#riley brothers save me... save me riley brothers...

[sgt-tombstone]

Candy Red

So... my angst brain took over and I decided to finally type out an idea I've been sitting on for a while. Please heed the content warnings because this is a pretty gruesome one. Take care of yourselves and feel free to yell at me in the notes!

CW: brief mention of sexual assault, brief mention of child slavery, canon-typical violence, angst, hurt/no comfort, rough sex, breaking up

Read it on AO3 here!

----

The world was cruel.

Soap knew that better than most. In his time in the 141, he had seen some of the worst atrocities the world had to offer; brothers turned against brothers for the sake of profit or hatred, women trafficked and subjected to horrific violence, children bought and sold like sheep at the market. He'd seen enough blood to half convince him of Old Testament justice, of the biblical plagues of Egypt, of the End of Days.

The cruelest thing he'd ever been forced to witness, however, was the body of Simon Riley twist and warp as a barrage of bullets tore through his skin and muscle, bursting veins and shattering bones, before falling to the ground in a heap. Soap himself had been close to bleeding out, propped against a concrete wall that was more rubble than structure, and had been afforded a front row seat to the devastation; like a train wreck in slow motion, he hadn't been able to look away. He had watched in abject horror, his heart lodged somewhere in his esophagus instead of safely behind his ribs where it was supposed to be, as Simon's blood flowed freely, pooling in the dirt where boots and bullets alike had gouged the earth. He'd watched as Simon had collapsed, and he'd watched as Simon didn't get back up. And he didn't get up. And he didn't. Get. Up.

He woke up in the hospital two days later, brain and muscles sluggish with pain meds and a constant slew of fluids injected directly into his veins. His left thigh was a mess of stitches and bandages, blessedly blood-free but liable to start leaking again at the first hint of movement. There was a drain tube stitched in place, because apparently his body was pumping puss like nobody's business, and the sound of it dripping into the metal basin beneath him sent waves of nausea through his chest.

Gaz was sitting next to him, his chair pulled close, his head in his hands, looking as gaunt as Soap had ever seen him. He wondered if his fellow sergeant had slept at all since his hospitalization or if he'd spent the entire two days staring at the heart rate monitor, like it'd stop the second he glanced away.

There was a second beeping noise, slightly offset from Soap's own pulse, and he tilted his head as quickly as he dared, holding his breath to keep the bile at bay. He needed to know if it was Price or Ghost; if their stupid, self-sacrificing stunt had put anyone else in the line of fire or if they had miraculously gotten away with it. He needed to know if Simon had given his life to save Soap's. He needed to know if he'd need to dig his dress blues out of his-

His gaze landed on the sharp slant of Simon's nose, the jagged edge of the scar bisecting Simon's lip, the blond eyelashes fanning over Simon's sharp cheekbone, and his chest collapsed on a silent sob. Tears stung at his eyelids, clinging to his own lashes, and he tossed his head back to the middle of his pillow to keep them from falling because he couldn't lift a hand to wipe them away. He gritted his teeth against the wail that built in his chest, the keening cry that fought its way up his throat, muscles tightening until he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't stop the tears from overflowing, running in rivulets past his temples and into the shaved sides of his head.

"Soap?"

He squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of Gaz's voice, rough from disuse, or maybe just misuse, because Soap could still hear the echoes of his panicked screams in his ears, reverberating between the steady beats of the heart monitor. He and Gaz had seen each other at their absolute worst, coated in blood, collapsing from exhaustion, screaming in hot-blooded rage, but he didn't want Gaz to see him like this. He didn't want Gaz to see how utterly broken he was.

"Get Price," he whispered, and breathed a sigh of relief when Gaz skimmed his fingers over the back of Soap's hand as he stood to leave.

----

It took three weeks for Simon to be released from the hospital and eight more for him to be green-lit for strenuous exercise again.

Soap stayed as far away from him as possible the entire time.

First, because he was healing from his own aches and pains, the bullet hole in his thigh stubbornly refusing to close on its own, blood and puss leaking from it like a faucet, and he'd been forced to ride a desk until the stitches held long enough for the gaping wound to suture itself back together. After that, he avoided Simon because of the guilt.

It was a tender, aching, thorny thing, stuck somewhere behind his clavicle, stabbing skin and bone every time he took a breath. The doctors had been concerned about pneumonia, and he hadn't had the heart to tell them that he couldn't take a deep breath without his lungs trying to force their way out through his rib cage, without his heart squeezing impossibly tight, stuttering over each beat like it wasn't convinced it wanted to keep expending the effort that living required.

He became as much of a ghost as Simon. He spent a grand total of three hours in his room over the course of those eleven weeks, opting instead to catch catnaps in whichever corner seemed the darkest. He'd lodge himself behind stacks of crates, protected by the shadows of automatic rifles and hand grenades and armored trucks. He slipped in and out of the mess hall in silence, unnoticed and ignored, because John MacTavish was a loud soldier, and the man who lurked in the halls of Credenhill was not. Gaz looked at him askance every time he saw him, concern etched into every plane and wrinkle of his face, eyes heavy with worry that encroached on fear, but Soap brushed him off, citing pain and worry of his own for his lack of sleep. Neither of them mentioned the fact that he was making himself purposefully hard to find. Neither of them mentioned how adept he was at it.

----

They fell into bed together twelve weeks and three days after their bodies had been riddled with brass and lead.

They were in Simon's room, Simon pressed against his own locked door, Soap's hands and mouth wandering frantically over every square inch of skin he could find, like he was relearning every dip and divot of Simon's body. Like he was memorizing it all over again, etching it into his memory. Simon's body was hot against his, their skin burning where they were pressed together, aching to get closer. Soap broke their panting kiss to tug Simon's shirt over his head and Simon reciprocated in kind, letting their palms wander over healed skin and new scars, reverent.

"I'm okay, Johnny," Simon whispered into the still air between them and Soap wanted to sob, wanted to climb inside of Simon's chest and live there like a hermit crab in a Ghost-shaped shell, wanted to tear Simon apart, rib by rib, until he could hold the warm, bloody, beating muscle in his hands, could feel it constrict with every pulse, could feel it throb in time with his own. He ached with want.

Instead, he pulled Simon bodily away from the door and shoved him towards the bed, barely giving him any time to adjust before settling his weight on top of him, framing Simon's hips with his thighs. The stretch pulled at his newly-healed scar, but he didn't relent. His jaw ached with the need to feel Simon's skin between his teeth and he let himself indulge, warmth flushing through him at the sound of Simon's groan, low and breathy. Simon's hands burned like brands where they arced across Soap's bare back, leaving trails of embers smoldering under his skin.

He blinked and blood coated his mouth, thick and heavy on his tongue, where his teeth were lodged in Simon's flesh, biting down harder with every stroke of Simon's finger across his hole, thick and probing, slick and teasing. They were completely naked, their hard cocks pressed side by side, velvet heat emanating off of their bodies in waves, and Soap didn't know when that happened, but he wasn't going to complain, not when he had Simon's fingertip dipping past the tight ring of muscle. His eyes rolled back with the stretch, like an itch he couldn't scratch finally sated, except that it wasn't enough. He needed more, needed to be pulled apart like taffy, needed to carve himself hollow until he was a husk, ready and willing to house the very essence of Simon Riley.

He rocked back against Simon's fingers, pushing them deeper, stretching himself wider, until he was panting with it, his breath hot against Simon's blood-coated chest, viscera dripping with every exhale, bright against pale skin. Simon's other hand cupped the back of Soap's head, fingers carded through overgrown hair, keeping him in place.

Finally, Soap felt Simon's lube-slicked cock press against his hole, hot and cold and soft and hard all at once, and he keened at the pressure, overwhelming as Simon split him open. He could hear Simon whispering above him, soft words spoken directly against the crown of his head, but he couldn't parse them out over the static in his blood, whiting out his hearing until his ears were ringing, the high-pitched tinnitus of one too many explosions at close range, but he craved just one more.

When Simon started thrusting, it wasn't soft or gentle. It was the frantic, frenzied movements of a man who had nearly died to save the love of his life, who had nearly been forced to watch his partner bleed out into the dirt right in front of him, who had been helpless to do anything but sacrifice himself in the vain hope of at least dying together. It was the first brush of warm skin, the steady pulse under seeking fingertips, the barest exhale against a bare palm. It was relief, pure and simple, except relief was never simple. It was life, and Simon was grasping it with both hands.

Soap went fuzzy after that. He tried to stay present, tried to soak up every moment, but his mind drained out through his ears as Simon used him, nailing his prostate with every thrust. There was blood, not just in his mouth, but under his nails; he was scratching Simon's chest and arms, presumably, hard enough to draw blood, but Simon was doing nothing to discourage him. If anything, he arched up into it, begging for the sensation as fervently as Soap wanted to inflict it. Corpses didn't feel pain, and the dead didn't bleed.

Cum mixed with blood as Soap tripped over the edge; Simon's hand wrapped around his cock, Simon's blood painting his teeth, Simon's cock massaging his prostate. Pale skin adorned in red and white, and then Simon's body clenched, every muscle tightening as he spilled inside of Soap. Warmth, endless warmth, in and around him, and it took no effort at all to tip over into unconsciousness, the steady rhythm of Simon's heart loud in his ear.

----

"What the fuck is this?"

Soap blinked awake, immediately aware of the chill that had become his bedfellow at some point in the night. Something heavy hit the bed by his feet and he belatedly registered the deep growl of Simon--no, Ghost--standing over him. He tilted his head, confusion swimming to the forefront as he squinted up at Ghost.

"Wha-"

"Did you request a transfer?"

Oh, fuck.

Soap sat up, his gaze landing on the stack of papers that Ghost had thrown onto the bed, neatly stapled with the damning heading clearly visible at the top. Transfer Request. Signed and dated by one John "Soap" MacTavish the day he'd woken up three months ago. The second date, penned in by the owner of the second signature, one John Price, was far more incriminating; today's date. The day of his transfer.

He stood up and pulled on a pair of sweats, refusing to take this conversation laying down, or naked. And then they were both standing in the middle of Ghost's room, several feet between them, and it felt like an immeasurable, insurmountable gulf.

"Aye," Soap said defiantly, because he had. He remembered, through the haze of tears and drugs and pain, signing his signature on the dotted line. Price had questioned him over and over, but Soap had refused to give in. His hand had been shaking, his vision blurry, but he'd signed with conviction, the same conviction he felt now, hot in his veins.

"Why?"

It was all Soap could do to hold onto that conviction in the face of Simon's soft question. It escaped on a sigh, a small, broken thing that was more breath than sound, and Soap wanted nothing more than to rip the paper to shreds, to cross the divide between them and wrap Simon in his arms. The single syllable cut into Soap's skin like a knife, leaving a trail of blood behind, and only Simon's touch would mend it. But he couldn't. For both of them.

"You're compromised," he said, forcing his voice to take on a hard edge, an uncharacteristic flatness, and he barely held himself back when Simon visibly flinched.

"I'm compromised?" Simon hissed, pain and betrayal dripping from every syllable. "Were you- Did Price-"

"I requested it," Soap interrupted. "Price didn't make me do anything."

"Why?" Simon repeated, and he sounded desperate now. Soap ground his teeth together, tasting the remnants of Simon's blood along his gums, and stayed silent. "Since when have you been the responsible one here?"

It was a joke, or at least an attempt at one, a tear-soaked effort, but it landed flat and heavy like a grenade, and Soap could feel the air thicken as they stared at it, wondering if it was a dud or if they would both get caught in the blast.

"One of us has to be," he said flatly, and the grenade exploded. Heat and pain flared across his chest, throbbing in time with his heart, and he couldn't meet Simon's gaze. He stared resolutely at his chest, at the pink scars that pocked his skin, and drew tenacity from the sight. "I'm reckless, Ghost," he said, shaking his head helplessly. "I always will be; nothing you can do about that. I'll not have ye killin' yerself to save a lost cause."

"A lost-" Simon breathed, then cut himself off, his face crumpled in devastation. "Johnny."

"It's already been approved, Ghost," Soap said, a little unkindly, just harsh enough to cut them both, a little pain to force Simon back a step.

"Where are you going?"

"I can't tell you."

"Will you ever come back?"

Soap let the silence stretch between them, speaking for itself. The truth was that he couldn't. He wouldn't let himself. He had seen the way Simon had let himself crack, had reveled in the glimpses he saw behind the mask, had delighted in being one of the only people who got Simon instead of Ghost. But he hadn't expected the ruin it would cause.

Neither of them could guarantee each other's safety; it was the job. They regularly put themselves directly in several convergent lines of sight, laser scopes pointed directly at their hearts and minds. That fact had never bothered Soap before. And then he'd met Simon, and he'd seen how viscerally Simon reacted to the sight of a laser sight aimed at Soap's head. He'd seen the lengths that Simon would go to to protect him, and he couldn't let that happen.

"Will I ever see you again?" Simon whispered, and Soap hated himself for the way his breath hitched.

"I hope not," he said. Every bone in his body buzzed at the lie, but he refused to let it show. "I hope you forget about me, Ghost. By the time I'm KIA, I hope that you'll have forgotten my name."

"Never," Ghost snarled, hot and sudden, but Soap didn't let himself roll over.

"One day I'll die," he continued, keeping his voice as apathetic as possible, like the words weren't scorching his throat as he said them. "There's nothing you can do about that. It'll be easier for you to lose me now."

"Easier?" Simon asked incredulously. "Is any of this easy for you?"

No, God no. The words sat at the tip of Soap's tongue, trapped behind his teeth, and it took everything he had not to let them loose. Nothing about this was easy. But neither was laying in that hospital bed with nothing to stare at except Simon's unconscious body, swathes of shredded skin on full display as the nurses changed the dressings. Neither was clinging to the sound of a heart monitor throughout the night, every silent beat a held breath, hoping that it wasn't the last. Neither was laying next to the love of his life, waiting for him to die, and knowing he was the reason he was there at all.

"The man I love wouldn't do this," Simon pleaded. "The man who loves me wouldn't do this. Don't do this, Johnny, please."

"It's already done, Ghost."

"Simon," Simon breathed. "Why won't you call me Simon? What changed?"

Nothing. But Soap couldn't say that. It was the truth; he loved Simon with every fiber of his being, and that would never change, but he couldn't say that. Instead, he scooped his shirt off the floor, pulled it over his head, and stepped around Simon to the door.

"Do you still love me?" Simon asked, rushed, like it took every effort to force the words out before Soap opened the door and broke the bubble around them once and for all. "Did you ever love me?"

Soap paused, his hand on the doorknob, and squeezed his eyes shut to stop his tears from falling. He did. He did, and he always would. God, he loved Simon like the sun loved the moon. Even now, he craved Simon's touch, craved Simon's smile, his laugh, his fond eyes. He craved and he ached. But he had to stay strong. For both of them.

"No," he said at last, pulling the door open. He heard Simon's sob echo in the room behind him, broken and desolate, and every muscle in his body strained with the need to run to him. He could feel his heart breaking in his chest with an audible crack, splintering until every shard was lodged deep in the surrounding tissue, lacerations that would never heal for as long as he lived. He could only hope that Simon's would, that Simon would be able to pick the pieces back up and tape them back into some semblance of a functioning organ. He could only hope that Price and Gaz would be there to soothe the sting until the cuts scarred over, until Soap's name was said with anger or indifference rather than grief, until Soap was nothing more than a smudge on the horizon. A bitter memory, a long-lost almost, a name on a mission report.

He forced himself to step outside and close the door on the sound of Simon's grief. It was better this way. It had to be. It was the only way Simon would survive.

----

When he stopped by Price's office later that day, he saw the same stack of papers waiting for him, stapled neatly, heading damning. Transfer Request. Signed and dated and absolute. Price fixed him with a scrutinizing look, a little too soft for Soap's liking, and their handshake lasted just a moment too long.

"Good luck, sergeant," he scowled, his displeasure evident in every line of his face, but he hadn't stopped him from signing the papers on the first place.

"Thank you, sir," Soap said. "It was an honor serving with you."

"I hope you know what you're doing, son," Price grunted. "He won't give up that easily."

All he could do was nod as Price handed him the stack of papers. They felt like dead weight in his grip and he tightened his fingers, the sheets crinkling slightly against his palm. Price walked him out to the tarmac where the plane was waiting, cargo and soldiers alike loading into its belly. Gaz was waiting for them, enveloping Soap into a bone-crushing hug as soon as he was within sight.

"I'll miss you, Soap," he said, his lips pressed close to Soap's ear to be heard over the airfield din. "Stay in touch, yeah?"

He knew that he wouldn't, but he nodded anyway, tears prickling at his eyelids.

"I'm sorry," Soap responded. "I-"

"I know," Gaz interrupted, pulling back to look Soap in the eyes. "We'll take care of him for you."

"Thank you."

----

As the plane took off, engines roaring and frame trembling, Soap settled back in his seat, his head resting on the metal hull, and waited for reality to sink in. His body felt charged, a live wire disguised as blood and muscle and bones, and his fingers played with the edge of the paperwork in his hands. He idly flipped through it, making sure every dotted line had its appropriate signature, and when the stray piece of paper fluttered out, he grabbed it reflexively, instinct more than intent.

When his brain registered what it was, he couldn't stop the flow of tears. He read the address over and over again until he couldn't read it anymore, until the words were smudged with drops of water, until he was sobbing into his glove, pressed tight against his lips.

If you change your mind, you know where to find me.

[iravaid]

🎮🩹🩸💯🎄---for Mr Tommy Riley (yes, I consider him your oc) (yes, I picked the Christmas tree on purpose mwah 🫰)

(from this meme)

Heehee hii womby!! Snatching Thomas E. Riley from Lapham's cold, dead hands after Szilvi's oviraptor attack squad is done with him. I'm so happy you asked heehee

(and oh, so you're evil? You're evil, now? you're sick and twisted and evil?)

🎮 VIDEO GAME CONTROLLER — what are three of your oc's favorite hobbies?

Being a munch Although it was initially going to be his career (tattoo artist Tommy-truthers make some noise), I can see Tommy enjoying art as a hobby and way to relax/clear his head. He never used to draw a lot of people before, focusing instead on other popular subjects for tattoo designs such as ships and snakes and tigers. But his newer sketchbooks feature a lot more of Beth and Joseph, with a few of Simon and his mum interspersed between his studies of household items and appliances.

Tommy is a Man U fan, as is family tradition. I count football fanaticism as a hobby because have you seen these people. Do you understand the dedication to know so much about all those balls and points and such? Dear god. Tommy, Simon, and Beth on footie nights out were terrifying concepts, many Chelsea fans mauled. Sad!

It mightn't be strictly a hobby, but I can see Tommy redirecting any pent up energy towards making small renovations in his home/his mum's home, or even woodworking and making things like a jewellery box for Beth, or little carved nativity scene for Joseph's nursery class. Man works with his hands and his thoughts can get a bit much at times, so may as well redirect towards something productive, as he's been taught (even if this does encroach into dysfunction territor when he's working to exhaustion so he doesn't dream when he finally sleeps).

🩹 ADHESIVE BANDAGE — does your oc have any physical and/or mental disabilities?

I can see Tommy having chronic pain from his back injury and the resultant muscle strain and poor healing that came of it. Nothing a couple heat pads and, uh, working a labour intensive job can't fix...

Between drug addiction and childhood trauma, it's not out of the picture for Tommy to also have developed PTSD/CPTSD from his experiences. For a myriad of reasons (potential access to counselling, access to familial support, not being autistic, not being in the military) it's not as extreme as Simon's, and so his emotional intelligence isn't as stunted, but he's still very much living with the effects of being physically and verbally abused as a child, as well as being addicted to opiates in the past, far into adulthood. Again, has better tools to cope with it, but Tommy isn't perfect, and I can see most of his symptoms manifesting in fawning responses than Simon's fight.

Tommy also has leanings towards depression, and there are times when his mental health declines to the point of it being disabling. I don't see him being diagnosed with depression, nor complex PTSD, as the NHS mental health services are in fucking shambles and some doctors mightn't even recognise the latter in his time.

🩸 DROP OF BLOOD — what is your oc's blood type?

So. I don't have a clear answer to this, because I need to know what Simon's blood type is, and it's not listed anywhere. I think there is a fun off-stage/underlying tragedy in Simon and Tommy having incompatible blood types, in that even if Simon had gotten to the flat in time, he wouldn't have been able to 'save' Tommy via donating blood. Something something, the nature of tragedy so deeply set in Ghost's being that it's biological.

Perhaps it's campy, perhaps it's too much, but whatever‼️my oc now.

💯 HUNDRED POINTS SYMBOL — share three random facts about your oc that others may not know.

TOMMY IS THE YOUNGER BROTHER! The wiki is LYING the comics confirm so here:

Tommy is 6'2" and lanky as anything, and unless his brother is on leave, he tends to be the tallest person in the room, bless. Additionally, I can see Tommy having insane forearm and grip strength just from being a tradesman for the better guts of a decade.

Some people have noticed, but Tommy doesn't drink alcohol at all in 'I Wait For You', which is on purpose. He's chosen not to drink, in spite of Britain's heavy drinking culture, as a means of preventing any reliance/gateways, as well as the fact that he doesn't like getting drunk, anyways, primarily because of bad memories of his father after one too many drinks.

🎄 CHRISTMAS TREE — what is your oc's favorite holiday?

Of course it's christmghjgkfgwlisfhdn-

(jokes aside I can see Tommy not having a favourite holiday until he's an adult and meets Beth and falls in love with her, and they eventually have a family together. Then his favourite holiday becomes Mother's Day.)

Augh thank you for the ask :'D It reminded me i have very big feelings about Tommy Riley and his everything, and now my chest hurts heehee

[s0fter-sin]

punk!soap metalhead!ghost brain blast!!!

ghost trying so hard to get soap out of the bad parts of the scene bc he's starting to get pulled in by the shadows, a group of wannabe anarchists that stand for nothing except themselves, but soap loses his shit; laying into ghost for daring to try and "save" him

no one's ever been there for him when he needed them; no one ever offered him support or a soft place to land, why the hell would he want ghost's help when he's perfectly fine on his own? (when he’s always had to be?)

"you think i can't make my own decisions? well fuck you, ghost, who needs a washed up piece o’ shite like you!"

he doesn’t talk to ghost for days, doesn’t let himself acknowledge the hole he’s left behind until he's getting pissed with the shadows one night in an abandoned house and graves starts waving around the gun he snuck through customs and it accidentally goes off, grazing soap's temple

he's never heard anything so loud, even at all the shows he’s attended and there’s so much blood; it's getting in his eyes, running down his neck and soaking into his clothes and he’s frozen. graves and all his shadows bolt after hearing the gunshot, worried about cops finding them and they leave him there; staring at the growing puddle at his feet

soap's panicking; half-blind, blistering pain lighting up his head and he can't think about anything beyond how much he wants ghost

ghost's been sulking at his flat since soap blew him off; pissed at soap for going off on him when he just wants to help but still worried about the punk. he doesn’t want him going down the same road as him; doesn’t want him to repeat his mistakes when he could save himself so much suffering and he almost doesn't answer his phone when it buzzes on the couch

he lets out a ragged sigh as he picks it up; raking a hand over his shaved head when he sees the bubble emoji and contemplates letting it ring out. contemplates answering with a growl; something a younger, crueler version of him would spit. in the end, he decides on silence and puts the phone to his ear just before it can stop ringing

he almost breaks it when he hears soap choke out, "i've been shot."

he's out the door in a heartbeat, running down the stairs because the lift is too slow; trying to get more information out of him but he can't get anything out beyond a repeated, "i've been shot."

he breaks every law there is as he speeds to soap's location; visions of his cold, bloodless corpse staining his mind's eye. the only thing keeping him calm are the strangled breaths from the other end of the line; he's not dead, he can work with not dead, this isn't tommy, soap won't end up like tommy-

ghost screeches to a halt outside a random alley and throws himself from the car when he sees soap collapsed against a garbage bin. he's covered in blood, soaked, just like that night, it's everywhere and he's not moving, he's not moving-

“johnny!”

he skids to his knees and fits his hand under his chin to check his pulse… but his heart beats strong under his fingertips and soap's eyes flutter open; flooded with blood but conscious and alive

the second he registers ghost in front of him, he’s reaching out for him; babbling apologies over and over, "you were right, i'm sorry ghost, i should've listened; i'm sorry, i'm so sorry."

ghost just gently hushes him, cupping his face heedless of the blood. "that doesn't matter now, johnny. we're gonna get you all fixed up, yeah?"

soap’s hands fist in his shirt, clinging to him. "i got shot, ghost," he says again; lost and smaller than he's ever heard from his punk and it's been years since he's felt this kind of rage but he doesn't let a drop of it touch his voice

“i know, lad. i know. gonna let me take a look at it? make it right?"

soap finally nods, his stuttering apologies coming to a halt and ghost runs back to his car to get a towel. he presses it to soap's skin, trying to soak up as much as he can so he can get a proper look; cooing assurances as soap absently hisses in pain the closer he gets to it

it's only a graze and something in his chest unravels; old fears and grief settling as the shallow wound continues to gush into the towel

ghost slumps, pressing his forehead into the top of soap's head and takes a second to just breathe. “‘s’alright, johnny; it’s not even that bad, not even that bad,” he promises, low; spoken more to himself than soap

his hand starts to grow damp and he forces himself to his feet, gathering up soap and getting him into his car. he puts the towel in his hand and presses it against the wound, trying to coax him through his shock to put pressure on it so he can drive

soap curls up in the passenger seat; eyes distant, seeing nothing and ghost has to tighten his grip on the steering wheel so he doesn't turn around

soap is the priority

he has to get him home; has to get him cleaned up and safe

then he can go hunting for the gutless shadow that hurt his punk

[g36a2]

not the worst of lapham's crimes but tommy's short hair being a symbol of recovery was evil.

[amathslutsguidetofandom]

How Far Are You Willing To Go? - 1

PAIRINGS: Ex-husband!Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

SUMMARY: Amid a quiet life post-divorce initiated by Ghost himself, his past resurfaces when his ex-wife and their young children are abducted. He's thrust into a desperate race against time to save them, facing his own demons and fighting to protect his family at any cost. Question is, how far is he willing to go?

WARNINGS: Angst, if you squint. Simon being a dummy for getting a divorce. Incorrect knowledge of allergies and asthma (please help a girlie out)

WORD COUNT: 1,096

*not proof-red*

ENJOY!

“Rylan needs to take his-,” you immediately get interrupted by his low and rough voice. “Meds, by seven in the evening after having his dinner. Yeah, I know,” you can’t help but feel that there is a trace of disdain in his voice.

Oh, how you’ve heard so many variations of that voice. From the usual rough and dark, to how soft and loving it could go. The latter was a rarity for people to hear, who meet him outside of your home’s doors. For you, however, it was common. Was being the key word. It may have not been the voice you heard 24/7, but it was a voice you heard daily.

You look at him and eye the black surgical mask he wears, “right,” you pause. “Just wanted to make sure,” you give him a purse smile, before bending down to be at eye level with your six-year-old.

“Kyla, be good and take care after your brother. Be kind in school and do your homework. Call me if you ever need some help with it, ok?” You try to wear out the imaginary creases on her little brown cardigan.

She nods her head like a mini determined soldier and says a very affirmative ‘yes Mama.” Then you move over to kneel in front of your youngest, Rylan. The four-year-old with the many existing allergies. He rubs his nose, and you tut at him, “use a tissue honey, here blow into this.” You hand him the handkerchief you always carry around for this exact reason. “Do you have your inhaler?” You ask your boy, and he nods proudly as he reaches into his pocket and shows you the small piece of plastic.

“Call me if you need Mama, ok Rylan?” You rest your hands on his shoulders, and pat down on the sweater, you look into the light brown eyes he inherited from his father and kiss his forehead. He nods at you one last time before turning around and running to your ex-husband’s family truck. Kyla kisses your cheek one last time before screaming a “buh-bye Mama” and running off to catch up with her little brother.

You stand back up and cross your arms, heart hurting a little knowing you’d be spending two weeks without your children. But what can you do? Not complain, of course.

It was part of the divorce agreement that Simon is allowed to have the children over at his place for three weeks maximum, whenever he returns from deployment. You reluctantly agreed, purely to the reason that you wouldn’t survive if you were in Simon’s place and couldn’t be able to see your kids.

You were kind in that way.

Simon loved you for it.

He loved everything about you.

He still does.

The ice around his heart thaws as he sees your eyes become bleary as you watch the kids climb into his backseat.

He hates seeing you sad.

He does everything in his power to mask the emotions he feels, and he does it well.

“Well,” you sniffle, “I-uh….I’ll leave you to it then.” You wipe your eyes nonchalantly before tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear as a sort of distraction to what you feel currently.

It was always hard for you whenever Simon comes to pick up the kids.

The mother hen in you does not want to send them with him. But you know, a 100 percent sure, that they’re safer with him than with you, considering Simon’s military experience.

One of the main reason’s Simon broke things off with you.

Simon nod’s, his hands remain in the pockets of his hoodie. You lift the little paw patrol and the little Bluey child suitcases and hand it to him. “There are three weeks’ worth of clothes in there, for each of them,” you stick your hands to the side immediately after he takes them into his rough and calloused ones.

“Please call me if-,” you start, but he interrupts you again. “Anything happens. Yeah, I know,” he says with a rough tone that says, “you seriously think they’ll get hurt with me?”.

“Right…...right,” you nod as you whisper, the words more of a reassurance to you.

You try to peak at his eyes under his hoodie, but to no avail, you couldn’t see them under his black tainted sports sunglasses.

His phone starts to ring, and he pulls out of his back pocket to see the caller ID revealing the caller “Price”.

“I’ll see you in two weeks then,” you say, knowing he has to go. He nods in response before turning away and heading back to his truck, he places the suitcases in the passenger seat before double checking the buckles on the child-seat’s where Kyla and Rylan are sat in.

He does all the dad checkup’s before getting in the driver’s seat.

He see’s you through the tainted windows of his truck.

He rolls the back window down so the kids can say their final goodbye’s

“Bye Mama!” Both kids scream and the wave with smiles on their faces. You chuckle wetly as tears silently roll down your cheeks.

You know they’re safe with Simon, but you heart still hurts that they won’t be around for a while.

Simon sees the tears and his own heart breaks.

He pulls out of the driveway with a heavy heart, hating to see the love of his life in tears.

He sighs before pulling out his phone and clicking on Price’s caller ID.

The old Captain picks up after two rings.

“Ghost, we need you.”

🎀🎀🎀

TAGLIST <3: @cntloup @identity2212 @somnorvos @yyiikes @bobateasilverpearl @animarix @outoftheseine

Guess who's back? Back again?

Hey Lovelies!

I know it's been a while, but uni has started and I am trying to re-slay. Here is the much-awaited Simon series I have always wanted to start.

Lemme know if you wanna be tagged!

Also....

Lemme know what y'all think!

Stay Coquette-y,

Anya 🫶🏽🕊️🎀

[transbookoftheday]

Leave Trans Kids Alone

Inspired by David Tennant's "Leave Trans Kids Alone You Absolute Freaks" shirt, here are some amazing trans middle grade and picture books you should read:

Book titles:

99% Chance of Magic by Amy Eleanor Heart, Abbey Darling and Luna Merbruja

Sir Callie and the Champions of Helston by Esme Symes-Smith

Jamie by L.D. Lapinski

Camp QUILTBAG by Nicole Melleby and A. J. Sass

Dear Mothman by Robin Gow

Moonflower by Kacen Callender

Joy, to the World by Kai Shappley and Lisa Bunker

Ana on the Edge by A.J. Sass

Girl Haven by Lilah Sturges, Meaghan Carter and Joamette Gil

Obie Is Man Enough by Schuyler Bailar

Alice Austen Lived Here by Alex Gino

The House That Whispers by Lin Thompson

Both Can Be True by Jules Machias

The Tea Dragon Festival by K. O'Neill

Different Kinds of Fruit by Kyle Lukoff

Jude Saves the World by Ronnie Riley

Tiger Honor by Yoon Ha Lee

The Ship We Built by Lexie Bean

Rabbit Chase by Elizabeth Lapensee, KC Oster and Aarin Dokum

Skating on Mars by Caroline Huntoon

Tally the Witch by Molly Landgraff

The Beautiful Something Else by Ash Van Otterloo

The Deep & Dark Blue by Niki Smith

The Fabulous Zed Watson! by Basil Sylvester and Kevin Sylvester

The Ojja-Wojja by Magdalene Visaggio and Jenn St-Onge

Too Bright to See by Kyle Lukoff

The One Who Loves You the Most by medina

Me and My Dysphoria Monster by Laura Kate Dale and Hui Qing Ang

When Aidan Became A Brother by Kyle Lukoff and Kaylani Juanita

Calvin by J.R. Ford, Vanessa Ford and Kayla Harren

[cloudypariah]

How to perpetrate and sabotage your own kidnapping: A guide for dummies.

- The creation of the board (and its subsequent discovery)

Summary: Step One: host a brainstorming session with your teammates on how best to kidnap your future abductee. Step Two: have said abductee show up half an hour into the session and begin correcting your entire plan. Step Three: realise at the beginning of their impromptu presentation the target has absolutely no idea that they’re the target. Step Four: fail anyway.

Pairing: Dark!Poly!Task Force 141 x fem!Reader

Word count: 1.8k

Content tags: Dark content - Discussions around kidnapping, tense situations. If this is not your cup of tea, please go and find something different might better suited your palate. This is an 18+ fic meaning minors do not interact with this work. No one has permission from me to repost, copy or translate my work. No one has my permission to put my work into any AI source.

Notes: This is my first foray into the COD fandom and will be the first part in a dark comedy series. Please let me know what you think. Not proofread very well, sorry for any mistakes! Thanks for the motivation @live-love-be-unique !

Link to Task Force 141 masterlist / Link to COD masterlist

Captain John Price likes to think he knows his men well enough to trust them when his back is turned. Now that itself doesn’t necessarily mean knowing each and every one of their dirty secrets - he definitely wouldn’t come out smelling like fresh daisies if any number of his were revealed - but it does mean that he has the awareness to recognise that they all share one particular secret.

He sees it in the way Lieutenant Riley’s body language shifts when you give him his medical forms to look over, your consideration at offering him the option to disclose only certain personal information making the reserved soldier relax just enough to offer you a low thanks, accompanied with a stare that stretches on for a few moments longer than considered socially polite.

It’s also so amazingly obvious with Sergeant MacTavish. John’s surprised everyone else misses the way Soap’s smile takes a little longer to fade after departing for yet another mission, your swift congratulations on completing yet another physiotherapy appointment - “ Keep it up the good work big guy” - leaving the Scotsman floating on cloud nine damn near until the plane lands.

And how could he forget Sergeant Garrick? The man’s quick to change his tune and focus up, but the captain has observed Kyle absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder, thumb gingerly stroking the spot where your palm was only moments before, your figure long gone as you retreat down the corridor to where you came from.

No, Jonathan Price doesn’t miss a thing about his men. And it only takes two weeks and a long chat in the corner booth of the bar one quiet night - sans you or Laswell - before somehow his place becomes the meeting point for an unusual, though not unwelcome, topic - you.

More specifically, how to keep you.

The wooden shit box of a sports bar was where the first two facts were confirmed amongst them: 1. Every single one of the 141 men wanted you for themselves, but they weren’t above sharing. 2. You weren’t worth killing each other over, not when there was a much easier solution staring them in the face.

John’s house became the go-to place to discuss fact number three - They needed a plan.

It was Gaz who initially suggested the whiteboard after numerous interjections from Ghost and John; from everything to how to keep this from Laswell, to deciding which of your usual hangouts would provide them with the best opportunity to commence your “relocation”, to how to delicately but firmly explain said "relocation" to you once it was complete. Kyle loves his brothers in arms and never regrets a moment where his life is on the line if it means saving any one of them, but his patience began to wear thin when Soap got bored and started using goddamn paper planes instead of words to get his point across. At that Price finally relented and bought the damn thing.

Now, John was expecting you to pop by his place on Wednesday night to drop some papers off. A perfect opportunity, were it not for the fact that the gentlemen were still disagreeing on where to relocate you. However, it’ll allow you to grow more comfortable with him while he has some alone time with you, your presence like a balm on a wound - soothing and necessary (at least to him).

He had been looking forward to seeing you… tomorrow. So when you turn up not just on the doorstep but in the middle of the bloody hallway in his own bloody home halfway through the 141 “guys night”, his secondary action of shitting bricks quickly overrides his primary instinct to eliminate the threat.

He’s on his way back from the bathroom when he sees you standing, familiar folders firm in your grasp - fucking hell, is that his spare key too? - and a sour expression on your pretty face.

Your eyes narrow further when you spot him, striding over with fury rolling off you in small waves. “Captain Price, I know you did not leave these dossiers on my desk just before the end of my work day with a note stating they all need to be completed by the end of the work day.”

John’s senses are briefly overwhelmed by you being so close to him, the sight of you angry having a different effect on him than what you had originally intended. He’s never seen it before, and his hand twitches when you’re less than a foot away - fluctuating adrenaline or the desire to reach out and hold you, he’s not sure which is more prevalent. 

He always forgets to not be so obvious around you, but it isn’t as though you usually notice. (He’s not sure if the thought should make him feel sad or grateful.)

The sounds of his men arguing in the background, merely the next room over, are enough to bring reality crashing down hard.

His voice is deliberately loud and stalwart when replies. “You can’t be here.”

“Tough shit. Your lads night can wait.” You lean past him to the origin of what your gut was telling you was the sounds of the remaining 141 members quarreling. It’s easy to slip past Captain Price once your mind is set, the push of files against his chest preventing him from reacting for a few seconds - all the time you need to move down the hallway to where everyone else is bound to be.

John is quick to rush behind you, the arguing noises having swiftly changed to near cartoon-like crashes just moments before you enter the room. 

Ghost has migrated to the corner of the sitting area, standing as stiff as a fucking nutcracker, a mountain of crumpled notes and paper planes spilling out from between his arms. (His mask is still on thank god because it’ll hide exactly how caught out he feels, and if there’s one thing Simon Riley cannot stand it’s feeling like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar). His eyes instinctually watch your every move, waiting for your reaction.

Both of your gazes drift to the other side of the room, with neither of you failing to notice how the couch cushions are strewn widely across the space, (with one being stuck on top of a bookshelf for some odd reason) to find not one, but two soldiers gecko’d to the standing whiteboard.

Their demolitions expert is currently splayed out on the left side of the board and desperately grabbing the top of its metal frame, his stomach pressed into the cold porcelain and a left leg hitched up in a poor attempt to conceal the incriminating writing.

Price’s protégé is in a similar state. Dear Gaz has his back against the right side, with his arms outstretched to - much like Johnny - cover as much of their group planning as possible, a coloured marker clasped in each fist.

Two deers in headlights.

The sight of his task force is enough to bring back flashbacks of his original conversation with Kate about bringing these men together because Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck was he thinking?

There are a few moments when nobody moves or dares to breathe…

… except for you, of course.

You waste no time walking over to the two youngest members of the 141 as you attempt to shove them off the board. “Move,” you demand, palms pushing firmly against their sides. “I want to know what’s so important to everyone.” When they refuse, you do your best to stare at them, pleading with a pleasantly soft, “Please.”

Yeah, they both do what you say with ease when they hear that, giving you enough space to take in the somewhat smudged scribbles.

You miss the signal John gives Simon, the Ghost moving closer to your position as John quietly locks the door, and when your attention is drawn back to the board after the other two move you also miss all of the knowing looks shared behind your back. This was very far from ideal, but how can they recover from this?

They hope you understand that whatever comes next, they didn’t plan for it to start this way.

Kyle and John call your name but you ignore them, still processing the information written in front of you.

Johnny flexes his hands, preparing for the worst as you step back and say, “This is… bullshit.”

Every single member stops. That was not the reaction they were expecting.

Turning to face the group, you scoff. “I’m not even kidding. Firstly, you’re using guys' night to work, which is horrible for your mental and emotional health. And you should all know better.”

Four sets of brows furrow in united confusion. You don’t let that deter you from continuing, your arms gesturing haphazardly at the whiteboard. “Secondly, this is hands-down one of the worst brainstorms I have ever seen. This is not cohesive in the fucking slightest. Garrick, mark me.”

Kyle chokes on his spit, his brain short-circuiting before he sees your fingers wiggling at one of the markers he’s holding. The sergeant promptly gives it to you.

Your free hand takes turns pointing at everyone else in the room, a verbal command of, “sit down” directed at each man also. Dumbly and cautiously they all do. Ghost places himself at the end of the couch nearest the entrance, John strategically chooses a spot between yourself and the kitchen, and Soap and Gaz sit closest to you, where the two of them can hear you muttering under your breath as you draw what appears to be a massive cloud shape in the middle of the board.

Once completed, you fill your shape in with the word ‘TARGET’ and slam your free hand against the board. No one flinches, but if one were to look closely there would be some eyes widening in response. Johnny swears he sees one of your eyelids twitch.

“So,” you call out, “what do we know about the target?”

There are not only wide eyes looking at you, there are full glances exchanged between your audience.

“Seeing as you had the nerve to not invite me in your little meeting while keeping me on overtime” - Kyle and John squirm at that, and your finger makes a little circle - “we are going to be working on this project together. With all due respect, I’m not asking.”

Surely not…

And it’s when Captain John Price reviews the writing left over from the others that he realises Kyle and Johnny did one thing right during their clusterfuck of a coverup.

They managed to erase your name.

… you have absolutely no idea you are the target.

 A piece of writing far in the coroner catches your attention, and your shoulders slump. “The target likes knitting and ‘The Karate Kid’. In another life we would have been the best of friends.” A dramatic sigh leaves you, “Oh well, at least I’ll be able to give you some insight into the mindset of this individual. Any questions?”

Four hands shoot up.

Rubbing your hands together with glee, a maniac smile grows on your face. “Excellent.”

[celestialprincesse]

little baby ghost headcanons please.. id love to see your take on simon when he was a wee young thing. :')

Responding to this rq before I get back into studying but!! I have so many ideas!!

ᯓ★

Simon was definitely one of those really sweet and well meaning, but super awkward kids. His mum always had to encourage him to say hi and actually talk to people when they went out or had visitors over.

He was desperately obsessed with planes and the RAF growing up and saved up all his pocket money to buy little model spitfires, typhoons etc. For one of his birthdays, his mum even drove him down to the Duxford Imperial War Museum to see one of the air shows. It was one of the best days of his life.

Growing up, he was a really clever kid, but never really had any sort of passion for education, and whilst he excelled in sports, and other more hands on subjects like woodworking, he took absolutely no interest in the more content heavy classes.

When Tommy was born, Simon helped his mum put the furniture together, and even carved some (admittedly rudimentary) toys for his baby brother in his woodworking classes.

He was a total mama's boy growing up, and much preferred doing stuff with his mum, even down to running errands, than going out with kids his own age. If Mrs Riley was seen anywhere, Simon would probably be somewhere close by.

As a teenager, he got made fun of a lot for being quieter, and whilst all of his classmates were fixated on getting girlfriends and going out, he was much happier at home helping his mum or kicking a ball around with Tommy.

He had a real passion for music, especially late 60's/early 70's rock, and asked his mum for a guitar for one of his birthdays. She felt awful for the fact that she couldn't afford it, let alone lessons for him to learn how to play it, and so Simon got a job at the butchers to save up.

By the time he had enough cash for the guitar he actually wanted, he'd long gone off it and wanted to save up in order to buy a car or put it towards going to college.

ᯓ★

I came back to England yesterday & drove past Duxford (which was one of my favourite museums growing up) and it made me think that Simon was most definitely an RAF/military history nerd🥴

[cordeliawhohung]

Some Other Life

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader - part five of "soft spot"

The Ghost himself is haunted. Not just by the past, but by what could have been. But he's not the only one running.

warnings: canon typical violence, descriptions of bodies/death/all that, reader is getting a bit of back story (so if that's not your thing... sorry ig lmao), angst/hurt/comfort, it's pretty light, though

wc: 5.6k

“Faster! Faster!” 

Joseph always loved airplanes. Whenever he was out with his parents, or stuck in the back seat of the car, he always watched the sky just in case he saw one. Even if it was too high up in the air to make out any details, he would cheer and point and exclaim to his parents, demanding their attention to the aircraft traveling thousands of feet high above them. 

No one knew where his fascination with the big hunks of metal had come from. The boy had never been on an airplane before, and he had never seen one up close. Perhaps it was on some cartoon that they hadn’t taken note of. Either way, for the time being, his Uncle Simon was the closest thing he’d get to flying in one. The man held Joseph up in the air who had his arms spread out to mimic wings. He was a giggling mess, asking his uncle to move him through the air faster and faster. Simon grinned as he looked up at his nephew, supporting the young boy's body with just his hands alone. 

“Go easy on your uncle, Joseph.” 

It was his brother’s voice. Tommy. He sat next to their mother on the couch with the lights of the Christmas tree illuminating the soft strands of his blonde hair. Joseph was a near spitting image of Tommy, and it was almost strange to see. It was like he had been transported back in time, though Joseph was considerably more kind than Tommy had been at that age. 

“It’s alright,” Simon assured his brother as he placed his nephew back on the ground. The boy giggled once more as he kept his arms straight out and took off running around the small living room. “You’re a lucky man, Tom. I’m proud of you.” 

And he was. He really was. Between the addiction and wasting his life away couch surfing, he was turning out to be just like their father. A mindless drunk and druggie that had no care for anyone else around him. But he pulled himself out of that hole. Married a beautiful young lady, and had a dashing little boy. It was the life he always dreamed his brother would have. 

“When are you going to stop saving the world and settle down?” Tommy asked. 

Simon could only smile at the floor as he sat back on his haunches, watching Joseph carefully as he zoomed around the room. When would he settle down? Would he ever? Could he ever? After everything he had seen, after everything he had been through; was a life like that meant for him? 

“Ahh… I couldn’t do better than you and Beth,” Simon admitted softly, unable to look his brother in the eyes. 

“Simon,” a soft voice came from the doorway. 

He looked up from the floor and his eyes found his sister-in-law. A beautiful woman with glowing auburn hair. She smiled kindly at him, like she did with everyone else she was around. Truly the angel that some high being sent to fix up his wreck of a brother. 

“There’s someone at the door for you,” she continued, her hand raising to scratch at her arm. “A yank.” 

Simon raised from his spot on the floor and weaved past Beth as he walked to the front. A figure stood in the door, illuminated by the light of the entryway, but it was wrong. It was smaller than the figure he had expected and it made his stomach churn. The person at the door wasn’t a yank; it was you. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Simon said lowly. It was like a warning; a threat. 

Despite his menacing tone, your cheerful smile was unwavering. It was freezing outside, but you didn’t wear a coat, and it didn’t even look like you were shivering. 

“You were the one who brought me here,” you retorted wittily. 

Your eyes looked past Simon and down the entryway where Joseph still ran around the living room. How long had he been running? He was going to get tired, or trip and hurt himself. But Tommy sat there, next to their mother, still smiling as he watched his son zip around the room. 

“You can’t stop it, you know,” you spoke up, eyes locked onto the scene playing out behind Simon. 

A hand absentmindedly raised to your neck where you played with the bead necklace around your throat. It was the one he had gotten you. Or, well, Johnny had. But you didn’t know him. Had he even met the man yet at that point? No…

But the necklace was wrong. Where was the green? Why was it red? Why was it so close to your throat, constricting so tight it looked like it was choking you? The beads were too big. It was wrong. All wrong. 

“I can. I have to. They didn’t deserve it,” Simon said, and his voice felt weak. Like he was sick. Like he couldn’t get his vocal chords to resonate loud enough to make a difference. 

“No, silly,” you said with a patronizing giggle. “I’m not talking about them.” 

You wouldn’t look at him, and it felt like his chest was about to collapse in on itself. You always looked at him. He wanted you to look at him, needed you to. Desperate hands reached out to cup your cheeks and he tilted your head up, but no matter how firmly he held you, your eyes strayed. Side eyeing the wall next to you, glancing up at the ceiling; your eyes would land anywhere but on him. 

“Look at me,” he said, his grip becoming so firm he felt as if he was about to crush your skull. Still, you refused. “Look at me!” 

“It’s okay,” you assured him, voice soft. The light in your eyes seemed more dull than normal. That shining glimmer that was normally there had been replaced with something else. Some sort of cloudiness he couldn’t peer through. “Ghost, it’s okay. You’re okay.” 

Liar. He wasn’t okay. You were there, standing in front of him, and you shouldn’t be. And you refused to look at him, or say his name, and your eyes were wrong, everything was wrong and he wanted to shatter it. To break it beyond recognition. 

“You can’t hold onto me forever,” you said, voice distorted and slightly gurgling. 

Your eyes finally landed on him. He thought it would make him feel better. He thought it would feel like home, but it didn’t. Instead, he felt sick, like his stomach was twisting in knots, like the breath had been ripped from his lungs, never to return. Why did you look at him like that? Like you were forgiving him? 

“Come on, you have to let go,” Tommy spoke up from behind him with a chuckle. Suddenly, a pair of arms had snaked their way around his torso, constricting his chest so tightly he nearly coughed. “You can’t do this forever, Simon.” 

But his arms weren’t right. That was all wrong, too. Where was his skin? Why was it all just milky bone; a skeleton dragging him backwards? Simon’s hands let go of your face as he went to try and pry the skeletal arms off of him, but it was no use. It was an iron grip. 

“I told you, Ghost,” you spoke up, still standing in front of him. Except now, he really got a good look at you. At the blood soaking your shirt, how it dripped onto the floor in thick, viscous splatters. How had he not noticed before? Had you been like this the whole time? Broken? Bleeding? “You can’t stop it.” 

He tried to scream. He wanted to scream. But when he opened his mouth, nothing would come out but a simple, pathetic push of air. More hands and arms came down on his body, dragging him back, and he was helplessly frozen in place as he watched the blood continue to spill from your body. Disgusting, slimy, rotten bones ripped at his skin while voices cooed in his ear. Tommy’s voice, his mother’s, Vernon’s, Roba’s… they were taunting him. 

“You knew what would happen.” 

“Did you really think it wouldn’t go wrong?”

“Everything you touch ends up like this, kid.” 

“You killed her the moment you entered her life, Simon.” 

When Simon woke up, he could still feel the bony fingers clawing at his chest, ripping the skin from his body, torturing him slowly. His breaths were labored, but not enough to wake you up in your shared bed. A thin layer of sweat covered his body, and the fabric of his sweatpants and the bedsheets clung to his skin, suffocating him. He laid on his back for a moment, staring up blankly at the ceiling as he willed his body and mind to calm. 

It didn’t take him long to settle his nerves, as it was something he was well versed in by that point. He was a soldier, afterall. There was no time for emotions or panic. But once he did calm down, he knew he couldn’t stay in that bed. 

His movements were slow as he twisted himself upwards, setting his feet flat on the floor. Darkness swallowed the room with the only light illuminating the room coming from the hallway through the ajar door. He glanced over his shoulder where he found your sleeping form nestled under the comforter. Vague features of your face shone through the darkness, and he found himself swallowing a harsh lump in his throat at the sight. Reaching behind him, he grabbed the comforter and pulled it up over your shoulders before standing. 

With quiet and careful precision, Simon rummaged through his dresser where he pulled out a shirt to cover his bare skin and a pair of jeans to change into. Once he was fully dressed, he slipped out of the room as he meandered down the hall. The entire apartment was frigid and drafty, as if someone had left a window open all night. He would have chalked it up to just his nerves if it wasn’t for the fact that it got like that every night. Both you and him had a suspicion one of the windows in the living room wasn’t sealed properly. 

He tried not to think too hard about it as he grabbed his boots from the entryway before meandering into the living room. Slumping onto the couch, Simon leaned down to lace up his boots, his fingers knotting the strings expertly. But he had only gotten one boot laced up before he heard the soft patting of your feet from down the hallway. 

“Simon?” you asked as you peered around the corner. Your hair was frizzy with sleep, and you wore nothing but an oversized sleep shirt. He took note of the way you tried not to shiver. “What’re you doing?” 

He made quick work of his second boot before he pushed himself off of the couch. Simon was a tall man, that much was obvious. But whenever he wore his boots it made him appear a good inch or two taller, which only made you feel smaller, especially as he walked up to you. 

“Just going for a walk, love,” he said softly, his voice deep with a heavy tiredness to it. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

You shook your head as you stepped closer, closing the gap between the two of you as you leaned into his chest for a hug. He returned the movement in kind, wrapping his arms around you. He hadn’t realized just how tense his body was until you touched him, as if your very presence melted that away from him.

“I wasn’t sleeping. I was trying to, but hadn’t quite gotten there yet.” You leaned back, hands still resting on his chest while his arms stayed firm around your waist. “Mind if I join you?” 

Simon quirked an eyebrow up at you. “It’s freezing out there, sweetheart.” 

“Well, it is December,” you teased while tilting your head to the side. “I don’t mind the cold, though.” 

You made a move to leave, but Simon wouldn’t let you pull away. His arms stayed firmly wrapped around your waist. It wasn’t trapping or demanding, just lonely. His eyes drank you in. Not lustfully, but not like he was admiring your beauty, either. What was that in his eyes? Some hint of distance? A fogginess you couldn’t quite peer through. 

“Everything alright?” you questioned softly. 

Things were quiet between you for another beat as Simon couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from you. Eventually, he gave you a small nod as his hands slowly pulled away from you, fingertips lingering on your waist like he’d never get to touch you again. 

“Yeah. Go get changed. You’ll freeze your arse off wearin’ that,” he said, earning him a playful eye roll from you. 

“Shit, and here I was hoping to get a little frostbitten,” you said sarcastically as you turned around to walk back to your shared room. 

Shared room. Simon was still getting used to saying that. Living with you had easily been one of the best choices he had ever made. Seeing your quirks, sleeping next to you at night, it was all different and something he was trying to adjust to, but welcomed nonetheless. 

As he waited for you, Simon looked around the living room. It was still pretty much the same as the first time he saw it, more or less. Same old sofa, side table, and Ikea lamp he had put together for you. The only major difference was the small Christmas tree that sat on one of the side tables. It was only about a foot and a half tall, and was a pathetic looking thing. Full sized ornaments meant for larger trees weighed down the synthetic branches. It was something out of a cartoon, really. Still, despite the fact the poor tree was crying for help after you placed the ornaments so carefully on it, you insisted that Simon was the one to place the little star at the top. 

“So much for tucking in early,” your voice carried down the hallway as you made it back to the living room. A thick winter jacket swaddled your body in a warm cocoon, and your fingers were busy pulling a beanie over your head and ears as your eyes landed on Simon. “It’s just past ten. We pretty much napped for an hour or so and now we’re gonna be awake all night.” 

It wasn’t long before you slipped into your shoes and you and Simon were out the door. He was right, it was freezing. Not that you were surprised. When night fell over London in winter, the absence of the sun made everything twice as cold, and the moisture in the air from the rain didn’t help either. It wasn’t as bad as it was in November, but you still found you shoving your hands deep into your pockets anyway. 

Despite the fact that the moon was out to play, the Christmas lights adorning the streets nearly drowned out her beauty with their own. Glittering, golden lights hung loosely over the streets and swirled up every lamp post. You found that if you stared at the pavement long enough, you could almost convince yourself it really was daytime. 

Every now and then you would glance up at Simon. With the colder weather, he donned a plain black balaclava and shoved his hood up over his head, almost fully concealing his face. If it was dark outside, he would nearly blend in if it wasn’t for the whites of his eyes. But something was on his mind. It was pretty obvious with his quietness and downturned gaze. But Simon wasn’t a talker. Not about himself, anyway. So you just walked with him in your own silence, enjoying his company, and the lights that surrounded you, hoping your presence offered a bit of comfort. 

Eventually the two of you stumbled upon a square of sorts. A massive Christmas tree stood in the center of it, bundled in a blanket of lights that twisted upwards, entangling in the tree’s thick branches. Someone had taken great care to put giant golden ornaments on the tree not just at the base, but all the way to the very top. An equally large and fitting star sat at the top of the tree, and it was a miracle that the thing wasn’t bending underneath the weight of it. 

A fair amount of people gathered around the tree, and their chatter could be heard echoing down the street. There were several small stands set in random places around the square where people seemed to be exchanging items. Upon taking a closer look, you realized it was a charity event; an organization gathering donations of either money or toys in order to provide presents for children who otherwise wouldn’t be able to get them. They had already gathered a small pile of toys, anything from Barbie dolls to toy airplanes or art kits. 

You and Simon walked through the square, as it was along his normal walking route anyway. Everyone was smiling, and really trying to sell the Christmas joy with their Santa hats and warm wishes. Yet as the two of you walked through, a familiar scent wafted through the air. 

“Is that hot chocolate?” you wondered out loud. 

At your question, Simon looked around, dark eyes carefully scanning the stands until he spotted the one closest to the Christmas tree. An electric soup warmer sat on a table, and volunteers dipped a ladle into the pot to pour rich, thick hot chocolate into styrofoam cups. Apparently all proceeds from that stand went towards the donations too, according to the sign on the side. 

“Want some?” he offered, hand already fishing in his pocket for his wallet. 

You bit your lip in thought for a moment while you looked at the small line of people. It really did smell delightful, even from your distance away from them. There was even a bowl of butter mints to throw into the cup to give the chocolate a hint of peppermint. 

“Maybe,” you said, adjusting your beanie on your head. 

“Come on, then,” he urged as he took a step towards the stand. 

Grinning, you followed along after him, hopping in line behind the other hot chocolate enthusiasts. Without them having to make each cup as ordered, the line moved fairly quickly. Cash would be exchanged, they would talk a little bit about where the money was going towards, they’d get their cup, and they’d go along with the rest of their night. 

Something was different by the time you and Simon got to the front of the line, though. One of the women serving the hot chocolate seemed to recognize you, and even called you by name. A pit of worry instantly formed in Simon’s stomach, as he remembered what happened the last time someone had exclaimed your name like that in a public setting. But this girl seemed nice enough. Her curled blonde hair blew in the slight breeze, but her own winter hat helped to keep it mostly intact. She looked at you with a dazzling smile. He couldn’t help but wonder if she whitened her teeth. 

“Ness?” you asked in disbelief. “God, it’s been a minute!” 

Simon stayed silent as he looked at the other woman at the stand. While you chatted away with someone who he assumed was a friend, he exchanged the needed cash with her for the drink and waited while she dished it out. 

“It’s so good to see you!” Ness exclaimed with a grin. “How long has it been since we last saw each other? Had to have been right before we went to Uni, huh?” 

You nodded your head while your fingers played absentmindedly with the buttons on your coat. “Yeah, it feels like forever ago. How’ve you been?” 

“Good! Things have been great. Graduated, got a job as a social worker. That’s one of the reasons why I’m here, actually. Helping to raise some extra cash for our kids,” she said with a bubbly chuckle. “What about you? How was The States?” 

Though he didn’t say anything about it, Simon couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow up at that comment. You? In America? 

“Uhm, it was good! Enjoyed it a lot. Liking it much better here back home, though,” you explained, your fingers continuing to twist the buttons on your coat. The sound of the thread struggling was audible.

“Bet your mum’s glad you’re back. I remember her being nearly in tears during graduation. Couldn’t believe her little girl was going off to see the world,” Ness joked. “I remember you were the talk of the school for a bit because of that. Going off to America, I mean.”

The other lady at the stand handed Simon the styrofoam cup, and he muttered a quick thanks before turning his attention towards you. Though you were smiling, the small quiver at the corner of your mouth wasn’t lost on him. 

“How is she, by the way?” Ness continued. 

You coughed. 

“She’s alright,” you said stiffly. “Been a bit since I’ve visited her, though.” 

The button snapped off of your coat. Really, it was amazing it hadn’t broken earlier with how you kept twisting and twisting it. The thread could only take so much before it frays. You looked down at the small item in your hands and swallowed hard as you quickly shoved it into your pocket. 

“Here,” Simon quietly interjected. 

When you turned to look at him, you noticed he held a cup out for you to take, and you looked at it like you had forgotten it was the whole reason you were even over there in the first place. Still, you reached your hand out, the warmth bleeding through the styrofoam and into your fingers. You looked down at it for a long moment before glancing back up at Ness. 

“Well, it was good seeing you again. We won’t hold up your line any longer,” you said politely. 

With a quick and somewhat awkward farewell to your old acquaintance, you and Simon were off on the streets again, leaving the square far behind you. Despite the fact that you had been eyeing up that stand earlier, all you could do was stare down at the hot chocolate in your hands, unable to bring yourself to drink it. It was nice to hold at least, but the thought of tasting it made your mouth feel dry. 

Family wasn’t something Simon talked about. Just wasn’t his thing. Maybe it was to save himself from the heartache, or maybe it was just to try and preserve the only image he had left of them in his mind. Luckily, you never asked him about family; not his parents, if he had siblings, or anything of the sort. But you never offered that information up about yourself, either. It wasn’t his place to know, and certainly not his place to ask, but he couldn’t lie to himself and pretend that he didn’t know something was off about that conversation. 

“America, huh?” he spoke up, shattering the silence that had settled between the two of you. 

A soft scoff of sorts left your lungs where it turned into nothing but frosty air in front of your lips. “Yeah. I… got accepted to Yale on scholarship.” 

Simon hummed. “Never told me you were smart,” he teased. 

This got a laugh out of you, which made both you and him feel a bit better. Still, your eyes were locked onto the drink, unable to bring yourself to taste it. And that fucking button was burning a hole through your pocket. 

“I was there for their medical program, actually,” you explained, but you didn’t sound proud of yourself. “I thought it would have been cool. To go out and see the world. Just get out of here for a bit.” 

“Not what you expected?” he asked. 

“It was… it was amazing,” you said softly. “Just wished I could have stayed there longer.” 

Silence. But there was something there, stirring around. He could feel it. It was like blowing up a balloon and waiting for it to pop, or the painfully long time it took for a hand to connect to a cheek in a slap. 

“She’s dead. My mum,” you finally let out. It wasn’t exactly the sort of confession Simon was expecting from you, but either way, he already knew the words before they left your mouth. “I, uh… didn’t even get to finish a full year in America before she had gotten sick.” 

“You came back to take care of her?” he asked. 

“I was the only one who could,” you said a little bitterly. “She didn’t ask me to. She never would. But I knew she needed someone. So I came back, got a shitty job working in finance. I’d take care of her during the day, and work in a money transfer service place at night. I don’t… regret it or anything but…”

He nodded his head. You didn’t need to explain it. It was an odd sort of guilt that only someone put in that position could feel. Choosing between living your life, and helping someone go through the end of theirs wasn’t an easy decision. It was a sacrifice either way. Something you’d go through and not come out whole. 

“Doesn’t make it any easier,” he finished your sentence. 

“Yeah,” you agreed softly. 

Finally, you forced yourself to take a sip of that damned hot chocolate. It was much better than you had expected. For something they were serving on a semi-large scale, you had thought it would have been plain hot water mixed with cocoa powder. But the flavor was rich, and the drink was thick and filling. Perhaps maybe a tad too sweet. It didn’t make you feel any warmer, though. 

“Christmas was her favorite holiday,” you reminisced. “Decorating the tree was her favorite part. She’d always put up these god awful decorations I had made when I was a kid. Absolutely ugly, but she always insisted that it needed a little love, like all things do. So she’d put on some old Christmas songs and we’d decorate the tree together. She’d always have me climb up the ladder to put the star on. It was my least favorite part. Always thought I was gonna fall off the damn thing, but I knew she wouldn’t be able to do it herself.” 

You sighed as you swirled the cup in your hands while Simon listened to you ramble. Neither of you had ever talked about your families before, especially not in such a way. It felt terrible, but the kind of pain that needed to happen. Like cleaning a wound. 

“It doesn’t feel the same without her. Even though it’s been years, I always think about her. It feels stupid. Missing her so much.”

“It’s not stupid,” Simon assured you. He was quick to give you those words, and he said it with such conviction you almost believed him. But he wasn’t sure who he was saying it for; you, or him? 

Either way, it got a laugh out of you. The sort of laugh that was just air through your nose, but it was something. Instead of answering him right away, you quickly took another sip of your drink. The freezing air had cooled it down considerably, but the warmth of it still remained on your tongue for a fleeting moment. 

“She would have liked you.” 

Now that was comedic. Perhaps the funniest joke you had ever told him. Maybe he would have laughed if his mind wasn’t so fried. Instead, he glanced at you from the corner of his eye before shaking his head. 

“Was she blind?” he asked facetiously. 

“Oh, quit it,” you scolded him. “I’m being serious. She would have adored you.” 

But that wasn’t enough to convince him. For all his cockiness and jokes, Simon was someone who always seemed to think he was unlovable. Despite all the time the two of you had spent together, that thought seemed to eat him alive. It always felt like he was holding you in the palm of his hands, terrified that you’d fly away but refusing to crush you in his grip. 

“I get it. You’re brooding, and quiet, and a bit of a dick. You’re a military man, and not exactly every mother’s dream guy for her daughter. But you…” You paused for a moment to swallow. Why did it feel like this was a confession? “You won't ever admit it, but you’re kind, and some days I feel like you read my thoughts better than I can. For fucks sake you nearly broke Eric’s jaw. You know what my mother would have done if she was there? She would have handed you a bat and asked you to finish the job.” 

A breathy chuckle left your lips in a mist as you grinned down at your feet. Your body was starting to feel fatigued from a mix of the walking, the cold, and lack of sleep, but you pushed forward anyway. 

“You take care of me. You’re good to me. That’s all she ever wanted for me,” you finished. 

Just when he thought he had pushed all those memories and feelings aside, you brought them rushing back to him. Not just the blood, that sour scent of iron staining his skin. Not just the bodies haphazardly fallen onto the floor. But Joseph’s giggles, the shrill sound nearly bursting his ear drums but he would go deaf if it meant he could hear it one more time. The way his brother looked at his wife, how the two of them would share loving touches and grinning whispers. Or his mothers Christmas ham, with the thick honey glaze and that scent that made his stomach constrict with hunger. 

Maybe, in some other life, you could have met them. You could have joined them in their ugly Christmas sweaters, one you would probably bully him into wearing, too. At the table you could sit next to him and he could help dish out your plate. You and Beth would drink wine and maybe get a little carried away, leaving him and Tommy to help you and Beth into one of the spare bedrooms in his mothers house for a nap. Joseph would grin up at the two of you for the model airplane that was gifted to him, and he would promise to help the little tyke put it together. 

But he wasn’t in that life. He was in the one where they were nothing more but burnt carcasses with bullet holes riddling their bodies. The one where his childhood home was nothing more but an empty lot. The one where Christmas always made him feel numb. But he did have you, walking alongside him. You, the woman he got to wake up to in the morning. The woman who never minded his odd quirks. 

Simon had you, and he knew it was more than he deserved. 

“It’s getting late,” he said as his feet dragged to a halt. “And cold. We should head back.” 

He was right. Your hot chocolate had gone rather cold by that point, and your fingers were beginning to go numb holding the cup without gloves. You downed the lukewarm, and oddly thicker, hot chocolate before tossing it into a nearby trash can. The walk back home was quiet, but for some reason a little warmer. Still, as you meandered back through the square, neither you nor Simon spared even a single glance at the tree in the center. 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You were going to be late. God, maybe you shouldn’t have gone on that walk with Simon the previous night. No, that was a lie. Obviously you were glad you went on the walk with him. Got a lot off of your chest that night. Still, getting yourself out of bed was a hassle, and you were paying the price for it. 

So you scuttled around the apartment, brushing your hair, throwing clothes on, shoving your feet into shoes, but as you reached the coat rack, you realized your coat wasn’t there. You double checked that you hadn’t just tossed it onto the floor in the bedroom, but it wasn’t there either. Asking Simon was no use as he had already left to do some sort of paperwork on base, so you were on your own, nearly tearing the place apart as you were adamant on not freezing to death walking to work. 

Eventually you caught sight of the damn thing resting on the kitchen counter. It was folded into a neat square. You figured it was something Simon must have done as you had never folded anything so perfectly in your entire life. Either way, you were just glad that you hadn’t misplaced it and lost it. 

Throwing it over your shoulders, you slipped your arms in and began to button it up. Once your fingers reached the bottom button, though, you began to struggle. It felt oddly stiff, like the thread was stronger and less forgiving on that one than it was the others. You looked down to examine it, and you quickly realized that it was the button you had accidentally snapped off the night before. You had shoved it into your pocket, but there it was, firmly attached to your coat. 

You finished buttoning it up with a smile, and you gave the bottom of your coat a firm tug to adjust the fabric on your body. You had snapped it off so easily the night before. Now, it was the strongest button you had on there.

[kivino]

OUT OF THE SHADOWS I || SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY X SHADOW!GN!READER

Word counter – ~6.9k words

Tags/Warnings – Gn!Reader, Shadow!Reader (it’s not for long lol, don’t get your hopes up), murder of civilians/corpses/blood mentioned, physical fights, reader likes to throw fists, Reader’s callsign is Bug to pay tribute to my original idea.

Summary – After the betrayal of Task Force 141 and the slaughter of civilians in Las Almas you decide to leave Shadow Company on the spot, which works out sideways, leaving you with simmering hate towards the man whom you used to look up to and new interesting figures in your life. 

also available on my ao3!

a/n after the fic because they’re too long. but just know that this is the first chapter of the series, feel free to let me know if you want to be tagged in the next part. enjoy!

Everything was calm. The sound of rain covering up the murmur of trucks helped you wind down after the adrenaline rush, and a sense of accomplishment for a job well done swelled in your chest. You already anticipated a long sleep and maybe a night out with your friends when you’re back home from the job. Maybe you’d even get a bonus from Graves and buy something nice for yourself. 

In all honesty, you didn’t even mind being crammed into the backseat along with those 141 guys. Working with them was a pleasure and they seemed like an interesting sort of crowd. Especially that man with the skull mask. Ghost, was it? He certainly attracted your attention the most, with his huge size, booming voice, and undeniable skill in what he did. You were willing to admit that the way he took out the enemies with ease and swiftness was mesmerizing.  And…your train of thought that consisted of pure fascination was interrupted by the abrupt stop of the convoy in front of the base gate. 

Everything was calm until you were surrounded by shouting and then eventual gunshots, along with muffled screams of your brothers in arms. You didn’t understand how it all escalated so fast. One moment you were sure about Shadow Company and Task Force 141 being on the same side, but now you didn’t know what to think of it all. And from Graves' words, it was apparent that Shepherd was behind this too. So naturally you, and many other shadows, the lower ranks, had no fucking clue what all of this was about. One would care to tell a mindless weapon where to shoot, but not why. Blood rushed through your veins and pulsed in your ears, turning the pleasant buzz in your body into strained sharpness. You hurriedly pulled up the rear sight to your eye level. Two bodies dropped to the wet asphalt with soft thuds right in front of you. You felt your heart sink right down to your feet. Instead of firing your shots, you hesitated, backing out to hide behind the bumper of the truck, while hearing agitated, aggressive shouts. You weren’t able to tell who was shouting. So, you leaned out and felt yourself freeze in place. 

And there he is. Ghost, eyes locked right on you. He sure has a…strong presence. And instead of shooting you he just…looks. You don’t like the stupid flowery language, but in this split second, it really feels like he is staring right into your soul. Or like someone is sticking metal rods right through your chest, with how hard breathing becomes in an instant. 

You knew that if you were to shoot him right now, you’d never forgive yourself, all because you were kept in the dark about the whole thing Graves had planned. And you were not willing to get blood on your hands because of some “mistake”. If you pull the trigger, there will be one less person who’s able to make a change. One less person who’ll be willing to get their hands dirty and save people. 

So, you lower the muzzle of your rifle and nod to the side, urging him to start his getaway, before other Shadows and Graves decide to check the perimeter. You see his dark eyes blink, or at least you think you do before he disappears into the darkness. Like he was never there in the first place.

In the end, you didn’t get even a single scratch. Three other Shadows were K.I.A.

Your head buzzed with so many different questions you wanted to ask Graves, and more importantly, the guilt you felt from whatever happened in front of the threshold. You had no idea what happened with that Los Vaquero base or what was up with your CO, while you were escorting him and those 141 guys along with several other Shadows for this mission. Why was he taking it? What was he even thinking? You wanted to pull out your hair and claw out your eyes just thinking about all of it. Which, you weren’t paid to do, but that didn’t mean you weren’t concerned with the moral side of things. Unlike the majority of the Shadows, as you came to find out.

Confusion bubbled up inside of your mind, eyes burned by the white synthetic light of the gate when you looked up at it just to feel something aside from sheer distress and bewilderment. You didn’t want to believe that your Commander was the type of person to sell himself out, and you didn’t expect him to be, from all the time spent working with him. The man was nothing short of likable and friendly, with his beaming smile, confident attitude, and outgoing way of communicating… a natural-born leader, that was the first thing that came to mind when you thought about your boss. And with how Graves treated you and all other Shadows like you were more than just his employees, the realization was even more painful. Of course, you didn’t want to think about how he could so easily turn his back on people who trusted him.

It raised many questions in your mind about the price of his word, as well as made your stomach churn with acidic, flesh-eating poison full of doubt and suspicion. If it was so easy for your CO to cut out the men someone he told you all to think of as your brothers, then how long will it be before he sells you and other shadows out for…whatever was offered to him? 

“Find ‘em!” Graves barks and your chest swells with bitter disappointment. You thought you knew him before (as much as a subordinate can know their superior), but how can you even begin to understand him now?

You hear Shadows mutter a quiet “Yup-yup”, more to themselves than to your CO, and you could almost feel the doubt settle over them in a thick, transparent blanket. From the conversations you can pick up on while Graves is out of earshot, you guess that some of them don’t think betraying the 141 guys and trying to hunt the two of them down is the right thing to do. But it didn’t seem like they were going to do anything about it though. You, however, want to help. You know that it’s not right, so…screw it. You can always find another job, and if it comes down to it, 141 seem like an okay sort of people, the type that would have your back if you had theirs. At least, you have hope for it.

So maybe you could hold out until they come back for Los Vaqueros. And you were certain they’d do that, no way they’d abandon all these men. You haven’t seen how the things were on said base that was taken from them, but you were certain you could do more on the inside than if you were to leave right now. Maybe you could break Colonel out of there, or help the Task Force sneak in, you were sure they could use any help from you. 

That was the plan before you saw what Shadow Company did to Las Almas.

The picture that Shadows were painting with innocent blood on the rainy landscape was horrifying, to say the least. The metallic smell hit your nose the moment you jumped out of the truck right onto the flooded pavement. That was the exact moment when you realized you couldn’t stay with Shadows any longer. You were supposed to help these people. It was your job. Instead, you felt filthier than the dirt on your boots. Traitor. Backstabber. You choked on your breath behind the mask each time you noticed the bodies of the victims in every dark corner of the city, nausea coming up your throat when you could see rivers of crimson streaming down the road and right into the sewers. Your Shadow Company patch felt like the mark of a killer, etched into your skin permanently, instead of just being part of your uniform.

Limp bodies that didn’t even have the time to grow cold yet, scattered around warm homes. Some of the killed were probably already in their beds sleeping, coming back from work, watching TV, or cooking dinner when they got dragged out under the rain and massacred…Everything felt like a blur, your thoughts were a jumbled mess of whys, while you were led further into the town, to continue the revolting, disgusting crimes of your brothers-in-arms. You couldn’t stand to spend another minute in here. You need to get out before you do something you’ll never be able to forgive yourself for. You were many things, but you were not willing to go that far. Not here, not anywhere. 

“Hey. Where’s Graves?” You tap another Shadow, your “close colleague” with a callsign Kruk, on the shoulder. He turns to you, while you see several other soldiers passing by, yellow streetlights barely illuminating their swiftly moving figures. You knew why it was hard for you to even look in their direction. Kruk points towards the building to the left of you two and croaks something about “briefing the rookies”. You nod and thank him, stumbling in the general direction he pointed you to. 

“Commander, with all due respect, I think it’s time for you to discharge me.” You only came to your senses when you stood in front of your CO in the cramped space of someone’s living room. Wallpaper, creamy in color, dulled lights, tons of decorative cushions on the couch… Your voice is quiet, but firm, not leaving any space for compromise when you speak up to the blond man, and your politeness is as fake as this copy of “Guernica” you could see hanging on the wall. Blood pulses in your ears. You want to leave, you want out. Out of here.

“Bug, now’s not the time for jokes, I need you on the field now. We’ve got our orders.” Graves barely raises his eyes from tapping something on the tablet, that usual scowl that you got used to present on his face. His actions are as ugly as he is. Him not taking you seriously sure does a number on your confidence. But that only reassures you in your decision. You need out. 

“Do I look like I’m joking? I’m leaving, because I don’t think what we’re doing is right.” You try to stay calm, you really do. But how can you, when out of something so vile he makes a joke? Makes all these people a sick joke.

A crease lies between your brows, and shadows falling over your eyes make your face look similar to a carved statue. Before talking to Graves, you decided to take off the eyewear that obscures your face and pull down the thin mask, the signatures for Shadows who are lower in the chain of command. You’re the faceless sort, after all.  “And I don’t think you know your place.” You’re instantly taken aback by his sudden outburst, but you don’t let it show. “I point and you shoot. I sign your paychecks, Bug, and you take them.” You feel something inside of you flinch at the way he mutters your callsign. “I’m in charge. You don’t have a say in what we do.” With each statement, his gloved finger points from him to you, making the rage and frustration boil inside of your chest. You trusted Graves and he led all of your colleagues, along with you to dragging out unarmed, innocent people in the dead of night out of their houses on their streets and executing them. Hell of a leader he is. 

“Well, I’m stepping down. If that’s what we do, I don’t want to take part in it.” You wanted to tell him a lot more, give Graves a piece of your mind on war crimes and killing people in their own homes. On how drowning Las Almas in blood won’t fix whatever the fuck he was trying to fix right now. Instead, you kept it to yourself, tightening your fists just so you didn’t spit in his face or punch him.

“You’re putting a target on your back. Do you not understand how what you’re saying makes you look?” Graves leans in closer to you, the low volume of his voice making it even more threatening, similar to the hissing of a snake. Give him a minute and he will start spewing real venom right in your face. 

“You know that whatever you’re thinking is not true.” To be completely honest, you didn’t care what he thought right now. Graves’ mind and morals were clearly in the wrong place if he considered all this bloodshed justified. 

“Do I really? A moment ago I was sure that you were my subordinate, now I’m not even sure what to make of you.” You’re barely able to resist rolling your eyes at this. Your heart is picking up the pace with each minute. Getting more and more desperate to leave your body altogether, just so you don’t have to listen to his bullshit any longer. You wish it was that easy.

“I’m not taking orders from you. Not anymore.” Saying this took a lot more out of you than you expected, you felt your chest tremble when you met your CO’s eyes.

“Well, would you just look at that, you happen to be a fan of our local drug lord too?” If eyes could kill, Graves would’ve dropped dead right this moment. He smiles, his sharp canines peeking from under his top lip. He knows he’s making your skin crawl and your stomach flip from this interaction, which, if you’re lucky, would be the last for the two of you. “Helping the cartel and corrupt police won’t look too good on your resume”

“I see you’re just making it up as you go.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you held in your chest. Shaky. Uneven. Infuriated. Your eyes are drilling Graves’, a deep frown between them as proof of how much you despise him now, for the baseless assumption too. After a moment of silence, you add. “You know what my stance on this is. Whether I get your approval or not, I’m leaving.” Graves finally withdraws from your personal space, sliding the palm over his face with a heavy sigh, as his lips tighten into a thin line. You knew that this combination meant he was trying to calm down. After a moment of silence, he speaks up again. 

“Look, Bug, you’re a smart kid and frankly, I like you.” he makes a short pause, sighing. “So, I’ll give you a fighting chance. Five minutes – if you’re not out of the city, then you’re a target.” He wasn’t that fucking courteous with the civilians that lay dead a few meters away. Shot on sight. Without any questions. You grit your teeth.

What are you supposed to do with that? Those five minutes didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, most likely, you’ll be rotting in the ditch somewhere shortly after your time runs out - too little to get out of the city or find the Task Force you so desperately wanted to help. Graves won’t leave any witnesses. And you are one. He knows it’s not going to be easy for you to just turn on the Shadows like that too, even though you despised what they were doing while following his orders. They still were your family. Dysfunctional and disproportionately big, but family, nonetheless. Even if they deserved it for their lack of action to prevent what was happening now, you don’t turn on your family like that. What he’s doing is forcing your hand.

Regardless, you have no choice but to take Graves up on his last “generous” offer.

“What are you waiting for, hm? Get out of here while you can.” You didn’t need to be told that twice. So, still balancing your rifle on your arm, your free hand reaches for that patch on your shoulder. Tearing it off in a quick motion makes the sound of Velcro strips snapping open almost echo from how quiet it is. It felt like a whole mountain dropped off of your shoulders when you threw the patch on the ground and stormed out of the building right into the pouring rain.

You felt goosebumps and tremors creeping up your spine as you ran through the dark streets, getting more and more soaked with each second. You didn’t feel much better though. The resentment for Graves grew each second, with all the steps that sent ripples on the surface of the deep puddles, and every raindrop that fell from the copper-colored clouds. But now wasn’t the time to wallow in your misery. Although you wanted to. It did feel like the loss of a person you used to know, of someone you looked up to. The only thing is, he was still living and breathing, and the only thing that died was that idealized image of him in your head. 

There was a cold hollowness somewhere in your chest. Gaping with the darkness that, and you were sure of it, will eat you alive soon enough. Even though you backed out of the Shadow company, it won’t bring back all the people who are not here anymore. You won’t fix it, no matter how hard you try. That bitter guilt snaked its way into the back of your mind and it was there to help stay. 

You managed to pull yourself out of this to make things right. But why do you feel so helpless still?

Your footsteps get faster and faster, as you maneuver through the narrow alleyways, staying out of the range your former colleagues were in. It was easy to hear them, gunshots and voices echoed throughout the city in a weird cacophony that your ears got used to after a long time working for the Shadow Company. They were not afraid, probably feeling like masters here. Somebody has to give them a scare, you thought. So they know better in the future. But it wasn’t your job at the moment. Right now, you needed to get out and do it as soon as possible.

Stopping and coming up with any sort of plan that would help you was not an option - hang in somewhere for too long and you’ll be found. And you were sure you wouldn’t be shown any mercy. 

So instead of staying on the street, where you can be easily spotted with the help of the dim light of a flashlight, you decide to alternate between the corridors of empty homes, with doors wide open for anyone seeking shelter, and the maze of alleyways crawling with Shadows. It felt wrong, invading someone’s homes like this, but you knew if they were unlocked and lights beamed around them, giving out a warm glow the inhabitants were most likely not coming back.

You felt that tingle on the nape of your neck, ready to hide or flee in case you heard any sudden movement from any direction. It’s dead quiet, except for occasional radio talk from the shadows, which you tried to listen in on when you could. It didn’t give you much on where 141 could be. You would start losing hope if you had any left after Graves. But you continue your search nonetheless, reflexes instead of thinking, pure determination instead of hope, and fire in your veins, instead of blood.

That is until you quietly step inside another warm hallway, and you’re met with a wide-eyed stare from another Shadow that makes you freeze like a deer in the headlights. Something inside of you starts to churn with terror from the looming understanding – only one of you will walk out of here alive. Your eyes trail down to the raven patch on his tac vest. It’s Kruk. You want to ask what he is doing here, but you already feel his gaze studying you too. And as soon as he sees that the Shadow Company patch is missing from your uniform, the muzzle of his rifle points right at you. Fucking shit.

“Drop your gun, Kruk!” You warn the man, pointing the weapon in his direction too. He only shakes his head, refusing to stand down. With each second air is laced with tension more and more, you were sure that soon enough it’ll be so thick even a knife wouldn’t cut through it.

“You drop yours first.” His voice is shaky and unsure like he can’t believe what he’s doing right now either. “Commander gave us an order. You’re an enemy now too, Bug. Better get used to it.” Kruk started slowly approaching you, while pulling something out of the bag, strapped on his hip.

“Oh, fuck that!” You swing towards Kruk, trying to approach him in your momentary rage, but you’re immediately met with the warning “Don’t” from Kruk, who doesn’t stand down. “You know what they’re doing here. It doesn’t matter to you?” The man is silent. You don’t see his face behind his mask, so you’re left with even more questions instead of answers. Regardless of what he was thinking right now, you didn’t want to hurt him. So, you bend down and put your rifle on the ground with a quiet clack. If he needs a gesture of goodwill, he can have it. “Your turn.” Kruk only shakes his head.

“Turn around.” So, it was a mistake to trust him. Naturally. Your gullibility will be your downfall. You can almost feel the bitter taste spread inside of your mouth when you look at Kruk. Fucking asshole. But you comply, although reluctantly. He grabs you roughly by the wrists with one hand and by the neck with another, leading you toward what looks like a kitchen in the dim lights falling through the doorway. You get lowered on your knees and then pressed into the dirty floor. And it hits right then and there. He’s going to execute you. Oh, shit, shit, shit.

“You know that I don’t want to do this.” He says quietly so that any shadows passing by don’t hear him. You feel your heartbeat shake your whole body and nausea so intense like you are on the verge of throwing up all of your internal organs, but giving up is just not an option right now. So, you try to prevent him from tying your hands together with all the strength you have.

“Then don’t fucking do it!” He does not answer this as you continue squirming in his hold, trying to make it as hard as possible for him to restrain you. He only grunts but keeps a firm grip. Your head was a mess, you thought Shadows were a family. But all it took was one order from Graves, now they’re scouring the town like damn bloodhounds for you too.

“Get…off of me!” You grit through your teeth. You feel a zip tie slide over your hands and turn your head. The rifle he previously held in his hands was gone, probably so he could tie you up properly, so you take your chance and deliver a hard kick to Kruk’s stomach. He chokes out a pained gasp and finally lets go of your hands. You scurry to get up from the floor with wide smears of rainwater and dirt decorating it, but you get grabbed by the leg, which causes you to stumble and fall once again. You turn your head and kick Kruk with all your might, while attempting to take off the zip tie off your wrists, which, thankfully, he didn’t have the time to close.

You manage to shake the man off of you, as you scramble to your feet, knocking over a corner table with some decorations on it. Yet when you see Kruk fumbling with his hip holster you immediately tackle him to the ground, which causes him to drop the handgun. The whole fight is just a mess, nothing but blinding rage is pulsing in your temples, melting your bones and muscles into something no better than an animal. You get up again, while Kruk is on the floor, searching for the handgun in the darkness. You feel the heavy metal press against your boot and you kick it behind you. You hear it slide across the floor and here it is. Kruk’s eyes, are directed right at you. His hands claw at your leg, trying to drag you down to the floor. And then you black out completely. Kicking, punching, pained wheezes and screams are all you hear, a stuffy abyss with little to no specks of light surrounding you.

You come back to your senses when you don’t feel the familiar weight of your handgun pressing against your hip and then you see it again. Kruk managed to grab it while you were in your anger-induced frenzy. Everything around you slows down. His shaky fingers pull on the safety, but you reach out and grab his hands, pulling them up, not letting him aim at you. Kruk grunts and you see his eyes focused on you in fear, and desperation, as he tries to overpower you in the struggle. You see his weakened state, but the self-preservation is stronger than any compassion towards him at the moment. Kruk will take your life if you don’t take his. That’s just the gist of it. You can’t let him walk away.

Your hands tremble when he manages to overpower you momentarily, but it’s all in vain when you press the handgun harder and harder into his frame, feeling his hands start to yield more and more with each second, strength leaving him. The fear in his eyes is directed at you and only you, but you try not to look. The muzzle of your gun is pressed snugly under his chin. Your gaze trails to his eyes once again. They burn you with terror. Your fingers hook around the trigger guard. You hear a faint whisper.

“Please…”

Gunshot rings in your ears for another second, despite the earmuffs in your helmet.

“Fuck! Fuck…I’m so sorry…I’m sorry.” It all came crashing down on you in one moment. You wouldn’t feel guilty if it was the enemy, you wouldn’t care. He was an enemy now, so why do you feel so guilty, why is it starting to corrode and eat you alive even more? Your palms cover the profusely bleeding gunshot wound, going through his neck and cranium, hot blood pouring out with impossible speed, staining your hands, gear, and skin. Staining your whole being. How could you do something like this? Shadows are family. Killing an unarmed man who’s pleading for his life?

You’re no better than Graves.

The gunshot alerts the Shadows and they start scurrying around on the street. You have no time to mourn Kruk or search for your rifle in the dark, so you yank your handgun out of his hands which only started succumbing to rigor mortis, and sprint out the backdoor, desperately attempting to get away. You can feel your heartbeat booming in your ears, wet hair sticking to the nape of your neck, as you hear distant commotion and a chase stirring behind you, as you dart inside another building and run through the hallways, searching for a way out.

Back on the street, rain droplets are so cold that it feels like they’re splitting your skin open, you can barely feel the pain in your ankle from adrenaline pumping through your blood flow. You start slipping on the slick pavement, but you still refuse to stop, diving inside another doorway. Your head hurts, your lungs feel like they are about to explode, and you think you stepped into a puddle of someone’s blood. No time to ram through the locked door, so you jumped out of the second-story window and landed on your foot, twisting it in the process and swallowing the sob that welled up in your throat. You needed to move.

That bought you some time to get up and dip into the dark alleyway before you heard the loud footsteps approaching the window that you used to escape. You let out a heavy exhale, propping your back against the cold stone. You’re not completely safe, but…that’s better than nothing. The commotion of shadows quiets down and you hear it become more and more distant with each second. 

After a moment of silence, you continue moving, albeit slowly, trying to get used to the hot pulsing in your leg, that shot up right through your nerves with each step you tried to take. You wince and whine in pain, dragging your leg behind, grabbing at the moist stone walls, clinging to them for any sort of support. However, it’s not much of a help. 

Your escape is cut short when your legs finally give out, causing you to stumble and fall while crossing the church garden. Although it probably looked magical in the daylight, right now it was far from it, the smell of metal and smoke still lacing the darkness. You already feel your ankle swelling and some bruises forming under all your gear. You see the lights on the exterior of the church blend into the ribbon of lights and shadows and the thought crosses your mind. You can hide there.

You almost fly up the stairs despite the hurting leg, fumbling with the door for a second, before it creaks open. You shuffle inside with light steps and close the door behind you as quietly as you can. Your knees tremble as you slide down the cold wall and crawl further inside the building, barely feeling any strength left in you. God, you are so drained. Strained gasps are ripped out of your throat every second. You want nothing more than to lie down right there in this church and just let the darkness overtake you in a peaceful slumber. That would be so easy.

Your calm moment is interrupted by someone yanking you up on your feet, to which you let out a surprised yelp. You can’t see the person, but you can feel their hands tugging on your gear roughly and dragging you somewhere. It takes you a second to weigh your pretty limited options given the fact it’s so dark that you are barely able to make out your surroundings. So, you decide to take this fight head on and your heavy boot comes down right on their foot, which prompts the person to grunt, revealing a pretty low male voice, and let go of you.

You tear out from his grasp and almost tumble down to the church floor, bunching up dust with your loud, uneven footsteps. Your back is hunched as you look up at the dark figure from under your eyebrows, ready to deflect any blows if he decides to attack first. You stay silent, feeling like a cornered animal in his presence, small, feeble. Weak. Of course, you were at a disadvantage here, taking a beating, running from Shadows, twisting your ankle, and losing your rifle certainly didn’t help your chances to win, but you were ready to claw your way out of here with your bare hands, breaking your nails and skinning your hands if you had to.

But any punches or kicks you try to land the man easily deflects or blocks, not trying to attack or overpower you however, opting to just take up the defensive position in the fight. Which is, admittedly, a lot easier than taking the offensive one. Maybe he was aiming to exhaust you and then, when you are at your lowest point, he would attack. That seemed like a solid tactic, but you don’t want to let that happen. However, before you can think of anything you end up rolling with the man on the floor. You can hear him huff in frustration and exertion, the wood pressing harshly against your ribs and all the bruises on your lower body pulsing with pain.

After some struggle, however, you managed to tackle the man to the ground, pressing him down to the floor with your weight. Your hands snaked their way onto his neck as you glared at him, resisting the urge to bare your teeth akin to a stray, abused, and betrayed dog, crawling with fleas and parasites. Choking him out obviously wasn’t a nice thing to do, but you were trying to send a message here, that if you continue being followed, you will use your strength. If violence was the only language Shadows understood (and that’s who you believe the man was) then you were ready to become fluent.

“I swear, I’ll fucking kill you!” You press him into the floor harder, hands squeezing the man’s throat, your vision going blurry. You feel his hands grasp at your wrists, but he does not resist. Why is he not trying to shake you off? Why is he letting you choke him like this? Why is he not fighting back? 

“Let go, Bug.” The man’s voice is strained, but familiar, he whispers through his closed jaw. You can hear the way his throat tenses up, or his Adam’s apple bobs under your thick gloves, the warmth of his skin, and the moisture that seeped into the mask. Mask. More light falls through the window thanks to the momentary flicker of the streetlight. Skull. Eight lines on his chin, two on the forehead. Dark brown eyes.

Your hands shoot up like his neck is on fire. Guilt settles in your gut and your throat, pulling you in like you’re some puppet with no free will. You try to get up from the man’s midsection but tumble down on your side from trying to do it too quickly. It’s Ghost. How the hell did you not recognize Ghost?

“I’m sorry. I’m not…myself right now.” You were now sitting on the floor, palms resting on your face, wet from the rain, skin burning up, either trying to regulate the temperature or from all the exertion. Either way, it didn’t matter right now.

“Yeah, you made it pretty obvious.” Ghost coughs, trying to shake off your attempt to cut off his air circulation just seconds ago, as he gets up from his lying position. “At least now I know you’ve got a good grip.” He lets out a deep chuckle which only earns him an eyebrow raise from you. He was joking at a time like this? Must’ve hit his head pretty hard too.

“I could’ve choked you. Why did you not fight back more?” You were royally confused about that. He could’ve stopped the fight before it even began and avoided some bruises along with the sore neck if he just told you who he was or fought back. But he didn’t.

Ghost wants to say something, but stops himself right after opening his mouth. You see it in the way he looks at you. The pause stretches for an endless amount of time and you feel your skin crawling with anxiety while his eyes study your face.

“I was going easy on ya.” Ghost says in a rather blunt manner, which didn’t answer that many of your questions. Well, if he was going easy, he should’ve been at least going at you, which wasn’t true – you saw him only defending himself and blocking some of your blows. Did he?.. Was he trying not to hurt you? Okay, the more you thought about it, the wilder it sounded. Maybe you should just drop it. “I don’t suppose you came here to wash your sins away.” You want to scoff from the bad taste. “Lil’ birdie told me you ditched the Shadows. Any particular reason why?” The man inquires, turning to you. Sitting like this on the floor with him felt unusual, like some sort of weird church sleepover. Give Ghost a minute and he’ll bring you some ice cream so you two can watch some wacky TV shows together.

“Did your little birdie also tell you that Graves is hunting me down too?” You ask while pulling your drenched mask over your face. It brought some comfort and familiarity that were gone the moment you spoke to your CO in that living room. And, well, it would be awkward if Ghost was the only one in the mask.

“I guessed by the gunshots, some racket, and a horde of Shadows taking a night run through the neighborhood close by.” The man chuckles and you feel your face burn up in embarrassment under your mask. You try not to let it show, however. You knew that it wasn’t a very sleek move that you pulled with Kruk, but you were desperate and you didn’t need motherfucking Ghost telling you it was stupid. 

“You’re just hilarious. Is that how you became a lieutenant, by cracking jokes left and right?” You roll your eyes and hope he won’t notice it in the darkness. This banter was pointless, you knew it but…you needed it. It was not easy losing something familiar, so you desperately wanted to feel that camaraderie you experienced in the Shadows.

“You’ll find out once you’re a lieutenant yourself.” And Ghost indulges you. Which, you are thankful for. Isn’t such a scary guy after all, huh?

“Yeah, if I’m alive long enough.” You scoff at his concealed attempt to comfort and reassure you, but you can’t help that warm feeling in your chest. Weird.

“Well, you’ve already surpassed my expectations by staying alive until now.” The man stands up from the floor with a low grunt, pressing an arm around his midsection, right around where you might’ve pinned him to the floor with your body. “Let’s make sure it lasts, eh?” He extends a gloved hand toward you in an open, inviting gesture. Your eyes trail over his huge figure and land on specks of light in his eyes.

His eye black is all smudged and messy.

You have to shake off the sudden thought, observation too close and intimate for your liking, as you grab him by the forearm, trying to ignore the way your skin burns up when you feel his warmth through his gear. Ghost pulls you up to your feet, but doesn’t let go of your arm once you’re up. You don’t let go either. The silence rings in your ears. God, he’s so warm.

 “Are you like a human furnace or something?” You joke to fill the excruciating silence. Which you immediately regret. You wish it wasn’t so dark so you could see just how his face stretched the fabric of a skull mask, which you clearly heard happen by a small shuffle very close to you. Who knows, maybe he cracked a smile?

“Why? Need someone to warm you up at night?” Okay, this is terrible and stupid, and so damn corny, and why do you feel your cheeks grow hot and breath get stuck in your chest? Maybe that’s just how awful his jokes are. Ghost clears his throat and reluctantly lets go of your forearm, fingers still clinging to your sleeve as he pulls himself away too quickly for it to be something nonchalant or casual.

“So, are you answering my question, or do I have to use torture?” Fucking hell, his jokes are morbid. You almost forgot in those several hours you haven’t interacted with him. Although that would be quite hard, he leaves quite an impression, after all.

“Well, I suppose you’ve seen the…the civilians?” You can’t call them anything besides that. To call them corpses is to take away from their whole being. To call them dead would just be a lie. They were still alive in the walls of their homes, in the memories of their breathing relatives and friends, and in the pictures, their traces are everywhere. Ghost silently nods to your question, prompting you to continue. “Then here’s your reason.” You didn’t want to explain your feelings in great detail. And you didn’t feel the need to; you saw the compassion in his eyes. “Plus, the whole thing with the Los Vaqueros base.” If you saw Ghost’s face now you’d note how the expression darkened in a single moment. However, you do feel the temperature in the room fall several degrees lower, so you decide to joke again. “Pay wasn’t that good anyway, so…”

“Fair enough.” The man chuckles while rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll keep an eye on you though. Don’t think you can just waltz in here like this and be completely trusted.” Well, that’s understandable. If you were him you wouldn’t trust yourself either. Although you did hope that the mercy you’ve shown him earlier would influence his decision making. At least a little bit. “And you better toss that thing. Or else.” He points to the radio, still strapped to your tactical vest. You unclasp the device, detaching the small microphone that was holding on by a thread, and hand it to Ghost.

“You’re welcome to get rid of it for me.” And he doesn’t waste any time, dropping the radio on the ground, stomping on it so hard that the sound of it breaking echoes through the church. You assess the scraps of wires and plastic on the floor with a pitiful gaze, coming to a conclusion that you wouldn’t want to end up under Ghost’s boot. Or maybe you would, but under different circumstances. “Well, that’s…effective.”

“You good with the sniper rifle?” The man ignores your previous remark, immediately firing back with the question.  

“Decent.” You were a lot better in close quarters and preferred a more hands-on approach. But a sniper rifle wasn’t that bad. As long as he doesn’t ask you to use it without a scope.

“You’re on the lookout with me then. Don’t screw it up.”

Oh, you’re absolutely not going to.

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a/n – first of all, thank you for reading this fic, and if you enjoyed it, consider dropping me a comment, i’ll really appreciate it! SECOND OF ALL.  I’M NOT A GRAVES HATER, DON’T COME @ ME. segment with him also was written before the campaign release, so in case there are some inaccuracies with the plot/his character – let me know, so I can fix it. all of this is a huge rework of the series that I started but never posted. Originally, it was supposed to be Graves x Reader, but for multiple reasons, moral mostly, it didn’t quite sit right with me. So instead of letting 6k words first part that I’ve written and abandoned go to waste, I decided to remake it into something else here, based on the idea of @mockerycrow (ily you have such a big brain)! so yeah, that’s it for now!

[aetherghouls]

I personally believe that Simon's gods awful father would use religious guilt and religion in general against young Simon.

The same man that doesn't care for any god, that breaks all the commandments and laughs at Simon for even believing; he'd absolutely weaponize the very religion Simon's mother, Tommy and himself use as an escape.

It's not like Simon has ever been very religious in the first place, but their local church was a respite from his father and it was something. His mother had been taking him and Tommy there every week, sometimes more often, because it was the only real place where they could be a family without him.

Don't get me wrong though, Simon as a child? He absolutely did believe, he prayed every damn day, begging God to save them, so they wouldn't have to suffer by his father's hand any longer, because they all did. Their life was a living hell and gods, did they suffer.

The older Simon gets, though? The longer his father uses his own religion against him and his family? The longer he says things along the lines of "what would your god say, kid? Disobeying your father? You listen to me and do as I say, isn't that what your God would want from you? Isn't that what they preach in this church of yours?"

It's either threatening the rest of the family because Simon is the oldest child and he feels protective over the rest of them or using the church against him. Two ways to get him to obey and don't say a fucking word, because Simon wants to be a good son for his mother, he doesn't want to be like his father and he needs to protect them.

Because other than fear, this man had nothing to hold Simon by. He is Simon's father by blood, but nothing else and Simon Riley had known that since he was old enough to comprehend what was going on around him.

So the older Simon gets, the more he just cannot stand anything about the religion because why is it constructed in a way that allows abusers to use it against their victims? And why doesn't God hear them out? He has been praying every single day, begging for it to get better, for a life that isn't just a constant suffering, yet it never comes.

Why does a god who's supposed to love His creations just leaves them to suffer this fate?

By the time he joins the army, he is not a believer anymore.

He prays one more time in his life though, the day when he tries to get back to his home before them, to make sure his family is safe. He hadn't prayed even once when he was in Mexico, when Roba had him, never did pray for his own salvation after he stopped praying for his father to be gone. But them? His brother, sister in law, nephew and mother? He prays for them to be fine, because that's the only and last thing he cares about in this world, even his own life doesn't hold any meaning anymore. He's here to make sure they are safe.

And God fails him one last time that day, for Simon Riley never has a real reason to turn to Him ever again.

Because he doesn't trust that God could keep Johnny safe, because all God did so far was disappoint him, fail him and those he loved.

And to be fair, he's afraid. That if he even thinks about praying ever again, he will lose Johnny too, the same way he lost his family; because the catholic God is cruel.

Also catholic guilt this catholic guilt that, Simon never feels guilty for killing, not in the way catholic guilt eats away at someone; God doesn't care about any suffering, so He cannot care if people kill one another, that's not where the catholic guilt comes in

It's Johnny. It's always Johnny.

Because for the first days, weeks, months, it feels wrong.

It had with any other man ever before that, but it's always passed with them. A temptation that didn't last for too long, the priest's and his father's words ringing in his ears whenever he even considered anything like that. But John MacTavish? It doesn't pass. It's always present, God, it gets stronger every fucking day he has to work with Johnny, so when they are in Las Almas and Graves betrays them, while he doesn't know where and how Johnny is? Before they meet up again? Simon has enough time waiting to realise that it's not just an infatuation that can pass as soon as it comes, because he's in love and he doesn't know what to do, because the wave of guilt that overcomes him, guilt caused by the very God who took away everything from him, it's nauseating, makes him feel small in a way nothing has since he got out from his father's claws. He has to take a moment to just breathe and pull himself back together, otherwise he would fail; fail the mission, himself, Price, Los Vaqueros, but most importantly, he'd fail Johnny.

And that, he cannot allow himself to do.

hello hello I am heavily projecting my own religious trauma onto Simon Riley in this one 🫶

as if bro didn't have enough trauma of his own lmao. Please don't eat me it came to me in a dream last night (not really in a dream) and after I made my friends suffer I came to a conclusion that I need to make more people suffer 🫡 bye

also I may or may not be cooking the other side of this for Soap haha (aka how I personally think Johnny sees religion)

[ink-n-shadow]

[ ℭ𝔬𝔇 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ]

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any stories marked with this symbol [ ⑱ ] is intended for mature audiences only. this means that any minors, 17 or younger, should not interact with that post.

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY

bodyguard!Ghost x rockstar!reader

⤷ Party Like a Rockstar | the one where you're a rockstar and ghost is your bodyguard ⤷ Sunscreen and Stolen Glances ⑱ | the one where you're a rockstar and you go on vacation with bodyguard!ghost ⤷ Crybaby | the one where you're drunk and bodyguard!ghost has to comfort you ⤷ Pure Filth ⑱ | the one where you're getting ready for your first headlining tour and bodyguard!ghost can't help himself ⤷ Anything but Routine | the one where bodyguard!ghost finally snaps...because of rockstar!keegan ⤷ Club Hopper ⑱ | the one where bodyguard!ghost takes you to the club after a concert

demon!Ghost x broken angel!reader ⑱

⤷ Broken Dove | the one where ghost is a demon and finds a pretty little broken angel ⤷ Captive Dove | the one where demon!ghost's reasons for taking you just keep evolving ⤷ Savior | the one where demon!ghost saves you from an intruder ⤷ Enrichment Time | the one where demon!ghost finally gives you enrichment and things to do outside of the cage ⤷ Feverish | the one where demon!ghost has to take care of angel!reader when they're sick ⤷ Starved | the one where you're hungry and touch starved!demon!ghost feeds you ⤷ Playlist | the one where it's a playlist dedicated to our favorite demon but it's mostly just sleep token songs ⤷ Time Apart | the one where angel!reader and demon!ghost get into their first argument ⤷ Affections | the one where we learn about demon!ghost and his reaction to angel's affection

⤷ One Body, Two Sides ⑱ | the one where simon is sweet, but ghost is a different story ⤷ Dad's Best Friend!Ghost Headcanons ⑱ | another self explanatory and unoriginal title ⤷ More Than Just a Body | the one where simon reminds you that you're worth more than you think ⤷ Wake-up Sex ⑱ | the one where you wake simon up with a blowjob ⤷ Wake-up Sex (pt. 2) ⑱ | the one where simon wakes you up with his cock ⤷ Tantrums | the one where ghost finds it cute when you're angry ⤷ I Know What You're Doing ⑱ | the one where simon calls you on deployment, and he's lonely ⤷ Payment Options ⑱ | the one where you're sleeping with dilf!ghost after babysiting his son ⤷ Spark Up ⑱ | the one where simon gives you backshots while he smokes a cigarette ⤷ Swipe Right (headcanon) ⑱ | the one where you hook up with simon ⤷ Camera Roll | the one where it's what your camera roll looks like dating simon ⤷ Biker Bars | the one where you meet older!divorced!biker!simon ⤷ Qualified ⑱ | the one where odb!ghost is forced to give you a job interview (and hates how qualified you are for the job) ⤷ Chalk and Trainers | the one about gymnasts!ghoap and their pretty little trainer ⤷ Barrack Showers ⑱ | the one where you have to be quiet wihle simon rearranges your guts in the barrack showers ⤷ Club Hopper ⑱ | the one where you love going clubbing and Simon loves watching you dance ⤷ Burning Kingdoms ⑱ | the one where king!simon just wants to marry the pretty little rebel

KÖNIG

⤷ Brother's Best Friend ⑱ | self explanatory and unoriginal title ⤷ Moving Along | the one where after coming home from a mission, König doesn't know that you think he's gone ⤷ Moving Along (pt. II) | the one where you confront König after thinking he'd been KIA on deployment ⤷ Late Night Shower | the one where you walk in on König in the communal showers ⤷ Tutor Me? ⑱ | the one where you desperately ask nerd!könig to tutor you, but it comes at an unknown price

JOHN "SOAP" MACTAVISH

⤷ What'dya Just Call Me? ⑱ | the one where you accidentally call Soap daddy ⤷ Pent Up ⑱ | the one where soap gets back from deployment and just needs to be inside of you ⤷ Friends with Benefits...and Then Some ⑱ | the one where soapgaz find the perfect third ⤷ Chalk and Trainers | the one about gymnasts!ghoap and their pretty little trainer

KYLE "GAZ" GARRICK

⤷ Friends with Benefits...and Then Some ⑱ | the one where soapgaz find the perfect third ⤷ NSFW Alphabet ⑱ | the one where you learn everything about gaz and his nsfw habits ⤷ Rake No More ⑱ | the one where you finally let fratboy!gaz hit it

JOHN PRICE

sugar daddy!Price au

⤷ Pretty Doll ⑱ | the one where sugar daddy!price gets his doll ready for a fancy dinner ⤷ Discipline and Drool ⑱ | the one where sugar daddy!price punishes you for belittling yourself

TASKFORCE 141

Knight!141 AU

Introduction to Knight!Soap Introduction to Knight!Ghost Introduction to Knight!Gaz Introduction to Head Knight!Price (coming soon)

Outlaw!141 AU

⤷ Buckle Bunny ⑱ | the one where you're the new pretty little thing at outlaw!141's camp ⤷ Kinky ⑱ | the one where it's all about outlaw!141 and their kinks

⤷ Sweetheart? | reserved!reader gets fed up with an outsider's comments ⤷ Tattoo/Piercing Headcanons | all about 141 and their tattoos/piercings ⤷ Mythology | 141 as unconventional mythological creatures ⤷ Like 'em Bendy ⑱ | 141 and their flexible partners ⤷ Talking You Through It ⑱ | the one about how the CoD men talk you through your orgasms

MOODBOARDS

⤷ Demon!Ghost

[miniaturesuitgladiator]

Hi 👋 I'm knew to posting stories so please don't be rude , I understand that this isn't what some people like ,but there's no need to be rude. I appreciate everyone who read my first post and I am very grateful for them. Please leave tips on how I can improve. Thank you for your time and enjoy!!

Note: this is the first chapter of that little drabble I did. This chapter doesn't include damian or the batfamily. Next chapter it will. I just wanted yall to see readers family dynamics ,and I didn't want to make the chapter so long. Oh ,and N/N= nickname.

WARNINGS: None really no one is yandere ,yet.

-💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗-

It was snowing. Which should be no surprise to you ,atleast not at this time of year. It always snowed in October ,always. As always the snow was beautiful and quite peaceful as well. Watching the perfectly white snow fall onto the dead leaves on your yard was quite peaceful.

Comfortably sat on your living room couch waiting for your dad to get ready for church. You quietly watched TV. You had already been ready for about half an hour. Decided in it was best to get ready earlier than later. Just like your mother had always told you. Your mother always rather be early to an event rather than on time ,and usually she was on early. But then came your father. Now Your father was the complete opposite of your mother. I suppose that's what evens them out.. See your father always seemed to have a problem with keeping up with the time. So more often than not you'd be late because of your father.

You didn't mind though, atleast not as much as your mother did. You found it funny how your tall and fierce father. Sherrif of the small town you live in. Looked like a kicked puppy as your mother scolded him.

you silently watched as your father practically ran through the house looking for his church clothes. You smile as you see your mother walk towards you. She smiles back at you and kisses you on the top of your head. "You ready for church , baby " she says walking to kitchen. "Yes ma'am " you say turning your attention back on the TV. "Good" your mother says packing the food she plans to bring to church. You sigh in frustration. There's never anything to watch on Sunday. So you resort to the only channel that might be interesting. The news.

Your eyes open in excitement when you see the headline for today. BATMAN SAVES GOTHAM FROM A NUCLEAR BOMB! You always liked batman. You thought he did good. Sure he made some mistakes ,but he was only human. After all he had saved Gotham , like a thousand times. So he had to be good.

"Baby turn that off. I don't want you seeing that kind of stuff." Your mom says from behind the kitchen counter. "C'mon mom it's batman. He's a hero." You say trying to persuad her. Nothing big like that ever happened in your small town. Sure you were gratefull that your town wasn't always being attacked ,but nothing even slightly exciting happens in your town. So you live off the gossip of gotham.

"The only hero you need is Jesus. So turn. It. Off. I'm not telling you agian, baby." Your mother says gently smiling at you ,but you know better than to push her buttons. So with a dramatic sigh you turn off the TV.

"Thank you. Now go check on your brother for me." She says pointing towards your brothers room. " whatever" you say quietly ,scared of what she would say if she heard. Because in her eyes that's 'disrespectful'.

"Riley are you ready?" you say knocking on your brothers bedroom door. No reply . So you knock agian. No reply. "I'm coming in."You say and your shocked about what you see when you open the door. Riley your 7 year old little brother is sleeping peaceful in his bed. quickly you rush over to his bed. "Riley wake up ,mamas gonna kill you." You say as you shake him. Slowly he opens his eyes. "What's wrong N/N." He says and you almost feel bad for how concerned he looks ,but then you remember.. He's the one that decided to play Mario Cart all night.

" It's Sunday riley" you say. You watch as realization hits him straight in the face. Quicker than you can imagine he's up and running around in his room. "Oh no , does mama know I slept in." He says grabbing him a towel to take a shower. "No , she thinks your ready." You say but surely he didn't hear you by how quickly he rushed to take a shower.

Being the kind sister you are you grab him some cloths and leave them on the bed.

Deciding that it's definitely best not to go back to the living room. Since your mother would probably ask about riley. So instead you go to your room.

walking in your room you stand in front of the mirror your grandpa had made for you. Looking in the mirror you definitely thought this was one of the best outfits you had worn to church. Not the most expensive though ,since most of your clothing was thrifted. Nevertheless you did love your outfit today.

"I'm ready." You hear you father yell. "Well it's about time." You hear your mother reply. You smile to yourself as you walk towards the front door. You know your mother and father love eachother, but to someone that doesn't know them would probably think their about to sign divorce papers any minute. "You look beautiful ,princess."your father says with a light kiss to the top of you head.

"Riley!" Your mother yells ,since she didn't see your brother by the door. "Coming." He shouts back. Hurriedly your brother practically runs down the stairs. " how do I look." Riley questions and you don't even have to say what's on your mind. Because your father beats you to it.

"Like a mess." Your father says. Which earns him a punch on the arm by your mother. "Nonsense , you look handsome baby." You mother says as she gives him a kiss on the head ,and pats his hair so it doesn't look like a literal mess. "Thanks mama." Your brother says with a smile. "Well we better get going or we're going to be late." Your mother says. As she practically pushes everyone out the door. "Darling, it's only 7:10 by the time we get there we're going to be 40 minutes early." You father says with a sigh. Unlocking his truck.

"Which is practically late." Your mother says hopping into your father's Ford. To which your father just shakes his head with a smile.

The drive to the church wasn't long ,but you wish it was. So maybe you could get to watch it snow for a little longer. Snow was beautiful. Snow seemed to cleanse everything and turn it white agian. Which if you said that to your mother she'd probably say Jesus does the same thing...

Looking over to where your brothers sitting. You can see he's passed out. His head is resting on the window and he's drooling a bit. He looks kinda cute ,but that's only cause he's asleep and not cuase trouble. An you know it.

'Today is gonna be a good day.' You say to yourself ,and Who wouldn't think that it's Sunday. Every Sundays a good day because we get to go to church ,and see family. Maybe it was a bit naive to think that just because it was Sunday it was going to be a good day ,but that's how you were raised.

Ten years from now you'll look back and wish that for once. Just once in your 16 years of having lived your family would have missed church this sunday...

-💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗-

THANKS FOR READING!!!!

[ohnonononononono567]

Carry me - Simon "Ghost" Riley x m!reader (angst)

Games

Bit by Bit

(This was made after 1am and I projected my OCD onto a fictional character so that's on me guys, my bad. Any bad writing can be blamed on the fact I was watching chernobyl with my cat and eating the saltiest fried chicken sandwich known as i wrote this)

"Simon-"

"Don't." He grunted, leaving his position in your bed. Never his. 

The day he admits it's his bed as well, is the day he has the ability to sleep peacefully. And God knows when he'll be granted that right. 

He awoke to the sound of screams, his ears ringing. The feeling of water and blood rapidly running under his skin, as if his flesh begged to be free. 

You had rolled over to hold his midriff, and Lord help him with how much he's grown attached to you, with how much he wanted to pin you down as if you were nothing more than another enemy in his eyes.

He shot up, just to feel the familiar sting of a hook in his rib as he had sat on the bed.

Stepping out onto the patio with a grunt, a tank top and some joggers on with slippers. The apartment's patio serving as the perfect place to have a smoke, the dog yawning to join. Big fella, she was, nudging snout onto Simons leg.

Sitting down, he grabs a light, lighting the cigarette he had hiding cheekily in his pocket, when he had swore up and down he wasn't smoking anymore less than 8 hours ago.

Burn your wrist.

Shut up Riley, you know better than to act on that.

Do it now.

No.

He leaned back, allowing the nicotine to enter his system, and the tobacco to leave a lasting smell on the rough pads of his fingers. He watched you from the corner of your eye. Silent panic. Wanting to help him. But you can't. All he can do is lie to a therapist and come home to you.

He made this worse. Leave him. You're nothing, but he's worse. 

Stop.

He saw you at your worst. Why stay? 

Because he saw me at my worst. And he stayed.

He shouldn't have.

Stop.

He knows nothing about you and he goes to sleep saying bull crap about loving you.

"STOP!"

He yells, grabbing his hair in two fists on the side of his head, the cigarette between his fingers, lingering in the night air as the sound of the city stand beneath him.

He looks at you, and you seem to just be staring. Frozen. 

It spitballs, as he meets your gaze;

"Stop fucking staring at me like that yeah? You can't fucking help me! You deal with me, or you kick me out. Should've done that by now if you've ever known what's good for you!" He says, throwing his hands up in the air out of exasperation, the dog yelping a bit as she backs away. He heads back inside, putting out the cigarette, and snatching his blanket, heading towards the couch.

You gave him a look as he left. He knew that look. You've set boundaries, he was trying to be healthy for you. Honest. You wouldn't stand for verbal abuse, nor disrespect. But he was weak. Useless in the presence of a man like you.

He knew better than to immediately go to you. He left earlier for the gym that morning, called off work, went to one of those shitty manmade parks with more dog piss than a fire hydrant, and sat himself down. Right in the grass, watching a single dandelion. It was weak. But it still stood in the grass. It moved with the wind, even when it lost it's soft white petals. 

And when it was stripped naked, bare, with nothing left to offer, there was another dandelion there. Planted from the wind carrying it. Ready to repeat the cycle. 

Why is he doing this? He'll repeat what his father did. He was the end of it. No relatives to fall back on. God knows how much he's begged to bring his brother, Tommy back. 

But that's just it. He's the end of the cycle.

Get up. Nobody is coming to save you.

He stands before you now, with nothing to offer, but the willingness to move with you if you'd allow him. If you'd allow a weak man like him to remain with you. He'll continue to lose his petals, but you'll help him plant new flowers. To utter the words, 

"I can never truly tell you how sorry I am, love. You are the man I want. You are everything. And it's not enough. But I am trying."

Looking up at you, his bones brittle, his eyes heavy.

He wants to sleep. To feel his flesh settle, his mind quiet.

And as you embrace him, he can feel every molecule in his skin burning. 

And if you ever let reality hit that you deserve someone who could think like a bloody normal human for once, would he continue to survive for as long as he could without you to carry him. Until he allowed the world to end what it started. 

You are everything.

Laying in bed, your hands hesitantly rubbing his back in soft circular motions as he keeps his head in your tummy, soft breathing as the dog nuzzled into the crook between you two, soft kisses lingering on his tongue, it leaves him before he can chase after it;

"...Would you ever marry me?"

@tabloid-junki3 i dont think i cooked but i did heat it up in the microwave so

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

SCREAM MASTERPOST

*= smut

CHAD MEEKS MARTIN

Bodybag | Riley!Reader

Chad comforts you after Dewey's death

Cockblock roommate *

Ethan stops you and Chad from continuing your activities

Don't go upstairs with him

Chad stops you from going upstairs with Frankie...and then confesses to you

Goodnight kiss * | Riley!Reader

Chad walks you home and finally takes your relationship to the next level

Helping hand *

After Chad gets released from the hospital, his personal nurse gives him a helping hand

I can't go through this again

Another ghostface strikes and Chad has PTSD from the legacy murders

Is that my shirt?

Chad notices that the shirt you're wearing is his

Late night in the kitchen *

During a trip to the twins' family cabin, you and Chad have a late night adventure in the kitchen

Save a horse, ride a cowboy *

You make a move on Chad and end up in an empty bedroom with his cowboy hat on, riding another kind of horse

Setting up the tree

You and Chad decorate the Christmas tree together

Stab stab stab

Chad gets stabbed by Ghostface when looking for you

Stood up

You get stood up and Chad offers you his shoulder to cry on

The no-sex rule *

You and Chad don't listen to Mindy's 'surviving a horror movie' rules

Wrong person

You send you nudes to your ex by mistake

You drew stars around my scars

You sleep over at Chad's dorm and see something you hadn't seen before

MINDY MEEKS MARTIN

Blood on the subway

Mindy gets stabbed on the subway...there's a lot of blood

Give me attention *

Mindy works on a school assignement, but you're bored and decide to tease her

Movie night

After watching the horror that is Halloween Ends, Mindy needs kisses to erase the movie from her memory

Skilled fingers *

Mindy is a goddess in bed

TARA CARPENTER

Caught *

Tara asks you to use a vibrator on her...and Sam walks in

I was so scared

After Tara gets attacked at her house, you visit her at the hospital

Is this good? *

Tara tries to top for the first time

I thought you were dead

You survive the attack inside the shrine

Sleepover *

It's the first sleepover since Tara got attacked in her house. You and her breaks the friendship

We might die tomorrow

After Sam and Tage get attacked at the bodega, everyone stayed over at the appartement

ETHAN LANDRY

Catching feelings *

You grown feelings during a game of teasing your roommate Ethan

Friends touch each other, right? *

You teach virgin!Ethan how to touch a woman

I can't forgive you | Riley!Reader

Ethan betrays you, but you can't forgive him

It's you *

You figure out Ethan is Ghostface

Let's play a little game *

You get a phone call from a masked ID when you’re home alone…

Night visits

As Quinn's friend, you are not allowed to see her little brother, so you and Ethan have a secret relationship

No protection needed *

You and Ethan do it without a condom for the first time

Play with me *

Ethan asks you to play with him

Panty stealer

Pervy!Ethan steals your panties

Pretty boy * | camgirl!reader

Ethan purchases a private session with his favorite camgirl

Pretty boy part 2 *

Ethan purchases another private session...and get the girl's number

Pretty boy part 3 *

Camgirl!Reader and Ethan finally meets

Roomie *

Ethan jerks off to his roommate and gets caught

Shy!Ethan

Ethan has a huge crush on you but is too shy to make a move...so you make one

Study time

Studying econ turns into teasing your boyfriend

That's hot

You find out that Ethan does boxing

Video games *

You give Ethan a blowjob while he games with Chad

Video girl *

You convince Ethan to make a video with you

BILLY LOOMIS

Knife play

You seduce Billy with the knife he used to kill Maureen Prescott

Ménage à trois * | Billy x Stu x Reader

A typical movie night at Stu’s turns into a ménage à trois

Mouthful * | Billy x Stu x Riley!Reader

Why settling for one when you can get two?

PG-16 at the Theater

Billy gets handsy at the movie theater

Stranger danger *

Billy decide to surprise you on your way back from Tatum's

Talk dirty to me *

Phone sex with Billy

[elexaria]

brother’s best friend! johnny & simon pt 3

the journey back to manchester was daunting, seeing the same old architecture from your past felt like a punch in the gut. the phone call you make to simon was awkward, it was just to tell him that.. well, you would pop by to see him. didn’t tell him anything else, didnt even mention you left years ago.

after checking into a shitty little hotel with the little money you had, you made your way to the pub simon said he’d be at, and where johnny mactavish would also be. mactavish. it’s been a really long time since you’ve thought about him, and it feels strange to know you’ll get a glimpse of him as a 26 year old man, as opposed to the pimply faced teenager you remember.

“the strongest stuff you have, please.” you say dryly to the bartender, who glances at the clock— it’s barely noon, before looking back at you again. “joking. you got any J20?”

with your little bottle of orange and mango juice and a thin paper straw, you nestle down into a booth, pulling out your phone as you begin your wait. simon did say his train would arrive at around 10am, so where was he? that’s fine, the pub at least has free wifi you can use to mindlessly scroll through. and scroll, and scroll and scroll and scroll until—

“fancy seein’ ye here, wee riley!”

you glance up from your phone, mouth agape as you look dead straight at a grown up, scruffily bearded johnny mactavish. “jesus christ—“ you mumble under your breath, eyebrows furrowing at how.. massive and grown up he is. he grins down at you, still standing. “what? gonnae give me a hug or whit?” he chortles, wiggling his thick unruly eyebrows around you. yep, it’s definitely still the same old mactavish brother you remember.

“ye look different than when we was wee bairns. yer definitely the better lookin’ riley.” johnny grins as he shoots a playful wink at you, taking a big swig of lager to parch his thirst. your eyes flit to the beer foam that sticks to his moustache, which makes you giggle. “you’ve got a lil something on your moustache. you saving it for later?” you tease, motioning to where the foam sits on his face.

“yeah, soap, you savin’ that for later?”

if your head had turned around any faster, you’d have probably broken your fucking neck. simon.

he’s… he’s so different now.

rising from your seat, you glance up at your brother with a nervous gulp. you can tell from the way he glances down at you that his heart is damn near close to bursting when he sees how grown his baby sister is, she’s not the little chubby cheeked scamp he remembers. but he quickly shoves the emotions down, his shoulders squared up as he watches you draw closer to him.

“simon,” you mutter quietly, biting your lip as you awkwardly hug his side. it’s been so long, you almost contemplate whether a hug isnt appropriate. a handshake? awkward fist bump? simon grumbles, patting your back as he reciprocates the hug with the same awkwardness. johnny cringes slightly at how uncomfortable you and simon look.

you find out that johnny is known as sergeant soap, while simon is simply lieutenant ghost. “yer brother’s fuckin’ brilliant on the battlefield, he’s saved my arse more times than i can count.” johnny grins, nudging his shoulder into simon’s, who just simply looks down at his drink with furrowed eyebrows. you nod, chewing the inside of your lip. “why do they call you soap?” you ask, tilting your head at johnny. he howls with laughter, shaking his head at you. “ye don’t want to find out, lass.” he simply says, shooting a teasing wink at you. you shouldn’t be attracted to that, but it does gets your heart pumping a little faster.

“so, lass, what about ye? any’hink goin’ on in the life of wee riley?” johnny hums out, propping his arms up behind him on the booth’s rim, his muscles bulging out from his tshirt sleeves. jesus christ, he’s ripped.

stealing your gaze from his biceps with a flushed cough, you shrug and take a sip of your drink. “i’m studying for my masters up in leeds. i.. haven’t been to manchester since i left.” you finally admit, eyes glancing over to read simon’s face, which is stoney and unperturbed. johnny whistles, grinning as he nods at you. “leeds, eh? northern girlie, are ye?” he teases, nudging simon yet again. “can ye believe it, monsi? wee riley’s all grown up, doin’ her masters n shit. damn.”

you roll your eyes, feeling a rush of blood to your cheeks as you fidget with your drink bottle. “there’s two years between us, johnny. ‘m not as young as you think i am.” you mutter quietly, your gaze flicking up to read his reaction. he’s still grinning, though he nods in agreement. “aye, canny argue with that.”

simon doesn’t speak much the entire time you’re all there, it’s almost like he speaks through johnny at times. “si’s been wafflin’ on and on about today, ye ken. been lookin’ forward to the ol’ riley-mactavish clan finally gettin’ back together.” johnny says, the two of you glancing over at simon who simply grunts, the corners of his lips twitching up into what looks like a hybrid of a grimace and a smile.

but at least johnny doesn’t make it awkward, always going on and on about whatever floated through his mind. he gives you updates on his sisters, practically glowing when he gets the chance to gloat about becoming an uncle. “the wee bairns, they like me. mam reckons i’ll make a good dad one day.” he hums as he shows you a picture on his phone, one where he’s flexing his muscles while holding twin baby boys like the deadliest missiles that cute tactical intelligence could muster up. it’s cute, the way he lights up when talking about his life, even how excited he gets for your achievements in life. simon doesn’t seem to want to get a word in edge ways.

as the catch-up comes to an end, you awkwardly slide out of the booth, rubbing your hands together. “well.. it was nice seeing you both.” you say on bated breath, a look of disappointment flashing across your face momentarily as you glance at simon. johnny pouts as he stands, patting simon on the back with a solid thwack. “we’ll have to do some’hink together, all three of us. like the good ol’ days.” he says, grinning up at simon, who nods. “spose so.” is all simon seems to add to the conversation, looking down at you.

and as you all exit the pub together, johnny giving you one last hug with a content groan, you give them a small smile and a wave goodbye, asking them to just let you know what they decide on doing.

as you lay down in the grotty hotel bed, curled up between thin sheets, you think about this sudden revelation that the two boys from your childhood aren’t cherubic anymore. life isn’t full of giggles and adventures, it’s ruthless and it’s dangerous. and the sight of your big brother, stone faced and silent, it makes you feel guilty. does he resent you for not staying in contact? has it been too long to attempt to reforge your relationship with him?

with a sigh, you reach out to grab your phone from the bedside table, eyes watery as you check the time. 1am.

ping. you receive a text.

it reads, “hey wee riley, it’s johnny m. we’re thinking abt going clubbing sat night. u remember jamies near the maccies? just lmk if ur interested xx nice to see u xx”

looks like you’re gonna have to pick out a dress for saturday night.

tag list:

@waves-against-a-cliff @cassiecasluciluce @dead-cipher @hayleybarnesx @maliakealoha @sunflowervase @spicyspicyliving