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[pseudolife-archived2]

[ GHOST | 13:20 ] !!!!! [ GHOST | 13:20 ] [ image attached ] [ GHOST | 13:22 ] Do you think I could hide him in my room? :<

@lt-ghxst ; ROACH for GHOST Send “ツ” for an EXCITED text ; text meme

[kurtcatss]

Holas! . este ha sido un cuaderno especial porque gracias a este retome la linografía que lo había dejado hace muchos meses. Gracias @cantrips_n_chips por esta gran oportunidad ! . Cuaderno copta forrado en tela sanderson y grabado en linografía modelo "Wolf and Moon #1" . 200 hojas marfil . Cualquier consulta vía inbox o me llaman al número 987484336. . Nu Books . #bookbinding #coptastitch #coptabinding #copta #linoprinting #printmaking #skyblue #wolf #moon (at Lima, Peru) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bu-jpyYHy-G/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1lrjpibxswct2

[pseudolife-archived2]

“bloody fuckin’ hell—- what did you do?”

Owlish eyes gaze up at the man standing in the doorway - hopeful that that morning's torment was over, and he was about to be saved. The industrial coffee maker and Roach were, simply put, apparently no longer seeing eye-to-eye, and the sergeant was on the counter looking offended (& a little wet) as, across the kitchen, the possessed appliance was spewing steaming hot water everywhere like a fountain of certain second degree burns.

It's only 6am, and he's considering crawling under a bed and going back to sleep. After treating his wounds, and finding a snack somewhere.

'Help,' Somehow, Roach has managed to make his signing look pathetic as well. 'It's trying to kill me.'

[pseudolife-archived2]

hand reaching around to capture Roach's chin in an open palm. calloused fingers and thumb pressed into his cheeks to guide both maw &&. gaze upwards. guiding him to Ghost. Soap a right smug bastard as he marked the space at the base of bugs' throat with teeth /// tongue. all the while Ghost met Roach half way: scarred lips offering up a gentle kiss.

Gary Sanderson is burning alive, or at least he feels like he is.

It's not an unwelcomed death, nor an undesirable one despite the heat. Despite the press of two equally hot bodies and clothes that were beginning to stick. The sweat that rolls down his neck, and is lapped up by an overly eager tongue, a mouth that knows to find just the right spot to bite, to nip, to suck to make him feel like he's burning a red-hot fever. The other mouth, this one a little more tender, a little more gentle, as it claims his own. Scarred lips deceptively sweet as they take, and take, and take what is offered, but nothing more.

As for Roach? Roach has nothing. Nothing to offer, to give, to present to the duo - nothing but his consent. His needy little whines and grasping fingers - the one hand that winds into a Ghost's shirt, and the other that buries itself in a dark mohawk. He has nothing, but in the moment, he is everything to them, and he knows that. Can't deny it when they're both so concentrated on him that they occasionally awkwardly bump into each other. Johnny's easy going laugh, and Ghost's snort covering any clumsy gestures and making it seem - natural.

And it is natural. Awkward, yes, but natural still. The two of them exchanging pieces of Gary like he's a meal to be shared, a delicacy that simply must be tasted by them both. Hands and mouths and touches exchanged as easily as passing plates between them - affection, too, to be found in those exchanges.

Love burning in dark eyes, and devotion lingering in sloppy kisses. Hinted at, in their mutual touches, but lavished on Roach. Their third, their first, their FNG with a taste for bad luck, awkward touches, and hiccupping laughs.

Gary Sanderson is burning alive, or maybe he's being eaten alive, but it's okay.

He loves the attention.

[pseudolife-archived2]

❝ it’s getting harder to keep my hands off you lately. ❞ (roach/ghost)

It's probably the socks. It's, unfortunately, the first thought that comes to his mind - but fortunately, not the thing he replies with - instead that honor goes to a throaty moan, something that's immediately swallowed by the other man. Consumed as Roach's thoughts spin, mind whirling as Ghost's grounding, groping, bruising touch becomes lighter over the thin fabric.

It's true, his immediate thought - Ghost has become more touchy thanks the introduction of the clothing. Rough hands always gliding over smooth, cheap fabric as he buries a partially masked face against the hollow of Gary's throat or, more favorably, pins him down for a kiss. But as much as it was true, it also... wasn't. Because this has been a steady climb of increased affection from the very beginning, and where they were then and there? It seemed like a natural progression of things. The right way for them, as a couple.

"Sor - ry...?" It comes out more confused than a real apology. Stuttered as a hot mouth makes its way down his throat and across his bare shoulder. As fingers dig into the newly acquired fabric and begin to tear. "I could... go?" And now Roach is teasing him. Voice dropping low as he whimpers not the man's name, but his callsign. Riling him up in a way that has the lieutenant growling and Roach laughing, even as the grip on his legs tightens, even as it begins to bruise and hurt -

Roach wasn't going anywhere until Ghost had his fill of touching him. And honestly? He didn't mind.

[pseudolife-archived2]

[ SIMON R. | 11:20 ] I'd rather be shot again than be the one to tell him that we have a noise complaint. [ SIMON R. | 11:20 ] It's YOUR fault anyway, Soap, you bought the fucking socks. [ SIMON R. | 11:29 ] shit. ignore that, ghost. please.

@pseudodead ; ROACH for GHOST “$” for an ACCIDENTAL text ; text meme

[pseudolife-archived2]

lyubov is choosing to ignore that these are alien antennae and instead opting to envision them as bug antennae - with that he's going to just put them on roach's head :)

Bug boi is going to very calmly take Lyubov's face in his hands. And headbutt him gently and happily. This is the best gift he's ever been given - including the time that Soap gave him the gift of his life not ending from falling down an icy cliffside. 'Thank you!'

Oh, he's never taking these off. He's going to be insufferable on missions.

[pseudolife-archived2]

“Fuck—- Roach. You bleedin’ all over my clean kitchen? C’mere.”

In his defense - no, nothing really could be said. Nothing would be said, because the mute had taken a vow of silence over the incident, and he would not be speaking of it or explaining it in any matter. All that did matter was that he was bleeding all over the floor while trying to pick up ceramic pieces of what had once been his favorite mug - the one with a little Paddington Bear painted on it - and sulking. One hand wrapped in a kitchen towel while the other, covered in blood but only from contact with his wound, haphazardly tried to pick up as many pieces as he could before he was found.

Roach's luck has never been good - proof literally to be seen in the mess of ceramic and bloody fingerprints - but it's probably the worst luck he's ever had to be found by Ghost of all people. Lieutenant Riley, the one and only. Probably on his way to get a cuppa tea like the proper British man he was, and instead finding, well...

Okay. It could be worse, he could have lost a war with the coffee machine again, and admittedly, it's not like Ghost hasn't seen him bleeding all over the place before. Just, yanno, normally it was during a mission, not a downtime where he was supposed to be safe.

(Roach was never safe, his soured affair with Lady Luck proved that, but he had a good humor about it at least.)

Blinking up (and up, and up) at the man standing over him, the Sergeant has the decency at least to look a little ashamed. Scarred features turning into something of a pout as he makes a motion at the mess he'd been trying to clean up - as if to say 'But I'm cleaning.' - before he gives up and gets to his feet. Trotting towards the man with the sound of ceramic crunching beneath his boots and holding out his wrapped up hand as if he was a child showing a parent a minor booboo and asking for it to be kissed better.

There's way too much blood for that even to be joked about, though, so he doesn't. Instead he shrugs, no story or excuse coming from him. For once.

[pseudolife-archived2]

❛ are you wearing my shirt? ❜ (ghost > roach)

There's not nearly enough caffeine in Roach's system for him to be answering that question right now - or dealing with the consequences of it. Dark eyes staring at Ghost for a few seconds before blinking and shuffling forward - Roach doing his very own zombie walk as he crosses the kitchen and mashes his face into Ghost's chest with a whine so soft it's almost silent.

It's pretty obvious that he is, though, wearing one of Ghost's shirts. It's far too big to belong to either himself or Soap. Black fabric hanging awkwardly off his form, making him look almost childish in comparison to it. Their size difference always obvious when they were together, but even more so then, with the shirt that normally hung tight on Ghost, hanging so goddamn loose on him.

At least he looks good. Hair tousled and eyes barely open. Throat and what was visible of his shoulders marked from teeth and tongue and mouth. A complete visual of military dress code no's right there in their apartment, bright and early in the morning sun.

'No talk.' His fingers slide over Ghost's arms, 'Caffeine first.'

[pseudolife-archived2]

“Shut the fuck up n’ sit down—- you’re bleeding.”

He's concussed and dazed. Confused. Standing in the middle of the safehouse's front room, with dirt and grit caked around his goggles and - and he'd lost his helmet somewhere in all the chaos. The running and ducking, the firing, the explosions. The truck he'd been practically chucked into and Ghost's notoriously poor driving. Gaiter tucked around his throat as he inhaled the stale air of the little used home, the dust that had collected on every surface.

Roach is cold, and a little numb. A little warm too. Sweaty beneath his armor and - Oh. He's babbling, signing sloppy words as he watches Ghost dig around for supplies in little used cabinets. Something, something, have you gotten in contact with Gaz? Price? Soap? Any of their fellow Task Force members, away on separate but related missions.

If their plans had been expected, a trap, then what about the rest of them?

The Lieutenant's snap, his sharp order, jerks Roach out of his moment of distress and concern for the others. Has him blinking something stupid, mouth ajar as he's not just advanced on, but grabbed. Moved towards a chair and pushed into it.

Reaching up with curiously steady fingers, he touches a place on his scalp that feels - warmer than the rest of it. A little sticky and slick at the same time. His dirty glove comes back bloody, and -

Ah. Shit. That was going to scar.

[pseudolife-archived2]

"so. uhm," scratching at the back of his neck, "how d'ya feel about choking?" coming off the back of their visit to the sex shop? the meticulous mixing of lubes &&. easy going inquiries about Roach's own purchase? this didn't exactly read as his finest hour. "not you choking. but, you [ ... ] choking me?" (I was told to ask roach, so I'm here. asking.)

Johnny really should have waited to make that particular inquiry - at least until Roach was settled and calm. Until his nerves, still on fire from the visit to the sex shop, weren't so jittery. Head full of stockings and socks, and the lube mixing, and he wasn't five seconds from having a meltdown, but he was overwhelmed to the point where he probably just needed to lay down for a while. Lay down and think about how funny it was that Simon fucking Riley probably had a high socks fetish, and Johnny fucking MacTavish liked to mix lube flavors for his partners.

Okay, so it's been fucking days, and he should be over it by now, but underneath his menace bug persona was a guy that worried a lot, and thought too much, and right now he's wondering how the fuck he's supposed to fit into any kind of high socks or stockings with legs like his - and if he's supposed to shave them beforehand.

And then he hears Johnny, and every thought has goes straight out the fucking window. Head jerking around like he'd heard gunfire as he looks at him. Blinking stupid, as if he wasn't sure what he'd just heard. Hands raising as if to ask for an explanation, before pausing. "What."

[pseudolife-archived2]

“Don’t get too attached, Roach.”

Poor Ghost, the war he's fighting is already lost - but he'll let him keep going if it makes him feel any better. Truth is, it's far too late for that, and Roach has already gotten the damn puppy snug into his drop pouch, secured safely at his hip. The sweet little thing is clearly knackered from following them all day, and the minute he'd been put in there, he was out cold. Cute little brown ears flopped over his head, pink nose smudged dark with dirt.

Roach lets him have his little battle though, glaring up defiantly through his goggles at the much taller Brit, pout thankfully hidden by his neck gaiter. Hands raising from his gun to almost stubbornly sign at him. 'I'm not going to leave him here.' And then, a little teasingly as he juts out his hip and points. 'Look how cute he is. How can you say no to that face?'

[pseudolife-archived2]

'don’t you know what you’re doing to me?' ghost signing to roach

It's a silly question - and that's probably why it's signed - because of course Roach knows what he's doing to Ghost, it's hard not to. Hard not to see the pink and purple bruises he's sucking into his skin, onto an exposed collarbone as he straddles his lap and hums sweet nothings. Roach is doing things he's always wanted to do - tasting the sweat on his tongue and his skin in his teeth. Memorizing the roughness of scars brought by blade or gun, and the strange softness of marks born by stretched skin. He's lavishing the other in his love, and relishing in the hands that grab at his hips, his back, with too hard a grip.

It's more than that too. Gary knows what he's doing to Ghost, and not just the physical aspect. He knows that he's doing more, way more, than just awakening buried lust, that he's reviving a man who thought himself to be dead. He's piecing back together Simon with every interaction they shared, every breath and touch and moment they had. He was fixing him, them, and he knows that by now because - because it's hard not to.

He'd have to be a blind man not to see the way the so-called dead man was coming to life beneath his fingers. The softness in his gaze, and the way his body seemed to cave into every touch, seemed to come to life beneath it.

Ghost resting, Simon awaking...

It was probably Ghost's worst nightmare, but Roach, but Gary doesn't want it to be that way. He wants it to be his life, he wants Simon to want to live and...

And he wants to live with him. With him, and Johnny, and their combined families.

Tilting his head upward, Gary presses his forehead to the mask, his smile warm, his lips puffy. Fingers gliding across sweat-soaked skin as he hums a soft, mindless tune, and settles against Simon like it's where he's supposed to be.

'I know,' He signs as he leans back, leans into the waiting hands that catch him at the first opportunity. 'Stop me if it becomes too much.'

@pseudodead ; ROACH for GHOST subtle smut yadda yadda ; accepting

[pseudolife-archived2]

kindly disregard Ghost's hand smoothing over Roach's thigh. open palm setting atop it whilst fingertips knead at the inner hem of the sock.

Roach is... Not going to do that. He can't. Disregarding the wandering hand, the fingers that pick and pull at soft fabric, it's against everything he's been taught, and everything he knows. He is, after all, a soldier, a Shifter's Keeper, and it's his job to be hyper aware of Ghost (and/or Soap) at all times, his job to make sure he's behaving in ways that were appropriate, make sure that he's not causing problems somewhere, making the problem look bad, etc..

And, to be entirely fair to Ghost, he's not. He's not causing problems, he's just...

Ghost is groping him. He's running his palm across fabric that's so thin that Roach can feel the heat of it. He's kneading at his inner thighs. He's... He's touching him in ways that really, no one has before. Making heat rush to his cheeks and... other places. Muscles flexing beneath that overconfident, claiming hand, breath catching, mental Keeper Laws alarm bells ringing -

Roach ignores the last part, because fuck it, what's done is done.

Instead, he shifts his leg to press up against the hand resting on it. Ears bright red as he goes back to pretending to read his book, smile soft, fond, and a little devious.

[pseudolife-archived2]

❛ light up, Roach. we're gonna be here for a while. ❜

Gary 'Roach' Sanderson loves his career, he loves his team. He loves the adventures that came with being in Task Force 141, along with all the challenges it threw his way. He loved the action it provided, how it left him with a feeling of purpose - even when he was injured in action.

What he didn't like was the cold. He felt slow in anything above a foot of snow, and ice made him feel clumsy, even with all his training. He hated being cold too - the way the wind felt like it blew through even the most highest of rated gear. He just didn't fucking like it, any of it, and even the perks of being paired with one of the loves of his life didn't have him feeling any better.

Especially when it's, not even arguably, the more positive of his lovers.

Gritting his teeth, Roach sniffs lightly - as if dismissing the idea that he wasn't acting positively - and rubs his gloved hands together before responding. 'If I ever complain about being overheated again, remind me of this mission.'

grumpy / sunshine meme ; accepting

[pseudolife-archived2]

tapes two pipe cleaners atop Roach's helmet like little bug antennae

Bites Soap's hand.