#ghoap fic

[walmart-icarus]

When the task force find themselves in a safe house in the middle of Cuba for a recon mission, they all become bored.

The heat is unbearable. Everyone except Ghost have sunburns, although he’s a sweaty mess under that mask.

Naturally, Soap spends most of the time shirtless. It’s driving Simon fucking mad.

He can’t stop looking at his happy trail, the way the sweat makes his Mohawk cling to his skin, that fuckass tattoo of Charlie Brown on his lower back. Ghost has been through torture, seen his friends and family die and many unspeakable things, but nothing made him doubt his survival as much as this did.

“Gaz, tell my mum I love her” Johnny groans dramatically, stretching his back, revealing the waistband of his boxers. Ghost can’t breathe.

Gaz rolls his eyes and chucks a water bottle at the Scott.

Price walks into the room smoking an authentic Cuban cigar (one of the main reasons he even accepted the mission) and narrows his eyes at his boys. His gaze ends up landing on Ghost.

“Take the fucking mask off, lieutenant, or yer gonna pass out when we need you.”

Ghost doesn’t answer. Doesn’t tear his eyes away from Soap to look at the Captain, either. Even if he opened his mouth, a strangled sound would probably come out.

Gaz chucks another bottle, but at Simon this time.

[pippynsworld]

It was a long day...

[nightcrews]

It’s late. The base is empty in the way it gets when all the recruits go out on the town. Quiet. Just the way Ghost likes.

He’d floated around the halls trying to find Johnny, because he wasn’t in his room, and found him laughing at the tv in the rec room. It was quiet there, too. The only sound was the program Johnny turned on, the hum of the vending machines, and the clink of his mug as he stirred whiskey into the coffee he’d brewed. A bottle sat next to his feet on the coffee table, three-quarters of the way gone.

“Can’t sleep?” Ghost asks, startling him for only a moment.

Johnny relaxes back against the couch, eyes glassy and smile broad, “Don’ wanna. Dreams have been all fucky the past few days.”

Ghost doesn’t say anything, because he gets it.

But Johnny keeps going, words slurred with a little liquid courage, “Yer in them, Lt. I ever tell ye tha’?”

“No.” Ghost says, frowning and leaning his hip against the counter.

“Yeah! Yer always there, so close te me. Sayin’ all the things I wanna hear. Sometimes yer fuckin’…touchin’ me.” Johnny laughs, the sound bitter rather than his usual joy, “Sometimes I wake up ‘n I think ye really said all tha’ sweet shit te me. Like a total headfuck.”

Ghost doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t know what to do. He just stands there frozen, staring at Johnny like an idiot.

“Ye told me I was worth somethin’ tonight. Tha’ I was fuckin’ special te you.” He swirls his glass and takes another sip, “What a laugh tha’ is.”

“Johnny—” Ghost cuts off whatever he’s about to say, rips the softness right out of his voice before he says something stupid, “How much have you had to drink tonight, Sergeant?”

Johnny starts ticking off his fingers one by one, eyes tipped up to the ceiling while he did drunk mental math. Once he gets to ten fingers, he pauses, then throws up his hands and shrugs.

“May be time for bed, don’t you think?”

Johnny groans, but throws back his mug to chug the rest of his drink before struggling to his feet. He stumbles across the room, stopping just inches away from Ghost to put his dirty cup in the sink.

Ghost doesn’t react. He’s trained himself rather well not to give himself away when he’s under stress. Such as now, heart rate kicked up with Johnny’s closeness, with the heat radiating off of him, with the way his cheeks are warmed red from the whiskey.

“Tha’s mad righ, sir? You sayin’ soft shit?” Johnny asks, like he’s hoping it really wasn’t, “Kissin’ me in my dreams? Should get tha’ checked.”

And then he stumbles out of the room and back to his, as if he hadn’t just turned Ghost’s life upside down.

━━━━━━ ❖ ☁︎ ❖ ━━━━━━

The next morning Johnny’s back to his normal self, cracking jokes over breakfast and stealing a piece of Gaz’s bacon when he’s not looking. Like he doesn’t remember a damn thing about the night before.

“Feeling better, Johnny?” Ghost asks, holding his breath to hear his answer.

“Never better, sir.” He says with a confused smile.

“Thought you’d be nursing a good hangover.”

“Oh, that.” Johnny huffs a laugh, scratching the back of his head, “I dinnae remember anythin’ past turnin’ the tv on, te be honest.”

Ghost looks away, hating that he’d been hopeful, “Shame.”

He says it too softly.

“Fuck.” Johnny grimaces, “Did I say somethin’ stupid?”

“No, Sergeant.” Ghost turns to leave, disappointment bleeding through his chest, “Nothin’ I didn’t want to be true.”

[simonsbalaclava]

"Soap has seen this man kill without hesitation, get blood on his hands, fire a gun without flinching and throw a knife into someone's jugular. But he doesn't mind, at the end of the day, watching Ghost do that. Because when they're alone, just them, he can see him; he can see that little piece of himself he'd buried, Simon Riley. He can fill his face with kisses, caress and trace his scars, make him chuckle and watch his little eyes crinkle at the sides. Soap might have zero sense of preservation in messing with him, he might be crazy.... But he was crazy in love. And he wouldn't trade that for anything."

They are in love, your honor.

I'm not going to lie; I 100% HC Simon as a big softie for Soap or his loved ones. Simon doesn't have a family, in fact, before of the TF's members, he didn't had anyone. So I like to think that after years of isolation, of the buried longing to be loved and seen... Soap arrived as an intruder that he couldn't kick out. Soap broke through all his defenses, so easily that seemed like a mockery and came to his heart to stay. Hope y'all liked my version of Ghoap :) I don't like to see them as violent lovers (only sometimes) but as a couple carefully built on layers of trust and vulnerability amidst the chaos of their line of work.

[call-of-daydreams]

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

*You glance at Simon*

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

*Simon side eyes Johnny*

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

[subliminalghoest]

Safe house

Ghoap x f!reader

The safehouse was barebones—four walls, a door that didn’t close properly, and a single narrow bed shoved against the wall like an afterthought. One thin blanket. No heater. Concrete floors so cold they bit through your boots.

Soap stepped in first, glancing around with a sigh. “Right, well. Guess this place was built for one poor bastard, not three.”

Ghost dropped his gear by the wall with a grunt. “I’ll take the floor.”

“Hell no,” you said automatically, slinging your pack down. “You’ll freeze.”

“I’m used to it.”

Soap rolled his eyes and gave Ghost a flat look. “You’ve got enough screws loose without adding hypothermia to the list.”

“Then I’ll take the floor,” you offered, already tugging at your jacket zipper. “I’m small enough to crash on my pack.”

Both men gave you the same sharp look.

“No,” Ghost said, voice final.

“You’ll ache for a week,” Soap added. “We’re not doing that.”

You all stood there a moment, silent, stubborn. Then Soap looked at the bed again and shrugged.

“We’re all adults. One bed, three bodies. Head to toe if we have to.”

You arched a brow. “Ever tried sleeping with Ghost’s boots near your face?”

Ghost snorted, the faintest smirk in his voice. “I’m not sleeping in my boots, you know.”

Eventually, an agreement was made: all three of you in the bed, boys facing outward—Ghost on one side, Soap on the other, and you safe in the middle. They’d flank you, keep you warm, no funny business. Just sleep.

That had been the plan, anyway.

You weren’t sure what time it was when you woke up—just that the moonlight had shifted and the room was bathed in soft silver. You were too warm, wrapped in heat that had nothing to do with the thin blanket.

Soap’s arm was slung lazily over your waist, his hand resting just beneath the hem of your shirt, skin-to-skin and entirely unbothered. His breath tickled the curve of your neck, soft and steady. One of his legs had somehow worked its way between yours, your leg hitched over his.

Behind you, Ghost was molded to your back, chest pressed close, the slow rise and fall of his breath an anchor against your spine. One of his arms wrapped around your middle, the other tucked beneath the pillow you shared. Protective. Possessive. Present.

You shifted slightly, caught between warmth and awareness, and felt Soap's fingers twitch.Ghost’s hand tightened, just a fraction. Like they both felt it too.

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t anything overt. Nothing crude. You were surrounded, caged in heat and strength and quiet tension.

And God, it felt good.

You could’ve pulled back. Should’ve. But you didn’t. You leaned in—drifting your fingers along Ghost’s forearm, letting your leg press deeper against Soap’s. Neither man spoke, but Soap’s breath caught, quiet and sharp.

Ghost... Ghost exhaled against the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, his face pressing in closer.

You fell asleep again like that—wrapped in the kind of tension that lulled you rather than startled. Wanting to stay wrapped in this dream a little longer before having to face reality.

—————————————————————————

The second time you woke, it was slower—every inch of your body aware before your mind caught up.

Warmth. Weight. Pressure. Breath against your throat.

Soap had shifted in the night, his head now tucked beneath your chin, resting lightly on your bicep. Your arm had curled around him, cradling him. His hand had drifted lower, fingers curved gently around the dip of your thigh. Your hips pressed snugly to his. Innocent, but barely.

Behind you, Ghost had only pulled you closer—his hand now splayed along your ribs, thumb rhythmically stroking the soft skin just under your breast.

You stayed still. Testing the moment.

Then you moved—just a little. A shift, nothing more.

Soap stirred against you, his body pressing closer.

Ghost’s hand stilled… then resumed its slow stroke.

Deliberate. Intentional.

“You’re awake,” came Ghost’s voice—low, gravelly. Dangerous.

You swallowed. “Didn’t mean to move.”

“Didn’t say stop.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Soap chuckled, his voice still thick with sleep and something else. “Think she likes waking up between us.” He arched his neck up and you felt his nose run up your neck, running back down to your collar bone where he nuzzled into you.

Your breath hitched.

“You’re imagining things,” you mumbled, but your voice betrayed you. Soft. Breathless.

“You sure about that?” Ghost leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear through the mask. “Because from where I’m lying, you haven’t moved away.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. You were burning now—trapped between them and completely unwilling to escape.

Soap shifted again, his hand trailing down your thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your shorts. “We won’t do anything you don’t want, love,” he murmured.

“But if you want something…” Ghost said, voice dropping to a low, dark promise, “…just say it.”

The silence stretched.

And you wondered how you were going to convince yourself that this was a bad idea.

Part two Here

[luxcuriousao3]

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

[sai-int]

i saw this a few days ago and i've been plagued by ghoap x reader ever since

The warm water lapped gently at your skin as you leaned back against the edge of the tub, sighing in bliss. The steam curled around you, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the bath salts you’d poured in earlier. After a long day, this was exactly what you needed. Simon and Johnny were stuck with paperwork back on base, so you had the rare chance to soak in peace, letting the heat work its way into your tired muscles.

You’d just started to drift when the sound of the front door opening snapped you out of your daze. Footsteps, heavy and familiar, made their way down the hall before stopping right outside the bathroom.

The door cracked open just enough for you to catch a glimpse of a skull-painted balaclava.

Simon.

He didn’t say a word, just tilted his head slightly as if asking permission. You sighed, amused, and scooted forward in the tub. “Hello to you too,” you murmured.

That was all he needed. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, and within moments, he was stripping off his clothes with practiced efficiency. Then, he slid in behind you, his solid form pressing against your back as he sank into the heat with a satisfied exhale. His arms came around you, hands settling on your shoulders as he kneaded at the tension there.

“Long day?” he asked, voice low and rough against your ear.

“You’ve no idea,” you murmured, melting under his touch.

“Aye, we do,” came a much louder voice from down the hall. “Some of us actually did the bloody paperwork.”

Before you could react, the bathroom door swung open with zero hesitation, and Johnny strode in, already tugging his shirt off. His grin was wide and mischievous as he took in the sight of you and Simon tucked into the tub together.

“ye two weren’t plannin’ on startin’ without me, were ye?”

Simon sighed, his fingers still working against your muscles. “Dunno if there’s room for you, love.”

“Like hell there isn’t.”

And then, he jumped—no—launched himself into the tub

Water sloshed over the sides of the tub as Johnny all but catapulted himself, jostling both you and Simon. You squeaked in protest, but the sound was drowned out by Johnny’s triumphant laugh as he wedged himself in between your legs, forming a delectable man-sandwich with you as the middle.

“Fuckin' hell, babe,” Simon grumbled, shaking his head as he wiped a splash of water from his face.

Johnny just beamed, utterly unrepentant. “What? Ye know I hate missin’ out.”

You sighed, shaking your head as you leaned back into Simon’s chest, letting Johnny rest his head against your chest. The water, still warm despite Johnny’s dramatic entrance, wrapped around the three of you as Simon’s hands resumed their massage.

A peaceful silence settled between you, broken only by the occasional sighs of relaxation. Johnny, ever the fidgety one, eventually started tracing nonsense patterns against your legs under the water, and Simon’s pressed soft kiss against your temple, thumbs pressed firm, soothing circles into your shoulders.

“Love my boys,” you murmured, eyes slipping shut.

Johnny grinned, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your skin. “Aye, you’re stuck with us,”

Simon huffed, the sound almost amused as he pulled you even closer. “Poor thing, never stood a chance, hmm?”

[bigproblemsfunnylife]

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

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

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

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

And Ghost accepts.

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

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

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

Just them.

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Neighborly (Part 2)

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: near death experience, hypothermia, cuddling for medical reasons, implied medically-related stripping, implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

It was supposed to be a two-shot.

The cold burned.

Once the sun set, the weather front moved in, and the temperature plunged. Snow fell thick and fast, just short of a whiteout. Your feet sank to the ankle, then to the shin, and your aching trudge became a slow-motion nightmare. It was about that time you realized – you were in real danger.

It was a two-mile walk – uphill, through old snow and frozen sludge – from your stranded vehicle. Home was closer than town, so you put your head down, buried your mittened hands in your armpits, and threw your emergency blanket from the car over your head as a bright orange cloak. And you set out.

It really took you too long to leave the car, but it was a life and death decision, and you waffled between shit options. On a busier road, you’d stay in the car. But this kind of snowfall would keep people home for a day or two. More than enough time to freeze to death, curled up in the driver’s seat.

If you lived, you’d make a better emergency kit for your ride.

In the meantime, the path demanded all of your attention. Even under fresh snow, it was easy to follow the road. Thick forest covered this stretch, and there was nowhere to go but forward. Hopefully you wouldn’t miss your drive. Should luck bless you for the first time in a decade, you’d see your neighbors’ lights in the dark.

But you had miles to go, yet. And the footing was terrible.

Old snow, half-melted and refrozen, threatened to turn your ankle with every step. Staying upright took work. Every muscle joined the battle, from your toes to your shoulders. Your abs clenched, and your thighs soon shook from exertion. As cold as you were, sweat stuck your hair to your face. Your neck.

The wind turned the moisture to ice.

Pins and needles prickled under your clothes.

Worse, and worse, and worse.

But there was no choice, so you moved on. No one was coming, so you would go. Keep calm and carry on and all that noise.

You had tea at home. An electric heating blanket under heavy quilts. Dry clothes and fuzzy socks.

So, you walked.

One foot in front of the other. Wobbling. Trying to find safe footing.

You crashed to your knees, bracing for pain that didn’t come.

Fuck.

You were losing sensation in your extremities.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The fresh layer of snow swallowed your hands where you’d braced to catch yourself. It didn’t look right from your perspective. You hadn’t punched holes into the drift. You’d joined it. Flesh flowed into freeze, and it sucked the heat from your body. Hungry. Careless.

Physically shaking the image from your head, you rose. You pushed on. Slow and unsteady as your thoughts lost traction on the creeping ice.

It never seemed right that such an oppressive season made the world so bright. Even on a moonless night, the snow practically glowed. When you first moved to the mountain, you’d look out the window and marvel at how clearly you could see the world you couldn’t explore. The endless white always looked so inviting, but it kept you locked away, isolated.

Snow ate the color out of the world. That was why it sparkled so brightly in the sun, full of ingested prisms stolen from kinder seasons.

What colors, you wondered, would it digest out of you.

Once you were buried.

Lost to the white void falling without. Swelling within.

Everything felt damp. Warm. Your muscles went syrupy. You were your own personal swamp, and you panted, dropping your blanket. It was too heavy, too waterlogged anyway. You couldn’t carry that weight forever. It fell easily. All you had to do was let go.

Your feet turned, and you began to ascend. Uphill. That was correct, somehow.

Fuck.

You were on fire.

The snow was up to your knees and still falling. Maybe, if you just took a nap, you’d wait it out. Better to travel in the daylight, right?

No. Not quite right.

One arm hung out of your coat, and you couldn’t shake the second free. It clung to your wrist like a needy child, and you just wanted rid of it. Wanted to be free and finished and home.

Lights blazed, and it felt like dawn. Had you walked all night, or did you just look up?

The path split. Or you thought it did. The snow covered the way, but your instinct sniffed out the divide.

You wanted to be closer to the lights. Lights were good. Even though they hurt your head. They looked so pretty, flushing the snow gold. You imagined they’d paint you gold, too. A Midas-touched statue – pretty, lifeless, and cold.  

Snow always looked so soft. You’d felt cheated as a child when you discovered it was nothing like the fluffy duvet you imagined. But in a pinch, it was wonderful.

It held you, gathering you up as you sank. The flakes landing on your cheek didn’t melt anymore, and frigid works of art gathered on your eyelashes, slowly eating the lighthouse you’d followed home from the bright white dark.

-------------------------

“Fucking hell.”

Death had a British accent. Not bad. A shame you somehow disappointed him.

“Johnny! Get some towels. Clean shirt and sweats.”

You blinked up at Death, swimming through waves of unfamiliar sensations to get a glimpse of the end.

Really, you’d hoped for Death to wear a kinder shape – like in Sandman – but the grinning skull seemed appropriate. It was the rare case where the destination mattered more than the journey. Or the escort.

Being dead was exhausting. As curious as you were about Death’s face, the quiet void already had a deposit on your soul. Resting limp in the psychopomp’s arms, somehow you relaxed further. He was so much more solid. More real. Soon you’d melt between his fingers and rain into the underworld.

“She isn’t shivering.”

Dreams ate your mind. Time rose and faded like steam as strange hands prepared you for burial. Your grave was warm. The soil packed tight, wrapping around you as the first gnawing sense of dread woke with the agony in your hands. Roots squeezed around you, tightening as you writhed against the sting in your feet.

You did not rest in peace.

You’d fallen into hell. Your skin burned, your muscles seized, and a sharp scream of a moan shrieked through clenched teeth.

“Easy, easy.”

A broad palm pressed over your heart, hauling you back to a second pulse. Someone else’s words rustled over your hair. Someone else’s breath pushed someone else’s chest flush against your back. Their smell and shape surrounded you.

A someone. A living someone.

That finally reminded you of the need to wake.

To rise from death.

Every inch you climbed towards consciousness scorched you, and reality came in bursts of pain. Your fingertips felt like you’d clutched red-hot iron, and shivers wracked you like private earthquakes. Everything wanted to tear itself apart, escape the pain radiating from every other piece. If the stranger wasn’t holding you together, you’d shatter like your poor, ugly mug.

You had a body but no control.

The stranger shushed you, a second hand settling over the top of your head. Locking you in. Keeping you in your flesh. You thought he might stroke your hair like a cat’s fur, but nothing moved between you besides the heat seeping from his palm to your scalp.

If you had a choice, you’d go back to sleep, but you were too aware. Pain dared you to relax, running knives along the underside of your skin, threatening to stab you inside out with the next shudder.

And you didn’t know where you were – or who was cuddling you back to life.

Helpless as you were, you knew to be afraid.

“Johnny,” the chest behind you rumbled, “she’s coming to.”

Wrath caught on the name. It bit the hook and followed the line to the light so your eyes could flutter open. They were painfully dry, and the gathering tears offered some relief, but you recognized the mohawk over broad shoulders leaning through the doorway through the blur. Your restrained whimpers turned into a growl.

“Think she recognizes ya.”

“Aye.” Johnny approached, kneeling by the bed you found yourself in. His pretty face was all bent out of shape with apprehension. “How you feeling, hen?”

You wanted to shout at him. Or slap him. Both at once and more. Instead, your shaking tongue fumbled the words, and your arm flopped weakly under the quilt, thudding into the branch-like arm caging your chest.

Which meant –

Wait.

If Johnny was in front of you, you must be in his house. He lived alone. Except for a hulking giant in a skull mask.

Like he could read the fresh stiffness beneath your shivering, Ghost said, “Spotted you from the window. Had to get you dry and warm, but you’re safe. Body heat’s best at this stage. We’re both dressed, and if you can’t stand it, I’ll trade out for a fleet of hot water bottles.”

You struggled to pick up his words and put them in order. They bobbed through the snowmelt in your brain like so much flotsam, a murky sea you already worried would drown you. But you did it. You got it all. But it was a lot.

He was barely more than a stranger, and you found yourself in bed with him.

But a man so hesitant to show his face wouldn’t be eager to show more skin than necessary, and while it was hard to tell what fabric was clothing and what was bedding, nothing but cloth touched you. Except for the hand on your head. Which was fine, actually. It could be better than fine if you thought about it much longer.

How much did it cost such a reserved person to get so close? You were no better than a stranger to him, too.

He saw you in trouble and moved to help. Everything he said was practical. Reasonable. He’d probably saved your life.

You felt you understood Ghost. Maybe it was the confusion or the onset of a fever, but you got him. And he was so, so warm. You wanted to crack open that giant chest and burrow inside him like a tauntaun.

When you felt better, you’d make it up to him. You’d apologize for being a burden and make your imposition right. In the meantime, you didn’t want him to leave you alone with some shitty substitute.

You wriggled, trying to put your hand over his, but something was over your fingers, and you had to guesstimate. Maybe you patted his knuckles. Maybe you smacked his wrist. Hard to know. But you felt you made your point.

“S’fine.”

He shifted in response, settling in for the long-haul. “Good.”

You tried forcing yourself calm. Everything had a mind of its own, though, and you curled up tight, trying to preserve heat even when it was given freely. Ghost supported your new position, bending his knees to keep contact, spooning with purpose.

How far had your temperature dropped for you to be this miserable? Very. Dangerously. Fucking shit.

Johnny cleared his throat. “I could join? Help get you toasty?”

Though you were still in gods damned agony, you wouldn’t let Johnny Fucking MacTavish join you under the covers if he was the last thing between you and death. You’d already touched the door to Hades that evening, and he hadn’t been the one to bring you back.

You lashed out the only way you could.

“No.”

The first word you managed to say clearly. You sent it off with a scowl, daring the Scotsman to try you.

He practically jumped back from the bed, anxious expression washed clean in shock. You’d never told him no. Never drawn a boundary. Never shared your anger or hurt.

Well, you’d finally learned your lesson.

Fuck that man.

He wouldn’t be getting anything from you ever again, not even a clear conscience.

Ghost hummed, his thumb stroking over your temple. “Got you right pissed off, has he? What’s he done? He the reason you got caught in the storm?”

Nodding was easier than speaking. You’d said the most important part.

“Thought as much. You’re too well prepared. When you feel up to it, you can tell me what Johnny needs to set right, yeah? He’ll clean up his mess.”

Across the room, where he’d stumbled after your rejection, the man in question blanched. “I didn’t – I couldn’t – What did… Ah, Christ. ‘M so sorry, hen.”

“Plenty of time to talk later,” Ghost said, still fully felt and entirely invisible at your back. “Let her rest. When I’m confident she won’t choke, you can make us something warm to drink.”

Johnny accepted, nodding with big eyes. His shoulders rose to his ears as he turned on his heel and marched away, fists squeezed tight.

He’d only been out of the room for a minute when you heard something crash, and you jumped.

Ghost just hugged you tighter and sighed.

Eventually, you did sleep. It was a night for achieving the impossible, apparently. Ghost kept one hand on your chest, waking or sleeping, and as the daylight slowly burned away the icy mist in your head, you realized he was monitoring your heartbeat. Keeping his arm around your chest was better for your recovery, and you might not have reacted so calmly to a hand on your neck.

You still felt like shit.

“How bad was it?” you whispered.

Asking was a struggle, and not just because your lips cracked and burned around your voice. Staring doom in the face only scared you if you recognized it, and you were afraid to hear how close your choices had brought you to the point of no return. Words could hurt. Knowledge could hurt.

“Should’a taken you to a hospital,” Ghost murmured. “No way to get there in this weather.”

You closed your eyes, burying your face in the pillow. You did it in defiance of the windburn over your nose and cheeks. In defiance of your chapped lips. Dead people couldn’t feel pain, and it was hardly the worst you’d suffered through the night.

“Your shivering’s manageable now. Think you could drink something?”

Could and should.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go tell Johnny. Stay here.”

You didn’t answer, but you swam all the way under the heavy quilts as his solid heat left you. With only your eyes peering over the blankets, you watched him – probably cold in his thin t-shirt and worn sweats – breeze across the room, quiet as his namesake. He had a lot of tattoos, a whole sleeve. You couldn’t catch all the shapes as he moved farther and farther away, but deathly themes curled like gun smoke and curses up from his wrist, towards his heart.

Once you were alone, you examined yourself under the covers. There were socks over your hands, impromptu mittens. You’d worry about any horror beneath them later. You wore a loose tee you’d seen on Johnny when he was resting up, staying comfortable as he nursed his cold. The gym shorts they’d dressed you in were bunched up where the drawstring fought to draw them into a smaller size, and the fabric would fall to your knees if you stood. Maybe farther.

They’d dressed you in a piece of each man’s wardrobe, and the embarrassed heat creeping up your neck was almost as warm as Ghost.

But you wouldn’t read between the lines. There were no lines. They’d saved your life and carefully explained their actions. It didn’t mean anything else.

They were only being neighborly.

[thistle-wrote]

Okay, could you guys imagine if the thing that finally got Ghost and soap together wasn’t some life or death situation where they’re forced to confront their feelings but rather Price's nosey, meddling wife?

F!reader X John Price and Ghost X soap

Authors note: This has been rattling around in my noggin for months.

“Hey, John?” you murmured as the two of you cleaned the mess left behind by the boys.

“Yeah, love?” John asks glancing up at you from the pile of dishes he’s working on

“You ever notice anything about Johnny and Simon?” you ask him in an almost cautious tone, these men meant more to him than he would ever care to admit.

“Yeah, drink their weight in liquor every damn time we have them over” your husband grumbled, you wonder sometimes if he’s willfully oblivious or just a man.

“No baby, like..” you thought for a moment. How exactly do you explain queer longing to your very straight husband?

“Okay like when Simon makes a joke he immediately looks at Johnny to see if he laughed. When Johnny has a question he only asks Simon. When Kyle says something stupid they look at each other like they have their language, like me and you do.” You do your best but John is all for minding his own business, he’s a pretty unproblematic guy overall, too old to care maybe.

“Lovie, mind your business, please. They’re grown men, if they have the hots for each other they can figure it out on their own.” John rolled his eyes at you and continued working. You didn’t love that, dismissing your want to gossip but it’s very John, makes you want to strangle him. You don’t bring it up again at least not for a few months, not until Kyle’s wedding, that was a very interesting trip as far as your snooping was concerned.

The moment Kyle and his beautiful wife said their ‘I do’s’ you glanced toward your husband in his fancy tan suit, remembering how that moment felt when it was the two of you standing at that altar. You can’t help the way your eyes drift from your husband to the blonde man behind him. Simon, much like you were looking at John, was looking at Johnny.

You knew from that point on you couldn’t let it go, they’re soldiers, they don’t talk about feelings, you know this, you sleep in a bed with one every night. The idea that they might miss out on potentially the greatest thing in either one of their lives because they’re either too stubborn or too stupid to realize what’s happening meant you didn’t have a choice, you had to meddle at least a little.

It started small, sitting in Johnnys seat when the group goes to a bar so he’d have to squish into the booth next to Simon, asking Johnny and Simon to watch the house while you and John were away for the weekend. Sure Kyle usually does it but he’s so busy with his new wife can’t you guys make the time? Asking Johnny, what is wrong with Simon when there is absolutely nothing wrong with him just so Johnny will have to pay more attention to figure it out.

You weren’t being malicious you were just trying to push them together, John was mostly unaware, although he occasionally gave you a look, specifically the time you asked Johnny if he thought ‘Simon’s haircut looked good’ (it did)

It eventually got a little more pushy. Not pushy in the sense that you were being mean or even trying to push them into something they didn’t want, because they want it. It’s just you knew soldiers, you knew these boys. They are dumbasses.

“Hey Simon?” you asked one Sunday afternoon. Simon had come over to watch some game with John, not unusual, although it is unusual for him to not have Johnny with him. This was your moment, John had gone to the bathroom so you wouldn’t have to hear “Stop being nosy, love!” You can just continue with your plan.

“Mm?” The quiet man asked you turning his head from the Telly to look at you. He’s not uninterested so much as he’s just quiet, you have known him for long enough to know that.

“How long have you and Johnny been dating?” You asked, you knew they weren’t dating. All part of the plan, all part of the plan.

“What?” He looked confused, you know him, maybe not as well as your husband but you know him. He can’t hide his facial expressions for anything, it’s probably best he wears a mask on the field.

“What?” You give the same facial expression as if trying to understand where his obvious confusion is coming from.

“We’re not dating, why did you think we were dating?” Simons interrogates you, it’s so rare that he says so many words you almost feel a little guilty.

“Oh, I’m sorry I just assumed.” Your tone is light, an honest mistake Simon, so sorry for the inconvenience.

“Why? Why did you assume that?” For the first time all the time you’ve known him he seems flustered.

“Oh, I just… you guys live together, always touching, talking quietly to yourselves, it’s just exactly like me and John. I just assumed dating, shouldn’t have.”

Your statement is made with kindness and a smile but one day you’ll tell him how you conned him into being in love.

“We’re not” Simon stated leaving no room for your argument. There was a long stretch of silence before he spoke again.

“Do you think he thinks we’re dating?” Well you didn’t expect that question, Johnny lacked common sense sometimes but he’s not stupid, no you did not believe he thinks they’re together.

“Yeah probably, I would.” LIES, one day you’ll have to confess to this but not today.

He left not too long after that conversation, and you kind of felt like you may have messed something up. But you shouldn’t doubt yourself, you know this, you’re like a wizard in the art of getting in other people’s business. Your self-doubt is as squashed the minute Johnnys' silly little contact photo popped onto your phone. A phone call, you answer.

“Hello?” You barely have time to start speaking before Johnny starts in. Poor guy.

“Si just texted me and said he talked to you bout somethin’ and it made him ‘realize some things’ that hell’s that about?” Rambling is funny on him, he’s always so calm and collected, now this is where you kinda hesitated, do you tell the truth or do you stir the pot? You settle on stirring the pot. For the greater good of course.

You ended up telling Johnny everything you and Simon spoke about, leaving nothing out, you simply just finished off your little story with a

“Who knows maybe it made him think hard enough he’s going to tell you how he feels.”

Johnny stays silent for a long moment on the other end of the line, mulling it over probably.

“So Si has the hots for me aye?”

You wish he could’ve seen your eye roll but you’re sure he heard your sigh.

“Just a hunch” you add maybe you could get him to make a move, he’s probably easier to work on than Simon anyway.

“Aye, good hunch, lass.” You are acutely aware that your husband still in fact doesn’t know you’re trying to convince his soldiers to break “no fraternizing” rules. But he will only be annoyed until he sees his mates so happy.

Your phone call with Johnny doesn’t last much longer. You feel like a Disney villain for a couple of minutes but then John put on his reading glasses so you kinda got a little distracted and ‘forgot’ to mention to him that you were psychologically manipulating his best friends for their good. You let fate do its thing now, you pushed enough.

Weeks maybe even months go by, and you haven’t seen the group in a bit, you and John are off in the kitchen making drinks while Kyle and his new wife make googly eyes at each other in your living room.

When Johnny and Simon finally decide to grace the group with their presence, you see it immediately, holding hands, nothing is different except for that. You and John rejoin the group at some point, talking and laughing like always, they don’t mention it, you don’t ask and neither does anyone else. But everyone knew something had changed, thank the gods.

You’re poor dumb husband looks at his two best friends after a while, once the food was mostly gone and the drinks had been flowing. He looks at them and then back to you before ducking down and whispering in your ear.

“Love? I know That’s your handiwork.” yeah NO SHIT, John. But they look so happy.

Horrifyingly years later once the whole story had been recounted they told that story at their wedding, which was, yes embarrassing but the thought that you helped bring these two beautiful souls together eased that pretty quickly.

CoD Masterlist

[vibes-are-lost]

simon "ghost" riley who's giving his little girl a piggyback ride on their way to go bother her other dad (soap) when she accidentally lets go of his shoulders and falls to the ground. he stares at her in shock as she wails and kicks her little feet, holding her head in pain and sobbing for her papa. soap runs out at the commotion and gasps, shoving past a frozen simon to pick their little girl up, comforting her and making sure she didn't hit her head too hard. simon stares at them, memories of how his father used to pick him and tommy up as kids and drop them for the fun of it, not caring how much they got hurt.

"simon, honey, what happened? did she fall?" soap asks over the wailing of their daughter.

simon breathes in a shuddering breath, "i... i dropped her..."

soaps eyes widen in understanding, looking down to their daughter who shouts through her tears, "papa! i-i slipped! i didn't mean to let go!"

soap caresses her face, bouncing her in his arms and cooing softly, "simon, it wasn't your fault. even she knows that."

ghost nods tensly, walking away with stiff steps, locking himself in the bathroom and not saying a word as soap watches sadly, having to first make sure his girl is alright and then check on his husband. he already knows it'll be a long night...

[spurbleu]

in the real world, johnny does not die quickly.

away from cold czechia concrete. a blood stain that never come out. the silences.

gaz and price seek him out. he’s on their teeth as they drive to the pub. he flatlines when the waitress addresses them with a polite smile, and corrects their request.

“do you mean…a table for two?”

he’s buried when she follows up, “or are you waiting on someone?”

but simon doesn’t have to look.

finds him in the first days of spring, when the sky is finally blue. the rags in the armory that took more blood off his hands then off a gun. in the running clothes Johnny left out on his cot before being deployed.

they were supposed to race the trail when they got home.

when simon bit the bullet and ran it alone, he saw a blue jay. laughed for the first time since johnny died.

he’d loose his shit, if he knew he and a fuckin bird had the same haircut.

[evilgwrl]

I’m obsessed with Roommate!Ghoap sorry…

Masterlist

Roommate!Ghoap who both jerked off when you sent an application to rent out a room with them, your profile picture a mirror selfie of you in a body-con dress, curves accentuated as they zoomed in

Roommate!Ghoap who welcomed you in feverishly as they offered to help you set up your room, greedy eyes lapping in your exposed flesh as you bent over to pick up boxes

Roommate!Ghoap inviting you to watch movies with them, encouraging you to sit between them both as they pressed up against you

Roommate!Ghoap experimenting with 3 way kisses with you

Roommate!Ghoap complaining about how their bills are soooo high (especially the water) and saying it would be easier if you all just showered together instead

Roommate!Ghoap taking turns eating your pussy while you sucked the other off, turning it into a competition on who could make you cum the fastest

Roommate!Ghoap coercing you slowly into double penetration before they both mercilessly pound into you, leaving their seed inside both holes before swapping over with one another

[xiixii]

🔥💥 In the war and chaos, they choose each other without hesitation. No orders—just instinct.

[subliminalghoest]

18+ Ghoap x f!reader NSFW

“Be a good girl and give him somewhere nice and warm to cum.”

Simon had been fucking Johnny whilst you rode his face, raking your fingernails through his short hair. You were almost at your second peak of the night and a slow whine left your lips at the thought of moving from your current position—a strong arm snaked around your waist and tugged you backwards as if you weighed nothing.

Once you’re seated, your gaze fixated on Soaps fucked out expression, your slick glistening on his chin. You could feel the rocking from Ghosts thrusts behind you and the resulting furrow of Soaps brow, the small gasps, the way he bit his lip to keep from crying out.

It was a confusing sensation—Soaps cock filling you to the brim, the movement from Ghost pushing him deeper and grinding your clit harder against him, the friction pushing you closer to that edge again. But watching Soaps reactions to your joint movement, looming over him as if you were the one fucking him, bringing him pleasure in a different way than usual. It held your full attention. It awoke something in you.

“Addictive isn’t it.” Ghosts deep, smooth voice in your ear broke the trance you were in and sent a shiver racing down your spine. “I think you’d like to be the one in my position—giving rather than taking for once.”

A sharp bite to your ear lobe forced a low moan from your lips. You grabbed desperately at Ghosts forearm as he moved his hand down and began playing with your clit—causing your eyes to flutter at the overwhelming sensations.

“You should see my view, Bonnie.” The words were so rough you could barely make them out. “Look so pretty taking me like such a good girl. Please. Move. I just need a little more, baby” he was practically whining now, desperately grabbing at your hips and trying to thrust up into you.

“Stop.” You felt the hard, punishing thrust from Simon and Johnnys immediate whimper that followed the act of dominance—and god did it do something to you.

Leaning back into Ghost, you tipped your head onto his shoulder as your eyelids grew heavy.

You twisted your head toward his ear and murmured, “Do that again.”

You felt Ghosts conspiratorial grin on your neck and knew you were all about to be in for a long, long night.