phantasm-ae

[phantasm-ae]

cw: gn reader x captain price, dark, possessive price, obsessive price, slightly toxic price, submissive reader, unfair power dynamic relationship

HEADCANON: You were Price’s sweet little wife and you absolutely love being his. Adoring. Submissive. Quiet, delicate, and sugary innocent. Only problem is Price loves it too much.

PAIRING: Captain Price x gn reader

You liked calling him sir.

Not because he demanded it. At least, not at first. But because of the way his eyes darkened every time you said it. The way his hand would slide just a bit lower on your back at dinner parties, or how his voice would drop into something heavy and private when he leaned down to your ear and said, “That’s my girl.”

It was a game. A sweet, delicious game.

You wore the dresses he picked -- always flattering, never too revealing. He learnt that he liked soft colors on you, baby blues and pale pinks, lace that clothed your soft plushy thighs and hips. Things that made you look delicate. Heaven sent. Touchable. His.

People thought it was charming. A little traditional, maybe. But… charming.

They smiled when you asked him before ordering wine. They complimented your “manners” when you let him speak for you at events. You always stood just a step behind him — never beside. Always behind. Just like you liked it.

Or… just like you thought you liked it.

It wasn’t until month eight -- after the move into the countryside, after your phone mysteriously reset and you stopped hearing from your old friends -- that things started to feel off.

You chalked it up to bad service, to the chaos of moving, to Price being busy. It wasn’t until you tried logging into your email that you realized the password had changed.

He had reset it for “security reasons baby, don’t you worry your pretty head about it yeah?”

You didn’t remember asking him to though…

“Can’t be too careful, sweetheart,” he said, setting your laptop aside like it didn’t matter one evening when you came to him after your MacBook suddenly won’t work. “Too many creeps out there. You never know who’s watching.”

That night, he tucked you in early, made you peppermint tea, and stroked your hair while you lay in his lap. The room was dim, lit only by the fire and the flicker of his unreadable eyes. You wanted to bring it up again, but his hand was so warm. So steady.

“You trust me, don’t you, love?”

You nodded. Of course you did. He was your husband.

Sir. John. Your world.

But the thing about control is, it doesn’t always scream. Sometimes, it whispers.

Sometimes, it looks like:

Picking out your clothes and calling it a gift.

Replacing your wine with tea because “you’ve been so good lately, darling. Deserve a treat is all.”

Checking your texts and reminding you, “It’s for your own good, pet. Men don’t talk to married women for no reason.”

Sometimes, it looks like the neighbor’s son going missing after he smiled at you too long over the fence.

You didn’t connect the dots. Why would you?

John was always there when you needed him anyway.

He held you when you cried, kissed you breathless when you were nervous, and said “I’ve got you, little wife. Always.” whenever you felt lost.

And well….

What more could you need?

masterlist

[phantasm-ae]

cw: fluff, drabble

HEADCANON: Soap accidentally joins a cult, much to Ghost’s headache

PAIRING: Ghoap

they were supposed to be doing recon.

In. Out.

Quiet.

Minimal contact. No eyes. No chatter. No interference. Nothing out of the ordinary.

A sleepy village somewhere up in the Carpathians. Lovely land it was. Foggy in the mornings. Cold. A bit damp but green as hell in the afternoon. Quiet too. Silent and peaceful in the kind of way that made you wonder if sound should have ever existed there to begin with.

But like Laswell briefed. Some bloody shady bloke took advantage of the isolated land and marsh. Housing and smuggling in some illegal arms and explosives disguised as relief shipments.

So of course. Ghost and Soap got sent in to scope it out.

It was a simple recon.

Ghost didn't mind it. Not really.

To be fair. He thought this was the most peace and quiet he was going to get all quarter.

No gunfire. No close-quarter scraps in stairwells. No dodging fucking shrapnel or sprinting through burning compounds. Just trees. Wet and mossy soil. The occasional crow. Marshy terrain and birdsong. Simple stuff.

Ghost likes simple stuff.

Ghost liked watching. Recording. Mapping routes while he let Johnny mutter observations into the comms. Having tolerated it to the point that he didn't even scold him anymore for it. Christ, even his chatter was low today -- something about the fog making him "mysterious" or some shite. No matter though. They'd done the hard part already anyway. Mapped the village, tagged the supply route, confirmed that the relief trucks weren't carrying food indeed but enough military-grade plastique to level a city block. All they had left to do now was confirm the time of the next drop, pass it up the chain, and exfil.

Simple stuff.

Ghost liked simple stuff.

Except.

Soap had vanished.

And not even a full vanish. Not at fucking first, no.

He'd waved Ghost off with a "Just takin' a look doon tha' alley. Be two ticks". That was 47 minutes. Ghost wasn't counting, he lied

Which, in fairness, wasn’t new. The Scot had a habit of getting chatty with strangers like it was a pub crawl and not a classified mission. One smile and he’d have half the village offering him tea and stories of their dead uncle who once fought a bear.

Ghost let it slide the first time. Maybe even the second.

But when Soap didn’t check in at the designated mark time, and Ghost circled back to their last known, only to find bloody flower petals on the ground and Johnny’s comm unit hanging from a goat’s horn like a charm --

Yeah.

That’s when Ghost knew things had gone tits-up.

He radioed in twice. No response. Trying not to panic as he commed in the others that were on overwatch. Nothing. No chatter. No static. Just that eerie bloody silence he once found peaceful now absolutely making his skin crawl.

Christ alive, he muttered to himself, checking the signal booster on his belt. Still working. Which meant someone -- or something -- was jamming them.

Brilliant.

Ghost moved low through the underbrush, keeping to the tree line just east of the village. He could see the flickers of firelight now, smell the smoke and roasted meat wafting from the square. Bells and flutes. And singing. There was...singing?. High-pitched and melodic, like an old folk lullaby if it had been raised from the dead and set to a waltz.

Then came the faint sound of drumming. Bells. Laughter. Maybe a chant.

He followed it. Past a moss-eaten gate, under a canopy of gnarled trees and tangled ivy, until he stumbled onto the edge of the village square --

And froze.

Because there, at the center of a crowd of villagers dressed in wool and lace and something straight out of a pagan fever dream, was Soap.

Soap. Soap. Johnny.

Barefoot. Shirtless. And absolutely bedecked in garlands of lavender and whatever passed for sacred herbs around here. A sheer golf sash draped around his torso. Mohawked hair full of twigs and shiny bits of ribbon like a demented maypole. Someone had smeared.... pollen? across his cheeks in thick, ceremonial swipes.

He looked like a Druidic Eurovision contestant.

Ghost blinked. Slowly. Like maybe, maybe this was one of those near-death hallucinations soldiers got before bleeding out.

Nope. Still blinking. Still alive. Still watching his sergeant sway side-to-side while a pair of old women -- possibly priestesses, possibly just nosy -- danced around him chanting in Old Romanian. Or maybe Welsh. Ghost couldn’t tell. One of them was holding what looked like a chicken.

And the worst part? Johnny His Johnny was grinning.

Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, something warm unfurled. Dangerous. Worshipful. Like awe, if awe had teeth. Ancient. Sacred. Divine.

Beautiful.

“Oi, Ghost!” Soap beamed. Spotting the massive and tanking hulk within the treeline. Arms outstretched like a man greeting an old friend to his wedding. “They made me a god!”

At that Ghost blinked. Fever dream fading like some bloody smoke in the wind.

"They what?"

“Not a real god, obviously. Just the reincarnation o' one. Sorta. It’s a bit vague. They said I ‘carry the blood of thunder’ and somethin' about ‘the sacred thighs o' the mountain ram,’ but I might’ve misheard that bit—”

"Johnny. What did you do."

“I helped an auld woman carry some firewood and smiled a wee bit too much I ken?. Apparently, that was enough.”

Ghost’s gaze shifted to the villagers. All wide-eyed. Adoring. Bowing. One of them was cradling a goat dressed in ceremonial beads. Another was preparing a bowl of paint or possibly blood.

A high priestess approached, eyes glowing with zeal. “The Horned One’s bridegroom is with us! The prophecy is fulfilled!”

“…Bridegroom?” Ghost echoed, horrified.

Soap whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Right, aye, slight hiccup — turns out they think I’m meant tae marry their goat god. But here, look at this necklace they gave me!” He held up a hideous pendant shaped like a horned moon and something that might’ve been -- was that teeth?

“Johnny,” Ghost growled. “We are leaving.”

Soap looked genuinely torn. “I mean. I could rule this village for a bit. The wine's naw bad. And they're dead fond o' my arms”

“They’re trying to marry you off to livestock.”

“Tae be fair, the goat's just symbolic -- "

“Now, Johnny.”

Deep down. Deep deep down though. Simon wanted to keep him here. To watch him. Because -- God, it wasn’t just the adrenaline. It was the comfort of seeing Johnny so... happy. So untroubled.

So.... alive, that at that moment, Simon didn't care if it meant he'd join him in the middle of a bloody cult. Changing his mind. Just for a second, maybe two -- because honestly, who wouldn’t want to sit back and watch his Johnny at the center of it all? Grinning like a bloody sunbeam, spinning under those ridiculous garlands and chanting women, eyes sparkling like he'd found some secret purpose among the madness.

That thought immediately evaporated the moment Ghost overheard "ritual. blood letting. and sacrifice". Yeah fuck that. No longer was Johnny the blessed warrior -- they were ready to make him the bloody sacrifice.

And one look around the perimeter. Eyes narrowed. Brows furrowed and a palm reaching for his pistol. The villagers’ excitement turned from adoration to something darker, more sinister. The chants shifted. The smell of incense became cloying and oppressive.

Yeah fuck that. Let's fucking go.

So they fled. Cult hot on their trail. Waving candles. Aiming spears and throwing holy relics -- "holy hell was that me underwear" "shut the fuck up and run straight" -- half-carrying an inebriated Soap, who had gotten wine drunk on their ritual nectar. Slurring "Yer just jealous 'cause they liked me better than ye"

Ghost didn't respond.

Didn't stop running either. Having to haul Johnny in to a forced piggyback. His arms burned, but he didn’t care -- nothing was going to slow him down, not while that bloody cult was chasing them with torches and chants.

Johnny, still drunk out of his mind, draped himself over Ghost’s back like a dead weight, slurring out random bits of nonsense between giggles and hiccups.

Ghost didn’t say a word. Not even his usual irritated and annoyed muttering. No retort. No counter. No comeback. Just pure silence until they were finally back at the safehouse. Simon bolting the door behind them. Soap collapsed on the floor, still wrapped in ceremonial fabric and wearing a crown of herbs.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Soap, grinning to himself, murmured, “Wee bit romantic, is it no? Bein’ dragged aff the altar by a masked-up loon.”

Ghost finally turned to him, gaze burning through the skull of his balaclava.

“Next time,” he said flatly, “I let them marry you to the goat.”

Soap winked. “Thought ye already had me spoken for.”

Ghost only narrowed his eyes.

"Aye. might as well be. I’ve been stuck with you long enough to be your bloody husband.”

Soap choked.

masterlist

[phantasm-ae]

just a heads up to my fellow writers out there that AO3 is currently fighting off bots commenting on people’s works to tell them that AO3 will delete their fics “due to the works being deprecated”, and the deletion will affect their accounts unless the authors delete the fics themselves first. IT IS A SCAM. AO3 will NOT delete your works. please do NOT fall for these bots!

I’ve been told the reason why these bots are doing this is due to copyright infringement issue where they’re trying to steal your works (possibly to train AI but this is just a guess) ‼️‼️‼️and once you deleted your fics, it will be either very difficult or impossible for you to claim ownership of your own fics when they were already deleted.‼️‼️‼️

a reminder that AO3 will never contact you through your comments section (in case they claim to be one of the moderators). AO3 will only contact you through your email address which you use to register your account, and it will be from AO3’s official handle. not some sketchy ass @

so if you get a comment telling you you should “delete your works to protect your account because AO3 is doing blah blah blah” report that comment. don’t delete your works.

PLEASE DO NOT FALL FOR THESE SCAM.

AO3 IS NOT DELETING WORKS.

DO NOT DELETE YOUR WORKS JUST BECAUSE SOMEONE CLAIMS THEY KNOW SOMETHING.

[phantasm-ae]

cw: afab reader x konig, size kink, doggy style, missionary, full nelson, konig is feral here, tummy bulging

HEADCANON: Konig is obsessed with his wife’s and his size difference. And sometimes he goes overboard with it

PAIRING: Konig x reader

something something, husband Konig absolutely obsessed with his smaller than life little wife -- all 5'0 to be exact to his 6'9 frame

Sometimes he still can't believe she's real.

Scheiße sometimes he just can't help but stare at her like she was a daydream. Something conjured out of sheer desperation and too many lonely years. Scared that if he blinked too long, she'll inevitable vanish in a puff of soft sweaters and sweet perfume.

And so verdammt klein (fucking small) that it drives him half-mad.

Sometimes he just watches her do the most mundane things -- brushing her hair, standing on her toes to reach coffee mugs, waddling across the kitchen in his oversized hoodie that swallows her whole after a particularly rough night with him -- and it hits him all over again like a freight train: that's mine.

His wife.

His tiny, soft-spoken, fire-hearted wife who hums when she cooks and curls up like a kitten when she sleeps. The same woman who threw a slipper at his head the first time he tried to pick her up like a princess and carry her to bed. The same woman who now was pressed face down, ass up, drool and pleasured sobs running down her cheeks as he thrusted his girthy shaft deeper into her cushiony and tiny pussy.

Fists tangled in the sheets. Breath hitching in quiet whines and whimpers as Konig drove his hips into hers in renewed and desperate fervor. Not caring if their mattress practically sunk in the center at this point at his merciless thrusting.

Her petite little hole dripping with her previous orgasms and arousal from when Konig buried his face in between her thighs -- coarse and warm mouth sucking on her engorged and swollen clit until she begged for him to stop making her cum. Twitching and quivering. Letting out a soft wanton sigh of relief as Konig finally pulled away.

And from when Konig took her from the front. Hands stretching the backs of her thighs until her legs met her head. Lips brushing her jaw as he whispered praises in broken German.

Absolutely enamored at the sight of his tiny little sweet wife in paralyzing pleasure. Mouth half-open. Lips red and puffy. Perky tits bouncing along as he continued the punishing roll of his hips. Groaning lowly at the feel of his big dick's tip try to punch farther into her womb. Entranced at the sight of his precious mouthy girl's little tummy bulging every time he pushed his cock into her small pussy.

Moaning and growling lowly as he pistoned mercislessly at the feel of her velvety walls cradling his penis like it was reluctant to set him free. So tight and so so perfect.

Konig was Trying. Really trying. Trying so fucking hard to be gentle. But when he had her like this. Impaled on his enormous cock. Whining and whimpering helplessly every time her cunt stretched to accommodate more of him. Konig can't help it.

Konig was done for.

So now here. Where Konig had to take her from behind. He just had to. One hand holding her neck down and the other gripping the doughy meat of her smooth hips. Bare chest heaving, hair mussed, and brows furrowed as he tried to rein it all in for her.

Room dimming since they started this afternoon and now into the night. The homey space awash in the low gold of their bedside lamp. Casting shadows over the sweat-slicked lines of his back and the trembling outline of her spine.

She was so small beneath him. So so small and so achingly soft and warm and his and and and--.

And she took him so well. So fucking well that Konig's hands can't help but change their position. Wanting her closer. Nearer. Deeper to the point that her womb would permanently be rearranged by his cock and his cock alone.

Moving her into careful precision -- never wanting to hurt his sweet little wife -- Konig pulled her arms back. Locking them securely against her body. Tender yet firm. Would rather brand his arm clean and cauterize it than ever hurt her.

Before she could even process what was happening, however, her wrists were pressed firmly against the back of her head, her arms trapped in a powerful grip. Konig's broad chest pressed into her back. Breath hot against her ear as he held her in the full nelson, the vulnerability of the position causing her breath to catch in her throat. Eyes rolling to the back of her head and unable to stifle the scream of absolute pleasure that coursed through her as his shaft was plunged deeper into her cervix.

The drowning and immobilizing feeling making them both gasp and groan lowly. Having to momentarily both pause to take it all in.

Konig's grip was unwavering, forcing her to remain pliable, utterly at his mercy. Legs spread wider and open near her head and astride his shoulders.

Her body now completely controlled by his strength -- every inch of her bound to his hold and speared by his girthy wieghty member. So overwhelmingly full.

But despite the pressure, the way he held her wasn’t entirely forceful. Nein nein. Konig always made sure there was a certain care to the way his hands rested, even if he made sure she couldn’t escape his grip.

"Mein Gott," he groaned, biting his lip to try and smother the soft hitch in his breath after starting a slow and tentative pace. Muttering a soft scheibe as he felt his manhood plunge deeper into her cushiony womb. “You were made for me, weren’t you, Liebling?”

"Oh m-my God! --nghhh--", She gasped -- choked on something between a sob and a whine -- and he stilled briefly. Murmuring soft apologies even as continued the fevered pace of his hips meeting hers. The room echoing nothing more than the soft plat-plat-plats and squelches of her gooey and wet hole meeting her hard and aching balls.

“You’re alright, mein schatz,” he whispered, mouth to her shoulder. “Doing so good for me. Just like always.”

His voice cracked with awe. With something dangerously close to worship. Because for all the filth he could whisper in the dark, at the end of it all, it came down to this -- her trembling in his arms, his name on her tongue, his cock propelling deeper into her like there was still so much space left for her to give him. Hole gaping and messy. Wet, crude, aching, and her heartbeat under his hand.

His wife.

His everything.

"Pretty like this. So -- scheibe -- p-pretty. So stuffed full of me"

masterlist

[phantasm-ae]

im still hung up on cod mw3 im sorry😭

cw: angst, slightly canon, events take place before cod mw3

HEADCANON: Soap drags Ghost to a fortune teller. They end up learning stuff that stirs something…

PAIRING: Ghoap

something something, Soap dragging his CO after a brief break in the recon into a grimly little tent somewhere in Romania.

The scot seeing the sign and thought it'd be a laugh. "Madam Kora --Truth. Past Lives. Marriage Prospects" on faded gold paint. A tiny plastic skull taped to the corner of the tarp for some added flair. Tent flaps marshing in the wind like it wanted to escape.

It looked curse. That was Ghost's first thought

Second thought: if this was how he died -- hexed in the middle of bloody rural Romania because Soap couldn't resist a gag -- then he deserved it. He enabled this. He didn't punch Soap in the mouth when he had the chance. Never actually wanting to. Never could. Okay fine. That was on him.

Third thought: if this woman cursed him into marrying John MacTavish, he'd never hear the end of it.

Soap had already pushed his way inside like it was a bloody legendary pub and not a shanty tent pulsing with incense and ancient curses. Ghost stood just outside the entrance, staring at the plastic skull swinging in the breeze like it was trying to warn him. It probably was.

"Git in, ya grumpy shite!" Soap’s voice called from within. “She’s got tea!”

That was not a selling point. Promise, Ghost lies.

Ghost ducked inside anyway, because he was tired and it was Johnny plus the wind was picking up, and Soap had that look in his eye -- the one that always meant trouble with a capital T. The gaze that usually ended with Ghost babysitting someone through either a hangover or a near-death experience. Ghost was never even sure anymore at this point.

The inside was dim and smelled like burnt rosemary and regret. Candles flickered on cracked saucers, casting dancing shadows across velvet drapes and bead curtains. A fan whirred softly in the corner, utterly failing to disperse the smoke. Ghost could barely make out the outline of a grimly woman. A tiny wiry thing sitting cross-legged behind a small, round table covered in what seem liked wax stains and... tarot? cards.

"You came seeking answers," she said immediately, not even looking up. Her voice was raspy and bored, like she'd already done five of these today and everyone asked the same damn questions.

“Naw, just here fer a laugh”, Soap said cheerfully, plonking himself into the nearest seat. "He came 'cause I gave him a wee guilt-trip"

Madam Kora slowly looked up at Ghost.

“You carry death in your eyes,” she said, squinting at him. “And trauma. And... a lot of repressed sexual energy.”

Soap choked on his tea.

Ghost froze.

“…Excuse me?”

“I said what I said.” She gestured to the empty seat across from her. “Sit. Let the cards speak.”

“This is bollocks,” Ghost muttered, but sat anyway. His knees cracked. He was too old for this.

Kora reached out, grabbed Soap’s hand first. She hummed. Flipped a card.

“Ah. The Fool.”

Soap beamed. “Ach, sounds braw.”

She pulled another card. “And The Lovers.”

Soap raised a brow. “Oh?”

“And Death.”

“…Aye, alright,” he said carefully. “A right mixed bag.”

Then she turned to Ghost.

And took his hand.

Pausing. Quiet. Distant...

The tent fell silent. Ghost swore he even heard the fan stopped spinning.

Her expression changed though -- no longer vaguely annoyed, but something deeper. Eyes wide. Breath hitching a bit and brows furrowed. Voice softening and... concealing.

“You two,” she whispered. “Have been married. Four times.”

Soap blinked.

Ghost’s entire body locked up like someone had yanked his power cord.

“Each life,” she continued, “you found each other. Through fire. Through war. Through pain. And love. Always, love.”

Ghost ripped his hand back so fast the table shook.

“Right,” he said, standing up almost immediately. “This was a mistake.”

Soap looked like he’d just been handed a lifetime subscription to his favorite joke. Grinning madly like an idiot. Cackling with toothy glee “Oi! Married? Four times?”

Madam Kora gave a solemn nod. “Bound souls. You’ll find each other again.”

“Get out of the tent,” Ghost growled, already stomping out. But he could hear the grin in Soap’s voice as he followed:

“Should I start writin' ma vows noo, or—?”

"I said out Johnny. Now."

Later that night -- miles away however, from the cold campfire smoke and the ache of unspoken things -- Madam Kora sat alone again in her now-silent tent.

Candles now burning low. Creased, indented, and stained cards were stacked neatly in her lap, though she hadn’t touched them in hours.

She rarely remembered faces after readings. They blurred, mostly. Tourists and drunkards and the curious. But not them. Not the man in the mask, and not the boy with the laugh in his mouth and war in his spine.

She remembered how the air shifted when she touched the masked one’s hand.

How heavy it became.

How still.

She had seen fire. Smoke. Love so raw it was bleeding. A man built like a fortress, crumbling, piece by piece, because the world never let him keep the things that softened him. Not for long.

She saw them together. Fingers laced. A joke shared across the kitchen table. A hand on a scarred back in the dark. A home that smelled like tea and gun oil and laughter forced through grief. Ghost smiling -- not much, but real.

But it was only for a moment.

Because then came the silence. The sound of a gunshot in a room she couldn't see. The ache that cracked through time.

She’d seen the moment Johnny MacTavish dies.

And worse -- she’d seen what it did to the man in the mask.

She didn’t tell him. She never did. What would be the point?

You don’t tell a man already carrying a hundred ghosts that he’s about to meet one more.

Still, she whispered a prayer to whatever gods still listened in that part of the world. For the soul that wandered. And the soul that stayed behind.

Even now, she hoped -- maybe this time, maybe this life -- they could outrun it.

Even if only for a little while.

masterlist

[phantasm-ae]

Okay so I had this idea and I just JSJSJJSJSJSKKS. Anyways here it is. I hope you like it🥺

cw: some fluff

HEADCANON: Soap and Ghost got the wrong intel. Extraction at a… birthday party?

Pairing: Ghost and Soap

it was supposed to be a quick recon. Nothing out of the ordinary. Something they've done a couple out of a hundred times in their lifetime.

Check the warehouse. Mark supplies. Report back.

In. Out.

Easy.

Except Soap and Ghost being Soap and Ghost. Somehow took the wrong door and instead of being met with a supply stash of those black market ammo crates and smuggled gear Laswell briefed them on 2 weeks ago. They were instead met with a cascade of confetti. A blaring of colorful horns. Balloons floating around like some budget dream sequence and a bloody banner sagging lazily across the ceiling with the words "HAPPY 8TH BIRTHDAY JAYDEN" propped up by two mini-Spiderman balloons.

The two cartoony figures swaying ominously in the breeze of the open warehouse door.

Ghost and Soap stood fucking stock still at the sight.

Two hulking and massive men in full tactical gear. Rifles on hand. Kevlar. Christ even bloody prepped with face paint on -- were now staring into the abyss of the suburban chaos in front of them

A table covered in Spiderman themed paper plates. Crowd of sugared-up kids frozen mid-scream at the sight of them. A magician in a sparkly vest holding a rabbit, wide-eyed and doozy. A dad in cargo shorts holding a phone, mid-picture. And in the center, a fucking stunned kid wearing a party hat and face paint… that eerily resembled Ghost’s skull mask.

Soap’s finger hovered awkwardly near the safety switch on his rifle. Ghost just muttered, “...fuckin' hell.”

Then chaos.

One of the kids let out a shriek, but not out of fear -- rather out of sheer and enthusiastic delight. “COOL ARMY GUYS!”

Another yelled, “THEY’RE HERE FOR THE PARTY!” “LOOK, ONE OF THEM’S A SKELETON!”

Ghost could only stand up straighter at that. Eyes narrowed and brows furrowed in annoyance and unease. Turning slightly to Soap and muttering flatly, “This is your fault.”

"How's this ma fault?"

“You’re the one who said ‘let’s take the shortcut.’” “It wis labeled—!

"Labeled with what?"

"Ma gut"

Soap then. Now also irritated and confused. Tried to shoo off some wee scunners around his boots and gear. Some palming and prodding their tiny fingers into velcro and buckles -- "Aw fuck. Dinnae touch that. That's ma di-- uhh... magazine" -- almost swatting a bairn silly for trying to reach for his flashbang.

“Oi! That’s not a toy, ya wee gremlin -- put that down before we all see God.”

And the kid just. This 3'5 kid with some frosting and glitter smeared across his shirt just giggled like Soap said the funniest thing on earth. Clutching the round cap like it was a new Hot Wheels and darting off into the bouncy castle with alarming speed before Soap could pry the dangerous things off of his sticky fingers.

Soap stared after him, jaw slack. "The child's armed"

Soap immediately tried to backpedal toward the door, one hand reaching out blindly for Ghost. But the brooding and hulking mass of a man -- all 6'4 and weighty muscle -- was cornered by some determined little girl wearing various kinds of glittery plastic sheriff badges and a unicorn headband and -- God help them -- trying to handcuff Ghost still with rainbow slap bracelets. A proper master of hostage negotiation she was. She had him pinned down Simon let her. A slap bracelet now stretched around Ghost's wrist, holding him in place like some deranged form of child’s play.

And Ghost, deadpan and trying to remain indifferent despite his amused and softened tone. A distinct air of a man emotionally unraveled, muttered, “Soap, you’ve made contact with the enemy.”

Lips quirking up a bit beneath the mask as she let him lead her to Soap.

“She’s ten!” Soap hissed. Unable to do anything else. Flinching as the girl snapped one of the bracelets on his wrist as well with terrifying precision. "An’ she’s armed wi’ accessories!"

Another kid zipped by them, shrieking with laughter, waving what looked horrifyingly like a half-unwrapped glow stick taped to a toy pistol. Ghost sidestepped just in time to avoid being hit in the shin.

And somewhere in the bloody distance, a karaoke machine started playing Let It Go.

And then came the giggle again.

That same little demon child with the flashbang poked his frosting-smeared head out of the bouncy castle flap, holding the device above his head like Simba in The Lion King, yelling, “LOOK WHAT I GOT!”

Every adult in the room clapped, thinking it was a toy too. Fucking idiots

Soap grabbed Ghost by the tactical vest and hissed, “If we don’t leave right now, that wee gremlin’s gonna detonate us into the stratosphere and the last thing we’ll see is Elsa.”

Well fuck that. Ghost wanted to die sure. But not to some fucking disney song in the background while his body gets scattered into smithereens. Ghost didn’t even argue anymore. He turned. Slowly removed the colored straps on his wrists with an apologetic nod toward the glitter-covered child still trying to fashion a tiara out of pipe cleaners for him -- “Sorry, love. Your boyband’s disbanding yeah?” -- and pushed open the exit with his boot. Both men. Once covererd with warpaint and eyeblack, now stumbled out into the daylight -- covered in glitter, foam sword dents, and existential horror.

But before either of them could properly make a break for it though, a woman -- possibly the birthday boy’s mother -- strode up, wine cooler in hand, phone in the other. “Oh my God, you’re the entertainment?! You didn’t tell me you were doing full cosplay -- this is incredible! What’s your TikTok?”

Soap only blinked.

Ghost shook his head, clearly contemplating his life choices.

“We didn’t hire—” Soap started.

“Do you do face painting?” a child asked Ghost, reaching up to touch his mask.

Ghost took a step back. “Touch me and I vanish.”

That somehow made him more mysterious. A whole circle of kids now followed him like ducklings.

“Do a trick!” someone yelled.

Soap glanced around at the swarm of kids and chaos and, seeing no way out without causing a scene, turned to Ghost with the deadest eyes possible. “Mate, we’re in it up tae our eyeballs”

Ghost sighed heavily, albeit relaxing as he saw the wee lass approach again -- this time, not with slap bracelets, but with her finished paper crown, now glittered, crooked, and proudly labeled “KInG GhoSt” in chunky stickers.

She beamed at him, arms raised in offering.

And Ghost -- Ghost, who had walked through fire, cleaving a man from ear to ear, racked up three targets point blank in one shot, and once barreled through two doors in a single kick -- did not protest. Didn’t move. Didn’t growl or flee.

He simply knelt.

The crown was placed on his head with all the ceremony of a royal coronation, and the little girl patted his shoulder like she was knighting him.

“Fine. Ten minutes. No longer.”

3 hours later, Soap was engaged in a full-on Nerf battle behind the bounce house, dual-wielding foam dart guns he confiscated from a particularly rowdy six-year-old. And Ghost. All tank, heavy, and bruising muscle was sitting in a lawn chair with two toddlers now on his lap and that little girl -- Ella -- sleeping on his shoulder with a half-finished juice pouch in her unconscious grip.

The magician quit.

The cake was served. Soap was somehow made to cut it with a plastic bayonet.

And Laswell. Watching through the drone feed back at base after her two best operatives went complete radio silent could only mutter -- “...I don’t even want to know.”

Price would ask questions. Soap would lie.

Ghost would deny everything.

But Jayden?

Jayden would remember and so would his little sister Ella.

The flashbang though? It was tucked into some kid’s pocket, shiny and definitely armed, but would be later found in Jayden's toy box, where it sat like a prized possession next to a small mountain of Legos, a collection of Hot Wheels, and what appeared to be a very, very well-loved stuffed rabbit modeled after the skeleton guy.

Soap didn’t realize any of this though until a week later when a small package arrived at base. His name written in bright, bubbly handwriting on the envelope -- Jayden and Ella. Soap opened it slowly, half expecting it to explode in his face, but instead, there was a note tucked inside:

"THanK u fOR tHe PArtY Mr. BubBleS ! ThIs BELonGS 2 U - J AnD E."

And nestled carefully in the corner of the box was the flashbang. Clean. Untouched. But most of all -- in one bleedin' piece. Thank fuckin' Christ. The stealthy and dangerous thing nestled in some more shredded color paper and glitters?? in the box like it was just another toy.

Soap got a proper mouthing from Price after that though.

Something about civilian safety. An OPSEC violation? an AR190-03... Christ he didn't know. He forgot. Actually it all bled out into some blurry, distant, and obtuse backdrop. Half-listening like he always did.

Because back on his desk. Scattered. Cluttered. Disorganized and messy -- pinned what Soap taught to be one of the best masterpiece he's ever seen and received in his life.

A crayon drawing of himself in full tactical gear, looking like the proudest soldier on earth, and Ghost, tragically interpreted as a “skeleton king” with a bloody smiley face.

But most importantly. Taped beside it. Creased. Glittery. Slightly sticky with colored and shimmering glue -- was the crooked paper crown. Still intact. Still regal. And still Ghost's.

Aye.

it was worth it.

masterlist

[phantasm-ae]

So i had a thought… 👀👀👀

cw: angst, afab reader x ghost, rejection, failed confession, afab reader x price

HEADCANON: Simon tries… really tries to finally tell you his feelings. Doing all that silly rom-com shit to try and win you back. But fuck, when the door opens. He realizes that maybe he was too late after all

PAIRING: Simon Riley x reader; John Price x reader

Simon Riley didn't do romance.

He didn't do candlelit dinners. No bloody hand-holding in public or those long rambling conversations at 2 a.m. about dreams and childhood memories.

Fuck that.

Simon Riley didn't do romance.

He didn't do soft goodnights or "text me when you get home". Would rather scalp himself clean than do forehead kisses or stolen glances across crowded rooms.

Simon Riley didn't do romance

Fuck vulnerability. Fuck intimacy. Fuck all that raw, open feeling bullshit. No. Not him. He didn't do that.

Not since his family. Not since the noise stopped in that house and never came back.

He lived alone for a reason. Slept with the telly on sometimes just so the silence wouldn’t crawl too far under his skin. Kept his place bare -- no photos, no keepsakes, nothing someone could walk in and interpret as a life. Because what life was left there, really?

But Simon Riley fucked. And fucked hard.

Clean. Quick. Tension out. Primal. Feasting. Then clothes back on. You get what you came for, and you leave before anything else happens. That was how he liked it. That’s how it always was.

Simon Riley fucked hard.

But he wasn't cruel.

He just didn’t have it in him -- whatever it was that made people want to be seen. To be known.

That thing that made people ask to stay the night or whisper “I missed you” like it wasn’t...terrifying.

He’d learned early that the world didn’t reward softness. He still had his father to thank for that -- a legacy of sporting bruises and burns that won't fade.

Opening yourself up was just another way to get torn apart. And he has his family to thank for that. Only now in their absence more than anything else. One day they were there. The next, a crater in his chest he never managed to fill.

So he learned to live alone. It was easier that way. Quieter.

Less messy. Safer.

Painless.

There were only a handful of people who ever managed to get past his walls -- but even then, it was like letting in sunlight through bulletproof and tinted glass. Price. Gaz. Soap. Roach. He trusted them in the field, would take a bullet for them without blinking. But trust didn’t mean vulnerability.

They’d never seen his flat. Never heard the silence he lived in. Never noticed how he never answered questions about where he went on holidays, because the answer was always --

nowhere.

Until her.

Her with all her frazzled ideas and chaotic warmth. All sharp tongued, clever-eyed, with a laugh that grated against his nerves in a way that made his chest ache.

She wasn’t neat or quiet or easy to read. She was the exact opposite of everything he’d thought he could handle. She didn’t ask for permission to touch him, to be near him, to know him in a way that stripped away the walls he’d spent years reinforcing. She was... messy, with that crooked smile, eyes full of too much understanding and never enough judgment.

She made him... feel

And Christ she didn’t tiptoe around him either. Fuck no. Didn’t treat him like he was breakable. She called him on his shit, pushed his buttons, and never let him sit too long in his silence without a jab to the ribs or a raised brow daring him to speak.

And he hated that.

He hated how she never looked at him with fear or pity, just curiosity -- like she wanted to take him apart, piece by piece, and figure out where the ghosts lived. Patiently too. All persevering and caring like she'd still listen and understand no matter what angsty bullshit he threw on to her. Hated how she touched him like she wasn’t afraid to get cut by the barbed wire he wrapped around himself. All gnawing and prickly. Never recoiling. Hardly flinching, Fuck.

But what Simon Riley hated the most was that he wanted to let her.

Yet they had rules.

Unspoken, but sacred. No strings. No questions. No staying past dawn. They fucked -- hard, rough, greedy of course -- and then it was done. He pulled on his jeans, lit a cigarette, and left. Always left.

She never stopped him. Never asked him to stay.

And that made it worse.

Because some stupid, aching part of him had started to wish she would.

He told himself it was just routine. That her scent on his sheets and the warmth she left in his bed didn’t mean anything. That the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention -- soft, sad, something like longing -- was just a trick of the light.

But he knew better.

He knew because he started dreaming of her. Started imagining what it would be like to wake up with her there, to tell her something real and not feel like he was choking on the words. He started noticing her little things -- how she hummed when she cooked, how she always checked if the door was locked twice, how she smelled like citrus and steel.

It wasn’t just sex anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. He just hadn’t let himself admit it.

Because the truth. The bloody truth. All raw, aching, and pulsing with need and rot -- was: he wanted her.

And not just her body -- but her fucking voice in the quiet. Her fingers in his hair. Her scent on his clothes. Her goddamn toothbrush in his bloody bathroom. Her laugh echoing off the walls of that dead, empty flat of his.

And that terrified him more than any battlefield ever had.

Because losing a mission, losing a fight -- Simon 'Ghost' Riley could take that. But losing her? Letting her close enough to hurt him?

That felt like handing someone the knife and baring your throat. Hoping they didn’t cut too deep.

But for the first time in years. God decades even.

He was thinking of giving someone the blade.

Simon Riley didn't do romance

But --

He was going to try. Just this once. Just with her.

So here he was after three? four? weeks of that no contact thing he started. Standing outside her door, rain soaking through his tattered and graying hoodie, flowers in one hand and a heart beating like it hadn’t in years buried somewhere under his ribs.

Taking a deep breath. Almost choking on his spit as he tried to rein in oxygen in his lungs one last time. Going over the words like some bloody parable he'd had to memorize for the sake of his sanity.

“I know I’m not good at this. But I’m trying. For you. Because you make it feel—fuckin’ hell—worth it.”

That’s what he was going to say. Or something like it. He’d practiced it in the mirror once -- just once -- before smashing the glass in disgust.

Still, he was here now. He’d chosen this. The flowers were half-wilted from the rain, and he probably looked like a goddamn stray dog on her doorstep, but he was here. Mask off. Scars and all past wounds out.

No Ghost. Just... Simon.

He knocked.

Waited.

His breath hitching as the door creaked open.

He lifted his eyes, bracing for her face -- soft, surprised, maybe a little annoyed by the late hour. But still hers. Still his, maybe. If he said it right. If he let her see it all.

But it wasn’t her.

It was Price.

Standing there like he belonged. Shirtless, save for a ragged old tee hanging on one shoulder, a dusting of powdered sugar in his beard, like he’d just taken a bite out of something sweet. Bare legs, boxers, the kind of ease that screamed: I didn’t expect company, because I’m already home.

Simon froze.

No -- his body froze. His mind raced, tore itself apart in the space of seconds. He couldn’t even blink. Couldn’t breathe.

Price didn’t look shocked. Just puzzled. Eyebrow cocked, voice rough with sleep.

“Simon?”

Then, before Simon could answer -- her voice.

Muffled. Playful. "Darling, who is it?"

Then she came into view.

Wearing one of Price’s shirts. Hair messy. Eyes wide -- too wide.

Like a deer caught in the headlights.

Like she’d been caught doing something she’d promised she never would.

Silence stretched. Pulled tight.

Simon looked down at the flowers in his hand. At the way the rain made his knuckles white from gripping them too hard. At the cracks forming in the center of his chest. Quiet, splitting fractures that no one could hear but him.

He swallowed.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Not to her. Not to Price.

Just... to himself.

For hoping.

He turned without another word. The flowers hit the step with a soggy thud behind him. He didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

Because if he did, he might stay. Might ask why. Might break, completely and finally.

And Simon Riley.

Simon Riley didn’t do broken.

Not where anyone could see.

He disappeared into the rain like a ghost -- but this time, not because he was hiding.

And this time. Because this time. Christ this time...

maybe there was really no place left for Simon to be.

masterlist

[phantasm-ae]

Sort of part 2 of my Mrs. Price drabble. I hope u like it🥺

cw: afab reader x captain price, soft fluff, afab reader x soap, afab reader x ghost, afab reader x gaz

HEADCANON: Forced to crash in Price’s place momentarily. The team meets you — Mrs. Price again — much to Price’s annoyance. Treating his house now like a sleepover den

PAIRING: John Price x reader, slight Poly141 x reader

something something, the team forced to reroute their entire mission due to an intel mix-up. Having to lay low for a few weeks somewhere in this woodland retreat of a lodge for the meantime.

But it wasn't entirely that bad. Fuck no.

Not when they rest of the team realized that they could technically crash at Price's own place for the time being. A quaint little countryside cabin with a roaring fireplace, creaky wooden floors, a tiny plant nursery at the front, and the comforting smell of pine that lingered in the air. But most importantly of course -- You. Mrs. John Fucking Price at the center of it all.

Price didn’t seem thrilled at first. Fuck that. He already hated how Soap practically salivated at the thought of his wife ever since they met her in that dingy pub. Cheeky bastard grinning like a schoolboy everytime he mentioned her and her famous lemon drizzle cakes.

But Christ on earth, they didn't exactly have a choice at the moment. So. Reluctant. Waning. Frustrated and annoyed. Muttering about how his place was hardly a “luxury hotel,” but once the team started packing their things with the energy of schoolboys on a field trip, he relented. And, honestly, who could blame them? They were tired, dirty, and living on dry rations; a warm bed and a roof over their heads was like a damn vacation.

So here they were. Standing in front of their little cottage abode. Walls mossy, wood comforting, and air remote. Quaint and tangling ivy around the roof. The marshy nook like something out of a storybook.

And as soon as the door opened, the familiar, warm scent of you greeted them. Wood, fresh herbs, mint, and a lingering hint of something that made the whole place feel more like home. Price's wife, sweet sweet perfect Mrs. Price, was already waiting when they arrived

"Oh my darlings. Its glad to see your faces again", she greeted them. Voice soft and smile warm. Price, absolutely knackered, immediately felt a wave of relief at the sight of her.

Long hair up in her usual hairdo, apron tied around her waist, and despite the chaos outside, she looked perfectly put-together in a way that made him feel all of a sudden like maybe he was the one who didn’t belong in the mess they’d become.

She looked absolutely angelic. Vision of druidic calm. Heaven sent and sacred. Hera in crochet and bunny slippers.

Price stood taller, more rigid at her side -- already bracing for what he knew was coming.

"Come in, come in," she beamed, ushering them all in like they were visiting nephews rather than elite soldiers who could snap necks before breakfast. "Shoes off at the door, please. I just mopped."

They all shuffled inside with relief, shaking off the dust from their clothes as if they’d finally arrived at some kind of sanctuary. Gaz obeying immediately, kicking off his boots like a schoolboy caught tracking mud, while Soap practically tripped over himself trying to get them off any faster.

"I made stew," she called from the kitchen, already halfway down the hall with her apron strings bouncing behind her. "And bread. Oh -- and Johnny, I baked that lemon drizzle you like."

Soap nearly wept.

“Marry me, Mrs. Price,” he shouted after her, only half-joking.

Price whipped around, face like thunder. “Johnny—”

“Jokin'! Jokin'!” Soap raised his hands in surrender, grinning like the devil himself. “Ye already bagged the best lass on earth, I know. Just sayin' -- luck bastard ye are"

Gaz leaned in, whispering to Ghost, “Swear to God, it’s like visiting your nan’s. All we need is a jigsaw puzzle and some knitted socks.”

Ghost didn’t answer. Didn't need to. Massive hulking posture already loosening and starting to mellow. Halfway through removing his gloves and looking -- dare anyone say it -- peaceful.

Later that night. Cozied up in Price's living room. Her crocheted throw blankets and mismatched cushions cradling their weighty and coarse bodies like they weren't seasoned and elite killers but a bunch of children in a sleepover at their gran's. Bellies full. Air serene and leisurely, watching some old movie Mrs. Price put on.

She'd even brought out bloody hot chocolate (with marshmallows, of course), and Ghost -- Ghost with his towering frame, permanent scowl, but now brushed blonde hair that strangely smelt like that eucalyptus oil that you recommended him -- had accepted his mug with two hands like it was holy.

Sitting on the edge of the floral couch. Cupping the mug in both gloved hands like it was a sacred relic. Taking a cautious sip before letting out the softest grunt of approval anyone had ever heard from him.

Soap nearly dropped his own cup laughing. "That good, Ghost?"

Ghost didn’t look up. “Shut up.” But he took another sip.

Gaz, already wrapped in one of the knit blankets she’d handed out like party favors, leaned over with a grin. “I think I just saw you smile, mate. Terrifying.”

“She’s a bleedin' marvel, so she is,” Soap whispered behind his mug. “Bit o' witchcraft in that cocoa.”

"This should be a regular thing," Gaz mumbled, curling up farther into one of her handmade quilts with a contented sigh. "Every end of the quarter. Team regroup with Mrs. Price."

“Quarterly sleepovers, aye?” Soap echoed, raising his mug.

“Aye. With lemon drizzle cake and that stew. Jesus.”

Ghost hummed, shockingly agreeing, “Better than the barracks.”

John Price, sitting stiffly in his armchair like he’d rather be interrogating someone in a bunker, glared at them over his mug.

“No,” he said flatly.

Mrs. Price, from the kitchen, called out without missing a beat, “Oh I don’t mind, dear.”

“No, they’re not,” Price barked from the hallway, already regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

But no one was listening anymore.

masterlist

[phantasm-ae]

MASTERLIST

☀️ — smut ✨— fluff ⚡️— angst

commander fox (CC-1010)

✨foxes don’t dance

commander wolffe (CC-3636)

anakin skywalker

commander cody (CC-2224)

obi-wan kenobi

captain rex (CT-7567)

[phantasm-ae]

cw: afab reader x commandor fox, fluff, a bit of angst

HEADCANON: Fox doesn’t dance. No. Never. That all changes, however, when he sees you — Jedi General — that always makes him toe the line between order and action

PAIRING: Clone x reader, Commander Fox x Jedi reader

Coruscant. The Grand Rotunda. Late evening. Nineteen-hundred, local.

The Republic never truly rests. Not even a celebration. But that was already a given.

Even under chandeliers glowing gold, festivities exchanged between pleasantries and warm food. Nor did the clink of glasses, the soft lull of music, or the subtle scent of sweetfruit wine could quite erase the weight in the air. It was a celebration -- yes, Fox knew that -- but only in the way a funeral might be called a gathering.

The tension remains -- pressed into the backs of every clone’s neck like a second collar. Even if they were technically called in to... unwind and revel in a moment's rest or as you -- their Jedi general, all grace and danger wrapped in robes that never sat quite right -- called it "a rare chance to breathe commander"

But how could a man like Fox exactly fucking breathe, when he didn’t know what to do with air unless it was barked out in orders?

So here he stood.

Sentinel straight and posture poised and perfect. His crimson armor, though a little looser on his lither and brooding form, was still gleaming in polished arcs beneath the warm glow of the lights overhead. His helm resting under one arm. Never far from his grip. Would rather cut his ankles sideways than let his weapon stray from his grip.

He hadn't touched the food. Hadn't dared sip the wine. He wouldn't let his guard drop -- not even now. Not even here. Not even... Not even for you.

Especially not for you.

You were dangerous in ways the war hadn’t prepared him for.

The kind of Jedi the archives would pretend didn’t exist -- too sharp at the edges, too radiant in motion, too much skin between robe folds for a council room.

He’d seen you end a skirmish with a flick of your saber and start a diplomatic meltdown with just a look. All pretty eyes and a mouth that never moved unless it meant something -- Fox had never seen someone weaponize silence like you did. Or laughter. Or kindness. You wielded those just as deftly as your saber. And that was the problem.

You were dangerous. Not in the way most Jedi were. Not with just the blade or the Force.

You were dangerous because you looked at him.

Really looked.

Past the armor. Past the rank. Past the locked jaw and the sleepless eyes and the thousands of walls he’d bricked up inside himself just to survive.

He hated that. And kriff did he crave it too

The Jedi weren’t supposed to be beautiful. They weren’t supposed to make men or clones forget they were soldiers. They weren’t supposed to laugh the way you just had across the room, head tossed back, teeth flashing like some forbidden thing carved from starlight.

Fox dragged his eyes back to his hands -- gloved, clenched, immovable. Clearing his throat and blinking his eyes rapidly to try and focus on things within his grasp and control.

He could kill with them. Break with them. Command with them. But he’d never learned how to hold someone without fear.

But then there you were -- suddenly walking toward him through golden light and warm music, a little too much of your shoulder bare beneath the drape of ceremonial robes, gaze set on him like you’d already decided something.

He told himself to stay still. Swallowing like a man parched as he overheard you excuse yourself smoothly from senators and council leaders who were speaking on matters he never quite... wanted to understand. No intention of listening. Too pristine and weaponized for matters as declarative and political for that. He was a soldier. That was all after all.

Fox’s ears caught the rustle of your glossy and silky fabric before his eyes allowed the indulgence of watching your approach again. You moved like the war hadn’t touched you -- but he knew better. That lightness in your step was trained, honed, rebuilt after too many nights stitching yourself back together with grit and sheer will.

And now? Now you were crossing the floor like you didn’t know you were the most arresting thing in the room.

He hated crowds. He hated these “breathers,” these forced illusions of peace. But somehow, he hated more the thought of you crossing this floor and turning away before you reached him.

“Commander,” you said, voice warm like evening spice.

“General,” he managed, the word clipped but careful. As if even your title burned in his mouth.

You didn’t stop until you were toe-to-toe. Up close, you smelled like whatever those off-world flowers were someone had arranged along the marble staircase -- sweet, a little wild. Your lips curved as your gaze dropped to the grip he had on his own wrist, fists tight, shoulders locked. You looked up at him like he was a problem you didn’t mind solving.

“You look like you’re about to be deployed,” you said, soft, amused. “Has anyone told you you’re allowed to enjoy yourself?”

“No, ma'am,” Fox replied instantly.

You snorted. “Wrong answer.”

Then your hand -- bare, elegant, calloused just enough to tell the truth about your life -- rose, hovered, and touched the crook of his elbow.

Fox stiffened. His throat bobbed with a dry swallow.

You leaned in, just enough to murmur where only he could hear, “I won’t bite. Unless ordered.”

He exhaled sharply. A sound not quite a laugh but restrained.

“I don’t know how to dance,” he said, low. A confession that felt more like a surrender.

You tilted your head at his words, smiling more playfully than really petrubed at his words. “Good. Neither do I.” Then, bolder now as ever, Sansanna spice on legs and beautiful haloing hair, you reached for his hand. “We’ll learn together.”

It would’ve been easier to say no. It would’ve been smarter.

But when your fingers slid against his glove, patient and warm and fearless... and gentle. Something in him cracked.

Fox let you lead him to the floor.

And for once -- just once -- he followed.

The music swelled around you as you both found your place amidst the dancers. It was soft at first, a tender and amiable rhythm that made the room feel like a hazy dream. Revnog after a long day -- a world where everything but the two of you faded into the background in peace.

Fox’s chest tightened as your fingers remained lightly wrapped around his, the pressure subtle, yet there was something unspoken in it. His gloved hand, usually so sure and commanding, now felt almost foreign against yours. A sense of unease and... regret choking through his gut and armor at wanting to strip his glove then and there just to feel your bare touch on his calloused and coarse palms.

His heart thudded, each beat an erratic reminder that he didn’t know how to dance. He didn’t know how to move in this kind of space. How to exist in it without becoming the soldier first.

But you didn’t need him to be a soldier now didn't you?

You led him first with slow and tenative steps, moving in time with the music, guiding him in that unhurried way that only someone who knew what they were doing could. The warmth of your body was close now, almost too close. The scent of sweetfruit wine, mingled with something more elusive -- more you -- filled his senses. The fragrant aroma of something saccharine and cloying, glazing his nostrils all honeyed and syrupy.

He could feel his pulse quicken. The space between the two of you felt like a chasm, but the weight of your gaze made it feel like you were pulling him in closer, inch by aching kriffing inch.

"You’re too stiff," you murmured up at him, a teasing smile dancing on your lips. Voice low, soft, coaxing. "Relax. It’s just a dance."

It was just a dance yes.

Except everything in him screamed that it wasn’t.

It was the way your body moved so fluidly, as if everything about you was unbound -- while he was wrapped in layers of armor, both literal and emotional. His body was a fortress, one he built brick by brick, a thousand cautions echoing in his chest.

But when you rested your other hand lightly against his chest -- right where his heart hammered so damn loudly -- Fox inhaled sharply, eyes darting to the curve of your lips with reckless abandon. Unraveling and uncontrolled

“You’re not a soldier right now, Fox,” you whispered, pressing into the space where the tension clung to him. “You’re just you.”

He blinked, throat tightening again. "I don't know who that is."

The words hung between them like an invitation, a delicate thread of truth that Fox wanted to pull away from but couldn’t. Your smile faded for the briefest of moments, just enough for him to see the flicker of something behind your eyes. Something far more... vulnerable than anything he’d expected. Then it was gone again. Dispersed and dematerializing. Tucked away into something lost and nonexistent that neither of them could quite shake.

For a moment, there was silence.

Nothing but the mellow and tranquil strings of the vioddle and bandfill filled the air. A placid and mild backdrop between the two of you as time seem to stretch on and on.

But in that karking silence, Fox realized he was still holding you.

His grip, though not tight, was firm enough to keep you in place, like an anchor amidst the sea of unspoken things. His palm burned where it pressed against your back, the armor’s edges strangely at odds with the softness of your robes. All silk and smooth on your waning and glowing skin. And you didn’t kriffing pull away. You didn’t flinch. You just moved, and he followed, instinct taking over where his mind faltered.

You were right. Kriff. Kriff. Kriff. You were right.

He wasn’t a soldier in this moment nor a clone nor a number. He was just... Fox. A man shelled in armor and rough skin. Holding this beautiful beautiful Jedi in his arms. All idyllic, vivid, and lush.

And that... that terrified him.

Because a clone could hide behind orders and discipline. A clone could just bury things deep and keep the world at a distance. Remain a number. Remain just another copy of a copy. A simulacra of someone now distant and lost.

But here. Now. With you so close, he couldn’t hide.

Not from you. Not from the weight of your gaze or the quiet truth that you saw him -- all of him -- in a way that no one else had. And it wasn’t even a judgment. It was just... understanding. Like you knew exactly what it took to break someone like him, and somehow, you weren’t interested in doing that. You were just... there. And that was worse.

That he had allowed himself to be led, to surrender to something as simple as a dance.

Fox wanted to pull away -- karking needed to -- but then you shifted just so, your body pressing closer. The smell of your hair, sweet and soft against his cheek, broke any semblance of control he still had left.

It was dangerous. So dangerous.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” you whispered again, a little breathless now as his grip subtly tightened. “Just… move with me.”

Every second that passed, every subtle movement and glide of your graceful and limber body against his, felt like it was carving him open, the walls he’d spent years constructing starting to crumble one small piece at a time.

This wasn't war.

This wasn’t command or survival.

This was something else entirely.

Kriff. Kriff. Kriff.

This was him, stripped of everything but raw desire and the tremble in his chest that wouldn’t stop.

Fox’s grip tightened just slightly at that realization. Swallowing like drought and Tattoine sand was forced down his throat.

Afraid that if he let go, you might vanish like the fading warmth of a dream. The familiar thundering of his heart against the thin layers of his armor. Motile and rapid, but this time it wasn’t from the adrenaline of battle or last-minute missions on end.

This time it was from.... the gradual and soft-hued intimacy of the moment -- the weight of your proximity. The way your gaze flicked between his eyes and his lips, so close that he could feel the warmth of your breath skimming the curve of his jaw.

He wanted to say something. Anything. Some quip, some sarcastic remark to break the tension. Something to ground him back in the world he knew. But there was nothing. Nothing but the steady rhythm of the music, the hum of the grand hall, and the gentle brush of your fingers across his shoulder.

Fox’s throat tightened again, and he had to fight to keep his mouth closed and gulp down the lump that had formed there. "I'm not sure I'm doing this right" he admitted, his voice low and gravelly, rough from years of commanding, barking orders, and keeping everything tightly wound within himself.

You stopped moving for a fraction of a second, pulling back just enough to look at him with those sharp eyes, like you could see straight into his soul.

"Then let me show you," you said softly, your hand resting lightly against his chest, right over his heart. "It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just... be here. With me."

Fox’s pulse stuttered, his whole body tensing involuntarily. "I’m not... really good at that General," he said again, more firmly this time, though it sounded more like an apology than anything else.

"But you’re trying," you whispered, your voice like velvet against the hard edges of his reality. "That’s all I need. Just you, here. With me."

And for the first time in his life, Fox wasn’t thinking of the next mission, or the next order, or the next battlefield. He wasn’t thinking of the weight of his armor or the duty to his brothers. He was thinking of you, and the way you made him feel... alive.

You smiled, that knowing, dangerous smile of yours. The one that had haunted him from the first moment he saw it from across the halls of the Jedi Temple, where you had stood, effortlessly commanding attention without saying a single word. That smile had always felt like a challenge, something that unsettled him, made his chest tighten in ways he wasn’t ready to admit . "Relax, Fox. We’re not fighting. We’re just... dancing."

And somehow, with you, with the softness of your touch again and the warmth of your gaze. Velvet, dulcet, and languid. He almost believed it.

The music swirled around you two again once more, a soothing backdrop that felt far away and, at the same time, more present than anything Fox had ever experienced. His movements more levelled and benign, less stiff, and more fluid as you guided him through the steps, your presence a balm to the turmoil churning inside him.

With you gleaming, saturated, and languid like this in his arms. All sugary smiles and dew-kissed eyes. Fox realized that he was no longer just Fox, the soldier. Fox the clone. Fox the commander. Fox CC-1010.

He was something else.

Something he hadn’t known he could be. Ever be.

A man.

And as the glowy ardent tempo and sequence lulled the both of you into a pattern that he could follow. With Fox slowly leading you in varied movements and motions that had no specific routine. Intimate. Bossoming... Devoted. Bolder now as he spins you around and grins when you laugh softly as he does so.

Fox realized that for the first time in months. Karabast probably years even.

The armor around his heart wasn’t the only thing keeping him safe anymore.

No. No. No. Kriff no.

It was and will always be —

— you.

masterlist

[phantasm-ae]

hi, do you have tcw fics? its not linked in ur masterlist so i didnt know if you had an ao3 or something where those would be :)

hi hi hi!

Glad u brought it upp anon. Becausee ta-da! I just posted one!

foxes don’t dance

The rest, however, will followw

[phantasm-ae]

omg anon im so gladd uu like it RAAHHHHH 😩😩😩--

-- but likee in terms of first meet.... hmmm.... i was thinking likee it probably went smth like this --

cw: just fluff, afab reader x soap

HEADCANON: How did Johnny and milkmaid reader meet? We have Mama MacTavish to thank for that

PAIRING: John Soap MacTavish x reader

Our reader was always close with the MacTavishes. Well, sweet and gentle Mama MacTavish mostly.

The honeyed and mellow lady who saw you move in from day one. Hauling boxes by yourself. Sweaty. Frustrated and swearing. Cursing your moving service driver under your breath as you tried to maneuver your mattress up the front steps like a tragic one-woman circus act.

She had spotted you. Tiny, wry, and reverent little you. Huffing and puffing little hen with the prettiest eyes she's ever seen.

Arms full of box. Hair stuck to your forehead. Shoes kicked off at the bottom step like you’d already given up on dignity that day.

Cursing the heat. Cursing gravity. Cursing the delivery guy who “just forgot the bed frame” with the kind of poetic fury that had her stifling a laugh into her apron.

Peeking out between her laundry line and the rose bushes, a glass of iced tea in one hand and a knowing glint in her eye.

Didn’t say a word at first. Just disappeared from view like a curtain twitching shut.

You’d barely gotten one end of the mattress wedged through the doorframe when she reappeared.

Determined and cheery old lady marching across the lawn in sturdy slippers. Smock still dusted with flour. Tea swapped for a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of something that looked suspiciously like still-warm shortbread.

“Love,” she said, smiling like you were already family, “either let me help or let me feed you. I won’t take no for an answer.”

That was it. That was the beginning.

Before you knew it, she was your go-to for sugar, advice, the juiciest neighborhood gossip, and the occasional “just a wee Sunday dinner” that turned into three courses and a bottle of wine.

She told you all about her garden, her cats, her least favorite neighbors (whispered with scandalous glee), and -- eventually -- her Johnny. Her good kind and gentlemanly son. Her only boy. Her pride.

Always said his name with a soft sort of awe and a sigh. “Not home much. Work keeps him away. But oh, when he is -- you’ll know aye? Big, loud thing, stomps around like he’s still in boots. Heart of gold under all that noise.”

You figured you’d cross that bridge if and when.

But then, she started leaving those subtle hints. And sure, she didn’t see a ring on your finger, and well -- she wasn’t getting any younger too.

"Nice to have a scant of little bairns again you know? Just lovely tae have somethin' to take care of. a bit more noise around the table"

You smirked, playing along, “Oh, sure, I can already picture it -- little feet under the table, crumbs everywhere, and me pretending to know what I’m doing while I trip over the toys.”

Mama MacTavish’s eyes gleamed with a knowing sparkle, her smile widening. At that exact moment, she knew -- you’d be perfect for Johnny. Whether you both knew it or not.

Slowly, she started dropping little cues.

You’d be chatting over a cup of tea, gardening or darning together and she’d slip in a remark or two --

“Oh yer sink’s broken? Johnny’s really good with all that, ye know.”

“Living room’s all barren, hen. Johnny could fix that up -- he’s got a good eye for space.”

“Fridge makin’ that funny noise again? Johnny sorted ours in a flash, bless him.”

“Ye don’t like ladders, do ye? Good thing Johnny’s not scared of heights.”

“That shelf’s still sittin’ on the floor? I’ll send Johnny round with his drill when he gets back”

“Cold this week, aye? Johnny’s great at sealing windows. Kept the whole house toasty last winter.”

“Plant dyin’? Johnny’s got a green thumb too, believe it or not.”

And then, with that same gleam in her eye: “Bit lonely sometimes, love? …Johnny’s got a nice laugh on him.”

You’d chuckle, play along, nodding as if it was all just friendly banter. Letting her have her fun. Feeding into it with a teasing little grin, not realizing she was ever dead serious at that. Just too enchanted by her syrupy stories and sweet affection to see the trap being set.

“Oh, Johnny does love a good Sunday roast,” she’d sigh one day, dreamily. “Still asks for extra gravy like he’s ten years old.”

Then there was the time she murmured -- almost too lightly -- “He’s got such a soft spot for animals, oor Johnny. Always lookin’ efter his mate’s dug. Just a big softie underneath he is"

You humoured her, of course. Nodded, smiled, said things like, “That’s sweet,” and “Sounds like he’s got a good heart.” Didn’t register the shift in tone when she followed it with a quiet:

“Wouldn’t it be nice tae hae someone who’d look efter ye like that, hen?”

You didn’t think much of it then. Shrugged, teased, “I suppose", you started as you gave her your usual warm and homey smile. "Someone to share a Sunday roast with. Maybe a dog. And definitely extra gravy.”

She beamed then and there. A knowing grin that you dulled on and overlooked. Lips curling with a playful gleam like you already handed her a grandchild on a platter.

After that though, the comments came paired with a wistful sigh or a long look at your left hand. “Ah, I do hope Johnny finds someone who’ll appreciate aw o’ him… he’s such a catch, ken?”

And when you’d laugh or just smile knowingly, she’d give the tiniest, most satisfied nod. Checking all her lists at this point. That same glint in her eye only growing.

Already picking the dress among her mental catalogues and listing down addresses and numbers to book the chapel.

You never really thought she was fixed and ramrod earnest about it. Always chalking it up to idle talk. Sweet, silly old-lady musings that sounded like daydreams but didn’t mean anything. After all, Johnny MacTavish was more myth than man to you. A photo on the fireplace. A pair of muddy boots by the door. A son who was always “just away for a bit aye?”

You had no idea what to expect when he finally came home though.

All 6'1 and massive hulking muscle. Weighty and tank heavy. Eyes electric blue with a shy and surprised look in his eyes. Standing there like a tall buck caught in headlights. Frozen mid-motion. Elbows-deep into some grimy mess of liquid and woodwork in the backyard. Right where you and Mama MacTavish usually had tea

The crickety old swing? --

-- Apparently fixed now....

A mallet in one hand, a smudge of oil on his neck, looking like he’d just stepped out of a construction site and straight into your heart. He looked at you like you were the last thing he expected to see -- and maybe you were.

You blinked. He blinked.

And then, the world seemed to slow down.

That was until Johnny dropped the mallet right onto his foot and cursed with a dirty word so filthy, Mama MacTavish gasped from the hallway. “Language, John! We have guests!”

You barely kept it together, biting back a stifled laugh. He, on the other hand, was clearly struggling to hold himself together.

“Aye right, uh, sorry ‘boot that,” Johnny mumbled, looking mortified as he tried to shake the pain out of his foot.

You smiled and, for some reason, that simple, awkward moment felt like the universe had pressed play again on something you didn’t even know was meant to happen.

But that’s when it all shifted. Mama MacTavish swooped in, all warmth and triumph, apron fluttering behind her like a battle standard.

“Ah, perfect timing, lass! Ye’ve met ma Johnny, aye?” she chirped, like this entire scene hadn’t unfolded with the cinematic chaos of a rom-com meet-cute gone slightly sideways.

You opened your mouth to answer -- yes? no? not like this? -- but she barreled on, plopping a tray of lemon squares onto the garden table as if she hadn’t just set a trap and sprung it with flawless precision. Leaving no other room for you two to even utter out another word.

“Johnny, lad, why nae show oor bonnie neighbour the shelves ye fixed up in the sunroom, aye? She’s been bletherin’ aboot needin’ some storage.”

“I have?” you asked faintly, already being gently nudged forward by a flour-dusted hand at your back.

“Oh, ye will,” Mama said, grinning like a cat with cream.

And just like that, you were being ushered into a future you two hadn’t exactly planned for --

— one that smelled like sawdust, lemon bars, and cucumber.

Sounded like dusting and worn boots on old wooden and rickety floors.

And looked an awful lot like Johnny MacTavish:

— red-eared. Bashful. Gone for. Keen and enamored at the sight of you.

Still nursing a bruised toe but grinning enthusiastic and dumbstruck when you asked if he really did like that much gravy on a Sunday roast.

masterlist

[phantasm-ae]

cw: afab reader x soap, smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, feral soap :((, doggy style (fire hydrant), squirting, slight teaspooning

HEADCANON: Johnny and you decide to go camping in his home country. And well. Alone together? Marshy and green highlands as your backdrop?? Of course it escalates

PAIRING: John Soap MacTavish x reader

something something, you and Johnny camping around somewhere in the highlands and green pastures of Scotland.

Deciding to show you around his hometown. Woody and marshy trails. Cobblestone streets. Weathered-brick pubs and warm earthy riverbends where he used to waste away his summer afternoons when he was just a wee scunner.

Skipping stones, knees muddied, and cheekily dared his first dates into the cold water even when the clouds hung low and the wind bit at their ears -- proper menace he was just wanting to the way they’d squeal, chase him up the bank, laughing, and a sliver of skin peeking through.

But now here you both were.

In the quiet stillness of a tent. Pitched atop somewhere in the Highlands. Whining and desperate moans muffled by the fabric that barely separated you two from the vast wilderness outside.

"Ye can take it aye? Take it so well darlin'", Johnny grunts behind you. Teeth gritting as you involuntarily clench around his words.

You whimpering softly as he further buries himself to the hilt behind you. Groaning lowly as he feels the tip of his cock meeting the warm cushiony walls of your cervix. Your hole weeping wet with more arousal.

Its been... hours?... days? You're not entirely sure. All you know is that time has become a blur since he you pulled you into his lap after a giggly and toying kiss. Laughing softly at his aching and needy groan. The comfort and warmth of your clothed core near his growing member making him absolutely unsalvageable the moment you shifted to start a pace.

Hands tightening on your waist. Fingers leaving bruising indents onto you plushy flesh before lifting you up into his arms with a surprised squeal. Groaning playfully as he lays you unceremoniously atop a sleeping bag.

Having you claw at the earth beneath you and the meat of his shoulders as his mouth absolutely devoured your pussy. Still half-clothed. Pants discarded. Shirt gone and bra probably torn, but panties hanging around one ankle. Feverish. Throbbing and done for.

Trying your best to stay still as Johnny goes utterly feral between your legs. Pulling up only to breath and coo mockingly at the state you were in.

"Aww, it's alright baby aye? Ye can scream -- fuck you taste so sweet -- Nae one’ll hear us here. Just us. Just us"

You could only whine and nod along at his words. Breath hitching and back arching like a taut string once his lips meet your weeping pussy again. His two fingers spreading the lips of your throbbing and pulsing core. Gasping as you feel him lick between the seams of your labia to your hole. Sucking on your clit as grew more unhinged. Restless. Frantic. Hungry.

Having you blubber up fat tears down your cheeks at the overwhelming sensation of your cunt being eaten out like it was the last thing on earth grounding him. Plumped and pulsing.

And the sight of Johnny. God the sight -- your Johnny. Sweet sweet gentleman. Kind and good-boy Johnny -- go primal in between your legs almost made you come again then and there.

As if salvation was at the tip of his fingertips and utopia was distended on your clit.

His lips red. Swollen and berserk. Mouth suckling at your engorged bundle of nerves like there was no tomorrow. Puffy pussy. Hole pulsing. Entrance aching as the tip of his tongue explored every inch of you slick sweetness.

Breathing you in.

Honeyed and syrupy.

Johnny absolutely indulging in the needy and wanton sounds that fell like caramel from your lips to his ears. His sweet sweet minx. Treacle and nectar. Pussy leaking with his own personal ambrosia.

Stopping only when you came twice. Whimpering softly in overstimulation and sensitivity as he pulled away after giving one last kiss to your trembling core.

Unable to let out another word as you were manhandled on to your front. Ass up and bare breasts meeting the cushioned fabric of the sleeping bag. Hiccuping soft sobs of both pain and pleasure as you feel Johnny's hard and hot dick coating itself in the wetness of your previous orgasms. The tip of his cock making your breath hitch and whine as you feel him notch the fat and angry head in your pussy's hole. Quivering and sensitive.

Whimpering breathlessly as he toys and tease your entrance with a low and gravely chuckle. Letting his meaty and veiny shaft glide along the wetness of your sopping and dripping cunt.

"Aww hurts baby? M'so sorry. I just needed you. Needed you so badly"

"nghhh--Johnny--please", you could only respond. Trying not really to get him to pause and stop. Let you breathe first before you pass out.

But the way his name tumbled from your lips only seemed to fuel him more. Grip tightening. Jaw clenching. Teeth gritting with his faltered restrained.

Unable to stop himself from breaching your entrance in one swift and slick stroke. Impaling you on his thick hard cock. The sudden intrusion making you yelp in surprise and paralyzing pleasure. Mouth parted with a soft squeak and whine as your head falls forward.

Defeated. Subdued.

Surrendering to just the absolute ecstasy and euphoria of the girth and breadth of Johnny's cock cushioned in your velvety walls

Johnny groans lowly at the sight. His soft sweet darling. Drooling onto her arm and almost growing cross-eyed at just taking his entire dick to the hilt. His weighty and full balls the only recluse he gets for pushing in deep. The scenery so fucking pretty that Johnny wishes he could burn this exact image unto his eyelids at this right moment.

Wanting to die with this exact memory playing on a loop in his mind if he could. Hissing a soft fuck as he starts the pace relentlessly. Hips urgently meeting the back of your thighs with frustrated and needy grunts. The squelch and splat of your puffy pussy meeting his balls an erotic backdrop. Your plush silkeny soft and smooth thighs meeting his with angry plat-plat-plats.

Yeah. Johnny could die here. Johnny will die here a million times.

With every sound you sobbed through. Every whine. Every whimper. God even your soft little pleas only drove him further and further. Growling lowly like some feral beast as his hips drove into yours with fervor. Moaning loudly as well when he feels the gooey walls of your cunt tighten on his dick like it could go any more snug with the way you were clinging on to him.

Pussy walls constricting and drawing him in deeper. So taut and so so good, as if your little core were testing the very limits of what you could take, both physically and mentally.

Johnny could only coo at the sight. Mocking. Teasing.

The kind of croon that dripped with false sympathy and barely hidden amusement.

“Aww, look at ye,” he murmured after hissing a soft -- shite -- as you clenched again, voice syrup-thick with mischief. “All wrecked already? That wee brain of yours short-circuitin’ from just a bit of attention?”

He ran a slow hand down your spine. A sharp contrast to the absolutely brutal pace he was giving you from behind. Watching the shiver it pulled from you like he’d plucked a string. His teeth gritting at the bruising pounding he was giving.

“Didnae even try tae pace yerself, love,” he tutted, faux-scolding after slowing down but deepening his thrusts. The change making you squeak and hiccup a soft sob of pleasure. “Hopeless.”

“Made for this, weren’t ye? Fuckin’ made to take me. Dumb wee thing,” he purred, leaning down close enough that his breath hit the shell of your ear. Grabbing a fistful of your hair to raise you up. Letting your head turn slightly so he could plant a gentle kiss from behind. Moaning lowly at the soft whines and whimpers falling past your mouth unto his.

The image of your breasts. Tiny and perky little does. Plump and so fucking full — bouncing as he carried on the rhythm of his hips without a pause.

Hips rolling deeper. Deliberate. Cruel.

Groaning and grunting fucks and shits as he felt you near the edge again. Velvety pussy constricting on his angry member. Fucking insatiable little cunt

"Johnny", you whine softly. Biting your lip at a particularly hard thrust that met a gooey spot inside you. Making you incoherent for a moment.

"Need to cum -- ngghhh hic -- I'm gonna cum", you sob helplessly as he shifted -- deeper, harder -- grip anchoring your hips in place as a response to your soft desperate plea.

"I know baby. I know. I got ye", he grunted as well. The squeeze of your vagina on his aching cock like seventh heaven and blissful paradise combined — making him falter.

Cursing lowly as he feels you slightly shift. Forcing him to not really squeeze your neck tightly in his other grasp just to warn you to stay still.

The action, however, only making his dick reach something so deep in you that he feels the tip of his cock rapture nirvana at this point. Pulsing and leaking tip kissing the cushiony entrance of your womb.

That does it for him. Absolutely ruins him. Done.

Tattered and sapped.

Fallen and losing control. Letting go of your hair and neck. Shifting his tightening grip to your hips. Pressing deep enough to steady himself, not caring if it bruised or reddened.

He raises one leg. Lifting it with a purposeful motion.

At this angle Johnny could quicken the rhythm into something phantasmal and transcendent. The newer position giving him full rein to canter his hips and movement more fluid.

And he did.

He did with. Every. Fucking. Inch

So raw and so animalistic that you are unable to stifle your pleasured wails and gasps as your head outright collapses onto your forearms. Thrusting wildly without so much as a warning.

Your nails tearing through coarse fabric underneath you at the deliberate urgency of his cock driving into your pussy in glintish fervor. His heavy and weighty balls slapping against your clit so good that you almost pass out in a daze of numbed bliss and liberation.

"F-fuck Johnny Oh God"

"Yeah I know baby I know. So sorry. So sorry. Just needed you aye?" he could only respond. His own breath hitching at the deeper angle as well. But there was no real regret in his voice. No. Never.

Not when he has his lovely wee doe on her front like this with him mounting her like a buck in rut. Or her absolutely devastating self laying there, whimpering softly, and just taking it. Velvety and smooth thighs quaking as she comes unexpectedly. Spongy walls squeezing his cock like it never wants to let him go. No heavens no.

Because Johnny -- sweet sweet kind and gentlemanly Johnny -- wasn’t really sorry when he had you like that. Not when your pussy clenched and fucking squirted involuntarily on his cock. Pillowy cavities tightening like they want to milk him dry. No Christ no. How could Johnny ever be sorry for that?

masterlist

[phantasm-ae]

cw: suggestive writing, afab reader x soap

HEADCANON: Soap almost loses goes feral it when he sees you in a milkmaid dress holding his little niece. Giving him some ideas and thoughts he shouldn’t have in his mam’s backyard get-together

PAIRING: John Soap MacTavish x reader

now Johnny had seen you in a lot of things even in nothing that was a given.

You in his shirts. His hoodies. His pretty pretty lass in that one tactical vest during a Halloween party that nearly ended the night early. But nothing. And Soap means NOTHING could have prepared him for this.

His sweet sweet minx in a bloody milkmaid dress. All soft cotton and wispy ribbons. The material cradling your frame just perfectly. Hugging you in all the right places. Cinched at the waist. Flowing just enough to tease but not enough to hide. Sleeves slipped delicately off your shoulders. Water running sinfully down glass is what it was.

Clinging and catching just long and sultry enough to burn.

Artemis in his fucking childhood backyard. Steamin' Jesus.

And to top it all off. As if just to ruin him completely -- you were barefoot in his mam's garden, holding his wee niece on your hip like you'd been born for it.

Smiling. Glowy. Bright and so fucking beautiful that Johnny almost passes out with how fast blood rushed down south to his groin. Brain absolutely short-circuiting at that.

Almost dropping the plate of his gran's mash he was holding too. Some poor sausage roll already clinging to gravity as his mouth parts a bit in utter, primal disbelief.

Johnny stood there, frozen, jaw slack, brain gone smooth. You hadn’t even noticed him yet -- busy chatting up his mam and sister by the garden fence, bouncing the babbling baby gently as sunlight hit your hair like something out of a painting. Like some goddamn pastoral fever dream. The kind of visions that made his knees weak and his thoughts utterly unsalvageable.

Rocking his chubby-cheeked niece gently in your arms, cooing like some divine, barefoot angel conjured from some kind of paradise in Tunisia.

Then -- Fucking THEN -- you lift the baby higher, nuzzle her soft little cheek, and say something sweet in that voice of yours that makes his entire soul leave his body.

Done. He’s done.

Funeral's next Thursday. Bring flowers.

He swore his bloody soul ascended.

His body though? Stranded on earth, bloody rock-hard and tragically overdressed in cargo shorts.

“Jesus Mary Joseph -- ” Johnny hissed under his breath, still frozen by the garden path, mouth dry, thighs clenched, gripping his gran’s ceramic dish like it was the last link to his mortal tether. One wrong look from you -- just one, he swears -- and he’d be spilling mash and something else right there on the bloody grass.

You turned, then. Bright, carefree, holding his niece like you’d been practicing for years. And when your eyes found his -- when you gave him that soft, warm smile that screamed home in a way the Highlands never could --

Johnny staggered.

Just a half step. A little foot wobble. Barely recovered. Didn’t matter.

Your brows lifted, concerned and confused. “You alright, darling?”

Oh no.

You said it like you didn’t know you were dressed like the wet dream of a fevered Scottish farmhand.

He opened his mouth to respond. Nothing came out. Absolutely nothing. There was a whistle in his brain like a kettle left too long on the stove. Every single survival instinct screamed “do not pop a boner in your mam’s garden.” Every. Single. One.

And then you bounced the baby on your hip again.

His niece giggled.

His mam laughed softly and said something about how good you were with kids.

And that’s when John 'Soap' MacTavish, elite sniper, tactician, demolitions expert, and renowned special forces operator... blacked out from sheer lust.

No, not really. But close. So very close.

He stumbled forward like he’d been summoned, forcing his legs to work, cock already straining at the worst possible time. His brain screaming be normal while his dick whispered breed her right now.

“Love?,” you asked again gently as he reached you, the baby tugging playfully at your neckline, unaware she was the only thing keeping you from being pinned to the side of the garden shed like a poster.

“You alright, Johnny?” you repeated in concern, brushing your fingers along his forearm, completely unaware of the meltdown behind his eyes.

He looked at you. Then the baby. Then the milkmaid dress. Then back at you.

And said, with all the composure of a drowning man clutching his last breath:

“Y’ever think about havin’ like... seven?”

You blinked at his words. “Seven what?”

Johnny looked you dead in the eye.

“Bairns.”

You choked. “Excuse me?”

But his mam. Nosy. Gleeful. Loud and always knowing, was already shouting -- “I told you he was gon’ propose one day soon!” -- at the top of her lungs like the whole of Glasgow, Scotland, and even bloody England at that needed to know her prophetic gifts had finally borne fruit.

And if Johnny’s gran finally noticed her plate of mash had been sacrificed in the name of horny spiritual warfare. She didn't need to say a word through her smile.

masterlist

[phantasm-ae]

cw: fluff, cowgirl afab reader x ghost, grumpy x sunshine, clumsy reader

HEADCANON: the team meets Ghost’s little bird

PAIRING: Simon Riley x reader

It all started when Soap, half-joking -- not really -- asked over a pint of that terrible guinness that one of the recruits mentioned that he voiced out a lingering thought out loud,

"So, Ghost. Ye ever gonna introduce us to yer missus? Or is she just some hallucination ye made up tae wind us up aye?"

Ghost, who had never confirmed nor denied anything about his personal life, simply shrugged. "Pub. Friday. Seven."

Soap thought he was joking.

At exactly Friday, seven-fucking-pm though. Soap. Soap realized he was wrong.

They met at a grimy pub near base. Price was wary. Gaz looked openly curious. Soap just looked excited, because how normal could Ghost’s wife possibly be? Some goth lady with a death glare? A sniper with a scar over her eye? A shadow in human form?

None of the above.

What actually walked in was—

A tiny woman in a beat-up leather jacket, dusty denim jeans, a battered cowboy hat tilted low over her messy braid. Coupled with a pair of cracked leather boots that clomped across the floor like she owned the place.

Holy shit

She looked like she could ride a bull, shoot a rifle, and kiss you breathless — not necessarily in that order.

She waved frantically the moment she spotted them though — knocking over a chair and nearly tripping over her own boots as she did.

"HEY, SI" she yelled across the entire bar.

Ghost — stoic, terrifying, 6'4" Ghost — immediately straightened in his seat like a teenager seeing his crush. He actually moved. Stood up. Went to meet her halfway like she was the only thing that existed.

Soap’s jaw was physically on the table.

This tiny woman. Small. Wiry. Sun-kissed and with the greatest pair of tits Soap has ever seen immediately launched herself into Ghost’s arms like a missile. He caught her easily -- of course -- one hand on her lower back, the other ruffling her tousled brown hair with ridiculous tenderness.

Leaning down to let her smack a kiss right onto the cloth of his mask like she couldn’t give a single shit about what people thought.

She yanked the brim of his hat down over his eyes — wait! when had he gotten a hat?? — and laughed that big, reckless, wild West laugh that turned every head in the pub.

The team stared in horror and awe.

"This can’t be real," Gaz muttered. "I’m dreaming. I died in Syria."

"She's so small," Soap whispered back, scandalized. "And she’s—she’s—hot??"

They made it back to the table, Ghost’s hand resting casually on her hip like a leash.

When they made it back to the table, she shoved Ghost into a chair, plopped herself onto his lap without ceremony, and grinned at the rest of them.

"Howdy, boys," she said, tipping her hat.

Soap almost cried.

She was absolute chaos. Stole the darts right out of the wall and challenged Soap to a game ("loser buys shots, city boy" "'m from Scotland, lass" "Cattle country ain't like sheep country, sugar" "we have cows. They moo too").

Gaz: "You're so fucking stupid mate"

Soap: "Shut it aye?"

Flirted shamelessly with Ghost across the table — calling him "sugar," "cowboy," and "my big strong man" with zero shame in her Southern-twanged voice. Told Price he looked like a "sheriff with a broken heart."

Somehow wrangled Ghost into a pool match where she used him as her pool cue guide — pressed up against him, his huge hands guiding hers, while she winked at the others over her shoulder.

Ghost never smiled. Never joked. Never talked much. But with her? He was... different.

Softer. More human. Maybe even a little helpless, the poor bastard.

Price, to his credit, kept a straight face. Barely.

Soap, meanwhile -- after losing to her on those stupid darts and took on the challenge of guzzling down the said shots -- was vibrating with suppressed laughter.

She was chaos. Pure, distilled chaos — loud, funny, mean, fun, but also wildly affectionate. She stole a chip off Gaz and a stranger's plate without asking. Shooed off two creeps with a death glare who wouldn’t stop pestering the girls at the counter. Challenged the bouncer -- a hulking and massive bloke -- to arm wrestle and actually fucking won! Spent half an hour helping to take pictures of an old couple on a vacation to send to their grandkids. And started a chant for Price to shotgun a beer (he declined, though grimly but... endeared).

And through all of it, Ghost just... watched her. Silent. Steady. The same way he’d scan a perimeter — except more devoted. Soap swearing that he could even see him smile behind the mask.

At one point, she tugged on his sleeve and whispered something in his ear that made him let out a genuine, low chuckle. An actual laugh. Gaz's drink came out of his nose at that and Soap almost passed out from the shock.

By the end of the night, they were all completely obsessed with her.

(And slightly terrified. She challenged another guy twice her size to a pull-up contest and won.)

As they stumbled out of the pub, she looped an arm around Ghost’s waist and shouted, "THIS IS MY HUSBAND! HE’S BIGGER THAN YOUR HUSBAND!" at absolutely no one.

Ghost didn’t even blink. Just tugged her closer and murmured, "Alright, birdie. Inside voice yeah?."

"YOU LOVE ME BABY," she hollered back.

"Yeah," he said simply, not caring who heard. "I do."

And if anyone at the pub dared to stare — well, nobody wanted to make eye contact with a man wearing a skull mask who looked like he could bench-press a car and the woman who looked like she could drive said car through you and still smile while doing it.

Soap later: "Lass is unhinged aye?." Gaz: "You’re just mad she drank you under the table, mate." Price: "I like her. She’s good for him." Soap: "Naw, like... she’s pure mental. He’s just as daft. It’s a match made in hell, I’m tellin' ye.

Ghost, hearing them gossip: (Just shrugs.) "I like her loud. Makes it easier to find her."

masterlist

[phantasm-ae]

• Gustav Klimt

when i was a child i loved the childrens tv show mia and me that took inspiration from klimts paintings

[phantasm-ae]

cw: fluff, afab reader x price, grumpy x sunshine, older man x younger woman

HEADCANON: The team meets Price’s missus. Not expecting it to be a sweet little thing like you

PAIRING: John Price x reader

Captain John Price was a lot of things.

Gruff. Sharp. Tactical. A man who could disarm a room -- or a bomb -- with the same deadpan focus. So when he finally, finally, agreed to let the team meet his wife at a casual pub night, everyone had… expectations.

Soap pictured someone tough -- maybe military herself, someone who could handle the Captain’s brand of grumpy affection. Gaz bet five quid she’d be ex-SAS too. Ghost said nothing, but even he imagined someone stern, serious, maybe with a scar or two.

They were not prepared for what actually walked through the door.

She was wearing a pink sundress. A little cardigan. And carrying a fucking tote bag with a bloody cartoon duck on it.

Bright smile, eyes sparkling, practically skipping over to Price -- who visibly softened the moment he saw her, like someone had pulled the batteries out of a bomb.

"Hi, darling," she chirped, throwing her arms around his neck.

Price -- their Captain Price, grizzled and grumbling and terrifying to entire warlords -- bent down and kissed her forehead like he was the bloody Prince of Wales.

The entire team stared. Mouths slightly open. Brains short-circuiting.

Soap recovered first, elbowing Gaz hard enough to almost knock his beer over. "That's nae his wife, aye?," he whispered, scandalized. "That’s his — his niece. His... his fairy goddaughter, maybe."

Price gave them a look over her head that very clearly said: say one more word and die.

Introductions were made. She was sweet, bright bloody decades younger than Price, asked about their hobbies, and listened earnestly even when Soap described "this absolutely sick drift he pulled in an APC."

But as the evening wore on, something strange began to happen.

She asked Ghost if he liked lemon drizzle cake -- and then pulled out a homemade one. Wrapped in that same floral-patterned foil that they've seen Price carry around in meetings despite Ghost's insistent shake of the head. Said it was “a little treat for the boys yeah? Just a taste love”

She scolded -- gentle parented -- Gaz gently for leaving his pint too close to the edge of the table. “You’ll knock that over, darling. Move it here, where your elbow won’t catch it.” She pulled a crossword puzzle out of her bag, a newspaper crossword, and started muttering about how “they just don’t make them like they used to.”

Soap caught her humming along to a 70s soul track that only Price ever put on the pub jukebox. Ghost watched her separate her chips from her mushy peas with the same quiet care his gran used to.

And suddenly, despite the pink sundress and the tote bag and the glowy, Disney-princess energy -- they all realized:

She was old at heart.

She might’ve looked like she belonged on some cozy campus or fairy-tale book cover, but she moved through the night like someone who’d been here before. Patient. Observant. Steady. She had Price’s tea order memorized ("two sugars, no milk"), reminded him to take his vitamins -- "m'serious John you have to stop missing your medication dear" -- with the same tone one might use to scold a naughty golden retriever.

Price. Captain John fucking Price. Grumbly. Growling. Feared by half the globe, didn’t argue. Just muttered, “Yes, love,” and obediently took the tiny chewable multivitamin she pressed into his hand like it was ammunition.

Soap nearly choked on his beer.

She fussed over Ghost’s sleeves being damp. Asked if Gaz was getting enough fiber. Told Soap she’d found the cutest mug that looked like a little sheep and bought it for him -- “because you always remind me of a sheepdog, with all that energy!”

They were under siege.

By the end of the night, Ghost. Big bad, massive, hulking, and brooding Ghost -- who once broke a man's wrist for looking at him sideways. Cleared through a room with just a pistol. Battered through a man in half -- was sitting very still as she gently lint-rolled his hoodie. Tutting about the pub cat’s fur.

When they finally left, Price tucked her under his arm, pressed a kiss to her temple, and shot the team a look over her head that said, without words: She’s my peace. Touch her and I’ll bury you under the bloody barracks.

And every single one of them -- elite, seasoned, hardened soldiers -- nodded in perfect silence.

Soap leaned in to Gaz, still stunned. “Mate,” he whispered. “She’s got 'im on a leash, nae doubt about it”

Gaz nodded back, wide-eyed. “Pink. Fluffy. And bulletproof”

Even Ghost, unflinching, unbothered and stoic Ghost, gave them the sharpest, most solemn nod of agreement in his life.

Because clearly, Captain Price didn’t command that squad.

She did.

masterlist