”

There’s a cry of a broken-winged dove in his ears, overshadowed by the croon of a raven. Stability and chaos, broken and mended in one.

It hurt his head.

“He asked me to leave,” Ghost reasoned.

“When he first woke up, yes,” Price conceded. “Back when you honoured your callsign very proficiently, mind you.”

A scoff erupted from Ghost’s chest, under his crossed arms.

“Look, Simon,” Price sighed, leaning back against his desk, blue eyes of cobalt melting the sulphurous gleam of Ghost’s brown ones. “He remembers, now. Remembered Gaz in a matter of moments, recognised me soon after.”

There was a pause, pregnant and heavy as Ghost kept his mouth shut, luring Price to continue. Daring him to try and push past the raven’s sharp talons to help the dove.

A hand reaches towards the nest.

“It might be time for you to try again.”

The raven hesitates.

“The hospital staff spoke to us about how helping Soap’s brain reconnect the broken neural pathways from the trauma could help him recover faster.”

The dove coos.

“Please, Simon.”

Outstretched fingers.

“Fuck, I can’t watch two of my men crumble at the same time.”

A flurry of feathers, the screeching of breath through gravel, rubber on road, nails on chalkboard. It’s overwhelming, sending his heart into overdrive and rationality to the wind.

“Fuck you, Price.”

Yeah, the recovery hurt the most.

Looking in the mirror during recovery, specifically, hurt like a bitch. Scars that pulled over once unmarred skin, hollow cheeks where laughter and smiles once grew, gnarled soul and memories where purity reigned. It was all thrown back at you, as insistent as a murder of crows at your doorstep.

He could see the way John, not Johnny, sifted through his memory like a locked filing cabinet while trying to place Ghost, desperately searching through the unlocked drawers over and over for the file he needed, all while the closed drawers taunted him with kept knowledge. It was all right there, yet he couldn’t access it.

“Ghost, aye?”

It’s met with a grunt. Silence stretches out, black feathers shielding the delicate white ones.

“And ye were my… lieutenant?”

He was going off of information fed to him, his brow furrowed in concentration, still trying to place Ghost. He couldn’t tell where the darkness around him ended and Ghost started, obscured by inky blackness.

He doesn’t sound right. It’s not the same teasing, playful lilt that danced in the air. It’s not pronounced the same, not said the same, it’s not the same.

It’s some… imposter. Something that looks the same and smells the same and tastes the fucking same, but it’s different.

A cuckoo’s egg in a nest.

“Price ‘nd Kyle were telling me some stories about ye,” John noted with a small smile. “You’re quite the stunner out field, ‘pparently.”

It’s an olive branch, a bridge built half way. An offering to meet in the middle, to talk and revere and remember.

But Ghost didn’t remember, and neither did John.

Recovery never ends, you know. It goes on and on and on, haunting your nerves and your wits for the rest of your life. You’ll always have some sort of ache or pain, a reminder of what happened to you.

John never ended up recovering fully. He was medically discharged, left to nurse a broken cage and a silent heart. He did well, considering; it wasn’t hard when you didn’t remember the song that beat with the rhythm of your heart.

He still joined the team on outings sometimes, staying in a local hotel when everyone was back at base. They’d have a meal, or go to a pub, catch up. Re-establish connections once lost.

Ghost rarely joined them, to save his own torment.

But of course, he had to honour the dove occasionally. Just as he was now, sitting across the table from the lively Scot and with his two other teammates, Gaz and Price. Beers had been served, a single glass of warm whiskey for cold hands. The table was lively, fun, rambunctious in all the best ways.

The cuckoo had hatched in earnest, Ghost found.

It was easy to see the progress John had made, loud and bright and cheeky like he used to be. Demanding of attention, hungry for every scrap of past he could swallow to try and heal old wounds. Listening to stories about himself and his old crew when they were all together, as if it was another version of him. The right version of him.

And by god, were the scraps from Simon the most nourishing of all.

John’s mouth felt desert dry, cactus dust caking his tongue as he bit desperately into every glimpse of Ghost’s bare face, lips wrapped around glass and breath smelling of potent, liquid gold with every word. It hurt, it tasted awful, and it was impossible to rid himself from. It hurt so good, feeling his heart pull and swell in ways he didn’t understand anymore.

He felt like glass, he felt like the air, he felt like expensive liquor, he felt like it was meant to be him in their places, held and touched and breathed and consumed. It was overwhelming, leaving him starstruck and staring, a flutter in his chest reawakened.

Ghost’s own nest was erupting with displaced wind, white wings desperate to spread and carry it away, escape the raven’s hold. Right now, meeting Johnny’s eyes, he realised that the time spent captive in the nest had only lent to the dove’s healing. It was stronger now, bigger and fiercer and so, so hopeful.

The cuckoo cackled, loud and leering. Mockingbirds whistled and cawed, off key and haunting. The raven keened, shaken and damning.

The white dove flew.

The blue jay sang above the bramble.

And the two nested together, among the dappled branches of a birchwood tree, cool and calm and surrounded by colour year round. Above the bramble of the past.

Ghost had learnt one thing over everything else; a lesson that was recurrent in his life, stubborn and overwhelming. It swallowed him in waves, crashing him into the sand bank below.

Nothing is ever, ever permanent.

Admittedly, his retirement had gone well. The down payment was easy, the renovations smooth, moving in a sigh of relief. They’d have their harder days, where getting out of bed and walking without aid was difficult for Johnny, but they’d have their good days, too. They’d have their days where they’d go for walks across the countryside, watch as their service dog bounced around through tall grass, tongue lolling from her mouth.

They’d have quiet days, relaxing days. They’d have loud days, rough days.

But they were all days where the sun would rise and then set.

They were all days when the blue jay sang.

Simon had forgotten silence. His life was filled with sound, and love, and content.

Maybe… maybe the worst part of it all was loss.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the unmoving body, still warm.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the frantic screams that drowned out the silence.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the silence.

Silence.

A/N: bandaids don’t last forever

Idk if this is coherent or cohesive or any other co-words meaning readable and enjoyable. Maybe I’ll rewrite it, who knows. Probably not, I can’t post consistently as it is lmao

#tw mcd #tw medical procedures #tw violence #tw graphic #idk what this is #enjoy #I hope #there’s so much symbolism/metaphor in here it’s crazy #it probably doesn’t make sense #call of duty #cod mw ghost #call of duty modern warfare #cod fanfic #ghoap #ghost x soap #ghostsoap #angst #whump

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