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migwayne · 5 months ago

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Skull Boy(s)

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Male Reader

Word Count: 6,330

Warnings: plot driven, slow-ish burn

Summary: Ghost and the Reader share a common interest: skulls

Long before ever meeting Task Force 141’s very own Lieutenant Ghost, otherwise known as Simon Riley to his close associates, you’ve always had an affinity for skulls, and that naturally progressed into other bones and skeletal structures.

From real animal and human skulls displayed in glass cases for the viewing pleasure of visitors to museums, to the hand-crafted sugar skulls and serene figures of La Catrina made in Mexico, or the artificial skulls and skeletons used to demonstrate anatomy in science classes, in addition to artwork or clothing depicting skeletons and various bones, you adore them all—and therein lies the problem: the prominence of them in your everyday life, which has not gone unnoticed by the task force, much to your chagrin.

It first began on a cold winter's night—no, not cold, but downright freezing. Despite being bundled up as best as you could manage, clad with layers upon layers of clothing, it had little effect on your extremities, i.e., your nose, fingertips, and toes, for they could not escape the frigid air that seemed to penetrate every inch of the base you and the other task force members have been advised to reside in whilst waiting out the snowstorm raging outside.

Given the limited amount of extra bedding, you couldn’t even find solace in burying yourself underneath a large pile of blankets and letting your eyes come to a close as slumber took you. With great trembling and lack of resolution, you grip tightly onto the soft, black, and fuzzy blanket with rows of white skeletons all over and will yourself to get up.

Whether it be cider, coffee, or tea, you could certainly make do with a nice, warm cup of anything right now. Your bones creak in protest as you sit up from the dingy mattress, slip on the flimsy slippers you keep at the edge of your bed, and leave the confines of your room.

You scuffle forward through the halls towards the kitchen, looking out the windows as you pass by them, and scrunch your nose in displeasure at the unforeseen weather. Half-heartedly, you wonder if there’s hot chocolate hidden somewhere, tucked deep inside a cupboard, in a dusty corner that’s remained untouched for years. The longer you ponder, the greater the desire to savor the sweet cocoa drink grows, although you doubt its existence.

Reaching the kitchen, vacant for the time being, you search through the numerous drawers and cabinets in hopes of finding a container of hot cocoa that you yearn for. You came up empty-handed.

Regardless of the minor disappointment, you fill the kettle, kept on the stove at all times, with water and turn on the burner. While waiting for the water to boil, you take out a large mug and place a tea bag inside, adding a spoonful of honey. No sooner are you accompanied by someone—Soap.

“Well, look who it is.” He spoke as if others had been in the area, despite it not being the case.

He strolls up next to you, having not expected another soul to be in the kitchen, and sits on the countertop next to your mug without disturbing it. Pinching the edge of the blanket, now comfortably wrapped around your shoulders, he gently flaps the soft fabric.

“And what’s this about? Almost thought you were Ghost for a second, but yer not so…y’know.”

Brooding is the word that went unspoken, and you knew what he meant.

You scoff, tugging the edge out of Soap’s hold. “You already know we’re only allowed a few personal objects.”

Soap quirks his brow, gesturing to the object in question. “And you went with that? I’ve never even seen ya with it.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not always this fucking freezing,” you mumble, turning your attention back towards the kettle as you go to pour into your mug.

“Fair enough,” he huffs.

The monotonous thump, thump, thump of approaching footsteps carries through the room. You and Soap pause, glancing at one another and trying to place where the noise is coming from. Your eyes scan the dim, ill-lit kitchen, tracing the outlines of the bleak concrete floors and walls, and halt on the entryway connecting the kitchen to the hallways you navigated to reach here, shrouded in complete darkness.

Soap follows your line of sight as you and he await the arrival of whoever is advancing towards you both, prepared for whatever comes next. You both exchange a nervous glance, your hearts pounding in anticipation.

The footsteps amplify the nearer they draw, and then a face emerges from the pitch-black—a skull face, to be exact. Just like that, Soap heaves a sigh of relief, and the tension releases from your shoulders. It’s only Ghost. Why, of course it is, because what else would you and Soap have imagined other than a teammate? Surely not some monstrous beast or something as silly as an abominable snowman.

All the childish fears dissipate as you and Soap laugh together, partially bewildered.

Ghost’s voice resounds, breaking up your little giggling spat. “Havin’ a party over here?”

Soap suddenly straightens up, as if there were a lightbulb above him glowing a pale yellow after being struck with an extraordinary idea.

“Ey, L.t! Come check this out.”

Having the foresight to know where this was going, you cupped your hand over his mouth.

“Soap—stop!” You snarl through gritted teeth.

As to be expected, he licks your palm, and you immediately pull your hand away. The scheming grin on his face merely broadens when Ghost approaches, until he’s standing before you and him. His unpainted eyes behind his skull balaclava rake across your figure, taking notice of the blanket draped onto you, exactly as Soap intended.

“Whad’ya think?” Soap asks.

The lieutenant simply grunts, repeating your sentiment by saying, “It’s bloody freezin’.”

He leaves it at that, much to Soap’s disappointment, and you gulp, clutching onto the handle of your tea-filled mug fiercely.

“Water’s warm if you want some tea,” you offer.

Ghost nods and begins to walk around the counter to approach the stove. With his back to you and Soap, you glare at the Scot, wanting to strangle him for pulling that little stunt. He snickers at your expense—at your embarrassment. You’ll get him back for this, you swear.

And you did.

It didn’t take long to come up with an effective, yet ultimately harmless, prank. With the simple action of downloading an app onto your phone, you were prepared. Now, all you had to do was wait for the right moment to strike.

The moment arrived on as ordinary of a day as ever, during the occasional downtime expended in between missions or after succeeding in a major mission. Once debriefs came to a close and all paperwork could be accounted for, a well-needed break and relaxation had been sufficiently earned.

You coincidentally found Soap on your way to locate Gaz and see if he would lend one of his books to you, lounging on a couch with his back towards you as he scrolled aimlessly on his phone, with the back of his neck and head perfectly exposed for your plan to come to fruition.

Soap did not see nor hear you creeping up behind him as you whipped out your phone to open the app that would send him into a panic. You simultaneously pressed the icon on the screen and the front edge of your phone against his neck as the device buzzed in your hand (and his neck) and the sound of an electric razor emanated from the speaker. You moved the phone up along the back of Soap’s head before he jerked away, preventing you from reaching the top of his head.

Soap rose from his seat, swiftly turning around to face you, nearly shouting obscenities when he noticed the lack of hair on the back of the couch and the phone in your hand. Just to be sure, he raked his hand all across his head and looked down at his clean, hair-free palm.

You laughed and laughed and laughed, directing the camera that was now recording him as you captured the array of emotions he’s undergoing in the span of a few seconds. Subsequently, Soap threw you onto the couch and attempted to wrestle the phone from your grip, demanding you delete the footage. You didn't, and the video is forever memorialized in a text group chat with the other 141 members (including Kate Laswell).

Back to the topic at hand, you’d hoped it would be a one-off incident that you could reminisce and laugh about, or devolve into a fleeting memory so minute that you’d forget it altogether. It proved to be an unrealistic hope and, eventually, untrue.

The second occurrence, if you could call it that, happened a month or so proceeding the initial incident. Winter continued to ravage the area, and though the weather had begun to lighten up and temperatures had risen, spring still felt a ways away.

You’d been tasked with the laborious duty of shoveling sheets of snow outdoors to clear paths in case of an emergency, at least for the time being until the sun comes out to do so, melting the white, pillowy mounds of ice. Due to the bouts of snowfall, the other men had already taken turns doing so, and therefore it was now your turn.

The experience wasn’t all that unpleasant, considering the others had done most of the work for you, and it helped that the freshly fallen snow was soft to the touch and rather easy to maneuver. The weather conditions were bearable as long as you were decked out in your warmest winter gear and shielded head to toe from the frosty air and biting chill that threatened to burrow itself underneath the surface of the skin and invade your nervous system.

After putting off the responsibility for longer than necessary, you ended up being a bit constricted on time and therefore had to rush to get outside if you wanted to finish before nightfall came. In doing that, instead of spending far too long searching for your usual pair of gloves, you opt for a different pair that somehow ended up with you on base. You’re uncertain exactly how or when it happened, though if you had to guess, it was likely a result of a mix-up of laundry or a mindless mistake of having forgotten the handy pair in either the pocket or a coat, jacket, or any old pair of pants—either way, they’re with you now.

The snug polyester material, commonly used in other pairs of gloves created to prioritize aesthetics over functionality, is of a plain black variety; however, the more visible side covering the backs of your hands was designed to illustrate the different segments of bones along one’s hands in a white color to contrast against the rest of the glove. A near identical match to Ghost’s very own gloves and a severe coincidence on your part, one your teammates would undoubtedly never believe, but a coincidence nonetheless.

Thus, here you are, pushing the last bit of snow off to the side of the pathway. You retrace your steps back to the side of the building you began with, tapping the head of the shovel against the wall to dislodge remnants of snow prior to stepping inside the moderately warm and, most of all, snowless base. Your gloved hands slip the hood of your jacket off of your head and begin to unzip said jacket, only to promptly shuck the gloves off, haphazardly stuffing them into the pockets, lest you're seen wearing them. With that worry out of the way, you knock your feet together, loosening the remaining snow on your boots, and as an added measure, you swipe the soles of your shoes against the doormat beneath you so as not to track snow or ice and avoid creating a slippery mess that could very well turn hazardous.

You trudge past corridors upon corridors, intent on returning the shovel to its rightful place prior to stopping by your room to shed the polyester winter garments—currently rubbing against itself as you swing your arms and move your legs, making a quite noisy trek—or disrobe into more appropriate, comfortable clothing. Once you return the shovel, you do just that, and relief quells the tension in your body now that you’re no longer standing outside dealing with the bitter cold.

You felt that the fruits of your labor were deserving of a reward and had the bright idea to enjoy a delightfully sweet cup of hot cocoa, which you may or may not have kindly requested in the days following the snow blizzard. You barely strode in the direction of the kitchen and stumble upon a sight so profound that it caused your heart to drop.

Upon turning the corner of one of many seemingly endless hallways do you notice Soap and Ghost further up ahead, with the first holding something in his hand. Your eyes squint ever so slightly to discern the object—gloves, and worst of all, your gloves.

Instinctually, you duck behind the very corner you emerged from, patting your hands over and into your pockets before remembering you’d barely changed moments ago. The gloves must’ve fallen out when you returned the shovel. Shit.

“—missing, Lt?”

You catch the tail end of Soap’s question as he playfully waves the gloves in Ghost’s face, proceeding to try to give them to him. Based on how the lieutenant doesn’t attempt to snatch them away or seem particularly intrigued by them, you suspect he already knows they aren’t his. Nonetheless, he reluctantly takes the pair, closely eyeing them as he holds them in the palm of his hand, emphasizing the size difference by that alone.

“These aren’t mine.”

Soap tilts his head, looking up at him confusedly and glancing down at the gloves again.

Your breath hitches, all too worried over something so minor, but the prevailing dignity you had left would be shattered if they ever found out—heaven forbid you also happen to enjoy the aesthetics of bones, and it has nothing to do with Ghost himself. You await their next move, knowing that if they simply flipped a glove inside out, they would see your name written on the clothing label, and your secret interest would suddenly become not-so-secret.

A hand landing on your shoulder takes you out of your head as you flinch at the touch, so abrupt and firm. You whip your head around, pressing your back against the wall to both avoid being seen by Soap and Ghost, and act as if you weren’t just spying on the two, to whomever was behind you.

“Hey��you alright?” Gaz asks, his words and expression laced with concern.

“Yeah! Uh, I’m fine,” you hastily reply, tacking on a strained smile to appear convincing.

He senses something's off, staring at you warily with a quirked brow.

“So, did you need something or...?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I was just gonna ask about the book—” Gaz cuts himself off as he peers past the corner of the wall, spotting the nearby men. “Oh, what are Soap and Ghost doin’ over there?”

You grasp his forearm, attempting to divert his attention away from them. “Uh, it’s probably nothing. We should find somewhere else to talk. What were you saying about books?”

Your grip is sturdy as you gently try to guide him away, however, he remains stationary, his brows furrowed at your odd behavior.

“What? Why are you—”

The voice you've been dreading so gravely interrupts Gaz.

“Ey, Gaz,” Soap greets, and his eyes trail to you. He doesn’t utter your name, his face lighting up as he grabs the gloves out of Ghost’s hold. “These are yours,” he states as a matter of fact, doubt never even crossing his mind.

You go still at the allegation, and in your peripheral vision, you see Gaz’s puzzled gaze jump from your face, then Soap’s, the gloves, and lastly, Ghost’s. You’re cornered here, back against the wall, as the other three men surround you, their gazes vigilant and scrutinizing. While you very well could lie straight to Soap’s face, the truth has already been cemented in his mind, and your denial would only spur on his teasing.

You cross your arms, keeping your eyes averted from Ghost’s figure and whatever abysmal expression he might convey through the mask.

“So what?”

Soap nudges your shoulder to lighten the mood, but you’d rather be anywhere else at the moment than be confronted for the second time now about your specific intrigue.

“Aw, dinnae be like that. Aren’t ya glad ye dinnae lose ‘em?”

"Whatever, they’re just spares, I couldn’t find my other ones.”

Gaz perks up at this. "I bet you’ve been a skeleton for Halloween at least once, yeah?”

You sputter. “Couldn’t you ask Ghost the same thing?”

Ghost, silent and motionless, persists as such.

Soap huffs, masking his laughter of amusement at your discomfort, and shakes his head. “He’s dressed like one every day, doesn’t count.”

It’s no use fighting a losing battle.

“You’re so annoying,” you sigh. On the crux of snapping at either him or Gaz, you turn on your heel to walk away. “Keep ‘em for all I care!”

Later, after the agitation at not only your carelessness but also Soap’s ceaseless mischief vanishes, you gather the courage to step out of your room. On the floor in front of the doorway, your bony gloves lie, along with a note on top.

Sorry about them

- Ghost

You clutch the gloves to your chest, ever so grateful to your lieutenant, as you revere his neat handwriting etched onto the paper and the doodle of a skull he attached to his signature.

From then on, the interest you’d tried—and ultimately failed at—hiding for so long has now been thrown in your face nearly daily. No matter how deep your efforts went and your honest desire to forget the humbling experiences of late, Soap and Gaz have made it their life’s mission to ensure that the discovery of your interests does not go unmentioned. At any given moment, regardless of significance or relevance, if you and Ghost happen to be in the same vicinity, either Gaz or Soap—usually both—will swiftly take advantage of the situation to poke fun at you.

It started with harmless, innocent jokes—mostly innocent. An off-handed comment if you were feeling cold and needed your gloves (the exact ones that got you into this mess in the first place) or your “blanky,” as Soap called it. Questions as to what your plans for Halloween are, despite the holiday taking place several months from now.

Their focus seemed quite set on the gloves, with you and Ghost being asked on several occasions to switch skeleton gloves to compare how they fit—or, inversely, how ill-fitted they’d be for both parties. One day you caved, openly wearing the damned gloves to show them that you didn’t care what either of them had to say about it. Gaz had been the one to come across you and Ghost silently enjoying a cup of tea, matching gloves and all, and went on to proudly proclaim, “Looks like I found the Skull Boys,” therefore cementing the joint nickname that sounded more akin to an official title than a silly label. Even so, it brought a sense of camaraderie and brought the two of you closer, oddly enough.

Gaz and Soap would typically spout some sly or innocuous comment here and there, though that quickly changed when they began insinuating something more between you and the lieutenant. They devolved into insinuating it was Ghost who had given you the gloves or possibly gifted you the blanket so you could snuggle into something soft and warm to remind you of him.

The thinly veiled accusations were ludicrous, to say the least, and not ones you took lightly, vehemently refuting each and every claim of Ghost’s involvement or influence on your particular fascination with representations of death, to put it bluntly, whereas the lieutenant never spoke a word about it. He would sit back and watch you plead your case to the other sergeants, your nervosity increasing at his consistent silence, neither agreeing nor disagreeing for or against you, which by all means did not benefit your assertions.

(Truthfully, your admiration for Ghost surpassed that of a friendly nature—and it's not your fault he was surprisingly easy to get along with once you became familiar with each other—though if the current circumstances were anything to go off of, it demonstrated how badly things would go if your feelings ever came to light.)

Only once did Ghost entertain Soap’s pestering, leaving you both with more questions than answers. Soap had made a flippant remark, suggesting that Ghost had likely crafted you a skull mask to match his own. You’re uncertain what spurred him on to say that, considering Ghost is the sole member of the task force to adhere to anonymity in hiding his identity, and you have no reason to keep your face hidden from the sights of others. Nevertheless, ever so cryptic, Ghost merely denied this, stating, “You can’t create a ghost.”

Much to your relief, Ghost didn’t seem too bothered by the added attention your presence brought to him, but whenever Soap’s blabbing ever became overbearing, he wouldn’t shy away from telling Soap to shut his trap or to focus and get back to work. Luckily, Gaz and Soap’s jests seldom impeded high-stakes missions, and primarily, most work that required the entire task force’s involvement was located off base. While they didn’t cease their teasing overall, your gratitude for any day they toned it down prevailed above the mild irritation their usual banter caused.

In fact, it turns out their frivolous jabbering could be said in a well-meaning manner and was not limited to something they said to amuse themselves.

On one of many occasions, Kate Laswell presented the task force with a mission: infiltrate a stash house and capture a target. Captain Price, Soap, and Gaz would be responsible for doing both, with you and Ghost assigned as snipers, monitoring opposite ends of the building in case things should go awry. In reality, the stash “house” was a vast villa, hence why the need for two snipers arose. All went well, and it had been nothing short of a success, impressively so considering everyone came out unscathed despite how outnumbered you were.

When all was said and done, you and Ghost left your previous position, meeting up in the middle and heading towards exfil. Somewhere along the way, Gaz caught up with the two of you and eagerly patted you and Ghost on the shoulder.

“Another success for the Skull Boys! Good work out there.”

You huff, watching Gaz continue onward before glancing over at Ghost.

“Skull boys?” You parrot, holding out your fisted hand.

Ghost shrugs, indifferent as usual, and bumps the side of his fist with yours.

“Nice job.”

“You too, Lt.”

Weeks came and went without exposing additional “incriminating” possessions, and Soap and Gaz were quickly running out of new material. You saw the importance of exercising caution—extreme caution, compared to your recent negligence—and soon everyone grew bored of the monotony of their jokes, too repetitive and similar to past ones to satisfy the desire for entertainment. But alas, life is unfair, and although different stages may feel stagnant, change is an ever-looming presence, awaiting its moment to strike.

Change arrived at your doorstep on an integral night: movie night. A recurring activity the captain has instilled to “boost morale and help the team bond,” or so he’s claimed, yet, after years and years of the task force operating smoothly, it became clear his reasoning was a facade for wanting everyone to spend time together and unwind.

Despite the team consisting of adults who are reasonable and well-mannered, Price preemptively established a system so the night could go off without a hitch, meaning no arguments or complaints from anyone. Each movie night, that hardly ever happens on a regular basis, someone different gets to choose the movie, and the others patiently wait their turn to choose the next time. Regardless of movie choice, everyone contributes in some way, either by providing drinks, snacks (and occasionally candy), or even through movie suggestions if the assigned person can’t decide or doesn’t care to.

This time around, it’s Price’s turn, and his pick was an old western movie you don’t recognize. The TV is on, with the movie set up and ready to play. An array of beverages is spread out on the coffee table, catering to everyone’s preferences while they’re seated on the spacious couch. You, on the other hand, are busy.

“What’s takin’ so long over there?”

Gaz is the first to complain about your absence, and Soap follows.

“Will ya hurry it up already?! We’re gonna start without'cha,” he warns.

You watch the timer run down with each passing second as the bag of buttered popcorn spins round and round in the microwave.

“I’m coming! Just gimme a minute, jeez,” you respond.

“It only takes you a minute? You should get that checked out, mate,” Gaz replies with the utmost seriousness.

From across the room, you hear Price nearly choke on the beer he’s been sipping and Soap cracking up with laughter.

“Very funny...” you mutter to yourself, tugging on the handle of the microwave door before the timer rings out.

You shake the popcorn bag vigorously, ensuring each popped corn is coated with butter, and dump the contents into a bowl. With your hands and arms full, you balance different bowls of chips and popcorn, taking cautious steps as you make your way over to them. If you make a mess now, movie night might as well be canceled.

Gaz kindly lowers his legs from on top of the coffee table, allowing you passage into the narrow space between the couch and table. You place the bowls down almost gingerly until there are only two in your grasp. One you hand off to Ghost, and the other you keep as you sit down at last.

Soap instantly takes notice.

“Hey—how come we don’t get any popcorn? Your favoritism is showing.” His voice lifts as if he were singing.

"'Cause unlike you, he asked. Plus, I don’t share popcorn with losers.”

A sharp gasp tears through the room as he clutches his chest. “The hell did I do to you?”

You toss pieces of popcorn into your mouth, tilting your head as you chew in a mock display of consideration. “You made us watch a shitty rom-com last time.”

Shocked at your level of honesty, he gapes. “What—so yer punishing me?”

You shrug. “Call it whatever you want, but if you want some, you’re gonna have to get it yourself.”

Gaz chimes in, “Damn, that’s cold.”

To further establish your point, you gently shake the bowl in your hand, offering it to the man sitting next to you. “Want some, Cap?”

“Rude,” Soap grunts, crossing his arms over his chest and pouting.

Price grabs a handful of popcorn, nodding in appreciation, and his other hand wields the remote, finally beginning the movie.

Soap suddenly perks up. “Ghost, can—”

“No.”

The sergeant slouches, huffing in defeat.

You relax into the seat cushion as well, relishing in the delight of Soap’s stubbornness in being unwilling to get up from the couch. It’s rare you best him, and frankly, overdue with how much of a jokester he can be.

At some relatively odd point in the movie, you absentmindedly remove your slippers, propping your feet up on the edge of the coffee table to steer clear of the refreshments and avoid knocking something over. You don’t think much of it, given that it doesn’t necessitate a second thought. You’re simply adjusting and getting comfortable, but the response you receive prompts you to rethink that decision altogether.

“Are your socks..?” Gaz trails off as he squints, attempting to discern them with the aid of the dim lighting radiating from the TV.

It’s too late. He’s already seen what they are, and hiding your socked feet couldn’t help you now or reverse what you’ve done.

Damn you, you hadn’t stopped to consider when you put on the first old pair of socks you could find in the morning, the black cotton that went up to your calves with a repeating pattern of skeletons in various dancing poses.

How does this keep happening?

“Are all your socks like that, and we just haven’t noticed?” Gaz wonders aloud.

Price dips his hand into your popcorn bowl, all too happy to ignore the exchange.

Rather than deny the trivial inquiry as you typically would, you go along with it.

“Uh-huh. I just have multiples of the exact same pairs of socks.”

Gaz scoffs. “That’s not what I–”

"Sh." Price cuts him off.

Soap interprets this as his chance to add to the conversation, leaning toward you to speak quietly. “Guess that means ye really ‘ave been a skeleton before.”

You audibly sigh. “My choice of socks doesn’t have to mean anything.” With him near, it doesn’t take exceptional effort to swing your leg to the side and purposefully try to dig your toes into his ribs.

“Ugh—bugger off!”

Fortunately, you and he aren’t the only ones fed up.

"SHHH!" Price shushes once more.

That shuts everyone up.

Your shoulders sag as you relax and ease back against the couch cushion, delighted to have the attention off of you. All the same, slip your legs off the table and up onto the couch, crossing your legs to tuck your feet underneath your knees, hiding your socks from onlookers.

It’s almost ironic how your gaze veers in Ghost’s direction, agonizing over his reaction, regardless of his nonchalance in every other scenario. The lower half of his mask is pulled up, exposing his mouth and jaw as he munches on the popcorn provided by you. There’s no indication of interest in the thwarted conversation as he maintains his silence and his eyes never leave the TV screen, but as you stare, you notice the edge of his lip, ever so slightly curled. His lips twitch in Simon’s poor attempt to maintain indifference, though that couldn’t be farther from the truth. He enjoys this, doesn’t he? More than he cares to admit, apparently.

You hand your bowl off to Price and rise from the couch. “I’ll be back.”

“Where’re you going?” He asks.

“Kitchen.”

You glance over at Ghost again, who tears his gaze off of the screen and stares back at you, and exit the room. All you can do now is hope he gets the hint.

You’re sitting on the countertop when Ghost arrives, watching your feet dangle off the edge, hardly a foot or so away from the floor.

“Hey,” Ghost greets.

You lift your head, looking straight forward at him.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

Ghost doesn’t bat an eye at your out-of-character candidness, merely taking note of it.

“You just did.”

Your eyes narrow. “Seriously.”

“Go ahead,” he relents.

The minimal confidence you had dissipates, and you realize all too late that you can’t back out. You could back out if you felt inclined to, but it wouldn’t resolve anything. You speak to your lieutenant on a nearly daily basis; this won’t be all that different.

Your eyes stray from him, moving around the room as you fiddle with your fingers.

“How come you never say anything when Gaz or Soap are...joking around?” to put it lightly.

“Why would I?”

“'Cause half the time it's about you—or partially about you. Doesn’t it bother you?”

He shrugs. “Not really. Why’s it bother you?” He pins the question back on you.

You weigh the question in your mind, hesitating to answer. “I care.”

Ghost’s stare lingers, despite you avoiding his gaze, and it’s clear he’s waiting for the rest of your answer.

“I-I don’t know, I didn’t wanna weird you out, which totally backfired,” you grumble. “I mean, I didn’t want anybody to find out, and I’m sure you can see why now.”

He hums in response.

“I just…I didn’t wanna seem like I was copying you, trying to get on your good side, or whatever. I wanted to earn your respect or whatever, like everybody else. And, if we’re being honest, you’re not exactly the most…open person or easy to get a read on. I wasn’t gonna mess with my chances, but you make it pretty clear you respect your privacy, so I didn’t wanna step on any toes or something.”

“Huh,” is all Ghost replies. You care about what he thinks about you? How odd.

“Huh? That’s it. That’s all you have to say after I bare my soul to you.”

“No, but…”

“But, what?”

“It’s…nice.”

“Nice?”

Again, he shrugs, all too casually. “Yeah. T’not be the only—”

“Weirdo.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle, and his abrupt laugh is like music to your ears. It’s unlike any of the previous laughter you’ve heard from him—not the sarcastic mock-laughter or gruff chuckle when he and Soap have their exchanges of dark humor, but light and carefree—cut short, as if it had caught him off guard.

“I wasn’t gonna say that, but sure.”

You wince. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“‘S alright, don’t apologize. I like it, you’re just so you, so I don’t get why you wanted to hide that part of you or didn’t get it, I guess.”

“Oh.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

He makes you laugh so effortlessly and freely, without worry or fear of judgment. The smile that follows puts a strain on your cheeks; it’s as if the metaphorical mask you wear has suddenly become null and void, revealing the genuine person underneath it—dauntlessly displayed in front of Ghost as your entire, authentic self.

“No, it just seems kinda silly looking back on it. Sorry." You attempt to apologize again.

Ghost’s pointed stare articulates your mistake well enough.

You cross your arms, responding in defiance, “Fine, I’m not sorry.”

He chuckles, beginning to step forward to reduce the distance between you and him.

Your posture shifts from relaxed to pin-straight as you subtly lean back, caught between him and the wall behind you.

“So, uh, should we go back or...?” The words wither in your throat as soon as Simon tugs his mask up.

Your eyes fail to meet his as they trace over the visible part of his face, devoting your undivided attention to his lips, opening and moving as he speaks.

“Don’t hide from me, now.”

The gravelly timber in his voice strikes a chord within you, and the feeling amplifies as he raises his hand to caress your cheek. His thumb pads along your skin, steadily growing warm beneath his touch—oh, so delicate compared to the rough texture his hands exhibit. You can't help but melt into his touch, feeling a wave of desire wash over you.

You don't shy from his gaze, his eyes capturing such vivid emotion—the ever-present confidence of how he carries himself and a fondness so unwavering and impenetrable, it appeared as if his irises were blooming—that you can’t seem to look away from.

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, uncertainty creeping along the nerves apart from it. You don’t know what to say, other than that, you should say something.

“Ghost, wha-what…” you pause, swallowing the saliva collecting in your mouth. “What are you doing?”

“I’m gonna kiss you, is that alright?” He speaks eloquently, asking in a far too casual tone.

There’s no need to answer, not now. Your eyes flutter shut, anticipation burning inside your chest as you lean forward off of the wall. Simon closes the gap between you and him, and his lips slot with yours like two puzzle pieces specifically designed to connect to one another.

The chaste kiss is all you think about once you and he return from the kitchen, sitting separately from each other and joining the others on the couch. Not a single word is uttered as the movie continues, but you’re fairly content sharing fleeting looks with Ghost in the company of others.

When the following autumn season rolled around, you and Simon agreed on having matching Halloween costumes as none other than skeletons. The entire year, Soap and Gaz spent the majority of it betting on that outcome, so who were you to disappoint them?

Simon allowed you to paint his face, bare of the balaclava or skull mask he typically wears, since you have been granted the special privilege of sporting it. Both of you are thrilled with the arrangement: you exude pride as you wear the skull mask, and Simon feels invulnerable despite the lack of a mask—and the fact that his scars remained hidden beneath the layers of face paint, obscuring much of his facial structure, helped.

Upon arriving at the small party Soap managed to arrange, you and Simon were swiftly greeted.

“Look who arrived! Our very own Skull Boys.”

The intimate gathering wasn’t as harrowing as Simon imagined it to be, so he allowed himself to enjoy it and actually stuck around for the occasion. Near the end of the night, you and he settled on a love seat, curled closely together, in your own little world, where just you and he existed and nothing else mattered. The tips of your fingers glide along Simon’s forearm, tracing the outline of his tattoos, as was a common occurrence. You could feel the warmth of his skin underneath your touch.

“Happy Halloween, Simon.”

“Happy Halloween, love.”

Masterlist a/n: suuuper self indulgent and i have no regrets other than ghost being extremely out of character 😭 sry

#love love love #BOYS

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migwayne · 6 months ago

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vigilance

Patrick Zweig x M. Reader

656 words

anyone can read, just b respectful

"cameronday1010 asked:

ok it could be dumb but I had an idea of PATRICK ZWEIG x male photographer reader.Patrick just keeps messing up his photos so his eyes and camera are just on him"

thank you for the request @cameronday1010 😼 i realize it might be a tiny bit different than the og. request but i hope you like it!! short and sweet lol

There were a few different people going up against each other, but the memory of your camera seemed to be mostly occupied by one player particularly, Patrick Zweig. Whether he was sitting down or running across the court, or eating a banana, you had a picture of it. Not to mention the instances where took off his sweaty sleeveless shirt and leaned back in his chair between sets, left in that stupid checkered pair of shorts that you couldn't help but think looked like something you'd wear to sleep... it didn't change the fact that you couldn't take your eyes off his thighs with the way it rode up with legs wide apart. Even better with the zoom your camera had.

Yeah, you had taken way too many pictures of this guy, even you knew that. You couldn't even excuse it as enthusiasm for the sport, you didn't know shit about tennis. You were just here to take some pictures, and that you did. In abundance. For a bit of money.

You were back at the small lounge in the registration area, looking through the photos, hunched over at one of the tables when Patrick entered, too deep in your staring-at-pictures to notice.

An amused smirk took over Patrick's face as he spotted you. Your camera didn't escape his notice throughout the sets, seeing as whenever his eyes strayed to comb through the audience, it was looking right back at him. You also seemed rrreally focused on those pictures. So much so that he easily walked up behind you, hands in his shorts' pockets as he watched as you pressed the arrow button on your laptop over and over again. There was no shortage of photos of Patrick looking right back at the camera too, clearly. It amused him to no end.

"Good eyes out there man. Definitely got my best angles... like, all of them." he said as he stood behind you with a smile on his face, which only widened when he saw your shoulders jump the slightest bit at noticing him.

Unable to help tensing up, you purse your mouth before your shoulders lower again, slowly turning around in your seat to see the tennis player stare you down with a self-satisfied grin.

"A-ah... well, 's my job, you know how it is..."

"Oh, I definitely do." he nodded as he looked back at the photo you stopped at. It was another one of him, looking right back at you as he sat shirtless with his bottle in his mouth.

"Are those gonna be in the news too?"

"Uh, I mean... n-no, but... who knows what the reporters want, right? I gotta have a bit of variety..."

"Riiight, right, I get it..." he nodded.

With how lame his stay here promised to be at the start of the day, this was a way more entertaining use of his time, and an opportunity even if he played his cards right. Plus, you seemed pretty fun so far, it might be even something more.

"You're gonna be here for the rest of the matches too, right?"

"...Yeah, of course, Donaldson is gonna be here too, that's like the only reason everyone's here." That was one name even you knew.

Ouch.

"Yeah, right..."

"-Shit, sorry, I didn't mean it like that! It was uh, just, unexpected is all..."

He waved it off, smile back on his face again as quick as it went away.

"Hey, don't sweat it, I get that... that's gonna be fun, for sure."

His eyes went up and down over you as you sat, just like yours did throughout the event, and you could feel yourself getting a bit hot under the collar. He must've just left the locker room after a shower, but you could still sense the slightest trace of sweat on him. You barely just met the guy and you were already on the brink of making a fool of yourself.

And Patrick absolutely reveled in it, he was no fool. This was fun.

"...So-"

"You wanna come back to my place?" you blurted out, snapping your laptop shut."

"Yes, absolutely."

#need him diabolically

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migwayne · 6 months ago

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Here's a website where Palestine GoFundMes are vetted and shared that you can send out to people. The url is gazafunds.com

Easy to use and simple. Just share the site whenever someone asks for GFMs for Palestine.

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migwayne · 6 months ago

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Reblog the fundraisers you mfs!!!!! I don't know why you all skip those to reblog some pic of a banner saying "FREE PALESTINE" or of news from Columbia University! Literally these people from Gaza have made an account on Tumblr and is writing in english to communicate what they need and you all are coming onto my blog or on the tag and not reblogging their posts. We have people both Palestinian and non Palestinian vetting the fundraisers! I mean more the reblogs, more the chance of the fundraisers gaining momemtum, the more there would be a chance of a donation. Please donate if you can and reblog!!! and follow them if it is possible.

@/mohammedayesh has posted getting leaflets telling them to evacuate Rafah. They are very low on funds. Go follow them and reblog their posts and donate if possible.

We have @/haneenatya too whose mother is suffering from eye stroke and need to evacuate. Please I have been following them for some days and it doesn't seem their own posts are getting much attention.

Follow them! They are on tumblr. Reblog their posts and donate. The protests in universities are being done on account of them. They should be our focus.

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migwayne · 8 months ago

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hiiii x3 hiiii hello X3 I've been feeling bad for being inactive here and not reading as much lately and not reblogging but i wanna be more active again I've started a 2 yr animation course last September and I've been drawing a ton for school since then but eventually i wanna be regularly active again as my hyperfixations slowly creep back up on me i love my moots

#im more active on insta wink wink nudge nudge

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migwayne · 1 year ago

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Not Alone: Part II

Ghost Team & (Ex-) Shadow Male Reader

Word Count: 10,434

Warnings: canon typical violence, descriptions of blood & death

Summary: Despite briefly being on oppositional teams, John and the reader try to learn how to trust each other, though not without a few hiccups along the way

Part I / Part II / Part III / Part IV

Like with 2-1’s unconscious body, you have the courtesy to move 2-0’s body elsewhere. Without you asking, Soap helps heft up the man who tried killing you moments ago while curtly explaining to Ghost the agreement you and he came to.

Your eyes avoid the dead man’s face, unwilling to remember him like that, as you carry him by the legs, with Soap holding the upper body. The two of you laid him on a bench, resembling a drunken man who passed out from having one too many drinks.

Right after you (and Soap) dispose of the shadow, another appears. Both you and he are alerted of their presence once they begin to speak and immediately duck down.

Soap, who had been and still is in front of you, looks back at you with a fire burning in his eyes. He sways his head to the side, motioning for you to accompany him. In return, you nod, and he takes the lead in slinking along the plaza perimeter. No words are exchanged, as the two of you can't afford to have your location compromised.

You identify their voices as shadow 3-1 and 3-2's, with the latter sounding somewhat robotic. Their voices echo, and you're unsure of which direction they’re speaking from. You are sure of one thing, though: they’re speaking on comms—openly, too. Neither has bothered with their earpieces, so you and Soap have unrestricted access to their semi-public conversation.

“…I got too much respect for these guys to go to guns unless they do,” 3-1 says, in reference to Soap and Ghost.

You and he stalk silently, taking cover behind lampposts, metal benches, and garden beds suspended in concrete.

The other shadow, on the other hand, is not worried in the slightest.

“I bet we’d come on top o’ that fight.”

3-2’s cocky attitude isn't unexpected. Unwavering loyalty, even to his detriment.

“I don’t want to test my skills against 141,” 3-1 confesses.

Soap huffs through his nose in place of a laugh.

3-1 is not a new hire, by any means, though he sure acts like one. The guy puts on this confident facade around the commander and large groups of shadows, except for in private. He isn’t the tough and resilient person he pretends to be.

Behind their backs and solely to the other men in the squad he’s in, he’ll express doubts about upcoming missions. The only reason you know, is because you overheard 3-0 talking to your (recently deceased) lieutenant commander on the matter. They briefly discussed what should be done with him, citing that “his performance is great but ultimately lacks confidence."

You’re not sure why they’ve kept him around for this long. Then again, in the position Graves has put all his shadows in, some doubt might do them well.

“What were you thinkin’?” 3-2 asks.

Now, crouched in front of a food stand, Soap grabs an empty glass bottle standing on the surface.

“Bottle” is all he whispers.

You’re uncertain if he’s telling either you or Ghost.

“Good for distraction,” Ghost adds.

Is this what it’ll be like all night? He and his lieutenant exchange information between themselves while you’re left to ponder what the other half of the conversation may be.

“We should white flag this thing and talk, or everyone’s gonna end up dead."

Wise words, coming from 3–1 of all people.

At least attempting to prevent bloodshed isn't exclusive to you.

“You gettin’ scared, dude?”

The utter arrogance in 3-2’s voice does not go unheard.

“I’m not fuckin scared, bro,” 3-1 combats, raising his voice. “I’m not stupid either.”

Teaming up with Soap may not have been your sole choice—or on the agenda at all, for that matter— and you’re beginning to question if it was the right one. You’re not in any position to make demands and such…but shouldn’t you and he be moving away from the shadow, not towards him?

You're oblivious as to what Soap’s plan is, so for now, you're left to accept the circumstances, and comply with whatever it is.

He moves to the food stand farther ahead, with you sticking closely behind him; the shadows voices become clearer the nearer you get, sans echo or reverb.

3-1 swiftly changes the subject, perhaps uncomfortable with the idea that his squadmate views him as weak for fearing the 141 members.

“Any movement there? It’s quiet here…Narcos got outta dodge. It’s not them I’m worried about, anyway.”

“I thought you said you’re not scared?” 3-2 teases.

Soap peers past the stand, eyeing the cowardly shadow, who has his back facing him and you, as he chats with the other. John had thought his mind had been messing with him when he first considered the shadow's voices familiar, yet thinking back on it, they sounded exactly like the men he’d seen climbing out of a vehicle upon his arrival to Las Almas.

“I’m worried, worried is different than scared,” 3-1 denies.

“Same fuckin’ thing.”

3-1 grows frustrated, and you can practically feel the tension rise.

“No, it’s not! It’s not the same thing at all.”

Is this how they usually get along?

Without hesitation, Soap winds up his arm and throws the bottle across the plaza in hopes of directing 3-1 away from you and him.

3-1 visibly tenses up, muttering to himself, “The hell was that?” before walking over to investigate.

“Chucked a bottle…worked like a charm,” he boasts to Ghost.

You remain silent, crouching by one of the many metal benches as Soap picks up a spare bottle.

“I’m telling you right now, don’t let these guys get into your head,” 3-2 advises.

How helpful.

“Told ya. Pay attention, and you might just learn something,” Ghost responds.

The two of you continue moving forward, heading straight for an establishment of sorts with its front door wide open.

“So you tellin’ me you see that big boy with the skull face, and you’re not gonna start sweatin’?” 3-1 asks.

“I’m not gonna see him—”

He interrupts, snapping at the other shadow, “You’re right, you won’t see him. It’s too late if you see him, you’re already fuckin’ dead.”

They're not wrong.

Soap laughs lowly to himself. At the very least there’s one shadow out there with common sense.

(John would include you in that group; however, you seem a bit too clever to rely on common sense alone.)

The building you enter turns out to be an ice cream shop. You close the door behind you; there is no need for prying eyes. The faint chatter from outside persists, but you’re unable to make it out from this distance, not to mention the outpouring of rain muffling the sounds around you.

You let your eyes wander about the shop, taking in every detail.

A singular light has remained on in the left side of the store. Whatever corners of the room the light cannot reach are shrouded in darkness. The smooth orange-red tiling on the floor, a strip of a simple wallpaper design scrolled in a line across the middle of every light blue wall, and on the right wall, a neon sign depicting a steaming cup, the lettering on it reading COFFEE. There’s trash strewn throughout the otherwise pristine room. An abandoned bowl of ice cream is flipped upside down, the contents melting on the floor around it.

You avoid the pool of melted chocolate on the floor, wondering how this came to be.

Soap has obtained another bottle by the time you finish observing your surroundings.

A different robotic voice calls out, “What have you got?”

“No visual on the target!” A shadow, much closer than 3-1 had been, retorts.

You and Soap exchange a glance, meaning which target?

He veers to the left into the hall next to the payment counter, finding an additional wax candle.

“Commandeered some wax, Lt.”

“Could prove useful."

Sounds like Ghost is concocting a new tool for Soap to use.

You trail behind him, feeling like a child who has to stay silent and 'let the adults talk.'

Beside a water dispenser is a white door, the inside revealing the other side of the counter. It’s completely dark, so you stand by the doorway, letting Soap do…whatever he’s doing.

He crouches low to the floor, straining his eyes to make out anything practical. As luck would have it, he discovers a bottle of chemicals—though he can't differentiate what they are in the dark—and a candle.

“Found some chemicals,” he announces.

“Tie them up with some wax, you got a smoke bomb. A toxic distraction."

Finally, something right up Soap’s alley.

“Sick, I like it,” he replies, approaching the back door, under the expectation that you’d follow in his footsteps.

“Guarantee you they won’t,” Ghost quips.

You watch from the same doorway as Soap opens the door a tiny sliver, but upon hearing the mumblings of a shadow, he decides that route isn’t worth the risk. He turns around, beckoning you with a quiet “C’mon,” and steps back into the dark room.

Although your eyes have adjusted to the lack of light, you walk closely behind him. He perches on the small window on the other side of the room and makes sure the coast is clear before hopping out.

That’s not to mean no shadows are lurking closeby.

“…comms check!”

A monotone, “I’m here.”

“You good?”

“Area’s secure.”

At no point does he stop to check if you’re still trailing him as you mimic his movements and cross the alley into the neighboring store.

Soap immediately snags a bottle off the cashier's counter.

It’s a beautifully decorated candy store, with shelves lined with sweets and a variety of snacks. Colorful piñatas shaped as stars and donkeys are strung up from the ceiling.

He goes behind the counter and finds a mousetrap, also taking that.

On the wall behind Soap, the store’s name, La Dulce, is painted in a bright pink color.

You break the extended lapse of silence between you and him.

“Sooo, what’s up with you hangin’ around and lookin’ for stuff?”

Obviously, you’ve noticed him picking up things along the way, especially when he keeps Ghost updated on his discoveries. To you, it seems random and a waste of time, but to Soap, it’s his lifeline.

He considers his answer carefully. You’re not exactly untrustworthy, because apart from blindly abiding not only his instructions, you also kept your word by tailing him like a lost puppy—you’re just not exactly trustworthy, either. While he understands your intentions behind incapacitating those shadows, even if he technically killed your lieutenant commander, it doesn’t negate the fact that you turned against your own.

“Supplies,” he answers. “Need ‘em to stay alive, cause distractions, an’ whatnot.” Soap hesitates before continuing, “I, uh, never said thanks for the gun, so, thanks. Just can’t rely on it for much except getting us caught now—and saving you, I guess.”

You nod, trying not to let the hurt show on your face. In trying to help Soap, did you inadvertently cause him more grief? All you've ever wanted to do is help him, and your efforts will be for naught if you end up doing more harm than good.

“Right. Well, is it anything specific? I-If I help you get what you need, then the sooner we can get out of here,” you offer.

As much as you’re doing this because it’s the right thing, you party feel indebted to Soap. He did spare and save your life, after all.

Soap shrugs. “Alright, but don’t go out of yer way. I need metal scrap, wax, chemicals, rope or duct tape, an’ fan blades.”

“What about the bottles?”

He nods and says, “Bottles, too. Anything ye find, give to me.”

That seems easy enough.

You stay put as he walks toward the back of the store, where he finds a wax candle.

The two of you leave, dipping back out into the wet street.

On your way out, you spot a glass bottle tipping out of a fruit crate and snatch it, handing it to Soap wordlessly.

“Thanks.”

Across from the storefront appears to be a well-structured water fountain, built into the edge of the alley. There’s no water flowing from it, not that it's needed, with the rain and all. Soap spots some rope lying on the edge of the stone and grabs it.

“I’ll take that,” he mutters.

A shadow is surveying the area up ahead and at the end of the alley. He has his back to you and Soap as his headlamp shines along the entrance exterior of a home.

As usual, Soap takes the lead, with you keeping up from behind, despite him heading up the alley towards the shadow. It wouldn’t exactly be your first choice of alley, but then again, you're not the one calling the shots.

“Tell me you got something,” a voice crackles from the shadow’s radio.

“No visual! Secure,” he answers.

You and he successfully bypass the shadow and slip into another shop, which doesn’t seem to have an actual front door, only a doorway. Above the entrance is a cool-toned light that’s remained on.

The first room is dim, with a singular light shining in the corner. Women’s clothing is dispersed sparsely among all the metal racks, so the two of you make due by trying to locate things of use. On a short table holding accessories like handbags, Soap finds a candle and takes it.

Beyond that is an entryway leading to the back of the store, shrouded in darkness. Both of you carefully step down the three small steps into the second room, and you feel a chill run down your spine. Soap quickly turns on his headlamp, lighting the way around the shoe department. Even with the headlamp, his field of vision is narrow, though you soon realize that your eyes are well acquainted with the dark.

An air of confidence arises with the ability to blend in with the surrounding shapes and shadows, so for the first time since joining Soap, you wander freely, ending up in front of him. He doesn’t comment on it as he joins you behind the cashier’s counter. You and he rummage through the various drawers yet turn up empty-handed.

Beside the counter is an ornate door made of beautifully carved wood. You aren't given a chance to dwell on the clear craftsmanship it took to design such a piece as Soap gravitates back in front of you. The door emits a faint creak when he opens it, and you and Soap shuffle inside what resembles fitting rooms. You close the door behind you, the headlamp’s beam sweeping along the area.

Going separate ways, you and Soap scavenge the cubicles with their flimsy curtains and blue ottomans. Each one is identical to the next, other than the occasional items of clothing sprawled out on the floor. Fortunately, you spot a roll of tape in one of the stalls.

You go to Soap, who’s in the stall over, and nudge him with the roll. “Here.”

He accepts it.

“Picked up some tape,” he states to Ghost.

“Very useful.”

“If I have to wrap a gift?” John jests.

“So to speak. Hold onto it.”

Though you can’t hear what his lieutenant had to say to that, Soap’s remark has you suppressing a laugh.

Are they always this playful?

You and he walk side-by-side, further towards the back, past the changing stalls. As you turn the corner, you stumble upon a sight that spoils the humor you felt. Now, your stomach churns, and you freeze in place.

On the far side of the room, there is a shadow—his body slumped in the corner, legs slightly spread, hands in front of him on his lap, and head tilted down. Underneath the window on the left wall and floor are broken shards of glass and stripes of red, leading to the shadow.

Had he been moved while he was still alive, or once he stopped struggling?

Soap hadn’t expected to encounter the body of another shadow—not one that isn’t from his own doing, that is.

Across the room, there’s a desk lamp aimed directly in the corner, giving light to the deceased subject. Unlike the somberness that roots in his chest at the sight of the dead civilians of Las Almas, satisfaction stirs inside him. The blood sprayed on the wall and pooled around the dead shadow, not dissimilar to the state of the many corpses Graves and his men are responsible for.

Upon closer inspection, there’s a knife sticking out of the shadow’s neck, which is undeniably the murder weapon. Soap puts his left hand on top of the shadow’s helmet, tipping his head back, and grips the knife’s handle with his right hand to wretch it out of his neck.

“Ghost…You missin’ a knife?” He asks, examining the bloodied blade.

“Several,” Ghost confesses.

Soap pockets the knife. “I think I found one.”

“Some of the dead shadows are my handiwork," his superior boasts.

“You came through here?”

“On my way to the church.”

Ouch. It felt like a punch to the gut to hear Ghost admit so casually that he left his sergeant behind. John doesn’t mean for it to affect him as badly as it does, and he has to remind himself that they both left Alejandro on his own. (With the intention of rescuing him, of course.)

John’s voice loses its playful touch. “And ye left me?”

“I’m used to workin’ alone,” Ghost excuses.

“So much for no man left behind,” he grumbles.

“Just get yourself to the church. Tryin’ to keep you alive and get you ‘ere in one piece. One of us needs to survive and tell the tale."

Oh. It seems the lieutenant does have a soft side.

“Taken a shine to me, then?” John cheekily asks.

Ghost is quick to shut the idea down. “Not in the slightest. Still got a lot of ground to cover.”

You’re unable to move a single inch with your feet firmly planted on the floor, as if weighted by shackles connected to an iron ball—or like your boots have been nailed to the ground. If only you possessed the control to move your head or close your eyes instead of witnessing Soap nonchalantly remove the knife from the dead man. He does so without care, seemingly unfazed by the corpse or even his own actions.

You’ve seen your fair share of carnage on this night alone, never mind previous assignments—as you’re sure Soap has also—but seeing his utter disregard for the dead person that lay before him as he goes back to chatting with Ghost disturbs you.

With jelly-like limbs, you push yourself to take steps toward him, completely tuning out Soap’s voice. For once, you’re grateful you can’t hear Ghost’s responses.

Once you’re close enough, you kneel in front of him, your wet pants making an odd squishing noise as they make contact with the enclosing blood. You lift his goggles off his face, and they sit atop his helmet as you stare at his closed eyes.

To the shock of none, you know him. Of course you would; you’re part of the same private military company, except you know him.

Fuck, why’d it have to be him?

Soap’s voice cuts through your recall of interactions with the shadow.

“You know ‘im?”

You nod, your voice coming out in a rasp. “Yeah.”

There’s an uncomfortable shift in the atmosphere that neither of you care to acknowledge.

Subconsciously, your hand reaches up to your bruising neck to rub at the fragile skin. A reminder that you’re alive.

That could’ve been me, you think.

Perhaps if you were a bit more reckless or a mere sliver more loyal to the commander, that would have been you, left to die in some storage closet.

You consider keeping the patch just below the shoulder, as a momento to him, but ultimately decide against it. It isn’t your place, and if—when they find his body, his family will be given his personal effects, including the patch of the company logo.

Licking your wounds, you back away and stand on shaky legs.

Behind you, Soap picks up a mouse trap, unused and very much intact.

“Could use this,” he mutters.

Now fully ignoring the corpse, you and he oggle curiously at the black, heavy-duty crate balanced on top of two carts in the other corner. Soap doesn’t hesitate to open it and luckily, no bomb goes off. Inside, he's thrilled to see explosives to make bombs with and more rope.

“Seek and ye shall find,” John comments cheerfully.

“What’chu got?” Ghost asks.

“Black powder.”

“Nice. This could get interesting.”

With a wave of his hand, Soap beckons you to the window as he hops out onto the other side. You do the same and end up in some other alley. The sky rumbles, and a flash of lightning disperses as you and he walk down the alleyway toward the dead end.

You’re committed to entrust Soap wholly, in hopes that it will be reciprocated, though you’re uncertain if you and he have reached that status yet. So, if it means following him with seemingly no sense of direction, then so be it.

In an unforeseen turn of events, there’s a black crate—similar to the previous—sitting on a table, with two chairs on either side. The contents are identical to the previous box.

You and Soap push forward. The shadow from earlier is still stationed at the cross-section of different alleys, undoubtedly keeping watch for Soap and Ghost.

Soap veers off to the right in a shorter alley with a tall gate at the end of it.

Outside of another home and off to the side are two galvanized metal trash cans with a bottle on top of one lid and a mouse trap on the other. Naturally, Soap takes both items.

“Another mouse trap, gotta be a way to use this,” he mumbles.

Next to the trash cans, there's a busted-in window, the frame nearly sitting flush with the floor. A glass panel lay on the wet street, seemingly ripped off its hinges by force, while the other remained intact and attached to the frame. The working panel opens out, tilted toward you and Soap and giving sight to a gift left by Ghost.

“Surprisingly useful as a trigger,” Ghost shares his insight.

You and Soap climb in through the window (or lack thereof) into the back of a storage room.

You hardly acknowledge the corpse of the shadow, keeping your back to Soap with crossed arms in an attempt to maintain peace of mind.

Meanwhile, Soap doesn’t miss the opportunity to crane the shadow’s head back, similarly to the previous corpse, and wedge one of Ghost’s knives out of their neck.

“To set something off,” Soap adds to the conversation between him and Ghost.

“Exactly, Johnny,” Ghost confirms. “Not an air strike, but it’ll do.”

John easily walks past, dodging your form instead of asking you to move or get out of the way, as he makes his way to the other room. A kitchenette that somehow fits in the tight fit of a hallway.

He speeds right past you, and while moving to catch up, you almost miss the bottle on the counter. You take it on impulse and present it to him.

“Forgetting something, Soap?"

He shakes his head. “Don’t have anymore room for bottles."

“Oh,” you lamely utter.

That shouldn’t surprise you. After all, there is only so much room in his pack, or so many pockets on his tactical vest or pants. The bag strapped to his back is practically bulging with the numerous things he has in there; it makes you wonder how hard Soap is pushing himself to get to Ghost, with not just the bullet wound to his arm, but also the weight of his item collection. (Not to mention the emotional toll of the situation at hand.)

Even so, you’d rather not let the bottle go to waste, so you stash it on your person, just in case.

Soap doesn’t seem to have noticed; he's too preoccupied with getting the jump on the shadow in front of you and him. The shadow is facing away from the two of you and is guarding the door to the clothing boutique you were in previously.

Creeping up behind the unsuspecting victim, Soap brings out one of Ghost’s knives to take him down. He rams the blade into the side of their torso, with the shadow immediately crying out in pain. Soap proceeds to spin them around to cleanly slice across their neck and finishes off with a swift stab to their chest.

Any one of his hits could be fatal; however, he'd rather not waste time waiting for the shadow to die of blood loss, so he made every cut count.

“Killed a shadow,” he informs Ghost.

“Nice.”

Soap hastily disarms the shadow, leaving him splayed out on the street for someone to happen upon. They deserved worse than what he did, but again, there’s no time for him to lollygag.

“Took his gun,” he adds, stepping over the corpse to walk further down the alley.

“Good work. Movin’ up in the world, Johnny,” Ghost applauds. “Choose your shots and targets wisely, Johnny. Guns make noise.”

“My kingdom for a suppressor.”

“Be smart with wot you got, that’s the trick.”

You don’t have a chance to merely blink, and the shadow is on the ground, dead.

Nausea stirs in the pit of your stomach—worse than seeing the first dead shadow—and bile itches its way up your esophagus. You so badly want to claw at your already irritated neck and throat to rip open the skin and spill your guts out; instead, you suppress the urge, swallowing down the fluid that leaves an awful aftertaste.

Following the initial shock of seeing what Soap is capable of, you sway, almost taking a tumble onto the cobbled street as well, in an attempt to join Soap.

He’s inadvertently led you near a different group of shadows, but what else is new?

The two of you scurry to find somewhere to hide, which leads you to huddle at the entrance to a residence. Soap practically blocks the view with his head as he peers past the concrete wall; regardless, you manage to get a glimpse of the three men gathered a bit away.

“Fuck,” Soap curses under his breath, seeing the group of shadows standing directly in his way of getting closer to his destination.

Despite that, the familiar duo is primarily speaking among them.

“I wanna find those English motherfuckers: that asshole with the mask and the leprechaun,” 3-1 huffs.

“Leprechaun? They’re Irish, I told you that,” 3-2 corrects.

“Right, one o’ those dudes with the skirts.”

“It’s called a kilt.”

Goddamn, do they always argue like this? It’s like they make it a point to get on each other’s nerves. They’re getting on your nerves.

“It’s a dude in a dress! That’s all I know…”

“Lt., about to play rough with the shadows,” Soap whispers, taking rope, wax, and chemicals that he’s found to craft a homemade smoke bomb.

Ghost hums, “I like the sound o’ that.”

He may have been a bit rash in throwing the bomb, but frankly, he’s getting sick and tired of having to maneuver around shadows at every turn.

The shadows instinctively duck down, ill-prepared for an attack.

“Shit!”

“Oh, shit.”

Soap calmly aims his weapon, firing a single bullet into each of the figures shrouded in smoke, their dark uniforms exposing them in the mass of gray.

“Enemy fire!” one calls out, soon becoming an addition to the dead bodies on the streets.

“Ghost,” Soap mutters, reloading the pistol.

“All clear?”

“Appears to be.”

“Stay on guard and keep moving to the church,” Ghost gently reminds him.

While Soap is generally good at what he does, that’s not to say he doesn’t have his moments. If it were anyone else in his position, they’d have trouble handling the gravity of the situation, but not Soap.

No, the lieutenant knows that all that’s going through Soap’s head is survive, survive, survive, so a nudge in the right direction never fails to help the Scottish man focus on the task at hand. If his sergeant truly wants to make it out alive, they have to rely on each other.

“Aye.”

John’s one-word reply doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Feeling weak, are you?”

Soap, cool and composed as ever, finds himself at the street’s ledge as he walks past the dead trio and the doors to a few residences. A medium-height banister was built at the end to hinder people from falling onto the street below. He signs internally, resigning himself to his fate of having to leap off such places.

There wasn’t much choice for him in the first place; his desperation to get to the church has been steadily rising, and it would cut him some well-needed time in terms of traveling, especially if he’s avoiding running into more shadows on this level of the city.

“A bit shaky, sir, yeah,” he admits, glancing back at you.

You remain closeby, the embodiment of Soap’s shadow, except you maintain a notable distance, larger than you previously had.

Soap promptly dives down, first landing on a pair of steps—constructed similarly to the streets and alleys—before briefly sitting on the slope of the street, continuously filling with water from the outpour of rain.

“Graves tried to kill us. Would stand to reason if you were a little off. Find a stim—it’ll give you a boost.”

Soap merely groans. Sure, it's a good suggestion in theory, but how likely was he to see one out here?

This is the third time he’s had to jump down from a moderate height; he’s not sure how much more his body can handle if he doesn’t find a stim soon. The extent of his injuries certainly isn't helped by the conditions he has to trek through—or the ledges he has to descend from.

Fucking hell, this better be the last time.

Getting up, Soap stands from the growing puddle at his feet and turns around to peer up at you.

Your hands clutch the banister railing as you look down at him.

Just this once, John wishes he could see your face, if it meant he could decipher your facial expression.

You too, scan Soap's features—a pained one. It's hard to imagine how much his body has taken a toll for the worse since navigating Las Almas. One of his gloved hands drapes over his bullet wound while the other lies limply at his side.

You're reminded of 3-1, who lay dead behind you, and how intimidated he is—was by Task Force 141. If only he were alive now to see the pitiful state Soap is in.

"Ye comin' or not!" Soap exclaims over the rain, though not so loudly as to attract unwanted attention.

Your hands slip off the railing, yet you do not move. If you honestly desired to, you could leave right now, leave Soap on his own, and leave this all behind you, but where would you go?

You’ve long passed the point of no return.

You cannot turn your back on 141 in good conscience, knowing the horrors the shadows are inflicting on the poor souls of the city. Even if you could throw away your moral compass at this moment, Shadow 2-1 could be waking up at any moment now, and you’ll become just another target for the shadows to hunt down.

There’s nowhere left for you now; not on your own, and certainly not with Graves and the shadows.

You knew what you were getting into the second you decided to play hero and attack 2-1; don’t act otherwise.

Soap looks about ready to consider you a foe, so you speak up.

“You gonna catch me, Soap?"

He scoffs, an incredulous expression etched on his face—mouth agape, squinted eyes, and scrunched eyebrows—as he crosses his arms at you.

“As if! Just hurry up already—don’t got time to waste.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. You’ll have to bite the bullet either way.

Taking a deep breath in, you swing your legs onto the railing, holding on tightly as your legs dangle in the air. On the exhale you push yourself off the surface, bracing for impact.

It goes about as well as you’d expect when crashing onto concrete and rubble—aching all over and hoping that you haven’t broken something.

You roll down the same steps Soap encountered, almost splashing into the pool of water. Thankfully, he pulls you up to prevent you from doing so, and you grasp his forearms to steady yourself.

You turn your head to the side as your throat itches and your lungs burn, dry, rasping coughs escaping you. Compared to the fit you had after being choked, you prefer the consequences of jumping off a ledge.

Soap paws at your uniform, searching for your canteen one-handedly as you continue to hold onto him. He unscrews the cap, practically shoving the container into your hand.

Just the same, you cling, gasping for breath between the harrowing hacking of your lungs, making no move to lower your mask or hydrate. So, like a toddler needing to be coddled, John takes responsibility for you.

A hand snakes its way to your face, throwing you into an immediate panic—the shadow of a memory pulling at your thoughts as you struggle against him.

Muffled words, trying to coax you into a milder state, only fuel the waterworks.

“Shhh, relax. It’s alright.”

The black fabric concealing the better part of your face is lowered to expose your mouth. You let out a sharp cry, the noise unstifled by the mask, and then the coughing persists.

“Yer fine, I got you.”

Leather gloves, slick with rain droplets, come to cradle your jaw. You shy away from the touch, jerking your head back, hands still balled up in Soap’s shirt—as if you’re grabbing on for dear life.

John takes the canteen out of your flimsy grip with ease, holding it up to your lips. You sputter, your mind dazed and lost in the past.

“Drink up, soldier. Yeah, that’s it. Nice and steady,” the slight, southern drawl of his voice rings in your ears.

“Relax, it’s just water.”

Soap tips the container, and the instant the tasteless liquid touches the tip of your tongue, you eagerly welcome it. Soon enough, you’re chugging the rest of your water down, easing your grip on Soap. Once you’re finished, he puts the lid back on and sticks it back where he found it.

You sigh, shutting your eyes for a moment to wipe away any stray tears.

“That fucking sucked,” you breathe out, breaking away from Soap.

To lighten the mood, he lets out a short laugh. “Ye can say tha’ again.”

Fuck, you must seem like a mess. Soaked to the bone and nearly too stubborn to let someone assist you in having a drink.

It has been some time since you’ve thought about waking up in that hospital bed.

You lift the cloth back over your nose, embarrassment swelling in your chest. You don’t even know each other’s names—real names—and he’s captured you at one of your vulnerable moments, face exposed and all.

Soap grants you a bit of dignity in not pressing on the matter, for which you’re more than grateful to act as if nothing had happened.

Moving left, there are more concrete steps leading to two household doors. A stream of water continuously runs down the concrete, reminding you of a water fountain.

“It’s pishin’ it doon out here.”

You unknowingly tilt your head at Soap’s comment. What did that mean?

“Speak English,” Ghost sighs.

Walking up the steps, you and he discover a crate.

“It’s rainin’ fuckin’ hard,” he groans, acting annoyed at Ghost’s inability to understand him.

“Then say so.”

The box is locked, and instead of wasting supplies to make another pry tool that’ll break after one use, he takes out one of Ghost’s knives. It gets the job done quicker than a pry tool, too.

“I did,” he huffs, lifting the top to reveal what’s inside.

Ghost changes the subject. “Rain’s good. It’ll cover your tracks.”

Jackpot. There are explosives and a stim.

“Theirs too,” he points out, injecting himself with adrenaline.

“Let’s worry about you, Johnny.”

Let’s? So there’s an us now.

John feels an odd sense of pride hearing that from him.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline kicking in, but his tongue’s loosening up a bit.

“So you do like me."

“I like you alive” is what Ghost settles on telling him.

It’s good enough for John.

Going back down the steps and up the street, Soap heads towards a residence with a green-painted door, with you in tow, of course. As he reaches his hand out towards the doorknob, you suddenly seize his wrist.

“Wait—”

He pauses, your head turned to him as you gaze at one another. Almost as soon as you’d touched him, you pull back your own gloved hand apologetically.

“I should go in first, no? Civilians won’t exactly be friendly to strangers coming into their home so if we come across anyone, I can deal with it…and if we run into any shadows, I’ll distract them while you get away.”

Soap has the gall to snort at your—admittedly, very kind—proposition.

What gives you the authority to start calling the shots now?

“I ken handle myself just fine—”

“Since when is needing to use a stim to keep going ‘just fine.’ I mean, have you even done anything for that wound of yours?”

His features twist into a scowl, not doing his handsome features any justice.

If looks could kill, the glare he’s eyeing you down with would’ve caused you to drop dead already; instead, you shudder, pinned beneath his piercing gaze.

“I said I’m fine,” he insists, virtually growling. “I’ve gotten this far, haven’t I?”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Yes, you’ve made it this far while being utterly reckless and putting yourself in needless danger.

“Not alone,” you snap.

Shit. You're trying to help, not further aggravate him.

Taking a deep breath, you sigh. “I’m not tryna to fight with you, Soap. I just wanna help, really, but if you don’t think it’s worth the effort, then I won’t.”

The only reason I’m here is to ensure you get out of Las Almas safely. The unspoken words echo through your mind. I’m here for you.

Soap comes to his senses, though that doesn’t necessarily mean he agrees with you.

“Good, 'cause we don’t have time for petty arguments. Now, step aside."

He stands straighter, puffing his chest out, anticipating you to argue with him on the matter; you don't.

You nod, dejected, and move to stand behind him, just as you have for the majority of the night.

That’s all you are: a shadow, not meant to be seen or heard (especially not if you attempt to express an opinion)

The door opens with a simple twist of a handle—no pry tools needed yet—and Soap nudges it open a tad. Your breath hitches in your throat as you peer over his shoulder, catching sight of the trap clearly meant to eliminate or stave off intruders.

“Oh, shit,” Soap murmurs.

Luckily, he hadn’t opened the door any further and avoided setting anything off.

Tripwire, zig-zagged about the kitchen, connected to a shotgun set up on a tripod or something similar.

“Hell’s fuckin’ bells, look a’ this,” he laughs, excitement coursing through him.

Goddamn, what a sight to behold, and what luck he has to stumble upon it. He couldn’t have asked for anything better—except maybe another stim.

He walks down the front door steps to the side of the house, hoping to get to the window he’d seen on the other side of the room. You follow his lead to the garage—or your best assumption, due to the poorly parked car flashing its headlights and taillights. Tire marks were etched onto the dirty, white tiles alongside a body—a pool of blood staining the tile.

It’s this that makes Soap realize he hasn’t seen a corpse in some time—at least one that hasn't belonged to a shadow.

Walking past the scene, Soap takes out the gun he picked off of the shadow he sliced up killed and aims the butt of the gun at the kitchen window. He promptly turns his head to the side, lest he have to deal with glass slicing or embedding itself into his skin, on top of his bullet wound and injuries from his many falls. With one powerful strike, the glass shatters into tiny bits.

Soap clears away some of the shards before hoisting himself up into the kitchen. To your shock, he turns around toward you and offers his hand. You grasp it, leather gripping on leather, accepting his help in getting through the window.

That might be the nicest thing he’s done for you—other than sparing your life, saving you from being choked, and not selling you out as a traitor.

Damn, you need to do more if you're adamant on gaining Soap’s trust.

“Moving inside,” he tells Ghost.

Once you’ve gained your footing, he immediately goes to disarm the trap.

“Check. Take what you need to get them off you.”

“Sweet,” he purrs, grabbing hold of his newly-acquired weapon. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Quite an impressive trap for a civilian, anyhow.

While he’s busy with that, you search the rest of the kitchen and scrounge a scrap of metal lying on the floor.

After checking to see if the firearm is loaded—which it is—he marvels at the object, feeling the weight in his hands. “Now we’re in business.”

“Ghost.”

“Soap.”

“Found a tripwire rigged to a shotgun. Disarmed it. Took the gun,” he explains.

You hand him the scrap, earning a curt nod.

Soap turns on his headlamp, heading towards the staircase next to the now-defunct tripwire.

“Open hearts and open minds with it, Johnny.”

However, when you reach the landing, it doesn't seem like the trap prevented a break-in after all. Blood splattered around bullet holes indented in the wall.

You and John glance at each other as you hear a thud in the distance.

Is there someone nearby?

The question goes unsaid.

Neither you nor Soap acknowledge the noise—even as it persists—since clearly Soap couldn’t give a damn about what you have to say, and his primary concern is ransacking homes as quickly as possible.

You watch your step, carefully avoiding the blood trail leading into the bathroom, as you proceed inside with Soap. Keeping your eyes low to the ground, you almost miss the streaks of red on the doorframe—too messy to be considered a handprint, yet undeniably left by a stroke of a hand.

John nabs the wax candle sitting on the lip of the bathtub as you get the bottle of chemicals beside the trash bin.

Thud

Alongside the tub is a door, also decorated with blood streaks. Luckily, it’s unlocked.

“Johnny, Graves is burnin’ the midnight oil to find us, why?”

Soap tips the door open to reveal a bedroom, the headlamp only providing so much light as he monitors his surroundings.

No corpse to discover yet, though you know you’re bound to. If those bullet holes were anything to go off of, nobody would be able to survive very long with that extent of damage.

From Ghost’s inflection, it sounds like he’s asking if Soap has reached the same conclusion he has. Then again, the lieutenant usually sounds like that.

There could be any number of reasons as to why Graves has his sights set on finding Ghost and Soap. Fortunately, he knows someone who might have the answer.

Why, indeed, John thinks as he faces you.

Soap fiddles with his throat mic to cut off the feedback, arching a brow at you.

“Ghost is askin’ why Graves is comin’ after us, got any clue?”

Your eyes shift away from his, and he can see the rage burning in your eyes.

“He’s following orders.”

“From who?”

You sneer, “Who else?”

Turning his mic back on, Soap answers, “Graves is following orders.”

Even without your help, he isn’t so naive as to believe Graves planned on betraying TF141 and Los Vaqueros from the jump. The commander and his shadows are in the palm of Shephard’s hands, right where he wants them.

Besides, John can't imagine that all that encouragement and friendly gestures from Graves didn’t mean something. That none of it was genuine, and he did so solely to get on Soap’s good graces.

Thud

Soap rifles through a set of drawers, obtaining more scrap.

“No matter what—this is an unprecedented amount of fuckery,” he spits out. “We need to get to the bottom of it.”

A wave of thunder nearly conceals the sound of another thud.

The two of you exit through the bedroom door into the desolate hallway and cross the hall into one of the last rooms.

The next thud resembles more of a crash as you grow nearer.

“Accurate and deadly fire tends to resolve these things,” Ghost proposes, knowing how hot-heated the Sargeant can get, especially when put in the position he’s in.

In a different drawer, Soap scores a mouse trap but leaves behind a roll of duct tape.

So he’s full on that, too, which you make note of as you take it in his steed.

“Right now, we’re not safe anywhere, Lt.”

The further you explore the room, the closer you get to the faint light shining in the connected room. Heading to the back room, there’s a shadow of a person cast against the wall with something piercing through their chest and out their back.

Thunk

Thankfully, as you both round the corner, it’s nothing more than a lamp on the floor facing a toy wrestling ring. Well, not nothing.

Slouched next to the toy is the body of a young man, dead, with a gun lying underneath his hand.

Hiding, running away, setting up elaborate traps, or fighting back—it didn’t matter. The people of Las Almas were no match for the shadows.

Soap growls at the scene. “Son of the goddamn Devil.”

None of them have deserved what the shadows have done to them.

He removes the firearm from his cold, dead hand regardless.

Thud

You speak up to hopefully break the tension. “Are we just gonna keep ignoring…"

The stern side-glance he regards you with has you shutting your lips in a millisecond.

Exiting the room to try and find the source, you reach the end of the hallway, where one last door stands.

The crash becomes apparent. A chill runs down your spine, and there isn’t a doubt in your mind that beyond the door is whatever—or whoever—is causing the ruckus.

When Soap finally dares to open it, a man already half-dead slumps on the floor, barely catching himself on the doormat. He coughs, and you make out what you can in the dim lighting: blood smeared all over his clothing and a particularly large stain around his neck.

The man reaches his hand out shortly before lowering his head. He stops moving altogether.

You’re frozen again, searching for any signs of life. A twitch, the pull of his chest as he takes a breath or a fucking cough, except there are none.

Fuck. He’s dead.

Another death you only wish to have prevented.

If you and Soap had gotten to him sooner, could you have helped him, or would he have reached the same outcome anyway?

Soap is already moving past the recently deceased, and you have no choice but to trail in his footsteps.

Directly across from you is another doorway with longer streaks of blood on the ground, consistent with the direction of the man’s corpse. That must be where he came from.

While you and he are mindful to step over the body, neither you nor Soap can avoid the puddle, a mix of blood and rainwater, encompassing it.

You’re in a gated alley that’s barely wide enough to house you and Soap. He’s already wandered off to the right, using a pry tool to rip open a black crate. In his rush to rummage through it, he completely missed a scrap of metal left on the floor. Luckily, you’re there to snag it.

“That’s handy,” Soap mutters, taking out two more explosives from the storage crate.

You watch as he injects himself with yet another stim, also provided in the box. The effects don’t take long to rush through; his tense shoulders relax ever so noticeably.

“Good mornin’, Mexico,” he grunts, discarding the needle in the crate.

Soap turns to head back to the door to the next building, but you stop him, holding out a roll of tape.

“Need any more tape?”

He tilts his head at you curiously, taking the item off your hand.

“How’d you—?”

“I have pockets too, y’know,” you interrupt, sauntering off to step inside the shop before he can.

Both of you gingerly wipe the soles of your boots on the other doormat, soiling it in dirt and blood, so you don’t track anything onto the floors, but most importantly, so you don’t leave a trail.

All it takes is a sweep around the room for Soap to deduce where you and he are. The multitude of tables—some stacked with chairs on top with no more than two seats at each one—the napkin holders provided at each table along with drink additives and sweeteners, and abandoned mugs and coasters—it's quite obvious.

“I’m in the coffee shop,” he notifies Ghost off-handedly as you hand him more tape you’d picked up from a counter.

“Get us a tea.”

“Fucken brits,” Soap drawls without malice.

You could only assume Ghost made some comment on tea.

Behind one of the tables and on the wall beside a door, there is a sign reading NO ENTRY; beyond the door is likely an employee-only area, but who were you to let a measly sign stand in your way?

You’d seen how Soap had crafted a pry tool out in the alley just now, so why not give it a shot? You have the means, after all.

You work meticulously, wrapping the end of the scrap metal with duct tape similarly to how Soap does. Even if your gloves are durable, you’d rather not risk tearing the fabric with the sharp and jagged edges of metal. Sliding the metal piece in the doorframe next to the turn piece, you jimmy the metal until you hear a soft click, and the door comes open.

“Oh, shit,” you breathe out. Honestly, you weren’t expecting that to work so well.

Soap turns to you, stunned and mildly impressed by how easily you’ve pried the door open, presumably for the first time.

You mistake his astonishment for anger—the tool dropping out of your hand, a sharp clang ringing out as it hits the tile—as you begin to apologize.

“Sorry! Did you want to—”

He shakes his head, going up to you and patting your shoulder. “Good work,” he commends, entering the small office.

You acknowledge his words with a simple nod.

Responding to praise has always been a struggle, leaving you sheepish rather than proud of your work. With a commander like Graves, it became increasingly difficult to handle his over-the-top flattery; you'll allow this small joy just this once, though.

Maybe you’re finally getting somewhere with Soap.

“Yer gonna owe fer this,” he continues conversing with Ghost, gazing around the room.

“Why?”

Soap simply states, “We’re fixin’ each other’s problems.”

“What’s my problem?” Ghost asks, confusion laced in his tone.

“The mask…take it off."

John isn’t sure if the adrenaline has him feeling brave or if it’s because he’s not face-to-face with him; otherwise, he wouldn’t have the guts to say such a thing.

“An’ show my face?”

“Yes, sir.”

He moves the wheeled chair away from the desk and bends over to grab a mouse trap off the floor. Sending a wink your way, he tosses it and snickers, clearly amused by how you fumble to catch it. In the end, you manage fine and stash it somewhere safe.

“Negative,” Ghost rejects the notion, to no surprise to Soap.

The words spew out of his mouth without a second thought. “Are ye ugly?”

“Quite the opposite.”

“I doubt that."

You stifle your shock, pretending not to care for their conversation. Even Soap hasn't seen what Ghost looks like under that skull—what kind of task force are they?

You could identify any one face among members of the shadow company, as they could with yours. Why does his lieutenant keep his identity hidden, even from his own teammates?

Soap kneels in front of the safe in the corner, mumbling, “What have we here?”

You finally step into the room instead of watching from the doorway like a creep. “Can you open it?”

It’d be a long shot if he could, still, he cranks the handle anyway without success.

“Shit. Locked. Gotta find the combo.”

Your eyes drift to the calendar tacked onto the corkboard above the desk. October 2020. There’s a single date circled in red marker, the tenth, with a heart and 40th drawn by it. An anniversary, perhaps?

“Try 10/10/80,” you instruct. It wouldn’t hurt to try, at the very least.

He swiftly spins the dial on the lock to the exact numbers, and to the delight of both of you, the safe unlocks.

“Too easy,” John replies with an accomplished grin.

Has he always had a sparkle in his eyes, or are you barely noticing it now?

He secures the items from inside, which are a new handgun and throwing knife.

Always eager to tell his lieutenant about any new discoveries, Soap utters his call sign, “Ghost?”

“Soap?”

“Guess what I found?”

“More stoppin’ power,” Ghost deduces.

“Check.”

“Your life expectancy just went way up.”

Soap’s glad to hear they’re on the same page.

He waves you over to follow him out of the office and wanders back to where he’d seen another crate. It's locked, much like the others. Apparently his luck had afforded him only one unlocked box for the entirety of the night.

John steps aside, pulling out a pry tool he’d already made and holding it out to you.

“Care to do the honors?”

Wait—he wants your help? And it’s not a demand disguised as a question either. (Unlike how a certain commander you've worked under spoke.)

Your heart swells, and you try not to get all fidgety as you accept the tool.

“Sure.”

Good, you can still act nonchalant and cool, even if Soap is right behind you and most definitely watching, so you can’t fuck this up.

The metal lock falls off with ease, and you step back to let Soap see the explosives in the crate.

Soap takes one, but doesn’t touch the other.

“Got room for tha’?” He asks, gesturing to it.

You’re already snagging the thing before you answer. “Sure do.”

Behind the crate is the banister; it wraps around the center of the upper floor, reminding you of a skylight. It’s the only part of the banister that’s damaged; the wood is tattered and jagged in the shape of a U, just enough space for someone to have fallen off—or been pushed. You’d bet on the latter, considering the drops of blood staining the immediate area.

If not careful, John could give himself a splinter or a fresh, nasty wound, but like all the other times, he hops down, coincidentally landing by the staircase.

Does this guy have any self-preservation? You ask yourself as you gauge the height you’re about to drop from. It’s not as high as the ledge from earlier, you don’t think, though you doubt it’ll be as unpleasant as the first experience—your first, obviously, not Soap’s.

You step over the banister, clutching onto the fragile wood, then it snaps, and you’re plummeting to the first floor regardless.

How Soap barely reacts as he drops down from great heights is beyond you, because you’re lying on the floor, groaning like a sick child as you wrap your arms around yourself.

Much like the previous times, he helps you to your feet and stabilizes you when you sway.

“Promise that’ll be the last time?”

Soap’s not betting on it.

“Let’s hope so.”

In front of you and him are the security gates, caging you both in and hopefully keeping others out, which seemed unlikely, thinking back to the dead man in the alley.

On the other side of the gate are a group of six shadows with their weapons drawn.

“You two, check out that warehouse,” 4-1 commands.

“Guy’s got no gun, he won’t get far,” 4-2 asserts.

If you could see them beyond the bars of the security gates, then surely they could too if they got close enough—not that they'd be given the chance to.

Soap walks toward the other side of the staircase on the right side of the coffee shop.

“He’s 141, still dangerous,” 4-1 adds.

Precisely.

It’s baffling to John that no matter how many times he’s heard the shadows express their understanding of how tough 141 is, they continue to obey Graves’ orders.

What’s so different about you that you’d defy him?

“Go left, I’ll clear the alley,” 4-1 says.

You get closer to the back of the shop, where Soap finds a bottle on top of a messy table.

4-2 responds, “Roger, on it. Ya here? Not too late to surrender.”

As if.

The two of you crouch walk steadily, never making any sudden movements. You come across the bar counter and slink behind it. Soap and you are snatching empty beer bottles left and right; there's no chance you’ll be running out soon. He also sees a chemical bottle beside the microwave and stores it in his backpack.

“Johnny, town’s full of tunnels,” Ghost begins, and in your proximity to John, you can hear the murmur in his ear.

“What’s he saying?” you whisper.

He holds his hand up, so you wait.

“One leads out across the church…” Soap stumbles on another gun—because where else would one be if not behind a bar—and takes it for himself, “…be advised the tunnel is flooded. Prepare for a cold swim.”

Soap turns to you, grinning. “Can’t wait.”

“For what?” you ask, wanting to be let in on the plan.

“We’re goin’ for a swim in the tunnels.”

Huh?

True to his word, after evading the ensemble of shadows closing in on your location, you find yourself in a gated area—except the gates are unlocked. At the heart of the somewhat secluded location is a beautifully arranged Día de los Muertos altar, brightly lit by LED candles and decorating the whole way around a water fountain. Scattered about are glass jars with sugar skulls printed on them, stuffed with green tea lights.

Your admiration for the construction is suddenly outweighed by grief.

Who would be left to create an altar to commemorate those who’ve lost their lives tonight? Would there be anybody left to take down these existing altars and put them back up in the following years? Who would pass on the memory of their dead loved ones?

These thoughts don’t even seem to occur to Soap as he moves right along to the cement barrier at the end of the area.

“You still standing, Johnny?”

“Think I’m clear.”

“Good, stay sharp an’ meet me at the church.”

Another crate contains more useful items, though unlike the others, Soap discovers something different in it.

“Found some oil,” he shares with Ghost.

“Oil, bottle, and some rope for a wick. Time for a cocktail.”

Nice.

Sure enough, as you peer down from the ledge, you see a tunnel entrance, and the tunnel is flooded with rainwater. It’s likely pretty shallow, but from this distance, you can't see the cobbled street beneath it.

You glance over at Soap, suddenly feeling queasy. “Again? Really?”

“Chin up, we’re nearly there.”

His answer does little to ease your mind.

“I don’t even know where we’re going!” you argue.

Soap’s already positioned himself to jump off the ledge. “You’ll know soon enough.” Then he dives and disappears under the water.

At least he’s not landing on straight concrete and rocks this time.

You wait for Soap to reappear and panic when he doesn’t.

“Soap!” you call out, keeping your voice under a shout. “Soap, are you there?”

No response, and no sign of him.

Fuck.

You begin to climb over, and abruptly he pops back up.

He waves merrily, like you almost hadn’t had a heart attack over losing him.

“Get in! The water’s nice,” he claims, though you doubt that.

At any rate, you’ve committed to your journey with Soap, so down you plunge.

The water is most definitely not nice, and you immediately shoot up to stand once you land. You gasp at the freezing temperature, your teeth chattering as you shake off the excess water on your uniform, resembling a wet dog after a bath.

Soap laughs at your behavior, or possibly even at you, but doesn’t tease you for it.

You wade through the water by his side, trudging slower than if you were walking on dry land.

“Ghost,” Soap says.

“Talk to me, Johnny.”

“I found a tunnel.”

Unfortunately, you’re not the only ones here.

“Where the hell are they?” you hear Shadow 3-1 exclaim before you see him.

“Maybe they’re both dead,” 3-2 replies.

“Graves wants proof.”

That sick son of a bitch.

Ghost advises him, “The church plaza is on the other end of the tunnel. Push through, you’re nearly there.”

You and Soap take cover behind a pillar, watching the pair of shadows up ahead.

“Ghost, I got shadows wearin’ body armor.”

“You’ll have to get in close and find the gaps,” the lieutenant calmly explains.

Easier said than done.

“Rog.”

Soap peeks over at you with uncertainty.

“Ready?”

You gulp. “As I’ll ever be.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @cumbermovels

a/n: terribly sorry for how long this is, it may happen again 😭 i’m rly aiming for the next part to be shorter tho so i hope i can achieve that

anyway, if anyone else would like to be tagged in the next parts plz let me know :) i'm aiming for three more parts/chapters, but that number is subject to change

#i am sooo behind on this omg #FINE LITERATURE #<3

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migwayne · 1 year ago

Text

Final Straw; Not Alone: Part I

Ghost Team & Shadow Member Male Reader

Word Count: 3,972

Warnings: canon typical violence, description of blood & death, mentions of Catholicism

Summary: Based on the Alone mission in COD MW2 (2022), Soap gains an unexpected ally while navigating the streets of Las Almas

Part I / Part II

Soap hears bellowing footsteps closing in and stays hidden, taking cover behind the bathroom wall.

The dog continues to growl, primarily getting more aggressive when the shadow appears.

A flashlight beams across the expanse of the bedroom.

"It's the dog from the bedroom,” the shadow announces to no one in particular, likely talking to someone on comms. “I don’t see anything, but I’ll stick around.”

Damn it. Leaving through any other part of the house is not an option anymore.

Peering out of the bathroom into the corridor, he sees another door barricaded by more chairs. That was out of the question.

There’s no way he’ll be able to move them silently, and even if he could, he wouldn’t know where it led. It could be a linen closet, for all he knew.

It looks like he’s stuck with the small balcony at the end of the corridor.

While the shadow has his back to him, he walks up to the platform.

A flash of lightning momentarily bathes the area in a bright, white light.

He looks out over the edge at the street below him. The drop from here isn’t comfortably near the ground. Still, at least it’s not any higher, is what Soap has to persuade himself as he climbs over the fenced ledge.

With nowhere else to go, he foolishly takes his chances, letting go of the metal fence.

It’s not a particularly nice or smooth landing, but he’d rather not dwell on his ever-growing list of injuries.

Being back out in the rain carries a calming ease around him. The beat of the water droplets hitting the unevenly paved streets, combined with the cold temperature, grounds him. As nice as it was to have a roof over his head, Soap thinks he prefers the skin-numbing weather more.

He lies there for a second, trying to regain feeling in his limbs that isn’t just pain, long enough to force himself back on his feet.

From the second floor and down here, he could see three directions to go in. Left, right, or straight ahead. Not giving it much thought, he wanders down the alley in front of him.

Because of his sudden lapse of silence, Ghost must’ve figured something was wrong.

“Give me a sit-rep.”

He heaves a breath, carrying himself further into the alley, which ends with a tall gate.

“Outside. Gated alley,” his responses are short and clipped.

“Stick to the edges and stay low,” Ghost advises.

He finds more duct tape and takes it. “Copy.”

“You may get a brag rag for this.”

“A medal?” John clarifies, turning back around.

“Chest candy,” Ghost confirms.

If—When Soap gets out of here alive, he'd undoubtedly deserve one for putting up with Graves’ treachery, but it sounds like rubbish to receive a medal given the reason.

‘Hey, thanks for trying your best to protect Las Almas from those guys we teamed you up with! Sorry to all those people they killed, but at least you weren’t.’

He ends up telling him, “Dead shadows are my medals,” as he walks back out into the main alley.

Water glides off the roofs of the homes around him, lightly splashing onto John as he passes by. It hardly made a difference to him; his clothes were completely soaked and chilling him to the bone.

“You said you wanted a win. Congratulations, you’re a winner,” Ghost praises with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

Considering he’s been helping Soap this entire time, he’s not ungrateful for the sentiment.

“Away n’bile yer head!”

“English, Mactavish.”

John turns to go toward the left side of the alley.

“Sorry, sir. Let me translate: Go fuck yourself.”

“Much betta,” Ghost praises.

There are a few exterior house lights on, illuminating his way.

Unfortunately, like the other alley, there isn’t much to go off of. He doesn’t find more supplies, and he’s blocked in by a food stand and a parked car.

Soap peers over them as best he can and is witness to something…peculiar.

There are two shadows across the street, headed towards what looks like another residence. Soap quickly ducks down behind the car, watching their figures slink by.

The exterior light in front of the house emits a warm glow, perfectly outlining the dark mass that consists of their uniforms. Similar to himself, the fabric clings to their bodies, and with that many layers, he could only assume how much it weighs them down.

All seems to be well. They’re both chatting with each other. It’s difficult to make out through the pelting rain, and they must be talking quietly enough for Soap to make out their faint murmuring.

At this distance, he should be able to clearly make out what they’re saying, but that’s not the case. He’s been closer and farther away from Graves and/or other shadows and could still listen in on their discussions.

No matter. The strangest part is what happens next.

When the shorter of the two reaches a hand out to the front door, the other one suddenly strikes. They attack the shorter one, pinning them against the wall and slamming their helmet-covered head against the concrete wall. The impact leaves them dead on their feet, collapsing onto the sidewalk below. They begin to protest in confusion, but the taller one is already on top of them, covering their mouth with a gloved hand. The former grabs the other’s head and jerks it back onto the ground.

The taller one’s actions are calculated and oddly…considerate?

Soap knows as well as anyone he’s served with that it takes a lot more force to kill someone with a head injury. At best, the shadow is merely passed out and moderately concussed.

“What the fuck?” He mumbles to himself.

“Something wrong, Johnny?” Ghost asks reflexively.

He continues to observe the shadow who’d just taken down his fellow shadow.

“Hang on.”

Ghost doesn’t continue to press on the matter.

He—the shadow—disarms the unconscious one by not only taking his firearm but also patting him down and taking any ammo or knives he finds in the various pockets that are equipped with their uniforms.

“Won’t be needing these anymore,” he says, storing the smaller weapons on his person.

Regarding the other gun, he takes apart whatever components he can and emptys the barrel of bullets, then pockets them.

“At least you can’t hurt anyone anymore—for now.” The shadow talks to himself, mumbling the last bit as he looks down at the other.

Soap thought he’d go back to trying to head for the church after watching that go down, except it doesn’t look like you’re the shadow’s quite done yet.

You ball up your first, rapping it against the door with firm, controlled knocks. Stepping back from the door, you swivel your head left and right, surveying the area to assure yourself that you won’t be seen or heard. There doesn’t appear to be anybody else nearby—good.

You clear your throat, preparing to heed your—well-intentioned in nature, though a bit late—warning.

“Disculpe, si hay alguien allí, espero que pueda oírme. Por favor quédate adentro y no abras la puerta ni dejes entrar a nadie. Ármate con lo que tengas y escóndete. Si puede ponerse en contacto con sus vecinos, hágalo, pero no se mueva ni salga de su casa hasta que vea la luz del día—¡por Dios!” You plead, desperation rising, which makes your voice waver.

[Excuse me, if there’s anyone in there, I hope you can hear me. Please stay inside and don’t answer the door or let anyone in. Arm yourself with whatever you have and hide. If you can contact your neighbors, then do so, but don’t move or leave your house until you see daylight—for God’s sake!]

Fuck, what are you even doing right now?

You just assaulted your brethren, another shadow in the same squad as you, and now you’re what? Giving caution to some random house in Las Almas?

For all you know, there isn’t even anybody in there. Or whoever was in there is already dead, and you’ve pled to nothing other than the open air.

You don’t stick around long enough to find out.

He watches as you lean down, attempting to grab your partner; however, it’s not going very smoothly.

Your slick, water-soaked gloves seem to simply glide off the other shadow’s wet clothes. You’ve managed to retain some body heat, enough for you to scarcely feel your fingers grip onto your (ex) partner’s uniform.

“C’mon, buddy. Don’t make this hard for me,” you groan, throwing him over your shoulder.

Even if it's unnecessary, you check both sides before crossing the road. You set his body down as carefully as you can and prop him up in a sitting position, leaning against a wall across from someone’s car.

Throughout your stay in Las Almas, you’ve noticed the architectural differences between houses built in the city and those in surrounding villages. Both are typically made with concrete, but at least casas en el rancho have clay-shingled roofs that extend past the exterior walls, typically followed by a front and/or back porch.

The ones in Las Almas are purely made out of concrete. Flat rooftops. No shingles, and certainly no porches. Like your typical city, the buildings are slim and tall, with commonly more than one floor, whereas in subdivisions, houses extend outward to provide a spacious floor plan.

That is to say, neither you nor your partner are shielded from the rain in this alley. It continues to pour down, although at the very least, the shadow’s unconscious body isn’t displayed elsewhere for anybody to come across.

“Still upright?” Ghost's voice crackles in Soap’s ear.

Soap had ducked behind the car when he saw you look in the direction of the alley and is still crouched behind it, given that now you’re barely a few feet away from him.

“Hang. On,” he repeats, whispering harshly.

Like before, Ghost doesn’t utter a word.

You do.

You swing your head around, your body twisting to catch up with it as you squint, searching for any sign of life in the alley.

John was shocked; you could hear him even through the persisting rain.

“Hello! Is anyone there?” Your melodic voice echoes through the street.

On top of preventing the shadow from enacting more brutality on another family, you don’t sound very threatening to Soap either.

You wait for a response, then parrot the question in Spanish.

He stays still, hoping you’ll lose interest and leave, and you continue to surprise him.

You walk up to the food stand with the intent of climbing over the car, except when you look down, you see a certain 141 member.

“Soap? What are you doing here?”

He slowly rises to stand, eyeing you suspiciously.

“Could ask you the same thing,” he refutes, jutting his head toward the unconscious shadow.

You glance behind you, almost worried that he's woken up, which he hasn’t. You take a tentative step back, holding your arms up to the height of your head.

Soap hasn’t pointed a gun at you, or any sort of weapon, for that matter, but you don’t want to pose a threat to him.

“Listen…I-I can explain—” You begin but are interrupted by shouting in the distance.

A look of recognition twists across your features.

“Shit,” you curse. “Look, neither of us have time for this, but you need to leave. Graves is practically turning this city inside out, looking for you and Ghost." You oversimplify the gravely complex circumstances, as if it’s a new piece of information.

Soap notices how you conveniently left out a specific terrorist. “And Hassan.”

You tense, your eyebrows scrunching together. “How do you know that..?”

This time, the shouting grows louder. You know you’re running out of time, but you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if Soap didn’t make it out of here.

“Are you armed?” you ask, though you’re confident you know the answer to that.

Soap doesn’t respond.

“Are you armed?” you reiterate, frantically unclipping the gun you disarmed from the shadow.

“No.”

You reluctantly approach, keeping your movements slow and steady as if he were a stray animal.

"Alright, well, as a sign of good faith, I’ll give you his,” you motion to the shadow, “gun. I know you have no reason to trust me, but this is the best I can do right now.”

Soap takes the weapon without reluctance.

In your other hand is the ammo he’ll need. He stretches his hand out toward you. Your hand hovers over his as you maintain eye contact.

“If you need to, shoot me, just please don’t go for the face,” you encourage with the utmost importance.

He nods, continuing to stare back at you as he loads the gun.

You swallow nervously, feeling your mouth go dry, and the palms of your hands secrete sweat.

“Go,” he demands, and you do.

Soap turns around, going in the other direction of the alley.

“You alright, Johnny?” Ghost chimes in.

“Peachy.”

He spots a pink staircase up ahead and makes his way over to it. From the bottom of the stairs, he can see that they lead into a room, with the door remaining wide open. He forces himself up each step, careful not to trip or miss any.

When he makes it to the top, he realizes it’s hardly a room. There isn’t anything of importance in it, but he sees a candle and figures he can find a way to use the wax.

“Church is on the north side of the city. I’ll set up a sniper position in the church tower,” Ghost enlightens him.

The other side of the “room” is another balcony, and it clearly has more room than the one he threw himself off of. There’s a clothes line on one side, and the towels draped on the line are dripping wet from the rain. Whoever lived here didn’t get the chance to take them inside before the rainstorm began raging.

“Find your way there, and you just might make it,” his lieutenant finishes.

At the end of the balcony is a short ledge, separating the connected roof line from another residence. He hops over it, keeping a crouched stance after hearing and seeing two more shadows below him in what looks to be the middle of a plaza. Lined up in front of the shadows are men they’ve apprehended, kneeling before them.

Is this where Graves ordered that man to be taken?

“Stop resisting!” one shouts.

A bang rings out—a gunshot—followed by a man grunting.

“Don’t resist, comprende?!” [understand?!] The same shadow insists with more vigor.

One of the men on his knees doesn’t comply, getting up and out of the line.

“Escúchame cabrón, you are making a mistake muy fucking grande.” [Listen up, asshole, you are making a big fucking mistake.]

From the looks of it, the police officer is trying to reason with the shadows as he backs away from them. He runs around the fountain at the center of the plaza before stumbling over his own feet.

“Graves is rounding up cops,” Soap informs Ghost.

“He’s judge, jury, and executioner now,” Ghost observes.

The two shadows act nonchalant and don’t bother chasing after him. Subsequently, one of them follows him at a leisurely pace, while the other remains standing in front of the bodies of other officers.

After all, this place is crawling with shadows; it’s not like there’s anywhere left for them to run.

Commander Graves made sure of that.

The second shadow speaks up. “You like workin’ for narcos, huh?”

The remaining police officer is shot dead by the other shadow.

[This is the territory of Las Almas!] “Este es el territorio de Las Almas!” The man snaps.

“You like money, el dinero, hombre?!” [the money, man?!] The shadow continued, then aimed his gun at him.

The man stands with his hands up in defense.

“No, no. No, please–!” are his last words before the shadow fires two shots into him.

Heading toward the source of the shouting, you exhale a shaky breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Soap had every right to shoot you, and you can’t say you’re not grateful he didn’t.

It turns out that shadows 1-1 and 2-0 are making a show out of executing Mexican police officers.

Graves really has hit a new low.

Intervening now would undeniably prove fruitless, so you watch hopelessly as they murder those men in cold blood.

Religious or not, you hope there is a God, or Gods, outlooking the residents of Las Almas to protect them. Even in the limited time you’ve spent in this city, it doesn’t take long to come across murals of La Virgen de Guadalupe [The Virgin of Guadalupe, also knows as Our Lady of Guadalupe (Catholic ver. of Virgin Mary)] or notice the rosaries draped across the necks of civilians. Catholicism runs deep in Las Almas, and without a shadow of a doubt, you’re certain it’s residents are praying twice-fold for their God to save them and spare them from the brutality executed by the shadows per Graves’ orders.

You’d try your damndest to prevent further blood shed but you’ve seen—better yet experienced, Philip Graves’ wrath firsthand.

Only when 1-1 and 2-0 start to clear away from the plaza do you approach.

“Hey!” you call out to them, stopping them in their tracks.

1-1 does not immediately recognize you because of your identical uniforms, but 2-0 does.

He greets you with a nod. “2-3, is there something you need?”

“A word, sir...” You glance at the man beside him, “privately.”

They exchange a look, then 2-0 pats 1-1 on the shoulder, telling him, “I’ll catch up with you.”

He looks down at you expectantly. “Go on.”

“Well, the thing is, sir—uh, I’m not quite sure how to say it,” you stall, watching and waiting for 1-1’s figure to become nothing but a distant shadow.

“Just spit it out, we don’t have all night for this,” 2-0 grumbles.

“R-Right, sorry,” you apologize, and you begin fabricating a story on the whereabouts of your unconscious (ex) partner.

“...so he just ran off,” you conclude.

“Ran off? What do you mean, ‘ran off?”

“He ran off, just like this,” you demonstrate, swinging your arm to connect the butt of your gun to his head, much like Graves had done to Alejandro.

You were absent from the confrontation that involved Graves informing Ghost, Soap, and Alejandro that he’d be taking over the operation, though you had a decent understanding of what happened—especially when the commander boasted about capturing Alejandro and landing a shot at Soap.

Be it naivety or overconfidence from successfully taking down a shadow beforehand, you don’t necessarily anticipate 2-0 to fight back.

A leg swipes out, knocking you off your feet, and 2-0 overpowers you in a second. He kicks your gun, which has fallen out of your grasp, to the side and gets on top of you, wrapping his hands around your throat.

You flail, trying to buck him off of you, unfortunately, he doesn’t budge.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Huh?!” He squeezes harder, and you throw your hand out toward his masked face, attempting to claw at it to get him to stop.

You manage to rasp out “Stop–” before a gunshot echoes out, and the pressure around your throat relents.

Blood splatters across your face as 2-0 goes limp, collapsing onto you. You gently push him—his body—off of you, coughing up a storm.

Your teary eyes bounce around the plaza, searching for the guardian angel that just saved your life. Through the blur of unshed tears, you spot a figure on a nearby rooftop with a familiar gun in his hand.

Soap?

He gives a short wave, hopping down from the ledge into a bush below to break his fall.

You raise a hand to wave back, trying to keep your coughing to a minimum, but you can’t find the strength to do so.

Looking up at the sky, darkened by gray clouds, you continue to lay on the ground, catching your breath. You don’t bother to wait for it to even out—thanks to the adrenaline rushing through you—before you sit up.

It’s not your first near-death experience you’ve encountered, except unlike the others, you truly thought you wouldn’t come back from it.

The sergeant makes his way over to you, helping you stand on your own.

“Soap–” you attempt to speak, just for your coughing to persist.

You quickly lower the thin cloth stretched across the lower half of your face enough to expose your mouth. Taking out your canteen, you gulp down water at a rapid pace you can’t keep up with. Most of it ends up seeping past the corners of your mouth and trailing down the expanse of your aggravated throat and neck.

When you’re done, you gasp to get air back into your lungs. You shake the half-empty canteen in front of Soap, silently offering it as you gather yourself and lift the mask back over your face. He declines with a shake of the head.

“I thought I told you to get out. What are you still doing here?” You finally ask after a moment.

“I am,” he insists, without further elaborating.

You scowl. “Then what are you still doing here?”

He shifts his weight onto one leg, mentally debating whether he should let you in on the truth. You’ve been accommodating so far, but he still doesn’t know you very well.

Hell, he doesn’t even know your name or call sign.

“I have a plan. Just need to get to…somwhere, before I leave,” he, quite vaguely, explains.

You huff, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Whatever it is, you need to do it quickly, or not at all. Graves ordered that we—they—stay put in Las Almas until they find any sign of or capture you, Ghost, or Hassan.”

You gulp, gently caressing your tender neck that’ll bruise in the upcoming hours.

“If-If it’s nearby, I can take you there so you aren’t wandering the streets all lost.”

Soap scoffs, mimicking your stance with crossed arms. “No. You’ll just lead me to Graves and a big group o’ shadows. Why would I blindly trust the likes of you?”

You try to bite back the bitterness that is beginning to swell in you. It doesn’t work.

“In case you hadn’t noticed—that was my lieutenant commander you just killed and saved me from. I attacked him first, just like with 2-1.”

Soap shrugs. “It’d be a clever tactic to get me to lower my guard around you, and then you stab me in the back, no?”

“Fine,” you spit through gritted teeth. “Then I’ll just follow you without knowing where we’re going, and you can decide what to do with me. Take me hostage, kill me, or expose me as a traitor for all I care, but if we work together, we can at least keep each other from dyin’. That good enough for you?”

The corners of your mouth strain to keep a superficial smile as you and Soap stare each other down.

He hums, thinking it over, before he nods and sticks his hand out for you to shake.

“Deal.”

You shake his hand, keeping a firm grip. “Pleasure doin’ business with you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“You still there, Johnny?” Ghost’s voice cuts in through Soap’s ear.

“Affirmative,” he says, glancing back at you.

You quirk your eyebrow, confused, before connecting the dots. He’s talking with Ghost.

“Might’ve made a new friend,” he adds.

“What?”

You sigh, “Do we really have to do this?”

Masterlist

a/n: i'd like to apologize because this isn't actually the full fic/chapter. i just could not justify posting something nearly 10k words long, but if any are interested in reading it in its entirety, it's on my ao3 here. my account has the exact same username as here, but you can also find it on my pinned post or masterlist.

all of my works on ao3 are currently (and possibly for the immediate future) private because i don't want ai to have access to it, so if you don't have or use an ao3 acc, you won't be able to view it. please don't fret though, the rest/beginning of the fic is spent describing what soap goes through before encountering the reader, so it's not pertinent to the plot in a significant way

#THIS IS SOOOOOO #YEAH #<3 #cod obsession still going hard lets fucking go #replays campaign for the 5th time dying at least once every minute

553 notes · View notes

migwayne · 1 year ago

Note

helloo!!! i love the way u write lyla from spiderverse,,, its so hard to find fanfictions of her 😭😭 do you think you can write some lyla fluff?? have a good day!! :3

Note: Sorry if this took a lot of time, I'm focusing on my studies atm! (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)(⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆

Late Night Talks || Lyla

Pairing: Lyla x Male!Spider-man!Reader

Summary: Late night talks with your favourite girl. (~￣³￣)~

You were stting in a swivel chair as you worked your way around, pressing and swiping as virtual folders of folders of files virtually doubled for checking. Because unlike your boss, you preferred being comfortable doing your job, which Miguel forbidded himself. And speaking of Miguel, he just had to task you with reviewing that'd cost you a goodnight sleep.

So here you were. Undeniably tired and fueled by your 3rd coffe. The moonlight was pressing against the window frame above, as you watched it and drank your coffee, completely stealing away your attention.

”No dozing off!” Lylas little form hovered around your head, which looked like a ball of light if seen from afar. “Hey—!” the cheeks she hit actually hurted, you thought. “That hurts.” you pouted, which she only stuck her tongue out for. “No dozing off during work.” in turn, she sounded like a scolding mother, which did nothing but make you smile.

Lyla was onbeside you assisting and nagging you at the same time throughout the review. But the past few moments she's been silent, causing you to think that she must be in error somewhere.

“You're the one who's dozing.” you put the mug in your desk, getting right back to work. “What're you thinking?” you ask, fingers splayed over the screen infront of you. “Nothing.” she says, bright and luminous. Like a Goddess, you thought, as you stole a glimpse at her form.

“I think they're pretty.” the statement was low, her voice carrying the sentiment like a gentle carress. Just like that, the world seemed to stop. You stopped yourself fom what your doing, entirely giving your attention to her now. “What?” She seemed to like that, your reaction.

“Oh—!” her startled voice swims around your ears, settling right into your heart. “Your eyes, i mean.” you don't know if you're capable of blushing, but the feeling of it, You wished you weren't red. “Thank you, Lily flower.” you said, smiling now like an idiot.

“I think your heart glasses are cute.”

“Really?”

“Very much so,” you grinned at her, which she only exchanged with yours. “They compliment your eyes.” you point out your finger, swirling them round like the action would've accentuate the thought more.

“My turn then.” and you noticed how her luminescent form shined more. “I think...” as she does so, her tiny fingers taps against her temples, and her lips dips into a pout.

“Yeah?” you asked, your eyes glimmering under the interest for her thoughts. “That if i was human,” she hums, her form floating down the table right infront of you, her legs crossed and her hands laying down her lap as her eyes never seem to leave yours. “I would fall in love with you.”

“Oh?” you hum, offering your hand to her. Lyla then touches your ring finger, a soft touch that was barely there, but too much that it caused you to shiver. “Mhm.” she hums in turn.

“That's...” you felt like your cheeks were burning.

“Nice.” and then, just how she seemed to startled you, you did to her too. “I think, I'd fall in love with you too.”

A silent gasp, and if you didn't watch her take the breath, you wouldn't have known. “If you were a virtual assistant like me?” her eyes were like crystals, shimmering under the promise of love.

“No,” returning to your work, you spared a last glance at her, a genuine smile landing in your lips. “I'd just fall in love with you.”

“Virtual assistant or not.”

A heart and a comment won't hurt, and definitely not a reblog (≧▽≦) (Requests are open!)

#LYLA so bbgrl

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migwayne · 1 year ago

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HEYYY I love your fics I seriously can't count how many times I've reread them, anyway so like you/n (amab pls) he's a Sargeant in task force 141 and they really don't know much about him, like barely bits and pieces he's just a workaholic and doesn't talk with them much, also for his personality pls make him cold and like scary kinda anyway so price literally had to order him to join him and ghost for a drink at the bar and they were talking and somehow the conversation led became more of a sex talk, reader is a virgin btw like that man has never even had his first kiss (but like he knows how sex works n stuff) and when he told them they were both like in shock n shit anyway so after that both of them just made it their mission to change that, randomly calling reader to prices office n him and ghost are just there, wait it's a lil hard to explain so basically price pulls reader on his lap, and kisses him, and immediately after ghost kisses him, they start off with like maybe a handjob or a blow job for the reader, who's extremely sensitive mind you, fingering him for at least half an hour while he's just a whimpering mess, ghost ended up popping his cherry since price got the first kiss, literally just showering him with praise, def got overstimulated, crying from it and it's probably the first time they've seen him cry, maybe a bit of fluff at the end oh and for kinks like just a shit ton of praise, overstim, crying, nd if u wanna add anything else it's cool

so sorry I didn't realise how long this is but if you do it thank you so much (*´˘`*)♡

I’m glad you like them! Here’s 5k words of smut lol I hope you enjoy!

“What do you want to drink?” Price asked when the three of you step up to the bar.

“Water.”

You looked over at Price and Ghost, waiting for them both to put in their orders. What you received in return was an unimpressed look from both men, the bartender even had a similar look on their face.

With a roll of your eyes, you order something else, “Bud Light.”

“Glass or bottle?”

“Bottle.”

“Do you want to start a tab?” The bartender asks, you look over to Price and Ghost and watch Price nod.

“No,” you responded before handing the bartender your card.

You felt the two men stare holes into you as you signed the receipt. You didn’t wait for them to order, instead, you made your way to an empty table.

“Why am I not surprised you picked the most secluded table?” Price asked.

“Do you want to sit at the bar?” You asked Price.

“No,” Ghost said, responding for Price.

“Maybe the next time we go to the bar,” Price said, settling down on one side of the table.

“There won’t be a next time,” you respond, watching as Ghost sat down beside his captain.

“Why not?” Price asks, taking a slow sip of his drink.

“Too many people,” you say, looking around the room, “they stare too much.”

“We just got here and you already have someone eyeing you down?” Price asked, craning his neck to try and see who was looking at you.

“Stop,” you hiss, the hand around your bottle tightening.

Price and Ghost exchange a look before Price chuckles.

“Well?” Ghost asks as Price takes another sip of his drink.

“Well, what?” You ask. You felt an itch in your hand that was wrapped around the bottle. It reminded you of that contagious feeling of watching someone yawn.

“Are you going to go talk to them? Or better yet, let them talk to you?” Price asks.

You lifted your bottle to take a sip of your beer. You looked away from Price as you thought over his words, noticing how one of the patrons at the bar quickly looked away after you made eye contact.

Not that you really needed to think it over, “no, and what do you mean let them talk to you?”

“You are pretty scary,” Ghost responds, like it was the easiest question for him to answer.

Price claps a hand on his shoulder, “and this is coming from the man whose code name is Ghost,” he said, pulling his hand away with a chuckle.

“I’m not scary,” you grumble.

It went quiet at the table for a few moments as the three of you drank what you bought. You were nearly done with your beer by the time Price spoke again. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, of course, he was the one to speak.

“What would you even do?” He asks, his mouth curving up on one side. Your eyes followed the upturn of his mouth, taking in his slightly darkened cheeks.

You knew what he was asking. Of course you knew, “what do you mean?” You asked, feigning innocence.

It didn’t work, not that you were surprised. You haven’t felt innocent in a long time. At least, not in all aspects.

Price’s smirk turns into a full on grin, and you wondered if the ruddy color in his cheeks were from the alcohol, or the topic he was trying to bring up.

“You know what I mean,” Price says, pointing a finger in your direction.

You looked over at Ghost, wordlessly asking him with your expression if Price was serious. It seemed that they both were, to your dismay. Ghost looked at you, his brows raised in question.

“I don’t want that,” you respond before looking away.

“Sex?” Price asks quietly, like he wasn’t the one trying to bring the topic up.

“Not right now, but maybe someday,” you glance over at Price and grit your teeth when you see his mouth slightly agape.

“Wait,” Price says slowly, “have you never-“

“No,” you answer, cutting him off.

“We have to change that,” Price says, seemingly ignoring what you had to say.

“I told you I don’t want that— not with a civvy.” You clear your throat and ease your grip on your bottle, “I want someone more understanding of my line of work,” you clarify, looking away from the two men.

You miss the look that Price and Ghost exchange.

“It doesn’t have to be with anyone here,” Price says.

“Do you have someone in another task force you’re going to set me up with?” You ask, feeling as if your eyes are about to roll out of your head.

“Something like that,” Ghost mutters. The man groans after you hear a loud thunk under the table.

You look back at the two men, your brows furrowed in confusion,

“You wanted to see me, sir?” You ask when entering Price’s office.

You stood stock still trying to ignore the presence of the other man in the room, but feeling his eyes on you made it difficult.

“Is he supposed to be here?” You ask, sending a glance to the couch Price had in his office. Ghost sat on the couch, or more so he was spread out looking comfortable.

“He is. It’s what we talked about, remember?” Price came from around his desk to lean against the front.

You looked from Ghost to Price, “what’d we talk about?”

Ghost chuckled, “it would probably be easier if you showed him.”

In the line of work you were in, one of the first things you learned was to expect the unexpected. You expected when you came into Price's office to have a meeting, and you thought it was going to be about the last mission. What you didn’t expect was for Price to step up to you, invade your space, and press his lips to yours.

It caught you off guard, and when you remembered that Ghost was also in the room, your body went rigid. Your hands stayed at your sides, not knowing whether you wanted to push the man away or not. Not knowing what not pushing away Price would bring was also confusing, making your mind race.

Price pulled away after a few moments of you not responding. You guess that wasn’t a nice feeling. “I’ve never,” your mouth closes, not knowing the right words to use. Never kissed anyone? Never done this?

You had seen movies and watched television shows about the topic, and there had been men in the past that you wanted to kiss, but you simply hadn’t done it yet. Hell, you had even watched porn when that feeling became too much and you needed the relief. There was always that craving there though that simply just watching those things could never bring.

“That’s okay,” Price whispers, “we’re going to take this slow,” he says before your lips meet again. Two of his hands find your face so he can fix the angle. You must be doing something right, you think, because when you respond slowly back to the kiss, you hear Price let out a soft noise.

“Good?” Price asks when he pulls away.

Your nerves are still there, not all quite gone yet, but with each passing moment, you feel them disappear. “Yes, sir,” you whisper back. You lick over your lips, a flash of something you aren’t quite sure of making itself known in your stomach when your mind flashes to what just happened.

Price’s eyes track the movement before looking back into your eyes. He gives you a soft smile as he runs his thumb down your cheekbone, “none of that now. Call me John.”

“John,” you whisper, testing the name out on your lips. It wasn’t the first time you had called him by his first name, but you were used to the formality of referring to him by his title and his last name.

“Good boy,” John says. He pulls you into another kiss, not letting you think over how the words make you feel. All you knew was that you liked the way the words made you feel.

You’re still not quite sure where to put your hands as they hang at your sides. You choose to focus on the kiss, and how it makes your brain short-circuit when you feel John’s tongue swipe at the seam of your lips.

You let out a noise similar to a whimper when John pulls away, “want to go sit down with Ghost?”

His words bring you back to the moment, your body heating up when you remember that you’ve had an audience the whole time. You’re fixed with Ghost’s warm gaze as you walk the few steps to the couch. One of his hands goes to the back of your neck, his warm fingers digging into the tense skin.

You watch John at his desk as he grabs a few things from one of the drawers and places them on the desk. Ghost’s warm breath puffs at your ear as you feel his eyes on you.

“You okay?” Ghost asks.

“Yes sir,” you respond, sending a glance his way.

“What did John say?” He asks before he presses his smile into your neck.

You almost want to roll your eyes, “yes, Simon,” you say, correcting yourself.

“Good boy,” he whispered into the skin of your niece, making you shiver. You hated to admit it, but if it meant you would receive praise in return, you think you would start doing what it took.

You always enjoyed praise, especially with the work you did. Hearing back after a mission that what you did was good, that it made the mission go smoothly, or that it meant you helped just one extra person made you feel like the effort you were putting in truly mattered.

You knew that the work you did mattered, but you also knew that you were surrounded by a group of highly trained professionals, and knew that if you needed to be replaced, you could.

You quickly became lost in what Simon was doing, as you had with John. He wasn’t kissing your lips, but he was pressing his lips to whatever skin on your neck he could find, and once he was done with each spot, he would move on to the next.

When he added his teeth and tongue to the mix, you felt the tension leave your body. You went slack before your back fell into the couch. Maybe it was what Simon was doing to you that made the couch feel so comfortable, or maybe it was John’s position that led him to gain such a comfortable piece of furniture.

Your neck as well went to the back of the couch, which only gave Simon more access to your skin. You never knew your neck could be so sensitive, you also never knew the pleasure it could bring. You were used to pain, and had even built a substantial tolerance to the feeling, but it felt like Simon was wrecking your hard work.

You could feel your cock stir and grow when Simon attached his lips to your pulse point on your neck. He bit into the skin enough that when he sucked at the spot, you knew that it would leave a mark. You let out a low noise when Simon’s tongue ran over the spot, soothing the stimulated area.

Your eyes fell closed and your mouth fell open when Simon’s other hand made its way to your hardening cock. It made you feel dizzy at the rush of blood heading south.

You couldn’t help it when your hips jumped into Simon’s palm. His skin felt hot, even through the material of your pants.

Simon moves even closer and wraps the arm with the hand on your neck around your shoulder. When you open your eyes, you see just how close Simon is. His eyes are dark with lust and they get closer and closer.

Simon’s lips were centimeters away from yours when John made himself known again. You shiver under the intense gaze he sends your way, but then your attention is stolen back by Simon.

You hear John’s knees hit the floor before Simon pulls you into a kiss harder than the ones John had given you. You weren’t really sure what to do when you feel a tongue running over your lips that isn’t yours. The choice is made for you when a hand goes back over your groin and your mouth opens.

You always thought it would be kind of gross to have another man’s tongue in your mouth, and it still kind of was now that you’re experiencing it, but it was the best kind of gross. It was kind of like the feeling you got after taking a shower after a long day. It was gross having built up a sweat all day, but it somehow made your shower at the end of the day feel even better.

The noises you let out sound foreign even though they’re your own as Simon’s tongue makes its way inside. He maps out the inside of your mouth, starting with your front teeth and then moving back. You moan low in your throat when Simon’s tongue meets yours, and Simon answers with a moan of his own.

You pull back from the kiss when you feel a pair of hands working your pants open. Opening your eyes, you see that it was John’s hand that was just on the bulge outlining your pants as he now works the garment open and down.

“This is not what I meant by someone more understanding,” you pant down at John. You feel your legs tremble, but you aren’t really sure of the cause.

When John notices, he runs his hands up and down your legs, his fingers teasing the edge of your underwear. “Do you want us to stop?” He questions.

“No,” you gasp, your head falling back onto the couch as Simon bites another mark into your neck.

John bites down on one of your thighs before moving to the other. He doesn’t linger like Simon, you notice. He makes quick work of your underwear and pants, tossing the clothing in a direction you’re too busy to wonder about currently.

You let out a loud moan when John sucks your cock into the warm suction of his mouth. John’s strong hands keep your hips down so you don’t accidentally thrust into his mouth.

You hear a chuckle in your ear before a hand quickly covers your mouth, “quiet, baby. You don’t want Soap and Gaz to hear do you?” Simon whispers into your ear.

You don’t respond to Simon, too focused on the fact that he just fucking called you baby. And it’s also difficult to think of a response as John works his surprisingly skillful tongue around your cock.

You feel sweat at the base of your neck, making the collar of your shirt stick to your warm skin. You want nothing more than to rip the rest of your clothes off, but your hands lay at your sides as you clench your fingers into the cushions.

Your balls draw tight, but you aren’t able to warn John as your orgasm quickly approaches. You try to pull at the hand on your mouth, but Simon’s grip only tightens. The moans you let out vibrate into the skin of Simon’s palm as your orgasm finally hits.

Your body trembles, John’s hands tightening as he swallows down all your cock has to offer. You whimper into Simon’s palm as John lets out a moan of his own at the taste of your spend, the vibrations of John’s noise traveling down your cock.

John pulls off with a slick pop before he rises. He plops down on your other side and knocks Simon’s hand away. John kisses you wetter than before, his tongue making its way inside.

You moan softly when his tongue meets yours and the taste of your cum on John’s tongue hits yours. He cradles your cheek in one hand, the other making its way under your shirt to find your sweaty skin.

Simon makes his way into the spot John just was, your spent cock giving an interested twitch.

John turns your face back towards his so he can press his lips to yours softly before pulling his hand away. John pulls your shirt off and lets out a snicker when he accidentally throws it at Simon.

“Sorry,” John says, a sly grin stretching across his face.

Simon tosses the shirt away with an unimpressed look. He pulls his own shirt off before lifting your legs onto his broad shoulders. He turns to press a kiss into the skin of your calf. One of his hands grabbed what you guess was a bottle of lube, likely one of the items John grabbed from his desk.

You made a mental note to ask yourself if John had always kept those in there, and how many times he had used them. That is, if you could remember after what John and Simon are going to do to you.

You let out a whimper at the feel of a cold, lube-coated finger between your legs at your hole. You look down at Simon, your cock giving another stir at the way Simon is looking at your hole.

“Have you ever touched yourself down here?” Simon asked, his finger tracing a slow circle around your hole.

“No,” you say quietly, not even sure why Simon was asking.

“That’s okay, baby,” Simon murmurs, pressing another kiss to your calf.

You let out a long whine as Simon pushed his finger in slowly. Your whine ended once his finger was all the way inside. It was only one finger, but it already felt as if it edged on too much.

“Shh, love, we’ve got you,” John says softly into your ear. He showers your face in soft, comforting kisses as Simon starts to move his finger. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, his hand running down your chest until he reaches one of your nipples to play with.

Simon’s finger moves in and out of your hole at a slow pace, letting you get used to the length and thickness.

Price turns your neck to press his lips against yours. Too lost in the kiss, it catches you off guard when Simon’s finger finds the bundle of nerves you always knew would set you alight. You had watched porn before and knew that most of the higher quality videos were fake, but from the amateur videos you had seen, you knew how intense prostate stimulation could be.

You almost felt like one of the men in the videos. Without the studio lights, scripts, and cameras of course.

“Feel good, baby?” John asks, his use of the pet name causing a rush of warmth to fly through your veins.

You hear the men both chuckle at the sound of your loud moan when Simon’s finger runs back over your prostate. Like Simon had done before, a hand makes its way over your mouth, but instead, it’s John’s.

You whimper into John’s hand when Simon pulls his finger from your clenching hole. It only takes a few seconds for his finger to be back, this time with a second finger accompanying the first.

Simon pushes the two fingers inside as slowly as he did when it was just one. It was already intense with just one, but now with two, you could really feel the place Simon was carving out inside you.

“Can you be quiet for us?” John asked into your ear.

Simon paused, giving you time to nod your answer. It made you frustrated, but John kept you from pushing your hips into Simon’s fingers with a heavy arm across your hips. His arm brushes your hardening cock, which only made it worse.

You nod quickly, hoping Simon would get back to what he was doing. Simon does continue on, at the same slow pace, letting you get used to the two fingers.

“Good boy,” John says, before pulling his hand away.

You bite your lip, holding back your noises as Simon spreads his fingers apart inside of you, opening you up. The burn brings tears to your eyes, threatening to quickly spill over.

John adds to the burn Simon is causing, but instead of adding to the one inside your body, he takes to parts on the outside. He places kisses down your body starting at your cheek. When he gets to your neck, he pays particular attention to the skin around the marks Simon has left.

You don’t know if it’s some type of weird possessive competition that John and Simon have going on, all you know is that it’s difficult to keep quiet under the attention John is giving you.

You felt pricks of Simon’s stubble as he placed his spots on your neck, but with John, he had the added stimulation of a full on beard. His beard went over the spots that Simon had left as he made his own, reigniting the nerves.

Once he was satisfied with the marks he had left, Simon continued his trail down your body. The next area he stopped at was your nipples. It almost felt similar to what he had done to your neck as he bit one of them into hard nubs. Once it had hardened, he ran his tongue over the heated skin. When he pulled off, the first was puffy and swollen, and as you watched him move to the second, you knew it would soon match the first.

When John pulled away, that’s when your tears finally fell. What ultimately broke and made the tears fall was when John’s beard brushed one of your nipples. You raised an arm to your mouth to bite into the flesh of your arm to stifle your moans.

You felt your cock give a throb as it stood fully hard. You felt your cock drool, a clear pearl of precum falling from the head, much like how your tears fell.

You almost thought John was going to do what he did earlier and go back down to suck your cock back in his mouth. John fixed your cock with a heated look, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as his eyes tracked the movement as another glob of precum fell from the head of your cock.

Instead, he pulled your arm from your mouth and pressed your lips together. John let out a hum of pleasure when your tongue found its way inside his mouth. Your tongues slid together in a slower rhythm than the way Simon’s finger was now steadily fucking in and out of your hole.

John swallowed any moan that you let out, and answered with a louder noise of his own when your other hand made its way down to his clothed cock.

You let out a whine when John broke the kiss, but it was only to create enough space that he was able to pull his clothes off.

With each piece of clothing he would pull off, you would drag your eyes over the new skin he allowed you to see. You knew John was a muscular man, but what surprised you was the amount of hair that lay on his chest.

You ran a hand up his chest, through the soft hair, all the way up until you could wrap your hand around the back of his neck and pull him down for another kiss.

Simon was slow to add the third finger to the other two. You wondered how big Simon and John’s cock were, and if three of Simon’s thick fingers would even be enough. If three fingers already quickly left you feeling full, you wonder how Simon’s cock would make you feel.

The wet noise of Simon fucking his fingers in and out of your hole rang loud in your ears. The sound nearly drowned out the soft smack of your lips when John broke the kiss. Simon’s fingers left your hole with a slick noise, leaving it feeling open.

You expected another finger to be added to the mix, but instead felt the blunt head of Simon’s cock at your hole. He teased your entrance with the head, a breathy moan leaving his lips when the head would catch.

Your legs fell from Simon’s shoulders before he pulled away to strip all the way down. His cock hung heavy between his thighs as he slipped out of his pants. You watched, mesmerized as the man grabbed the lube to slick up his cock.

Your breath caught in your throat when you felt the slick head at your entrance after he settled your legs back over his shoulders.

“Breath, love,” John murmured, running a slow hand up and down your side. He kissed you, soft and slow when Simon started to push in.

Simon’s hands were at your hips, gripping the skin in a steady grip. Once he bottomed out, leaving you feeling full, his hands moved up to your face to wipe away the tear tracks from your face.

Simon swooped down to claim your lips in a wet kiss, like he was trying to make up for lost time while he had fingered you.

What felt like a long few minutes later, Simon was finally pulling out. He watched his cock leave your hole until only the head was left pressing against your entrance. He looked up, not pushing back inside until you nodded.

Your stomach felt full on each of Simon’s slow thrusts in. It burned as you continued to adjust to his length and girth, but what sped that process along was when his cock would graze your prostate.

Simon’s slow pace soon sped up as you let out encouraging moans. His heavy balls slapped against your ass as he set up a fast pace.

You only felt the pleasure Simon gave for far too short of a time than you expected. It took you by surprise when you felt your orgasm growing fast in your gut.

You tried to warn John, but your orgasm quickly shot through you when the man reached down to grab your cock. Ropes of cum shot out, landing over John’s fist after he gave a few slow strokes. The rest landed on your chest, coating your heaving, sweaty skin in ropes of white.

Above you, you could hear Simon let out a nearly animalistic noise as he went even after, chasing after his orgasm. His hands moved once again to your hips as he sped up. It made you feel used in a way that you didn’t know you could enjoy, like you were just a toy for Simon to use for his pleasure.

Simon’s head fell back, his hands tightening to a bruising grip as his orgasm overtook him. He let out a long groan, the noise ending with a breathy, punched-out moan at the end of his high.

The thrust of Simon’s cock after your orgasm into the swollen bundle of nerves in your hole sent you into overstimulation. By the time Simon had come, your tears had fallen again, relief coming in the form of Simon’s orgasm as his thrusts came to a halt.

Simon pulls free from your hole gently, your hole gaping. It made you shiver knowing that if John wanted, he could thrust right in without a problem. He lowered your legs down from his shoulders slowly, using his deft fingers to massage at the skin in your thighs.

Simon leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips before he flopped down onto the empty spot on the couch in a sweaty heap.

Price makes his way in between your legs, his hard cock brushing your leg. He wrapped his hand around the base of his thick cock, pulling the foreskin down. The wet of his cock kissed your hole, stopping Simon’s cum that was leaking from your hole.

You let out a high pitched whine when John pushed the head of his cock slowly into your hole, “I can’t,” you whimper, more tears leaking from your eyes.

“It’s just the tip, baby. Can you take it for me?” Price asks, gathering up the mess on your stomach with his fingers.

You nod, your teeth digging into your bottom lip to keep in another whine.

“Such a good boy,” John whispers against your lips before he closes the distance.

John uses the slick mess on his fingers to wet his cock. He strokes along the length of his cock, his orgasm quickly approaching by the sound of his gasps and moans.

John ducks his head into the sweaty crook of your neck and comes with a long moan. Still stretched open from Simon’s cock and with the aid of John’s cock, his cum mixed with Simon’s.

You could feel the mess of the mix of their cum leak from your hole when John pulls free. The moment he’s free, it’s John’s turn to lift your legs to his shoulders. He holds you up by your lower back with his strong hands so he can lean down lick your hole.

John alters between broad swipes and quick flicks of his tongue to clean up your sore hole. Your soft cock gives a twitch when John fucks his tongue inside, making sure he’s thoughroughly cleaned the mess he and Simon have made.

John pulls out and gives your hole one last broad swipe before finally pulling away.

You watch with heavy lidded eyes as Simon gets up and steps past the pile of clothes the three of you made. He returns with a cloth to wipe the three of you down. He tosses the cloth away into the pile when he’s done before he sits back down onto the couch.

John ends up at your other side, his arm back around your shoulder. “You okay?” He questions.

Wordlessly, you nod, leaning your cheek into the kiss he presses against it.

“Good?” Simon asks, making you roll your eyes.

“Yes, sir,” you respond to Simon, and swat his hand away when his fingers try to pinch at your side.

#i just died a bit #SLLURRRP

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