#ghoap of you squint

[pythonmoth]

Soap who gets captured and brainwashed so badly he only takes order from whoever messed him up, no longer recognizing the team

Ghost who calls him Johnny, nearly in tears because he thought he was dead, and gets a bullet on his thigh because nobody can call him that

Price, who tries to tackle him to the ground but Soap is not the same anymore, so he reacts immediately and nearly breaks the Captain's neck

Gaz, who really tries to talk to him, rifle aimed to Soap's chest and face contorted with pain at seeing his friend like this, and only gets hit with Soap's gun, passing out

And you, at home, unassuming, still sleeping with his pillow in your arms. grieving alone in a home filled with memories of him

[differenteagletragedy]

AU where Simon moves in across the street from you when you're a kid and then you meet Johnny a few years later (stop me if you've heard it)

The summer you turned eight, the Rileys moved into the house across the street from yours. It was an easy day to remember, partially because it was a rare occasion that anyone new moved into the small little neighborhood, but mostly because that's the day you met your best friend.

Mr. and Mrs. Riley weren't very friendly, and that never changed much, but that was ok -- you weren't all that interested in getting to know them. But you were pretty excited to get to know their little boy, Simon, who your parents had told you was around your age.

That first day, a moving truck parked on the street for hours, and you played in the front yard, watching men move in boxes and furniture and all sorts of boring things. You looked and looked, but there was no sign of the boy.

By mid-afternoon, you set off for a walk through the woods near your house, almost certain that the Riley boy wasn't real. You walked your usual path, a well-worn trek through the trees and towards the little stream, content to play by yourself like you normally did.

But this time, someone was already there.

A child you'd never seen before, so tall you weren't sure how old he was, stood by the water, looking down as it flowed over the smooth rocks you liked to play with. He turned towards you, sensing you there, and you saw his dark brown eyes look down at you, almost accusatory. As if this was his spot, not yours.

"Are you Simon?" you asked.

"Who's asking?"

You rolled your eyes -- obviously you were asking. You'd had hopes of being friends with the new kid in the neighborhood, but if he was this dumb, you might not bother trying.

"I live across the street from you," you told him. "We're neighbors."

He nodded, turning back to look at the water. There was something troubled in his eyes, you saw it even then, and it softened you to him, just a little. Enough that you stepped closer, pointing down to the creek.

"Wanna throw rocks?" you offered.

He smiled, just a little, and you saw the little dimples carved into his freckled cheeks. It was a cute smile, and you decided then that maybe he was worth the effort after all.

Five years later, when you and Simon were 13, you met Johnny.

Simon was, at this point, the most important person in your life, maybe besides your parents. Quiet but dependable, loyal to a fault -- everything you could ever want in a best friend. The two of you were inseparable, but for that summer, your duo became a trio.

Johnny didn't go to your school, he didn't even live in the same town as you and Simon. You met him by chance one day that the two of you had managed to make your way to the big mall the next town over, where the MacTavishes lived. After that, he just sort of wormed his way into the friendship.

He was, in a lot of ways, the complete opposite of Simon. Loud, outgoing, a big flirt -- something you absolutely noticed, especially on the days where Simon couldn't make it to hang out and it was just you and Johnny.

His family was warm too, a definite contrast from Simon. The Rileys only had the one child, one they didn't care for in the way they should, but the Mr. and Mrs. MacTavish, along with Johnny's three older sisters, all doted on him. And in turn, they doted on you whenever you came over.

"It's a bit embarrassing, lass, I'm sorry," he'd tell you when he finally managed to pull you into his room. "You didn't come over here to get teased by that lot, you came to spend time with me."

The smile he gave you then was cocky, much too confident for a typical 13-year-old boy, but Johnny wasn't typical, not in that way. He was too charming for his own good.

The best though, was when all three of you could spend time together, and many days that summer, you were able to do just that.

One day, you and Simon took Johnny to the woods in your neighborhood. The spot inside, down by the stream, had long since become not only your spot, but Simon's too, and you wanted to show it to your new friend. It was a big deal, even if neither of you explicitly said so.

"What, you guys come down here and wade in the creek? That's how you have fun in this town?" Johnny scoffed, but there was no bite in his voice. There never was, not with you and Simon.

Simon knelt down and picked up a stone, turning it over in his hands before trying to skip it down the stream.

"Yeah, that's how we get our rocks off."

You and Johnny groaned in unison at the pun, but Simon just smiled.

With him to one side, tall and familiar, freckles out in full force in the summer sun, and Johnny to the other, bright blue eyes bouncing around the forest, you felt a sense of happy peacefulness.

A little like you were home.

[oldrainfall]

First time drawing anything really for COD— and I’m super happy with how this came out. :] (I made this purely so I can have the boys as my pfp tbh, but shhhh.)

Photos I used for reference under the cut.

[141-jackal]

Ghost who has a daughter somewhere, he's never been allowed contact with her. The mother was a bitch, used and abused Simon. Just before the child was born, she left.

Ghost who goes out for a drink with Soap, on the kid's 18th birthday, to celebrate not having to pay child support anymore. "Never have to think about that whole shitshow ever again."

Years later, Ghost who is training some of the newbies on base. Near forgetting that night, Soap jokes how one of them kinda looks like Simon.

Ghost goes into panic, 'cause the newbies last name is the same as that bitch of a woman. Goes to Price, reads her file over and over.

It's her. How? Why the fuck was she here?

No matter. She probably doesn't know about him, knowing the mother. He can just try to forget it.

Annoyingly, this kid is more like him than he thought. Taking a liking to close combat and knives. He takes her under his wing, teaching her how to throw knives properly and all.

After a few missions, Ghost starts getting more protective of her. He doesn't even notice. Soap does, though. He teases him for it. "Only thought you'd take a bullet for me, eh, LT. But there she goes."

The kid, who after one mission going tits up, ends up in medical for a few days. Ghost and Soap go to check in on her. They get talking about why she joined. "Wanted t' get away from me mum, she weren't the nicest. 'Parently me dad is military, though, so thought why not?"

"Do you even know his name?" Soap asks.

"Simon R. I think. She didn't mention him much. Saw his name on a few bank statements before I ran away."

Soap looks between Ghost and the kid. "Ya gotta tell her, LT."

She takes it surprisingly well. Turns out it was just dumb luck that she was placed here, not any higher power attempting to fuck Ghost over.

And when they're all prepping for the next mission, Soap and Gaz joke about having a mini ghost on the team, even suggests she steals one of his old masks. And she does. Simon is annoyed at first, but he allows it.

The kid works with the team well. And, while Ghost refuses to admit how much he cares for her now, he still won't have her going on a mission without him.

[shadow0-1]

[thejohnlockedfemboy]

∇ ☉ ∇ ☉ ∇ ☉ ∇ ☉ ∇ ☉ ∇ ☉ ∇ ☉ ∇ ☉ ∇

Songbird on a Wall Pt.2

pt.1 here

[ tw for references to violence, death, and injuries, along with foul language, alcohol, and smoking ]

Captain Johnathan Price glanced up from a desk full of paperwork, cigar puffing sweet-scented smoke from between his lips, as a knock sounded at his office door.

“Come in,” he called out, only half-interested and half-awake from an all-nighter spent going over reports.

The door opened, and Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Roach shuffled into the office. Price frowned as he saw the serious looks on their faces. He gave a brief nod, his gaze focusing on Ghost. “Lieutenant. What seems to be the issue? Ain’t often I see your mugs so grim.”

Soap, however, was the one who stepped up, cutting off Ghost just as the larger man opened his mouth to speak. “Why was Mander assigned here wi’ us?” the Scotsman asked, never having been one to pussyfoot around a question.

Price paused, blinked, and took the cigar from his mouth. “Where’s this coming from? Somethin’ happened that I don’t know about?” “Scanner bought himself a guitar,” said Roach.

Price raised one bushy eyebrow. “Aye, so? A man’s entitled to buy hisself whatever he wants with his own pay.”

“He’s been singing,” added Gaz, as if that made it all make sense.

Price sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was getting increasingly irritated. “And his singing is bothering you lot, is that it?”

Soap shook his head. “No, sir. Just what he’s been singing about.”

“Is he singing something obscene?” questioned Price, to which there was a round of head shakes. The Captain’s eye twitched. “Then just what are you in my office complaining about?” Roach hesitantly spoke up. “We heard him singing this sort of… dirge. About his team being dead. Almost like a funeral song, or something.”

Price exhaled slowly. He’d known that this day was goin to come eventually, but he’d hoped that Scanner might have told the team about his past voluntarily. However, it was now clear that this would not be the case. “And I suppose you want to know the story,” he said lowly, his voice vaguely disgruntled.

“Only fair, sir,” replied Ghost gruffly. “If there’s somethin’ in his past that could interfere with the mission, we need to be notified about it.”

“Not everything is about the mission, Ghost.” Price snuffed out his cigar in the ashtray and leaned back with a groan, his joints cracking and popping from their prolonged sedentary position. “Not this, at least. But, aye, if you’ll sit your arses down, I’ll brief you on the situation.”

Gaz and Soap quickly claimed the two chairs in front of the desk. Roach sat cross-legged on the floor, which was his usual position even when there were seats available. Ghost stayed standing, as always, his huge hand planted on Soap’s shoulder as if in ownership.

Price poured himself a few fingers of whiskey despite the early hour, then polished off the drink in one long swallow. He set the glass aside and steepled his fingers. “Mander’s history ain’t pretty, lads. You sure you want to know?” The men all nodded.

Price nodded slowly. “Alright, then. You lot stay quiet until I’m done, then you can ask your questions. Sound good?” “Yes, sir.”

Taking a moment to collect himself, Price exhaled. “You all know that Mander was with the Ranger’s. He enlisted when he was eighteen. His home life… wasn’t ideal. But that’s another story for another day.

“After basic training, Mander was stationed in Afghanistan for a year and a half as regular infantry and then transferred into the Ranger’s Regiment and shipped off to the Czech Republic. “He served at a covert operations base there for four years until his team and several other units were called up by the brass as reinforcements for a coup in an undisclosed location. That information is restricted even for me.”

The men frowned at this. Classified information was always an annoyance, especially in briefings.

“Now, I don’t know all the details,” Price continued, “but the mission went south. A lot of good soldiers were killed like dogs by superior hostile forces. Mander, as his team’s on-field surveillance specialist, went into the situation first to recon the area. That alone is what saved him. His team was ambushed from behind in a pincer movement and cut off from the other units. Seven men and two women, slaughtered before they could even blink. Mander’s Captain survived the initial attack and managed to radio Mander and give him orders to stay put and wait for an extraction team.”

“Stay put?” Soap crowed in disbelief. “In a hot warzone? That’s utter shite. Scanner should hae been allowed to fight back an’ die with his team. S’only the done thing.”

Price silenced the Scotsman with a severe glare. “Shut your mouth, MacTavish. There’s never any use to throw away the life of a perfectly capable operative. The first rule of military life is to live to fight another day, you understand that?”

Soap cowered down in his seat, looking chastised. “Aye, sir.”

Price gave a grunt of approval. “Good. Now, as I was sayin’. Mander’s orders were to wait and avoid capture. Mander…” Price sighed. “Mander’s radio was still on when the enemy found his Captain. Mander heard his last moments.” “Jesus,” Roach murmured. “That’s messed-up.”

Price nodded. “It is. And it messed Mander up, too. He was forced to wait four days without supplies for an extraction team, but he refused to leave without the dog tags of his teammates. The extraction team wouldn’t go with him; they had their orders. It complicated things when Mander realized they were all of equal or lesser rank than he was. "Technically, he couldn’t give the team leader orders and orders couldn’t be given to him unless relayed directly from a superior officer. So Mander went rogue. "He got his hands on an assault rifle and some grenades and rained hellfire down on the enemy encampment. Took multiple bullets in the process and suffered second-and-third degree burns on his hands, but the crazy bastard did what he went there to do and killed every single hostile soldier in the camp, then raided the corpses of his teammates for their dog tags and double-timed it back to the extraction team. "He was medevac’d and awarded a Purple Heart and a handful of other medals for successfully retrieving the tags and taking out the enemy forces. Afterwards, he spent a few weeks in the hospital recovering and completed both physical therapy and a psych eval. I recruited him into the 141. The man needed stability and he’s gotten it here.”

“Our lives are hardly stable,” snorted Ghost. “We’re in the bleedin’ SAS.”

Price gave a low chuckle despite the gravity of what he had just revealed to his team. “Aye, that may be true, but it’s done wonders for Mander. He was… skittish, to say the least, when I first met him. His PTSD was getting the better of him and the brass were already drawing up honorable discharge papers. But I pulled a few strings and called in a few favors, and now we have the surveillance specialist we need.”

Soap ran a hand through his scruffy mohawk. “Bloomin’ ‘ell. That’s a lot to take in, innit? The poor bloke lost ev’rybody that meant anythin’ to him.” “Loss is just a part of life,” Price reminded the Scotsman, though his tone was not unkind. “Now, this should be obvious, but I never know with you boys: none of this information leaves this room. Understood?” “Understood,” parroted the four men.

Roach raised a tentative hand. “Permission to ask a question, sir?” “Permission granted.” Roach hesitated. “Where was Scanner shot?” Price paused, thinking for a moment. “He took more than a handful of bullets. I believe one was to his shoulder, two or three to his stomach, and one to the chest. Why do you ask?” The team gave a collective “Ohhhh,” as if this resolved some great mystery for them. Price cocked an eyebrow in silent question.

“His right shoulder,” Gaz explained. “One of the old bullet wounds must flare up. He’s constantly rolling it. I thought it was just a nervous tic, or something.” “He applies heating packs to it all the time,” Roach notified. “And massages the joint like it’s bothering him. He never goes to medical, though.”

Ghost gave a quiet rumble, like a discontented mastiff. “Buggering fool. What’s he gonna do if his shoulder flares up while we’re on a mission, eh?” “Sod off, Lt,” Soap chided him, swatting the Lieutenant on the arm. “Show some compassion, y’spook.” Ghost stared down at the Sergeant with his usual deadpan countenance. “Caring idn’t an advantage, Johnny. Y’should know that by now.” Soap appeared genuinely hurt by that statement. He lowered his gaze.

Gaz shot Ghost a disapproving side-glance. Roach raised a hand to rest gently on Soap’s thigh in a silent gesture of comfort. Ghost huffs. “Sentimental idjits.” “Ghost,” Price warns. “You either speak respectfully or you don’t speak at all. Somehow I think you’ll choose the latter.”

He then turned his keen gaze to Soap, Gaz, and Roach. “You three, remember what I said. Not a word about this to anybody.” “What about Paul– er, Scanner?” asked Roach. “He knows we heard him singing.”

Price lit up a fresh cigar and took a long drag. “Don’t approach him. You know how he is; you’ll scare him off and have him runnin’ like a fox flushed by the hunt. Let him come to you in his own time.” “And if he doesn’t?” Soap interjects, his blue eyes creased in concern.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Price decided, scratching at his short-cropped beard. “For now… just skirt the subject. Act like you usually do around him. Mander isn’t some porcelain doll to be coddled. He’s a soldier, just like us.”

The Captain stopped to glance at the clock on the wall. “S’almost breakfast time, lads. Best go get your victuals. We’ve got a hard hike today. Seventeen miles, full kit and combat gear.”

The men gave a collective groan, except for Ghost. He gave a gutteral noise of something that was as close to excitement as the hefty Lieutenant ever voiced. It was the equivalent of the average fellow jumping up and down and whooping.

Price nodded towards the door. “Go on. Mander will be waiting for you in the mess hall, I’m sure. Dismissed.”

pt.3 here

[pickyourpoisonandevolve]

Thanksgiving Drabble w/ the 141 + Black Reader

Notes/warnings: just a fluff piece from me. I don’t know how to do drabbles/imagines but I SURE DO enjoy reading them and I have a brain baby to birth. Idk if this is TOO specific for a drabble but reader is black/female/american. Because those things aren’t often represented in these! And also I can do what I want at the end of the day. Just… just walk with me here.

—

The military is an easy place to forget that your squadmates are real actual people with families and backgrounds, on account of the inherent assimilation. Not that it wasn’t needed, but you get so busy creating your own language and communication styles that I think being able to express cultural habits and likes get a little seldom.

All that to say, you and Gaz LOVE to cook together, as it makes you nostalgic for your respective families. And you’ll be damned if these Brits make you skip Thanksgiving. The rest met your enthusiasm with “fucking Americans” but Gaz thankfully was more than happy to join you in the prep, you both bonding in hatred for the same old shit from the base kitchen. But most of the base is gone so you lot have the kitchen and common room to yourself, and that means you and Gaz are making a FEAST.

Pulling greens, the dishes that take 6-8 hours to make, the shit talking, the hyper specific recipes that you bicker about, the music played. You both are IN IT, and Johnny, Simon and Price didn’t have anywhere else to be, and are more than happy to eat what you make. (As they aren’t the most talented cooks of the bunch) Sausage rolls and chip buttys a Thanksgiving does not make.

It tickles the other three to walk by occasionally, listening to you to just… talk. And vibe. About old experiences, moving in tandem, bitching occcasionally. It had a spooky parallel to how you all worked in the field, seamlessly in sync, but the juxtaposition of it being wholesome. You all got to live in a temporary bubble of normalcy and domesticism. Like a big weird family, you could forget you all killed people for a living.

Price had shit to do, so he did flybys through the day, but they increased in frequency as it went on, his smile growing each time. His little grinch heart growing, seeing his team get along. You tossed cookies at him, hoping to get a rise out of him, but all you were met with was a “thanks, love” and a wink. You made a mental note to do that at a frequency of everyday forever.

Soap didn’t want to miss anything (or feel left out) so he kept to his favorite things: “watching TV” aka TikToks and passively watching a show, interjecting in conversations and stealing food when no one was looking. (Everyone was looking and he was slapped and yelled at A LOT)

Ghost was just unfamiliar with this intimate of camaraderie. He stopped in occasionally for tea, which Gaz and you started making for him. You could see his little eye crinkles as you prepared his tea just like he liked it.

Gaz and you started singing together as you plated the meal on the kitchen island. The rest of the team was holding a flight pattern in the common area, pulled in like the smell lines in an old timey cartoon, scotch already prepped and poured. But there was a moment where you two got swept up in your comfortability, and started singing in earnest. (This song in particular) You two didn’t make it a habit of getting too relaxed in front of the others, big tough soldiers and all, so this was a rare, near nonexistent sight.

Better days comin' for sure

If this world were—

If it was up to me

I wouldn't give these nobodies no sympathy

I'd take away the pain, I'd give you everything

I just wanna see you win, wanna see

If this world were mine

The three on the couch looked back with open mouths and smiles as you carried on. Literal years you all have worked together, how did they not know you two sang, and HARMONIZED? Did you practice?

You noticed first, brought back to reality and almost dropping a dish. Scandalized! Embarassed! Blushing furiously! Gaz thankfully was impervious to their bullshit, and told them to fuck off and come eat. Typical soldiers, couldn’t sit down proper for anything, food included, so you all settled into conversation and a full meal standing around the island. Enjoying the bubble, enjoying the peace, enjoying the moment.

Johnny, Price and Simon graciously offered to do dishes and clean. (Leftovers for days!) And after a while, you all dispersed. Soap stole a half of a pie and was inbound on falling asleep with his pants unbuttoned on the couch. Ghost was tactically figuring out how to look aloof and fall asleep on Soaps shoulder. Gaz had family (and a lady, you suspected) to FaceTime and Price hung behind you on the way to the barracks. Before you made your good nights, he offered to share a new bottle of bourbon his Nan sent in his room. Super casual. No pressure. Maybe he could hear your pretty voice sing just for him this time.

(This Drabble is sponsored by holidays, KDots new album, and an excuse to flirt with Price. Happy Thanksgiving, Americans are all on native land, and fuck Columbus)

[karlachismylife]

Johnny's dead on the ground.

Correction: Johnny's dying on the ground. Time warps and stretches out, his last seconds dragging for ages long enough for galaxies to be born and die in blindingly white sparkles before his wide open eyes. His limbs grow cold and stiff, akin to pork legs hanging down in smelly rows inside a butcher's freezer - meat that went through a slaughterhouse, his temple stil throbbing after a bolt gun aimed at the fine cattle.

Slaughtered in a blink of an eye, no higher aim or meaning. Simple as that, just a young lamb down.

It burns, this spot, fevereshly hot, something steamy and moist leaking down his cheek and jawline. Feels like a branding iron stuck to his skin, warmth spreading around it through otherwise cooling off body. White pain so bad that hot and cold start to mix up, creating a stagnant, sickly burial shroud of warmth around him - it hovers, but doesn't touch him.

Leaves him without his last consolation.

His chest is compressed, barely able to move for another wheezing breath. A considerable weight pressing down on him, preventing from filling his lungs properly for what may be his last time - steel hoops stacked flush to each other tighten around his ribs. The fire that was burning through his temple finally eats through his flesh to his eyes.

His lashes flutter and he loses sight, stinging white finally replaced with a comfortable black.

Johnny's dead on the ground.

The weight on top of him shifts, relieving some of itself from his chest, and a blow of cool air hits the damp side of his face that was branded by that scorching heat, immediately making his skin prickle. Uncomfortable, Soap scrunches his nose and unwillingly opens his eyes.

There are two yellow feline eyes staring right back at him in front of his mug, and the moment they spot him move, a Cheshire cat smile spreads on the handsome face above, sharp fangs flashing. Something whips at his freezing knee.

"Hey, soldier," coos Karlach in a hushed tone, brushing the tip of her nose along his. "Got ya, eh? You're dead."

"Aye. KIA, bonnie. Ye'll havtae tell mah Mam."

With a sigh, now that the whole mass of a beefy tiefling isn't crushing his ribs, Soap wipes the temple she kissed and left the wetness of her breath on, and drops his wide spread arms in a dramatic gesture - or preparation to make a snow angel. The legs will probably be all fucked up after he got ambushed by Karlach and tumbled into the thick winter crystal blanket with her in a wrestling embrace.

"You'll tell her yourself. Come on, get up, it's your turn!" Karlach snorts, wrinkling her nose in an adorable snicker, and Johnny blinks at her as she rises to her feet with a grunt. There are rogue snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes, and they fracture the light in a way that creates a holy rainbow halo around her devilish horns.

"Hm... nae, Ah'm comfy 'ere." He grins and immediately gets rammed into his side, rolling over with a pained "oomf!" - the push Karlach gives him is softened by the thick winter attire, so Johnny needs to play up the ache. "Och! Did na yin teach ye nae tae kick who's already doon?"

"Get yer arse up, Johnny. Don't want ya freezing yer bollocks off, eh? Gonna need 'em later." Snow seems to forget it's crunchy and squeaky under heavy boots when it's Ghost walking up to them. Before Simon can scruff him, Johnny's already up and shaking wet white chunks off his ass with a huge grin plastered on his face.

"I'm not waiting for you, mate. You're it!" - is all they hear before Karlach turns into a bright red smudge on a snowy slope, her heavy footsteps sinking into the pliant cover on the ground.

"Well?" Simon raises an eyebrow and nods in the direction of the fleeing tiefling. "Your bird's flyin' away."

Good thing he's almost finished with his ciggy, because in the glossy blue eyes Johnny squints against the reflective brightness of the snow reads clear as day - Ghost is getting tagged next.

[snow--berry]

Roommate AU #1

Characters: John Price, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, John “Soap” MacTavish, Simon “Ghost” Riley, Gary “Roach” Sanderson

Context: For convenience reasons and future things I have planned, you‘ll be sharing this really big house with all of the characters I‘ll write these headcanons for. Why are you sharing this house? Just because I can. I’ll find a better reason later. This also includes Alejandro, Rudy, Graves, König and Horangi. This is kinda like a peaceful AU, where they don‘t work military jobs. This can be read as platonic or romantic, I don‘t really care.

John Price

•He‘s the peace keeper in the household along with Rudy.

•He can‘t go without tea in the morning and it‘s the first thing he does. If you drink tea and are awake just as early, he‘ll also make you a cup.

•Price is only half-awake in the morning, so he‘ll accidentally say yes to the stupidest things, because he isn‘t really paying attention.

•Maybe he could work as a police officer? I'm not sure if I can see him do anything else. Suggestions are greatly appreciated lol.

•I feel like he’d play chess. Or just like. Strategy games altogether. With anyone who’s willing to join :D

•But mainly with Ghost and Alejandro. And König if he’d have the balls to approach Price.

•If you decide to play with him and know the rules of whatever game you’re playing already, it’s no mercy mode.

•If you don’t, or are still learning, he’ll go easy on you.

•He usually can be found in the living room, kitchen or backyard.

•He isn’t home for most of the day, due to his job, but he enjoys having dinner with whoever is available. He obviously favours Gaz and we all know it. That his adopted son after all—

•Also, because he’s an old man, he goes on long walks for no reason

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

•He’s somewhere in between troublemaker and just kinda chills

•I know this sounds very contradictory, but hear me out.

•He doesn’t get in trouble often, but when he does he’s either having a mischievous day, he’s purposely messing with Price, his dad or the most common option; he’s being dragged along by Soap and Roach.

•Even if he’s being dragged along, he just films whatever bs Roach and Soap are up to though. They need a camera man!

•In the morning he also makes himself a cup of tea, but he’s awake later than Price is. Usually when breakfast is ready already

•He’s a little groggy and sometimes grumpy in the morning. (Soap advice to you when you join the household is to not talk to Gaz before he’s had his breakfast and tea!)

•I can see Gaz spending hours in the bathroom in the morning and he ends up pissing everyone off, especially because Horangi, Alejandro and Soap also take ages in the bathroom

•I’m not sure what he’d work as, but maybe a professional gymnast? Is that what they’re called? Help—

•Or maybe a daycare attendant?

•I think he’d like cooking, so he usually makes dinner and lunch for everyone

•He has two lists; one with everyone’s allergies, likes and dislikes, and one with the meals he makes for dinner for the week

•Sometimes he’s away for a week or two at a time because of tournaments he attends

•He doesn’t mind sharing a bed if you have nightmares, or just enjoy close physical contact altogether. Especially during movies!

John “Soap” MacTavish

•Chaos Gremlin #2

•Usually is the one to drag Gaz along

•His shenanigans usually involve but aren’t limited to: drawing on sleeping people, mixing up salt and sugar, turning off the light in a room where people are, climbing on random shit, hiding people’s stuff & so much more These are all Roach’s idea btw, but you didn’t hear it from me—

•Will happily involve you in his shenanigans as well, you usually don’t have a say lol

•Drinks coffee in the morning, hot chocolate if he’s feeling silly

•He’s upset when people come after him for taking ages in the bathroom, he needs to style his mohawk properly!

•Constantly misplaces his ADHD meds, they mysteriously reappear on his pillow sooner or later

•He has this joking conspiracy, that there is a shadow man cryptid thing or a guardian angel giving him back his meds because no one in the house admits to placing his meds onto his pillow

•Works as either a football coach, PE teacher or freelance artist

•Still has a sketch book full of sketches and full-blown artworks of all kinds of stuff

•Has sketched/drawn every household member at least twice

•Also doesn’t mind physical affection, especially not since he’s pretty touchy himself

•Also definitely mixes different shampoos together lol

Simon “Ghost” Riley

•Is always, and I repeat always the first one awake

•Also drinks tea first thing he wakes up

•Sometimes at ridiculous hours, like, no one needs tea at 2:53 AM! He disagrees

•Knows of Soap’s and Roach’s shenanigans, only watches them… usually, there are times where he does stop them

•You’ll rarely see him around when you first join the household, he doesn’t quite trust you yet He also doesn’t like change. ‘Tism who? He don’t know her—

•The more he gets used to you, the more you’ll see him around

•He likes to tell you his jokes if you happen to be awake around the same time as him, it’s a bonding experience!

•He works as a dog sitter or a bodyguard. There is no in between. I do heavily lean towards dog sitter though

•Don’t touch him

•Unless he explicitly tells you it’s okay, that is

•Accidentally gives the worst side-eyes in history

•He is the shadow man cryptid/guardian ‘angel’

Gary “Roach” Sanderson

•Chaos Gremlin #1

•No one out-gremlins him

•Don’t even try, you will fail

•I was thinking Party Planner, but my friend came up with Entomologist

•So, he’ll do party planning as a hobby because I can’t let go of that headcanon.

•90% of the parties he plans are insect themed birthday parties

•He also has a few pet bugs and Rudy hates all of them

•Also, all of the shenanigan ideas are his

•Usually can be found in trees in the backyard or in a random bush somewhere in the neighborhood

•If you don’t speak BSL or ASL, he’ll start carrying a notebook and a pen around for you

•Randomly stands in a corner of your room at night and T-poses because he thinks it’s hilarious

•He’s like an outdoor cat, he sometimes isn’t home for a few days but he always comes back home at some point

•Roach is also sometimes outside all day long and only comes back for dinner

[hawkeykirsah]

"love", for the guessing game :3

Thank you for playing, Anon! The word "love" or one of its variations actually comes up several times in several wips.

Ghoap Teashop AU

“Johnny woulda loved it,” Simon replied just as quietly, “and I think I do, too. It’s almost exactly what we talked about.”

and

Gaz rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable. I have no idea how Tav put up with you sometimes.” “He loved me,” Simon replied, knowing it was true. He’d known before Johnny was taken from him and now he knew that he continued to love him from beyond the grave, apparently.

Mass Effect x Call of Duty crossover

That evening they all found themselves in the backroom of a local pub for some so-called team-bonding. It turned out Shepard had worked with Laswell before, which wasn’t all that surprising, really. She also held no love for General Shepherd which also explained why Laswell suggested they work together with her.

and

“It was a grade-A shitshow,” she explained, looking into the round, a blank expression on her face. It reminded Johnny of Simon’s expression, sometimes—carefully guarded. “That's all anyone needs to know. And stop stealing my food, Alenko.” “All’s fair in love and war.” “Fuck you.” “Maybe when we’re home again.”  She licked some crumbs off her finger and pointed it at him. “I’m taking you up on that, mister.”

Haunted Normandy

“If you’re looking for the oil rag,” Kaidan pointed out, “it’s probably in the drawer where it belongs considering Ash was in here earlier. Unless our spook moved it.” “Nobody loves a smartarse, Lieutenant,” Shepard grumbled, opening the drawer and pulling out said rag, the smile on her face belying her words.

Codywan Alphas Act Like Bower Birds Home Decor AU

“You could have been killed,” Obi-Wan pointed out. “Yes,” she admitted quietly, “there is that. I am very glad to be alive, thanks to you once again, my dear, and your Commander.” There was a pause. “He’s in love with you, you know,” Cody heard her say in a low voice, “I can smell it.”

and

“You love him,” Satine said, breaking the following silence. “I do,” Cody replied, turning his head to face her. “So do you.”

Work-in-Progress Guessing Game

[goatgoesmbe]

angst, no comfort, everyone involved in this fic got hurt including the author

inspired from: this song, (english) + this old indonesian song (from reader's perspective) (english)

tw : Dead dove: do not eat, infidelity, depression, mention of abuse, mention of PTSD, implied suicidal thoughts, self-harm, dark theme, heavy ass shit, toxic relationship, one-sided hatred, one-sided love, self-loathing, major character death, violence, mention of blood, probably inaccurate medical scene, implied past-Ghoap, post-Soap's death

last warning : it started bad and it got worse before everything burned in flames

Thanks to @ahobaka-trash & @herdarkangel for beta-reading :3

word count : 9187

rated : E

You can't fix him

Ghost x f!Reader

AO3

The sun was shining brightly in the sky, specks of white decorated light blue. Everything was too bright, too colorful, that he needed to squint his eyes and pull his hoodie to cover his face more. He hadn’t worn his mask for a while now, not since he was discharged. He just couldn’t be bothered to anymore, not finding any use for it when he didn’t need to separate himself between two lives.

But he regretted not wearing any now.

Despite the warm temperature, he was dressed in all black, with his jacket zipped up all the way. His appearance was a contrast to the pretty thing holding onto his forearm. You were skipping beside him, smiling cheerfully as you cooed at babies and greeted every dog passing by.

He made a mistake by glancing at you, to which you responded with a bright smile that made him grit his teeth.

“Don’t be so grumpy, Simon. We’re almost there” You said to him in such a sweet voice that sent a shiver down his spine- not the pleasant kind.

This was not a scenario Simon thought he would ever be in.

It all started when he first met you. His neighbor who wouldn’t leave him alone ever since he moved into the flat beside yours. He didn’t know how you even had the courage to approach him, he knew he was huge and imposing, intimidating everyone in and out of field. He was not charming in any way like you were, he was broody, even more so now that he was medically discharged from the military.

He got his heart punctured in a fight—a near-fatal wound. He was rushed to a field hospital, then airlifted back home, where surgeons fought to keep him alive. Hours of open-heart surgery. Internal bleeding. A cardiac patch to repair the damage. But somehow, he survived.

“Your heart took too much damage. Even with the surgical repairs, any extreme exertion could worsen the scar tissue, cause arrhythmia, or lead to heart failure. If you push too hard… you’ll need a transplant.” He remembered a doctor explaining  it to him.

The very last thing he liked about himself, his strength, was now useless since he couldn’t get his hands dirty. He was angry, but he knew there was nothing he could do, couldn’t argue with Price to at least get him to have Johnny’s revenge and kill Makarov.

You kept pestering him. Starting with knocking on his door to offer him some baked goods, approaching him for small talk even though the most he would respond with was  an annoyed grunt.

It was very obvious that you had a not-so-little crush on him. And he tried to make it obvious that he wasn’t interested, that you were better off trying to charm some better bloke out there that wasn’t full of emotional baggage.

But he was starting to learn that you were a stubborn little thing, and it started to get on his nerves.

And so, that’s how he got here. Letting you drag him to some cozy cafe in the city, you looked so pretty in your flowy sundress and white wedges. He hated it.

You clearly made an extra effort to look pretty for this date. For him.

While he couldn’t even be bothered to shower.

He only agreed to this date so you would see how uninteresting he was, so you would finally leave him alone for the better. 

“So.. we talked a lot before.. but you rarely talked about yourself” You said to him after you both were sat at a table by the window. He had to hold back the urge to roll his eyes at that, because no- we didn’t talk a lot, you did, while he just endured listening to you.

“Why should I talk about myself..” He responded while looking down at his tea, stirring it so he had something to do with his hands to make this whole thing less awkward.

You giggled at that, and while he was used to you being such a sweetheart all the time, it still irked him. “Well.. this is a date.. so, that’s kind of the thing you have to do..” You replied.

“Only if you’re comfortable of course..!” You quickly added when he looked at you with his soulless eyes.

He grunted in response. Like he always did in every interaction with you.

“Well.. let me go first then” You uttered before rambling about yourself like he hadn't  heard it  all before already. You worked as a vet and often volunteered at various local shelters, you liked baking and always shared some with the others, especially him even though he still had quite a few stuffed at the back of his cupboard, uneaten.

Now, Simon knew he had been really cruel with you, especially with how you’ve been nothing but nice. But he couldn’t help it, he didn’t know why but the way you looked at him like he mattered,when he thought the total opposite, just rubbed him the wrong way. 

You clearly fell hard for him for some reason, but he didn’t feel the same way. And he was not a total asshole, he made it very clear with his words and action toward you. “I’m not interested,” He said curtly when you asked him for a coffee yesterday. “..Please? Just this once, then I’ll leave you alone..” You responded. So he only agreed because he hoped you’d keep your word and leave him alone after.

But he couldn’t say that he hated you either. It’s what you do that pissed him off. He was not used to being treated this way, receiving this much affection, when he didn’t deserve it. He felt like a feral animal being forced to wear some cozy sweater. Made his skin itch, Irritating, left him wanting to tear it all at the seams.

It was him that he hated, not you. He shouldn’t be receiving this kind of attention for being the person he was.

“So.. that was all about me, your turn,” your voice snapped him out of his head.

“..Fine, what do you want to know?” He responded,  then took a sip of his tea that tasted horrible on his tongue. But he gulped it down anyway.

“Um.. what do you do for work? I don’t think I’ve seen you out much..” You asked with a tilt of your head.

“Was in the military.” Simon’s answer left out as many details as possible, telling you it’s classified when you asked questions about it. 

He still had a lot of savings to survive living without working for a while. Until he got himself sorted out at least.

A soft giggle left  your lips at his secrecy. “Well.. alright, how about things you do in your free time?” you asked in a gentle tone, being so patient with him as always.

“Nothing much” He answered as he looked anywhere but at you who tried to blind him with your sunshine. He wasn’t lying, he spent most days distracting himself from his thoughts by working out, and when he wasn’t, he was content staying in his flat to zone out at anything playing on tv, at full volume to drown out the voices in his fucked up head. He was sure you could hear him from your place whenever he did that, but you never complained so he wasn’t really sure.

You didn’t respond for a few seconds, which was odd because you were usually so quick to fill the silence with anything you could think of. It was as if you were being more careful with him now in hopes that he would open up to you more eventually.

Stupid thought.

“I noticed you work out a lot, ” you then said with a cheeky smile as you eyed his biceps that were still obvious under his thick hoodie. “Once I saw you went on a run at 2 am,” you added.

He grunted again.

Yeah, he did that sometimes.. woke up in the early hours from nightmares, then tried to tire himself out by running. At least until his body deemed it enough, he didn't want  to put a strain on his heart like the doctor had said.

And when he couldn’t bring himself to go outside, he’d just stare at the wall while unconsciously picking on the stitches from some of the wounds he got from the last deployment. Finding comfort in the sting that distracted him from the heavy weight in his chest. Sometimes it caused him to bleed slightly, but it’s not like he couldn’t stitch it up again  himself. If anything, the pain he felt when doing so  grounded him.

But he couldn’t say that.

“Last time I did so much of a workout was when I got chased by a dog, ” you joked and laughed at yourself. Simon gave no reaction, he was staring at you in the eyes but it was obvious his mind was elsewhere.

You fidgeted in your seat at his lack of response and put on a smile. “So.. if you need a workout buddy, I don’t mind being one.. been wanting to start exercising regularly anyway” You then said shyly, looking up at him with those damn doe eyes.

Simon shrugged. “You wouldn’t be able to keep up”.

Wrong answer.

Because instead of taking it as a rejection, you took it as a challenge.

And you totally broke your promise to leave him alone after this date.

His time of solitude was filled with your sweet voice and giggles.

“Hey, why don’t we rest a bit..” You suggested the first time you invited yourself to his early morning run, panting and sweating already even though it had only been a short while.

He rolled his eyes and kept running at his pace. “Told you, you wouldn’t be able to keep up, ” he responded without looking at you, keeping his gaze forward.

Expecting you to give up and leave him alone, he was surprised when you instead started sprinting, laughing at the way his eyes widened. “Race you..!” you yelled over your shoulder.

Your footsteps kept getting farther and farther, and he could feel himself relaxing again. Finally some peace and quiet.

Simon didn’t bother to race you, content with being with himself along with the feeling weighing him down in his chest. From the damage he got on his heart, or something else, he wasn’t sure.

And as he continued with his run, he caught up with you eventually,  sitting on a bench.

“I won! ” You teased  him with a grin.

Simon didn’t respond, didn’t say that he wasn’t even interested in participating in the stupid race.

You didn’t take the hint of him wanting to be left alone, like  usual . And so, Simon had to endure with your yapping the whole way back to the flat.

“That was fun, Simon. I’ll join you again sometime, yeah?” You headed inside your own flat without waiting for his response since you were used to it by now. And for the first time, Simon appreciated your act of kindness.

It was not surprising when you kept tagging along with his morning run despite him being obviously bothered by it. He was pissed at first, but then your presence became familiar to him, so much so that he found himself looking for you when you didn’t show up.

He quickly shook his head. Damn, you were starting to invade his mind.

Grumbling under his breath, he dumped the thought of you before resuming his run.

Without your cavity-inducing voice to accompany him, he found himself lost in thoughts. Drowning in the cacophony of noises in his head: his dad’s yelling, his mum’s cries, the sound of gunshot to Johnny’s head.

“I said, I already have a boyfriend!” Out of nowhere, your voice snapped him out of his head. Just then, his eyes locked with yours.

“See?  That's him!” You looked relieved and immediately left the guy who had been bothering you to stand by Simon’s side. With a simple stare from him, the guy immediately tensed before hurriedly walking  away. He didn’t mean to intimidate him or help you, but you thanked him anyway.

Boyfriend. Him.

He didn’t think much of it, no. It was obvious that you only said it at the time so the guy would leave you alone.

That was until he heard you telling everyone else that. He overheard you talking to some neighbors who were curious about him, the brooding loner who lived beside you. He didn’t know why he stood back  and refused to  say anything when you told them you’ve been dating him. Maybe it didn’t matter to him what you or everyone else thought , or maybe he didn’t mind the thought of it. The former was more likely.

He thought about it  when he was back at his flat. Since when did you start thinking that?  Was it since  that so-called first date? He probably should say something about it. Not probably — definitely.

But then he remembered how fucking stubborn you were. How you kept pestering him even though he clearly ignored you, how you managed to convince him to go on a date with you, your uninvited presence during his morning run, the insistent knocking on his door whenever you wanted to share your baking with him.

He could already feel his head pounding at the thought of your reaction if he were to make it  clear to  you. Initiating a break-up already felt like a chore, especially with someone like you. His life already felt like hell ever since he was discharged, he really didn’t need another shit on his plate, and didn’t want to start any drama.

Alright, he’d play along for now. Your silly little fantasy would eventually pop after you saw what a burden he truly was.

…

“I can tell you never had anyone over, huh? Well, I feel honored..” You beamed when he invited you over. Big eyes sparkling as you took in the mess that is his apartment, piles of laundry he didn’t bother to fold after getting them out of the dryer, some leftover takeout on the coffee table swarmed by a trail of ants, dust particles in the air, the stench of it all.

“Go sit wherever.” His voice rumbled before he went to the kitchen and prepared the only thing he could even be bothered with: instant noodles.

When he got back from the kitchen, he found that you had tidied up a bit, windows opened for some fresh air, and you somehow found some trash bag  to put some of the mess in, which was now gathered in the corner. “I hope you don’t mind me touching your stuff..” You said with an apologetic smile.

“‘S fine” He responded. It was not fine, he didn’t like having other people in his private space, and now you had made it worse by messing up his familiar surroundings. But he didn’t feel like arguing.

He sat on the couch and ate in silence, didn’t even bother to hand you your plate, instead  letting you get to it yourself.

“Is this what you eat every day?” You asked when he felt your presence beside him. The tone indicated that you were genuinely curious and not judging. You probably noticed the trash in the kitchen was filled with instant noodles packages when you were retrieving your food.

He answered with a hum.

“Well.. you know, I like to cook so I don’t mind doing it for you too..” He heard you say and grunted in response.

But of course, you took it as an invitation to invade his personal space even more.

Simon’s previous plan of getting you to turn your nose up at him backfired. Now you didn’t only come over from time to time to give him cookies, but twice a day to feed him proper food.

And you didn’t stop there, no. Because when he opened the door to receive whatever it was that you  were giving him,as always, you had now begun inviting  yourself inside to eat with him, telling him about your day without him having to ask as he tried to not show how much he enjoyed the food. But you seemed to pick it up with how you started bringing larger portions, packing up the leftovers to fill his empty fridge.

You also turned his dump of an apartment livable. No more trash scattered around, his clothes are contained in his wardrobe, smelling of flowery laundry conditioner rather than the musty smell he was used to, the layer of dust on his furniture is  gone, and the nasty stench that used to linger in his apartment has been replaced with sweet lavender.

He didn’t like it at first, not a fan of his world being flipped upside down. To some people, the state he was in was miserable, sure. But it was comforting in a way because that was his personal sanctuary isolated from everyone, he was used to the darkness consuming him that he recoiled at the blinding light that was you.

Now however, he had just accepted his fate. His previous expectation of finally having you leave him alone once you see how miserable he was had  failed. Does it frustrate him? It probably should, but he was used to how stubborn you were by now.

You took his lack of response as acceptance. But is it? Not  really.

Being around you still made him feel on edge since everyone would see how much of a sweetheart you are, which automatically meant he was an  asshole. He pushed your hand away every time you tried to touch him because even just the thought of it made him want to flay himself alive.

Why do you even like him? Do you really like him? Or do you have this hero complex and saw him like one of those poor animals you rescued at work?

Well, he doesn’t know, but if he paid attention to the way you looked at him, he’d notice how you never looked at him with pity, just pure adoration like how despite everything he was worthy of love.

He eventually found the answer when he slept with you for the first time. It was something that he did just to get his needs filled.  He was only a man after all, and you were there, pretty and willing. He saw faint marks on your thighs, some neat lines from cuts that told him you did it yourself.

Leaving your sleeping form on the bed, he went to the bathroom and saw more confirmation of what he suspected. At one of the cabinets, he found some pills, anti-depressants. A few of them were left in a cylinder container with a label that was fading like it’s been left untouched for a while. Did you give up trying? Or maybe did it not help you  the way that you thought  it would?

You two weren’t as different as he thought after all.

So perhaps you saw yourself in him in a way that he couldn’t. That you were so kind to everyone,even to an asshole like him, to make you hate yourself less. How you were so nice and patient with him to make up for how you couldn’t treat yourself that way.

You thought his life was worth more, so you didn’t care if loving him took pieces of your own.

He didn’t say anything about it, but he found himself  being less  hostile towards you.

…

“-They’ve been ganging up to bully me, acting so tough until I stand for myself?” You vented to him about your day at work one night, lounging on his bed as he scrolled on his phone. 

“Can’t believe people like them exist. Adults —some of them married with children — but act so childish. ” You continued despite his lack of response.

“I know I should tell HR about it.. but doesn’t it just make it worse? Basically everyone at work is in on it.. plus I don’t know if HR would actually do something about it anyway-” 

“Why don’t you just quit your job?” He mumbled, cutting off your sentence which made you look up at him, surprised at his response. And then you smiled with a faint blush on the high of your cheeks, like you were happy that he was actually listening.

Wow, you really need to raise your standard if having your partner doing the bare minimum made you gleam.

He didn’t push you away when you snuggled to his side.

“Well.. the thing is, I’m really stubborn. So resigning feels like I’m quitting the battlefield, losing. And I don’t lose.” You answered with a cheeky smile that actually made him snort. What a ridiculous mindset, but it was not odd for you.

Your smile widened at his amusement.

“What are you gonna do then?” He asked when you didn’t say anything and just stared at him with those loving eyes. Ugh, he was still not used to being looked at that way.

“Well.. I’m gonna act like an adult unlike them, be professional and show that their words don’t affect me.. kill them with kindness and all. Maybe it won't stop them, maybe I’ll get fired eventually.. but that’s the only realistic thing I could think of..” You rambled again.

“Am I pathetic?” You then added in a more somber tone, like you already thought that about yourself. That usual shine in your eyes dimmed and for a second he thought he saw the you that was hidden from the world.

“Yeah,” He thought to himself out loud without meaning to. And seemed like it was an incorrect response from the flicker of disappointment seen in your eyes before you hid by nuzzling your face to a pillow. Were you expecting him to comfort you? Did he raise your expectations of him just because he listened?

Simon looked away, he was never good at comforting people so he didn’t know what to say. After a moment of silence, he heard you snoring softly.

As he too closed his eyes, he thought to himself about what he had been feeling. While he still found himself disappointed  waking up another day, the thought of you feeling the same void in your chest made him feel better because he knew he wasn’t alone. He didn’t know how you could live everyday with a smile,everyday which made him respect you a bit.

He was used to your company by now, you cleaned his place, fed him, and fulfilled his sexual needs, and he was content with that.

But did he start feeling the same way as you?

Receiving your affection still gave him goosebumps, he never touched you tenderly like a boyfriend should, he was still as grumpy as ever around you. Though he didn’t push you away like he used to, he let you touch him, let you talk his ear off. But did it really mean anything? He  merely tolerated you. No more loathing, but he couldn’t say that he liked you. He just didn’t care to feel for you, positively or negatively, indifferent. So perhaps not.

He can’t love you anyway. It was one thing to be loved, it was another to love. The latter would give you power over him.

He can’t let himself be vulnerable again. He remembered how it was with Johnny, the hurt he felt when he got taken away in front of his eyes, dying in his arms.

He didn’t want to feel that loss again, so he settled with not having.

But then he let you kiss him. 

It wasn’t like you two never kissed before but this was different, it was not something that would end up with the  two of you having sex. 

He was smoking outside late at night, watching the flickering stars, and thought of the time he did the same thing a long time ago.  He was on  deployment, . taking a break at a hideout after a long day of fighting and running.

He had felt more alive then , despite the horrors he’d seen everyday, compared  to the peaceful yet boring life he had now.

Johnny was with him that night, yapping his ear off like he always did, exchanging shitty jokes. He kissed him that night.

So maybe that’s why it happened. When you somehow found him and invaded his solitude- like you always did, filling the silence with whatever rant you had  in store from the day.

Then the conversation slowed down, and he noticed you kept glancing at his lips. And when you stopped talking, you leaned in.

And he didn’t move, didn’t turn his head away.

Didn’t reciprocate the kiss and just stood still as you kissed him.

But it still made you smile. And you told him how life had never been great to you for a long while. How the universe has been  testing you harder lately.

And then you said that he was the best thing you had at the moment. You thanked him for whatever reason.

And he felt his heart stop .

He was half-listening to all that, was lost in thought about why he let you kiss him so softly, why hadn’t he pushed you away. But this? It made it all clear.

He had , in a way, developed  feelings for you. He didn’t want to call it love, but he cared at least.

If not, he wouldn’t have reacted so negatively to that remark. Would’ve stayed nonchalant and stayed there, continued to smoke, and acted indifferent.

Instead, he left. Leaving you who only stared at his retreating figure.

Because you were wrong, he wasn’t the best thing you had in your life. But for some reason, you saw him as your savior. He gave you a purpose, loving him was giving you some kind of fucked up hope. A reminder to yourself that your heart wasn’t broken because it was still beating.

He had to stop you there because he was the last person on earth who was able to give anyone salvation. He couldn’t save you, you couldn’t save him. He needed to get away from you.

You would be better off without him. That was proof that he cared about you, not wanting you to  chase  after some false hope. You deserve better.

But he could just leave, move out, and go far away. It would give him a nasty itch that would bother him wherever he goes. And he had a lot of shit haunting him already.

No, he needed to get it to your thick skull that whatever this was, was not happening.

He still didn’t like the thought of initiating a break-up because it was such a fucking chore. But he had to do this, for your sake.

…

And so the next day, he knocked on your door.

When you opened it, you looked up with those big eyes sparkling and beamed like you didn’t just spill  your heart out last night.

“I want to talk,” He said as he looked you in the eyes.

He was hoping you’d get the message with how intense his stare was but you just smiled and nodded. “Sure, come in-”

“No,” He cut you off immediately. It was better this way, so he could leave immediately after.

“I want to break up,” he continued.

He watched you stay silent, not showing any emotion, and then blinked before smiling again.

No hint of surprise, anger, or sadness. Like you had been expecting this conversation for a long time. Perhaps you’ve been hurt too much and more, and now you just felt numb.

“No,” you said with a giggle like he was just telling a joke.

“What do you mean, no?” He asked incredulously.

“I meant no, Simon.” You responded a bit more firmly.

“Why? I’ve never even loved you,” He said harshly. Cold and sharp, masking the feeling that was starting to bloom poorly in the cold vessel that was his heart.

“I don’t care..” You said in a softer tone, locking your eyes with him for a few seconds before looking down. “I don’t care if you  don’t feel the same way, Simon. Being with you makes me happy”.

“I’m being selfish, I know, I’m sorry..” You added, looking up at him again.

“How?” He couldn’t help but ask, feeling bewildered.

“It just is.. I can’t explain it, can’t really explain love..” You answered with an empty chuckle.

“No, why do you even love me? ” He asked again.

You smiled and tilted your head, the smile reached your  eyes as you looked at him with adoration. “You didn’t need to do anything to deserve love, Simon, ” you answered.

And he wondered if you could say that to yourself.

Simon let out a long sigh, letting out all the frustration he felt ever since he first met you. “I’m not really in a state for a relationship right now..” He didn’t mean to say anything about himself, it left his lips before he could stop it. But he hoped it would do something.

“Just give it some time..” You responded.

He frowned.

“I’m not giving up on this relationship, Simon.. or you,” You then continued and looked him dead in the eye.

Stubborn little thing.

He shouldn’t be surprised, should be used to how stubborn you could be, but he was.

He wondered if there was a limit to your stubbornness.

He really regretted agreeing to that first date, he was stuck with you now.

And if he was hurting you before by simply being himself. Now he would actually put in an effort.

Being back to square one where everything you do irritated  him. He did his best to avoid you, shut you down with a look whenever you tried to talk to him, not leaving a gap for you to have any hope of things changing. 

But despite all that, you still loved him.

Still looked at him like he hung the moon, somehow always managed to find him when he was out for some fresh air. And so he tried leaving his flat less often, but you still knocked on his door every day. He didn’t answer, but when he eventually opened the door, he saw your homemade food packed nicely with a little note.

Like you thought this was just a little fight that would eventually pass if you kept treating him nicely,as you usually did, and kept apologizing.

Always so fucking stubborn.

You were too kind, never cried, didn’t know when to quit, and never run away.

That's why you’d just hurt each other. That's just the way you two lived.

And It really pissed him off.

If being loved made his skin crawl before because he didn’t think he was deserving, wasn’t used to receiving any, like a feral snarling and hissing at some innocent girl that tried to pet it. Now he felt even worse because you made him  treat you like this, made him an even more horrible man than he already was . For him to be so cruel to such a sweet little thing, he hated himself even more.

There were worse things he could do. He could make it very clear if he put a hand on you, slapped you across the face just once. But he couldn’t, no matter how horrible he thought he was, how irredeemable his soul was, there was always a voice at the back of his head saying "Don't be like your father" eerily similar to his mum's.

He doubted it would work anyway, seeing his mum still stayed with that piece of shit.

So he did the next worst thing he could think of.

…

Heavy boots stepped into the dimly lit bar, and with a slow, deliberate motion as  he settled onto a stool and ordered a glass of whiskey. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the low hum of conversation. His eyes flickered sideways, scanning his surroundings with a sharp unreadable look. The bar was filled with a mix of tired regulars and weekend wanderers. He made no move, but there was something in his posture, in the way his fingers drummed lightly against the bar, that suggests he was waiting for something. Or someone.

His presence attracted attention immediately when he stepped in. Curious glances strayed to him before trailing away at the sight of his intimidating demeanor. He was used to that, he was not new to this game. And as expected, soon enough a pair of eyes lingered. A woman, confident and clearly interested, slid into the seat beside him, nursing a cocktail. She glanced his way, smirking slightly. 

“You look like you got a lot on your mind..” She purred with a tilt of her head.

“Maybe.” He lifted his glass, voice still quiet.

The woman took a long sip of her cocktail, humming with intrigue.

“You waiting on someone?” She asked.

“No,” He responded.

And then there was silence, not uncomfortable but thick with something unspoken. He let her watch him, feeling her gaze trailing from head to toe, admiring his physique, and seemed to like what she saw. 

But he didn’t meet her gaze directly. Taking another sip of whiskey, he then set the glass down.

“Just.. seeing who’s around.” He mumbled before he finally looked at her.

The woman raised a brow, interest sparking. She then smirked, stirring the ice in her glass with a lazy flick of her wrist. And then leaned in slightly, testing the waters.

“So, just looking? Or hoping to find something?” She asked as she fluttered her eyelashes.

His eyes settled on her like a slow burn which made her blush. Even though his mind was somewhere else, she didn’t seem to notice though.

He lifted his whiskey, taking a slow sip. “Haven't decided yet.” He spoke, not quite answering, not quite denying.

She exhaled a soft laugh. “Mysterious. That your thing?”

He responded with a shrug. “Just don’t waste words”

She watched him for a moment, like she was trying to figure out if he was a challenge worth pursuing. “And if I wanted to waste a few?”.

He didn’t smile, but he set his glass down, turning his body just a fraction more toward her. She was pretty enough, and clearly interested in him. He wasn’t picky anyway, just needed anyone to get this done with.

“Guess that depends on how you’d do it.” He responded.

“Well... I could start with a name..” She said before telling hers and asking  for his. But he couldn’t care less. His mind was a mess, making it a struggle to pay attention.

Without hesitation, he gave her an old name he hadn’t used in a while. A name that separated who he was and what he did. And what he was doing right now, was almost as horrible as what he had done in the military.

“Ghost?” She asked playfully like she thought he was joking.

He took another sip of his whiskey and said nothing. 

“Alright.. Ghost,” She purred and leaned in even closer, being bolder. “What’s a man like you doing here alone?”

“Maybe I was waiting for someone worth wasting time on,” He answered bluntly.

That seemed to intrigue her even more rather than discourage her. She tilted her head, grinning. He was quiet, but not passive. He was waiting, watching, letting her step into his space but not too close. It was a different kind of confidence. The kind that makes people lean in without even realizing it.

“Lucky me, then,” She said before taking another sip of her cocktail.

The conversation stayed slow, measured. He didn’t flirt the way most men do, didn’t try to impress. He just listened. Let the silence stretch when it needed to. And somehow, that made her want to fill the spaces with more.

Another drink. Another shift closer.

“You gonna make me do all the work here?” She said after a lull in the conversation, tilting her head playfully, teasing.

He blinked at her, slowly. “Thought you were enjoying yourself.” He mumbled, keeping his eyes on her.

She laughed, shaking her head. “You gonna take me somewhere quieter, or are you just going to keep watching me like that?”

Finally. He didn’t know if he could take another back and forth. He just wanted to get to the point.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just finished his whiskey, set the glass down, and stood up.

“Let’s go,” He said. She followed.

The rest of the night was a blur. Lips locking with each other as soon as he opened the door to his flat, his feet moved on their own, stumbling in a dance that led them to his bed. Her hands pulled on his clothes, and soft giggles escaped her lips when he went down on her.

Came to think of it, it was the first time he had  brought  a stranger over to this flat he now called home. It wasn’t like he was a stranger to one-night stands , but he never could be bothered to ever since he moved here. There had been too much going on in his head, even more so when you started invading his mind.

He regretted it.

Regretted not doing this sooner.

It felt good, to be able to release some steam without feelings attached. To be lusted at without being loved, engaging in pleasure with some faceless stranger he wouldn't meet again. He didn’t need to endure a loving whisper of ‘i love you’. It didn't make him feel vulnerable like when he did it with you, he was fully in charge.

…

The morning light slipped through half-closed blinds, casting long streaks across the room. The air was  thick with the remnants of last night—alcohol, perfume, the quiet warmth of tangled sheets. The woman stirred, stretching languidly before she turned towards him, only to find his back facing her as he stood by the balcony, tending to a cigarette.

“Morning,” She said softly, still drowsy.

“You should go,” Simon uttered flatly.

While he couldn’t see her face, he could hear the frown in her voice. “..What?”

He ran a hand through his already messy hair before finally meeting her gaze, his expression unreadable —cold. “Time to go” The words are clipped, no room for argument.

She sat up, gripping the sheet around her, studying him. “Wow. Straight to that, huh? No coffee, no small talk?”

He exhaled  sharply through his nose, but it’s not quite a laugh. More like an acknowledgment of how predictable this must look. “This wasn’t that.”

He kind of forgot how the morning after was. How some people expected something more and didn’t get the hint from the get-go. He was used to you who tolerated his behavior, never expecting  him to be soft or tend to you  after. You’d get up and prepare  some breakfast , while he laid there and stared at the ceiling.

He turned his head and watched as this stranger’s face contorted in irritation. She was searching for any trace of the man from last night, the one who let her in just enough to make her think there was something worth chasing. But now he’s a wall, solid and immovable. 

He was ashamed to say that he had been thinking of you previously and at the moment. That was why he was like this, so this stranger wouldn't hope, just like you who were already attached to him.

“Guess I should’ve seen this coming,” She said harshly, a pity to herself.

“Probably,” He responded just as blunt.

That probably stung more than it should. Good.

She exhaled, shook her head, then threw back the covers and stood up, grabbing her clothes from where they were carelessly discarded the night before. He didn’t turn away, didn’t offer to help— because why should he?

She pulled on her dress, shoving her heels onto her feet before facing him one last time. “Are you  always this charming in the morning?”.

“Just honest,” he said flatly, flicking his cigarette.

“Honest? Please. You act like you don’t want anyone close.” She sneered.

Then, he finally turned around to face her. “Now you get it” he said as his soulless eyes met her fiery ones.

Just like that, it’s over. She didn’t say another word, just grabbed her things and walked out, he followed her behind to lock the door.

And then he saw you.

What happened last night was obvious from his appearance alone, looking disheveled, shirtless, with some lovemarks across his chest. And he let you take it all in, he waited for the pang of regret to appear in his chest, for you to react, cry, yell, run. But instead, you just sighed and smiled at that woman when she passed you by.

“I have to go to work earlier today, but I  already made you some breakfast,” You said and handed him a Tupperware, kissed his cheek before walking away. Like he didn’t just cheat on you, like you were used to pretending  everything was okay.

There was a lump in his throat and he swallowed it down immediately. Regret.

He shouldn’t feel any regret, didn’t allow himself to feel it.

It was cruel to pull the knife out after he’d stabbed you deep. It was better to leave the knife in so you wouldn’t bleed out.

So he didn’t call out to you to apologize or explain himself. He simply turned around and got back inside, closing the door behind him.

Because he knew if he were to change for the better you would just forgive him, and that would be horrible. He didn’t deserve to be loved by you then and even more now after what he just did.

Best thing he could do right now is to continue what he’s doing. To hurt you so you’d eventually hate him and leave. 

This is for your own sake.

And so, he continued. Bringing strangers home each night and fucking  them without making an effort to be subtle. One time, he did it when you were home, when you could surely hear every noise  through the wall. However, it didn’t affect you in the slightest bit. You still brought him food, still greeted  him with that fucking smile, still talked to him with endearment. Like nothing happened, or that you refused to acknowledge anything had happened.

His only hope is the almost unnoticeable flicker in your eyes as you tried to hide how this had  started to affect you, how you approached  him less and less.

But you never left him.

So he’d keep doing what he could do best, to hurt. And maybe, eventually you’ll get it. Hopefully.

…

The night was calm, draped in a velvety darkness that stretched endlessly above, safe for the moon shining brightly. Its light poured through the window, stretching long, pale streaks across the floor, illuminating dust motes drifting in the still air. A distant murmur beneath the hush of the wind. The air was cool, slipping through the open window, carrying with it the faint scent of rain on the pavement.

Outside, the world was at peace, yet his room was steeped in shadow. The  air was thick, heavy, pressing down like an unseen weight. The curtains swayed slightly from the draft, their slow movement the only sign of life in the dimly lit room. 

He laid on his bed, zoning out as he stared at his ceiling. The stillness around him wasn’t peaceful—it was hollow. The kind that settled deep, coiling in the spaces between breaths. It was one of those days when he didn’t feel like doing anything, content to stay in one place all day.

So he didn’t go out for another conquest tonight. But he did need to eat, so when he heard a knock at his door, he let you in.

Now, the silence was filled with a sizzle of oil, the quiet clatter of a pan being shifted. The warmth of it seeped into the air, cutting through the lifeless stillness that had settled over him like a second skin. He stayed on the bed, while you were there, just beyond the doorway, tending to whatever was on the stove. The soft scrape of a spoon against a bowl, the rhythmic chop of a knife against the cutting board—it was all steady, unhurried, you’ve done it a hundred times before after all. Made him feel like he wasn’t alone.

His breath came a little slower now, his mind drifting between the weight of exhaustion and the quiet pull of that warmth beyond the door. He didn’t get up, not yet. But with you around the corner, the dark didn’t feel so endless.

Whatever bit of calmness he felt then was taken away when he heard another sound coming from the door.

Not a knock, but an insistent banging.

There was a feeling of unease at the back of his head, but he ignored it.

Which he soon realized to be a mistake.

“Coming..!” He heard you yell and approach the door. Being so understanding since you knew he didn’t want to meet anyone at the moment.

He closed his eyes and couldn’t help but listen to the conversation.

When you opened the door, you saw some men dressed in all black towering over you. Their expressions were hard, sharp eyes pinning you in place, giving  you goosebumps.

“Is Simon Riley around?” The one at the front asked.

Your hand gripped the handle of the door, wanting to slam it shut but you knew it would make it worse, might get them agitated, and would try to break in anyway.

“Who..? I think you got the wrong place- sorry..” You said as calmly as you could, but it seemed like you failed with how they didn’t seem to buy it.

“Don’t think we do, sweetheart.” The other said and pushed the door open with his feet when you tried to close it. His eyes caught a pair of large boots, Simon’s boots, and then glanced at the other.

Despite your best efforts, the men made their way in and immediately scattered around to search the place. Furniture  pushed around, drawers were pulled out to spill  all of its content onto the floor.

Eventually, they headed to the other rooms in the flat. And you made a mistake by trying to prevent one of them who approached the bedroom.

You sighed in relief when you saw the bed was empty. But it was too late, they noticed your reaction and knew you were hiding something.

They were now gathered around you, talking in a language you don’t understand. And then, your arm was yanked, you were being pushed around, forced to follow them as they exited the apartment.

“W-wait, where are you taking me..!? let go..!” You screamed in panic which made one of them clasp his hand to your mouth. 

“Don’t worry about it, if you’re important enough to him he’ll come to us immediately to save you..” He said, before clicking his teeth when you kept struggling.

“If not- well..” The other one behind you chuckled and reached out to grope your curves. “We could have a little fun before getting rid of you.. you’ve seen too much anyway”.

You froze at the way they leered at you. Tears welling up in your eyes before you fought back like your life depended on it– because your life depends on it.

You bit the hand on your mouth hard, kicking around, pulling, and hitting anyone at arm length.

Didn’t need to win the fight, just needed to keep struggling, make some noise until hopefully someone– anyone noticed and called for help.

They overpowered you easily, and you were starting to give up hope when a damp cloth was pressed to your nose and mouth. But of course, you were stubborn and made them struggle as much as you were.

Everything went in a blur. Suddenly, you were tossed aside when something huge rammed the one holding you to the wall. You laid on the floor, holding your head which was pounding as you tried to focus on the scene in front of you while  the world spun. Black dots danced in your vision.

Bloodshed.

A masked figure moved with lethal precision. You couldn’t see his face fully but you were certain of who he was. A knife gleamed in his grip, flashing under the dim light as he drove it into the first man’s throat. Blood sprayed, and before the others could react, he turned, slashing across another’s chest. The man screamed, stumbling backward, clutching at the gaping wound.

He moved like his old name, slipping between them, dodging fists and blades, his knife finding a home in the flesh over and over again. His body still remembered who he was before everything. The Ghost.

One man lunged at him, but he ducked, driving his knife up into the attacker’s ribs. Another came from behind—too late. The stranger spun, slashing his throat in a single, fluid motion. Bodies fell around him, the floor slick with crimson.

It was a massacre.

Simon was hiding outside all this time. He climbed out the window and kept himself flat to the wall as he waited. And he should have just stayed hidden, should have just waited until the help he called would come. That would be smarter, safer.

But he couldn’t bring himself to. Hearing your screams, your cries. He just couldn’t bring himself to do nothing. Perhaps, it was because it was the first time he saw you truly break. And he didn’t like that, even though all this time he tried to break you. Hypocrite.

For the first time ever he wanted to see that damn smile on your face.

It was as if his body moved on its own, slipping inside and going on a rampage.

You didn’t run nor hide, looking around for something to do, to be useful yourself despite how  you lacked any knowledge in combat.

A click.

The last man standing, who was trembling, raised a gun. Aimed it at him.

And you didn’t think—you just moved.

He watched you throw yourself between them. A deafening gunshot rang through the air. And  white-hot pain exploded at the side of your head.

His eyes widened at the familiar scene flashing in front of his eyes, from when the one he loved died the same way.

Your knees buckled and you fell.

Somewhere in the distance, someone screamed. His own voice that he didn’t recognize, low and furious, filled the air.

He could feel his heart thumping in his ears as he froze.

Another mistake.

Simon was too shocked, too focused on you to pay attention to the last man. 

A blinding pain exploded in his chest. His breath hitched as he stumbled, the world tilting. The force of the impact sent him to his knees. He pressed a shaking hand to his shirt, feeling warmth bloom beneath his palm.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself up. His body protested, his heart hammering wildly—too wildly. His pulse was erratic, his vision blurred, but he wasn’t done yet.

The gunman aimed again.

With the last of his strength, Ghost lunged, knocking the weapon aside just as it fired. The shot went wide. Knife lodged deep into the man’s throat, sending him gasping to the ground.

Then—silence.

His legs gave out, his body slumping against the bloodied carpet. His breath came in short, uneven gasps, blowing warm air beneath his mask. The wound was bad but worse than that—his heart was failing. He could feel it, every skipped beat, every strangled attempt to keep going.

The last thing he heard before slipping into unconsciousness was the distant wail of sirens.

…

When he woke, everything hurt. The sterile scent of the hospital filled his lungs, monitors beeping steadily beside him. He found himself disappointed for waking up once again, for surviving everything, to live another day. Just when he thought it was all over.

His former captain and sergeant,who had been waiting outside, were allowed in after the medical staff checked on his condition.

“How are you feeling Simon? ” John asked as he pushed his former lieutenant back down when he tried to sit up.

“Horrible,” He responded curtly.

John then explained everything that happened. Some old enemies he made in the past seeking revenge. How everything was taken care of during the time he was unconscious.

Simon just stayed silent the whole time. Not relaxing a bit at the news.

Then, John’s voice softened, as if to speak more carefully as he told him about your condition.

Brain death.

Just then, he finally relaxed. His shoulders sagged and he had to hold himself back from sighing in relief

Finally, you were gone.

A cruel thought. But really, it was better for you to not be around him anymore. You would only get hurt more whether he tried to be better or worse, it didn't  matter. And if death was the only thing that could save you from him, then so be it. Your life was torture anyway from what he’d seen, as much as his life was. If anything, he was envious.

But then John didn't stop talking.

Simon felt his heart stop as he processed every word, his limbs went cold, and his throat felt constricting.

“The gunshot had torn through scar tissue from your previous injury, weakening your heart even more. The doctors had stabilized you, but your heart wouldn’t last much longer. Without a transplant, you were living on borrowed time.” John explained his injury to him, which made Simon turn his head to look his former captain in the eyes.

No.

John smiled, not  noticing  how Simon looked at him with horror. “You would’ve died if it wasn’t for her, Simon”.

You were an organ donor.

Of course you fucking are.

He was in need of an immediate transplant and you were there, compatible with him  in a way that you two weren’t before.

His ears drowned every word  after that. He caught fragments—something about them trying to reach your family, but no one responded, and the consent form you’d filled years ago from when you signed up for the program, became a greenlight to save his life. To give up yours entirely.

"You're a lucky bastard Simon, a rare bird she was." Kyle finally spoke up beside him, and Simon looked at him who sported an apologetic smile. He wanted to punch that smile, because no- he didn’t feel lucky at all.

His heart- your heart, thumped in his chest. Climbed up his throat, to his skull, defeaning.

Simon Riley considered himself to be  a level-headed man, all the way from his childhood to his days in the military and after. He wasn’t one to make a scene.

So he didn’t recognize who was being held down to the bed by the men beside him as he started screaming and trashing  the bed, almost pulling the tubes that were  attached to him.

You were a part of him now.

He could never get you away from him, huh?

taglist : @niazrzl, @iiriam, @defronix

[spurbleu]

ghoap x reader. never had the energy to finish cw. size kink if you squint, dubcon sharing.

the pacific, everest, and simon. monumental structures of nature with eons of solid resolve. alienating size- in aspects beyond physical. a mastered presence. its the first thing anyone ever notices about him, because when he breathes the room shrinks.

but he cannot possibly be as big as he’s working himself up to be.

you lie on the bed while he positions himself at your side, thick arm outstretched to between your legs, the other holding the back of your neck as a reminder to take it.

beating the iron of his chest with your fists as he pumps his fingers into your cunt, three thick pistols gumming your walls until they’re bruising.

“s-si. please just f…fffuck me.”

“shhh,” he kisses your sweating forehead, and you see his throat catch in a chuckle, “not yet, love. yer not there yet.”

curls his fingers and you see those lights. fizzle out and spark at the corners of your vision until its fogging. the oceans meet stars at the horizon, everest at its peak, but simon seems to make them.

at least, for you he does.

your spine reels up, and he takes the gap with his knee. your head bobs forward, before he pushes your upper body back down to the sheets, hand over your clavicle. keeps you splayed out on his thigh while he fucks you with the plush of his fingers.

“p..lease si- i can’t…i donna…”

when he thumbs your clit it's so overwhelmingly cruel your voice catches and your dam breaks. the stars collapse into the black hole that cums on his fingers. your legs flounder and your hands grip his wrist.

"thas... i gotta be ready now..ta take yo..u..."

"nae where near ready, love."

you'd completely forgotten about the stranger's presence. you lean your head back and see a thick, veiny hand around the base of an equally broad cock, dark hair travelling up his abdomen in thickets of wiry curls. you glance up and see tundra irises staring down his nose.

their blue brings you back to robin eggs at a bar, glued to the low-cut shirt you had worn for you boyfriend, not for his comrade. but simon had promised you johnny was a good man.

a good man who opened the car door for you after a few drinks. who slid next to you. who kept his hand on your knee when the car took corners particularly fast (you have no proof but it felt like simon was doing it one purpose). who followed you inside.

to your bedroom.

simon's left your side by the time this all comes back to you. you feel his absence replaced by the intruder and your nose crinkles.

"wha' are you..."

johnny smiles. you don't like the crease it forms along his jaw, it's too wolfish. hungry. you hate that it makes you wet.

"helpin' ye out."

[shotmrmiller]

kinktober: gunplay (ghoap x reader) cw: the tiniest of dub-con if you squint 1.8k of this foolishness and im pretty sure i lost the plot somewhere but in my defense, guns don't interest me

When you wake, you notice that Ghost isn’t in the tent. His bedroll neatly rolled up and put away in its usual spot and by the looks of things, he's been gone for quite some time. You sit up, the morning light filtering through the tent's fabric— the soft, diffused glow creating gentle shadows on the ground.

Outside, the air is crisp and sweet, dew still fresh on the grass, damp beneath your bare feet. Soap's lone mare is tied to the hitching post, tail flicking lazily as she eats off the hay net.

The campsite is quiet except for the chirping of birds and Soap's deep, growling snores coming from behind you. Ghost isn't here. Ghost isn't here. The thought bounces around in your skull, heart loud in your ears as the realization begins to sink in.

You could get away, slip away unnoticed from these two who've kept you as their reluctant companion since they wrangled you up in a rowdy saloon a couple of towns back with your hand deep in someone else's pocket. "Behave and we won't give ya up for the meager bounty yer worth." Or worse. The three of you knew no one would miss you, no family or friends to claim the body if you ended up face down on a riverbank.

It’s now or never. Freedom stands in front of you in a glossy, white coat and a braided mane, but being Soap’s horse, even approaching her will be a gamble. You'll just have to risk getting bucked off and trampled on.

When you go back inside to gather the few belongings you've got, you spot Soap's gun belt in all its worn leather glory lying in a tangled heap in the corner, revolvers still snug in their holsters. He must've gotten in late from town, the reward for the bounty he turned in last night traded in for hooch.

A mistake. His costly mistake. And a chance to ride his mare relatively unharmed. Your fingers tremble as they wrap around the handle, the ingrained symbol digging into your palm as you tighten your grip. You may not be a gunslinger with the fastest draw in the West, but you do know what end to point at someone.

But Soap's a bounty hunter and a damn good one. His reflexes are fast— faster than they should be with his dense, muscular build.  You've seen him close gaps with an unnatural speed that’s left even the toughest men reeling. He's a relentless force of pursuit when he wants to be and keeping him at a distance is a losing game, especially when you've no prior experience using a gun. Your only option is to corner him, limit his options. Every man bends the knee to power, and right now, you've got it in your clammy hand.

You straddle him, knees planted firmly on either side of his lower ribs, and press the barrel onto the left side of his jaw. Incredible, not even a hitch in his breathing, as if you're not sitting on him with your full weight. Fisting the front of his union shirt, you tug, the sharp, sudden sting of his chest hair being pulled taut waking him out of his deep sleep.

His bleary eyes snap open, blinking away any traces of sleep within moments, the new day's light catching the edges of his irises, making them gleam with an almost otherworldly brightness as they sweep the tent for any real danger.

Your breathing turns ragged once they land on you, satisfied, a wolfish grin tugging at the corner of his lips, revealing a hint of teeth. Dread claws at your gut, your nerves rattled, but you meet his gaze head-on. There is no room for hesitation, for doubt, not when the man you've got pinned with his own weapon is more touched in the head than Ghost is.

"I ken I'm handsome but all ye ‘ad t'do was ask, hen. I'm achin' fer the hair o' the hound if ye got any, though." His tone gives away nothing, his body completely lax. Even the rise and fall of his chest is steady, slow. You know better than to believe he isn't waiting on you to make the next move to retaliate, so you don't move. Neither of you do.

"You'll take me to town and you'll leave me there. Compared to the other folk you rope up and dump at the Sheriff's feet, I'm worth nothing." You'll make yourself scarce, move to a different state, maybe. A new life, a decent one. Honest work.

His smile widens, the puckered scar on his chin stretching. "Didnae think to take my girl? She's righ' there, saddle 'n all." Soap must think you daft.

"I want to disappear without drawing a target on my head large enough for you to see from across state lines." He would've hunted you down for sport, at that point. Soap blinks once, thrice, and then you have a solid weight pushing on your back, sudden and unexpected, forcing your upper body forward, your shoulders hunching in reflex.

The very familiar scent of earth and mildly ripe sweat sends a shiver licking up your spine, locking every notch firmly into place. Why you hadn't heard him arrive at camp or open the flaps to the tent is now irrelevant. Ghost is here now and you've nowhere to run, definitely not with Soap grabbing onto the soft of your waist, tethers made of human flesh and bone.

The weathered leather of his glove feels unexpectedly soft as his fingers curl around your trembling hand. "If you're gonna threaten ‘im, ya gotta do it proper," he mutters, breath warm against the shell of your ear. His voice is a low, rolling rumble, the kind he takes when calming his panicked horse.

"Easy now, settle down, loosen your arm a little." It does nothing to soothe you, Ghost looming larger than the gun in your grip, making it feel almost insignificant— a mere prop in the face of his overwhelming presence and the voice in your head screams at you to bare your neck, submit, and hope he goes for your jugular quickly, death seemingly a better choice than whatever game he’s making you play. "Open up, Johnny."

He does so readily, a transparent string of saliva stretching between his top and bottom teeth. Ghost's denim-clad thighs bracket yours as he settles comfortably behind you, his barrel chest engulfing the entirety of your back with space to spare.

Soap lies there with his tongue out like a dog on a hot, summer's day, mouth open wide enough for you to see the ridges and grooves of his molars. Ghost forcibly moves your hand, metal scraping against Soap's stubble with a coarse, gritty sound.

“Lie still Johnny, ya hear?” his pointer finger hovering over the trigger. The lump that’s risen to your throat makes breathing hard, each swallow a struggle. You never intended to fire a shot, just hoped the threat of life and death would be enough to make things go your way. 

“W-wait,” you gurgle out but Ghost’s hand only tightens around yours. 

“Can’t get cold feet now, sweet’eart, not when Soap’s southern blood is pumpin’ ‘cause a you.” His-? You take notice of it then, the rigid swelling between your legs, pushing up into your center. As if to drive the point home, Soap bucks his hips while pulling you down, making the inseam of your pants brush against your pearl. 

“Oh-,” he does it again, and again, the leaden lump of dread that had once anchored itself in your belly begins to melt away, becoming an insistent ache that quickens your heartbeat and warms your veins, a mellow heat radiating from your core outward.

And then two things happen at once. 

Soap takes the pistol’s barrel into his mouth, slightly pursing his lips as he creates a seal around it, and his cheeks gently hollow as he bobs his head forward and back, and Ghost slowly weaves his unoccupied hand south, under your jeans and underwear, the roughened tips of his fingers quickly finding what you’ve been forced to neglect for months. 

Soap grunts, a gravelly resonant sound— rich and full— when you dig your nails into the meat of his chest as Ghost jerks erratic little circles on your puffy clit, sending shockwaves through your stomach, each wave headier than the last. 

“Can’t let ‘im ‘ave all the fun, eh?” The pressure on your waist is enough to ache, your flesh already throbbing beneath Soap’s hands, and the closer you get to the precipice, the harder they squeeze. 

Metal clacks against tooth every time your body tenses, muscles constrict, unable to keep your arm steady even with Ghost’s iron grip over your own. Soap’s a slobbering mess, spit dribbling down his chin, pistol glossy with it as he sucks on it as if it were a man’s cock instead.

(Maybe he wants it to be.) 

A couple of hiccups claw up your throat as the sticky, wet sounds of Soap’s mouth get drowned out by the shrill ringing in your ears as you teeter on the sharpened edge, Ghost’s pace on you turning frantic, almost violent, and—

“Keep those pretty eyes on Johnny, he’s been dreamin’ of lookin’ at ya in the face while you come.”

Ghost tossing the gun aside, metal skidding across the floor, and you’re coming apart with Soap’s tongue in your mouth, swallowing your every gasp and moan.

It tastes like the lubricant he uses to clean his gun. Metallic. Tangy. Slightly acrid.

You’re barely able to draw in a breath when Ghost is already tugging your pants off, waistband coming to settle snugly right below your arse, exposing only what he needs, a couple of fingers gliding along your folds, curling right at your entrance.

But he doesn’t do what you expect; for him to sink into cunt, fill it to the brim, distended until you’ve got tears clumping your eyelashes and blood on your tongue. 

(It’s been a very long time since you’ve last laid with a man, and not one has ever been as big as he in stature.)

Instead, he takes Soap’s bare length in one giant paw, using your creamy slick for better friction, and ruts his own heavy cock against it until they’re both spurting the warm spend Ghost crams into your needy hole with two fingers.

“‘M not fuckin’ you, not after your stupid little stunt,” he says as if he’s talking about the weather, and you’re not sure if laughing will stop the hysterical sob about to slither past your trembling lips. 

Soap stares up at you with a heavy-lidded gaze, content, satiated unlike you, and pinches your cheek with his fingers. “Next time ye want tae threaten a person—,” his voice peters off, and you can feel Ghost wiping his hand on the back of your shirt before reaching for Soap’s pistol and pressing a button, the cylinder dropping open.

Empty. Every single chamber is hollow, like the empty sockets of a honeycomb. “Make sure it’s loaded, sweet’eart.”

Un. fucking. Believable.

[moody-alcoholic]

Sub Ala Angeli

part 1 - The fall

Summary: Ghoap x fallen angel!reader, mini fic. Sub ala angeli - Under the wing of an angel.

CW: Mutilation, mentions of blood, mentions of injuries, suicidal ideation.

AN: I hate to be a tease but I will be finishing cross my heart before I commit to this full time.

masterlist - next

enjoy <3

You don’t remember the fall.

You don’t remember much after the excruciating pain of your wing being torn. The scream that left your throat felt strange. You’d never experienced pain before, you never experienced the stench of blood. They made sure you felt pain. It was like someone had flipped a switch inside you, there were all these new emotions: Sadness, pain, fear. 

Fear was the worst, the thump of your heart racing in your chest, the tears clouding your vision as you listened to your fate being decided. 

Exile. 

It had been decades since an angel had been exiled to Earth, most are sent below to the depths of hell to live among the demons they became traitors to. Your crime was different, your crime was forgivable. All it would cost you was a wing and to live among the humans you were sworn to protect.

Live a righteous life and the gates of heaven would open again. 

One wing is left as a reminder, the other is taken to stop you coming back until they say you can.

You don’t know where you are, you're laid on your stomach, the ground is wet, you’re in a forest. It’s cold, you're naked, your body exposed to the elements. You can feel the wound on your back throbbing, blood trickling down your side. You let out a sob turning to your side and pulling your knees up to your chest. 

You can’t even use your other wing to cover yourself. It hurts too much. It doesn’t matter anyway you’re already soaked. You watch as beams of sunlight break through the trees. The sound of the rain hitting the ground around you is strangely comforting. 

Maybe you’ll just lay here and die. Die of exposure or whatever new conditions you’re vulnerable to. At least when you die there'll be no more pain. 

Hopefully.

…

The snap of a branch jolts you awake. It’s dark now, your body shivers, goosebumps have risen on your skin. Your lip starts to quiver, your fingers and feet hurt to move.

“I’m sure it was this way.” You hear a voice, a sob escapes your throat. If people find you they might hurt you. 

“Johnny this is a waste of time, there’s nothing here. We’ve been looking for hours.” Another voice says. You use all your energy to push your hands into the soft ground trying to force your body up. A groan leaves your throat, everything hurts.

“What was that?”

“Probably a fox or something. We should get back, it’s already dark.” 

Your back throbs, each movement sends a stabbing pain through you. You can’t hold yourself up, you have no energy, you’re too injured. 

Maybe these strangers are your only hope, or maybe they’ll give you a quick death. Your body slams back on the ground and you let out a yelp, tears fill your eyes again. 

“Over here!” One of them calls. You see lights breaking through the trees ahead of you. It’s not like the warm glow of the sunlight though. It’s bright and white, harsh causing you to close your eyes. Your mind flicks back to the courtroom, high walls or pure white and gold. 

You let out another sob as the sound of footsteps gets louder. You can’t defend yourself, if they hurt you there’s nothing you can do. You turn back on your side propping yourself up on your elbow. You bring your hand up to block the light, squinting your eyes. 

“Holy shit.” They stop a few meters ahead of you, you slowly lower your arm. One of them steps toward you and you flinch before you can stop yourself. It makes your body throb with pain and you cry out, your hand flys up to grip your shoulder. 

“Okay, okay.” He says backing up. You can’t get a proper look at him, your head is swimming now, your body starts to shake. You let your hand fall as your breathing picks up, a new feeling washes over you. Panic. Maybe you were wrong to trust these people. 

“We’re not going to hurt you.” He says, his arms outstretched palms open, he’s given his torch to the man standing behind him. He unzips his coat, pulling it off and holding it out. “You must be freezing, we can take you somewhere warm.” He says taking a little step towards you. This time you don't flinch. 

He takes another slow step, like he’s trying to move without spooking you. The arm propping you up gives way, your body slams painfully against the wet floor. You squeeze your eyes shut, gritting your teeth. Warm hands land on you, on your shoulder sending shivers up your spine. 

“Eazy lass, you’re okay.” He says, his voice is calm. Your head swims as he throws the coat over you. You hear the other man moving towards you. You turn your head and look up at the stranger now bent down by your face. He brushes a strand of hair out your eyes and smiles at you. 

You try to smile back, you try to get a good look at him but the light coming from behind him is too bright it stings your vision. Your head throbs as you reach out for him, it uses the last of your energy. You open your mouth to thank him but your body goes limp and everything goes black.

…

You don’t remember being bought here. 

You wake in bed. You're still naked laid on your stomach. Som is bleeding through the curtains in the room. You look over and see a glass of water on the bedside table. Your body feels stiff, you push yourself up swinging your legs out the bed. Your back hurts, you grit your teeth reaching round to your back. You can feel bandages. 

If they wanted to kill you they would have done it already.

You reach over for the water your hand is shaking as you pick it up and gulp it down. You’ve never been thirsty before, it’s a new feeling, everything is new. You go to stand up, your whole body feels unbalanced and you tip to the side crashing against the bedside table. You knock the glass over and it rolls on the floor smashing.

You back away, sumbling round to the end of the bed, your arms and wing stretching out as you try and balance yourself. The room to the door opens and you turn, it causes you to stumble and you fall backwards onto the floor. You let out a yelp as pain shoots through you. 

“Easy, you’re okay.” He says, you look up at him, wrapping your wing around yourself. It hurts pulling on all the muscles in your back, including the ones you won’t need to use anymore. Your breathing picks up, you look at him with wide eyes, trying to hide behind your wing as much as you can. He bends down so he’s on the same level as you. 

He's smiling at you, his head tipped slightly to the side. He has blue eyes and dark hair, he doesn’t look scary. 

“We’re not going to hurt you.” He says as you pull your legs up to your chest. The other man appears in the doorway with his arms crossed. He looks bigger than the guy with the dark hair, his eyebrow creased as he looks at you. He has blonde hair, and big arms, you swallow hard your eyes flicking back to the other guy.

“I’m Johnny, this is Simon.” He says thumbing at the guy behind him. “Do you have a name?” You shake your head.

"What happened to you, were you attacked?” He asks. You shake your head. “We tried to patch you up the best we could. We weren’t quite sure what you needed.” You lower your wing so he can see your face better. His smile gets bigger, he reaches out his hand.

"We thought maybe you could use something to eat? Or a bath?” He says. You feel your stomach rumble, hunger, you’ve never been hungry before. Your hand rests on your stomach. You nod, dropping your wing and reaching out for his hand.

Next

Banners by plum98

[rememberwren]

A Girl (Not Mine) || 1

Ghost is a little obsessed with Soap and a lot obsessed with Soap's girlfriend--you.

About this: ghoap/fem!reader, suspension of disbelief regarding anything military related is actually necessary for enjoyment, canon-typical trauma for Simon, intrusive thoughts, slut shaming, voyeurism, fingering, accidentally seeing nudes not meant for you, poor writing unless you squint, try squinting. 4k

-

“I’m so glad I got a girl to think of, 

Even though she isn’t mine.”

-

The first time Johnny mentions you, the 141 is fresh from a month-long leave.

Ghost has a love-hate relationship with time spent off duty. He’d like to enjoy it—to do fuck all, to hike through Clayton Vale twice in a day if it suits him, to drink tea for every meal. But all leave does is remind him of the glaring emptiness in his life, the one he usually fills with violence. So he spent the month climbing up the walls and crawling out of his skin, waiting to be called back like a dog brought to heel. 

Here was his comeuppance for craving something to fucking do instead of relaxing the way Price had told him to do. Now they were on their way to San Lorenzo in Ecuador dealing with Ghost’s least favorite flavor of criminal: drug cartels. 

It’s too close to Mexico. Too close to that which he would forget gladly if it didn’t come with the loss of so many valuable skill sets. He’s crawling out of his skin for a whole new reason, watching the water fly by beneath them, deep in memories. 

Ghost takes all those feelings, fears, remembrances and swallows them whole. Lets them sink to a sour, dark place in his belly. He sits tense on the helo, still except for the rise and fall of his chest, his rifle a familiar weight across his knees. Sometimes he has to shut his eyes, swallowing against the rising nausea. 

He only has half an ear on Garrick and Johnny’s conversation beside him, but it is all he needs to follow along. 

“—lass of my own now,” Johnny is saying around a laugh, his accent thick enough to chafe at Ghost’s skin in a way he doesn’t want to examine, one that leaves him feeling raw but not necessarily hurt. “So no more picking up the barflies back in Hereford.”

“She making an honest man out of you, Tav?” 

“Aye, you could say that.” Johnny sounds proud of the fact. It all is so far from anything Simon has experienced in his life that he feels no distant stirring of empathy, not even a muted sense of familiarity in the words. Honest men do not exist. 

Not to mention, Simon’s never had a woman (willingly) and he never will. 

“You love her?” Garrick asks, earnestly interested to hear the answer. Ghost couldn’t care less.

“Aye. There’s something special about her.” 

“What, she’s cool with anal?”

Johnny crows with laughter, and now Ghost does feel something: annoyance, cloying, creeping up his spine like a spider in a web headed for the wiggling maggot of his brain. 

“Will you two ever shut up?” he snaps. “Not a moment’s fucking peace since we boarded.”

“Sorry LT,” Johnny says, sounding genuinely apologetic. Ghost cuts his eyes toward the other man, assessing for honesty. Johnny’s face is too expressive: brows lifted, eyes wide and earnest, mouth tipped into a tiny grimace, like the thought of irritating Ghost gives him real pain. Between the two of them, Ghost can’t help but think that it’s Johnny who needs a mask if he wants to survive in the world. 

Ghost doesn’t have the energy for this. He goes back to watching the scenery pass by. They are over trees now: thick lush jungle, the scent of which he associates with pain—plenty of which was his own. Plenty of which he caused to others. 

“What about you, LT?” Johnny asks, calling out over the sound of the helicopter blades. “Do you have a woman back home?”

Ghost lets his head turn, slow and dangerous. Johnny’s audacity never fails to surprise him. “What do you think, Johnny?”

“Honestly?” 

“Go on, then.”

“You look like if yeh’ve got a woman, she’s probably locked in yer basement.” 

(right where she’d belong.)

Garrick slaps Johnny’s thigh, his face mottled with panic. He hisses under his breath, something like, There are faster ways to die, Tav! Less painful ways, too, Ghost thinks. He fixes Johnny with a dead stare. The silence stretches, growing long and thin and dangerous, like the blade of a knife, until Johnny looks away. 

“Think less about my private life, Sergeant,” he warns him. 

“Not often you tell me to think less, LT.” 

Ghost just grunts, finished with the conversation, returning his unseeing eyes to the trees and slipping back into his own memories. 

-

That should be—well, not the end of it. He expects Johnny to become insufferable about it; that’s just the other man’s way. Still, Ghost had never expected to see you. 

He’s doing paperwork in the rec room, too stifled by the tiny, enclosed space of his office to remain there. Paperwork and debriefing are always his least favorite parts of an op. Give him a gun with which to kill and he will gladly kill; give him a pen with which to write and he spends half the time thinking about burying it in his own eye. Garrick and Johnny are there nearby fucking around on their phones having finished with their easy portion of the work ages ago. 

A phone is what Johnny thrusts beneath Ghost’s nose. It takes all of his mental fortitude not to flinch away from the unexpected action (or, more likely, not to rip Johnny’s arm off and beat him half to death with it). His eyes flicker down to the screen on instinct and—there you are. 

You have one eye squinted shut, your hand up to create a visor against the overbearing sun. The picture shows you from the bust upwards, and Simon sees it for approximately one full second before he grips Johnny’s wrist in a brutal hold and forces the hand and the phone away. 

It’s already too late. He’s committed you to memory. The way your hair sits, its color in the blistering sun. The curve of your lips (fuckable, he thinks against his will) as you give Johnny behind the camera an exasperated smile. The arch of your nose (images now—fingers pinching noses shut, forcing mouths further down his cock just to watch them choke and struggle)—

“Get that out of my face,” he grits out through his teeth. His thoughts won’t stop, not now that the floodgates have been opened, and it makes him feel like a dog backed into a corner, frightened-violence rising up in the back of his throat like bile. 

—the smooth line of your throat (and his hands around it, choking the light from your eyes just to fuck you when you’re soft and pliable and he doesn’t have to listen to you crying and begging)—shut UP!—

“It’s just my girl, sir,” Johnny laughs, his own eyes flickering back down to your image on the phone, like they are drawn to you. Like it is hard to look away. Ghost doesn’t have that problem—he has some  discipline left. “And it’s not as if she’s naked.” 

Ghost grips the pen in his hand so tightly that the plastic shell cracks. He’s barely keeping it together, sick and afraid and horrified and angry that Johnny has done this to him—has done this to his own girl—

His voice is rough when he croaks out: “What makes you think I care to see her, Sergeant?” 

“‘S it wrong to share the most important person in my life with the other most important people in my life?” Johnny says, eyes too guileless to be taken seriously. 

“Share less,” he snaps. 

“Been saying that to me an awful lot lately, sir.” 

“A good Sergeant would take my words to heart.” 

“A good lieutenant would know a futile lesson when it’s biting him in the arse.”

Ghost’s eyes narrow. “Careful, Johnny. As much as I hate paperwork, I’d write you up—gladly.” 

Johnny gapes. “What for?”

Ghost grins without mirth, mask stretching around his features. Even grinning cruelly like this, his face feels unused to any expression that is adjacent to happiness. He swears darkly: “I’ll find a reason.”

It would send anyone else running. Even Garrick looks fearful, though fascinated: the same look a man wears when he’s watching a car crash in progress. But if sense were dynamite, Johnny wouldn’t have enough to blow his nose. Instead, he just flops down on the couch close enough to flutter the pages in Ghost’s lap. Close enough for their knees to brush. 

“Jesus, you’re a tadger today,” Johnny says quietly, boot knocking against Ghost’s, a touch he feels all the way up his leg. “Shove off some of that paperwork on us. What’s the use of being a lieutenant if you can’t lord it over your sergeants?”

“I’m sorry, us?” Garrick asks. 

“I don’t shirk my responsibilities, Johnny,” Ghost says coldly, gathering his papers. His elbow brushes against Johnny’s ribs, the firm, burning warmth of the other man’s body. He jerks away. He’ll take the stifling seclusion of his office, that makeshift coffin, before he subjects himself to any more of this. “You’d do well to follow my example.”

-

Ghost resolutely does not think of you. Not during quiet lazy moments on base, not during the frustration of training recruits, especially not during the eerie calm of missions. You do not cross his mind. 

His dreams are another thing altogether. 

There are the dreams where he hurts and the dreams where he is hurting, and he doesn’t know which are worse. He only knows that they are made worse by your strange presence: your body bent and being broken in by others; you, bent and being broken in by him. He wakes in cold sweats, jaw aching from gritting his teeth in his sleep. 

He hates himself for this last place where he cannot execute control: his subconscious. 

-

“Mail?” Johnny asks cheerfully at the sight of Garrick seated on the bench outside the DFAC, a stack of papers and letters laying on his lap. 

Johnny is sweaty, gray t-shirt clinging to his toned body as he (for once) keeps a companionable silence at Ghost’s side. They have been training recruits all day—work which Ghost considers far beneath his pay grade, but which he can’t refuse when ops are so slow to arrive and when he is so eager (desperate) to keep busy. Ghost lets himself sit heavily on the bench a safe distance away from Garrick, sweat cooling on his own body. 

He’s not ready to be alone yet. 

He’s allowed to do that. To want company. Of all the people on base, Garrick and Johnny (and Price) might be the most tolerable of the lot of them. During the rare moments when the pitiful piece of humanity left inside him craves companionship, this is the least painful method to mainline it. 

He ignores the lack of letters for him. There is no mail for Ghost—there never is. 

Garrick passes Johnny no less than four envelopes. Johnny’s soft smile as he flips through them speaks volumes. Ghost can guess who they’re from: his mother likely, who writes as often as she can. One of his various sisters, surely. Take your pick.  Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Johnny flip through the letters and settle on one in particular, thicker than the others, tearing it open and tugging the letter out. 

The pictures slip from the folded piece of paper and fall to the ground. 

Johnny dives to grab them, but all it does is bring Garrick’s attention to them more. Even Ghost’s interest is piqued, his dark eyes giving up pretending to watch the recruits limp back to their barracks to shower before dinner and following Johnny’s hasty movements instead, watching the hot flush that crawls up the back of his Sergeant’s neck. 

“What are those?” Garrick asks. 

“No’ a thing.” 

Garrick lights up. He practically tosses his letter to the side. “She sent you pictures?” 

“Possibly,” Johnny says smuggly, the images—old fashioned Polaroids, a nice touch—pressed to his chest. His eyes narrow at the expression on Garrick’s face. “Don’t even think about it, Gaz—!”

Garrick pounces. The two begin grappling, both of their faces split into wide grins. Johnny can only defend himself with one arm, his other protectively clutching the photographs to his bosom. They take each other to the ground and Ghost watches, half interested and half irritated, wondering who will win. 

The pictures go flying—and fate’s invisible bitch of a hand causes them to land at Ghost’s feet. Garrick and Johnny freeze.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t, the same way he knows that he’s going to. Ignoring their renewed struggles on the ground as they fight to untangle themselves and stand, he leans down and reaches for the photographs.

The white of the Polaroid’s edges contrast nicely with his dark gloves as he gathers the pictures together like a deck of scattered cards. 

“LT—“

They’re relatively tame. Perhaps you knew the high risk of sending them. In one you are kneeling on a bed amongst a sea of mussed, white sheets, wearing nothing but a t-shirt that you have tugged down between your parted thighs to offer yourself some modesty. It is painful to flip to the next one, but pain calls to Ghost, lures him in. In another you’re wearing some strappy lingerie but still covered artfully by the sheets, both hands covering your eyes, a grin on your face like you are mid laugh. Did Johnny take these photos of you himself? Did a stranger? A friend? Another shows your side profile, back arched, topless, every inch of you curved and poised. 

You’re (a filthy little slut) so fucking pretty. 

“Give ‘em back, LT, please,” Johnny asks gently, like he expects Ghost to tear them to shreds. Or confiscate them. 

Ghost drops the photographs to the bench, wishing he could scrub the images of you from his mind. He shouldn’t have picked them up in the first place. It’s adding fuel to the fire of his broken brain, and he knows that he will pay for it dearly. 

Johnny is talking. “—shy, she’d just die to know you saw.”

“She’ll only know if you tell her, Johnny,” Ghost reminds him. His mouth feels numb, his brain the quiet granted by white noise, a conglomerate of screams. 

Johnny frowns. “Suppose so. You alright?” 

“Since Ghost saw—“ 

“No, Gaz.” 

Ghost watches the two of them enter the building. 

His hand burns, where he has palmed the picture of you topless. He stands and slips the Polaroid into his back pocket. It’s on the tip of his tongue to call out for Johnny and give him the picture back—he could find some excuse, and Johnny would believe him, he knows it—but he doesn’t. He makes for his room, feeling sick with himself. He isn’t hungry. Not for food. 

-

Ghost is compromised. 

The thought replays in his mind over and over again as he drives to Price’s house in Solihull. You and Johnny have crawled beneath his skin and infected him, dug your way into his DNA and are affecting everything from his decision making capabilities to his dreams. He knows that going anywhere where you both will be is a mistake, but it’s one he can’t seem to help hurdling himself toward at high speed. 

Nothing will happen, he tells himself, knuckles white against the steering wheel. He only does what he allows himself to do—no more. The others will be there at least, Garrick and Price and Johnny himself. Physical barriers between him and you. Human meat shields, if necessary. Ghost wouldn’t dare to lay a finger on you. (But who would stop him if he tried? Who could?) You are safe, he tells himself. 

He is the last to arrive, dragging his feet up the concrete steps to the two story brick historical home that Price owns. He lets himself in the way that Price told him to and can tell by the eerie silence of the house that everyone is already outside enjoying the well-landscaped yard. Already he sees the evidence of you: a purse (go through it) laid neatly on the dining room table. He sets his keys beside it but does not touch it. 

Ghost doesn’t bother trying to delay the inevitable. Every part of him wants to run, but that’s all he’s ever wanted his whole life. He’s used to it by now, used to being forced to walk toward the thing which terrified him. He squares his shoulders and slides open the patio door, slipping back out into the muggy heat of the afternoon, face mask in place, hood up.  

The landscaping is one of the best features of Price’s house. The privacy fence is tall and appealing to Ghost’s seclusive nature, the lawn neatly clipped. There is a hedgerow running along the southern edge of the fence that is meticulously maintained. Flower beds lined with bricks rest along the house full of geraniums and phlox. The patio is smooth stone with an inlaid fire pit that would be crackling if the weather were any milder. An iron-wrought table sits nearby surrounded by chairs, and seated there are Garrick, Johnny, and Price. 

You are over by the flowers, kneeling in the soft grass, picking phlox just a few shades darker than the sundress you’re wearing, the one that skims your soft thighs. Ghost’s eyes roam over you and away all before your head even turns at the sound of the door opening. 

“LT,” Johnny calls, lighting up. “You made it!” 

“Didn’t think you’d show, Lieutenant,” Garrick says with a smile. 

“As if he’s got something better to be doing than spending time with us,” Johnny crows. 

“Jesus, will you two leave the man alone? Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already regretting coming,” Price says. Ghost inclines his head, grateful for the backup. 

He hears your approach, the soft sound of your flats against the patio stone. You are small (weak) compared to him, craning your head up to look in his eyes. He hates the dark part of his brain that calls you easy prey as he watches you twist the phlox stems between anxious fingers. 

“You must be Simon—” Johnny shakes his head a little, subtle, visible only out of the corner of Ghost’s eye. “—ah—Ghost? I mean—” 

“I don’t care what you call me,” he admits.

“Ghost,” you settle where it is nice and safe. “It’s nice to meet you. John talks about you all the time.”

“Likewise,” Ghost says flatly, hoping you will not mistake it for a compliment. 

Garrick snorts. “Never shuts up about you is more likely.”

There aren’t enough chairs for everyone, so you sit on Johnny’s lap, legs crossed demurely, skirt riding up around your upper thighs. He wonders about the softness of your skin, wonders if his calloused touch would hurt you or if you’re used to Johnny’s by now. He could make it hurt. The thought doesn’t come with any zing of pleasure, just the cold apathy of fact. Has Johnny ever tried that? Has he ever—

Ghost’s gloved hand clenches into a fist, curling around the iron armrest of the chair. He takes a measured breath and holds it until his lungs ache. Those thoughts aren’t his own. They come from the dark part that Roba seeded inside him, that part with creeping vines too deep to root out. That part with thorns. 

He could hurt you, the same way he could hurt anyone, he tells himself. But he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to. 

He does only what he allows himself to do. No more. No less. 

You and Johnny stand, heading into the house to retrieve a round of drinks for everyone. Ghost watches Johnny’s hand dip low on your back to the curve of your ass as he guides you through the open door, shutting it behind you. 

“Are you alright, Simon?” Price asks around a cigar. “I know meeting new people isn’t exactly in your repertoire.”

“Don’t mother me.”

“Don’t have to be your mother to care about you.”

“Garrick—get lost,” Ghost barks. 

The iron chair legs screech against the stone of the patio as Garrick stands hastily. “Had the same thought, sir. Hedges look lovely this time of year.”

When Garrick is properly out of earshot, pretending to find amusement in the neat hedgerows along the fence line, Ghost says: “I shouldn’t have come. I’m… I— can’t be left alone with her.” 

“With—? Soap’s gal?”

Ghost grits his teeth in shame and nods. 

“Do you know her?” 

Ghost shakes his head in the negative, but it’s not necessarily true. He knows a thousand women just like her, soft and unexpecting. The betrayal always cuts deeper than his cock could reach (estoy preso, somos lo mismo, por favor).

He stands, chair legs dragging against the stone. “This was a mistake. I need to leave.” 

“If you say so,” says Price, knowing better than to argue. “Go around the side. You won’t even have to see them.” 

“My keys are inside. I’ll be quick.” 

“Take care of yourself, Simon,” says Price, his eyes dark and lips downturned as he watches Ghost stalk to the patio door and slip inside. 

-

He braces himself to see you and Johnny in the kitchen, but when the door slides open near-silent, neither of you are anywhere to be seen. Like a fool, he considers himself lucky. Quiet as his namesake, Ghost goes to the table and picks up his keys, palming them. 

That’s when he hears it. The unmistakable muted slap of flesh on flesh. 

(Go look.)

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t, but that is his modus operandi these days: failing himself, doing what he isn’t meant to, seeing what is not for his eyes. His feet carry him silently to the door, which is cracked open just wide enough for him to see through into the room. It is a guest bedroom judging by the bland decor, the queen sized bed. Johnny has you sprawled on it, your sundress hitched up around your waist, his fingers buried to the final knuckle inside your cunt. Ghost can hear the way it squelches from all the way outside the door, knows that you must be dripping down Johnny’s wrist. 

“Keep quiet, love,” Johnny pants, one hand over your mouth (he’s not doing it right) to muffle the whines and groans trying to slip past your lips. “Needy little thing, aren’t yeh? Squirming in my lap, making my cock hard right there in front of my Captain, in front of my Lieutenant—“

You whine something back, but it is lost into his palm. 

“Don’t have time to get my cock in you,” Johnny sighs, twisting his fingers inside you, hooking them to press against that tender spot past your pubic bone that has your knees knocking together. He shifts his palm down to grip your neck, your panting breaths filling the room. “But you can bet this dress is coming off as soon as we’re home, do y’hear me?”

“Yessir,” you whisper, and it has Ghost’s cock throbbing. 

This is not for him. He thinks about Johnny’s words from months ago: that you are shy. There’s no chance you would ever want to be seen like this by him. Reaching out, he grips the doorknob and quietly tugs the door closed, til the sound of Johnny’s palm slapping against your clit is muffled behind the wood. 

He takes his keys and is gone before you ever know he was there. 

-

Johnny texts him later that night: 

Why’d you leave early, you numpty? We wanted more time with you. 

Ghost doesn’t respond. He’s too busy spiraling in his own flat, losing control every few minutes and slipping back into that place of pain and blood and dirt. 

An hour later, Johnny ends up adding, My girl wants me to say she was glad she got to meet you. Only Jesus knows why! Ghost definitely doesn’t respond to that. But he doesn’t delete the messages either.

[thejohnlockedfemboy]

Thoughts on Paul's former Ranger Regiment team?

i'd love to know my reader's thoughts :3 reblogs, likes, and comments are especially appreciated!

-- Paul

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my call of duty fic series:

pt.1

pt.2

pt.3

pt.4

pt.5

pt.6