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due to my job(s) i like to think of if instead of the military, ghoap being first responders or ems. maybe soap joins the fire department as a baby emt, gets paired with seasoned medic ghost.

it's still the same type of high-stress bond, and most first responders have some type of military background. maybe ghost has been a medic for five to ten years, because he was medically discharged from the military and had no idea what else to do. soap just wants to help people and couldn't make it into the service because of x, y or z.

ghost who subconsciously takes soap under his wing, corrects him and teaches him little things that make the job easier. tells soap what would've helped him when ghost was an emt himself back in the day, what he wishes someone told him when he was in soap's position.

maybe one day they're sent out on a call together to a kid, they lose the kid, and soap is all torn to shreds over it. ghost numbed himself to the job years ago, but poor soap just got here. ghost immediately assumes damage control both with the parents and soap, the coroner is called, ghost and soap get sent back to station. i know ghost would do little things to cheer soap up in his own way (emotionally constipated as he is) and hints at soap talking it out with someone. ghost is a really good listener, after all.

a year or two passes with ghost and soap being partners, working on the same truck together day in and day out; something something they share a bed at the station something something they get close and kiss idk.

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also dragging this over here

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nod nod nod

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Normal conversations to have on the plane

I'm also doing more cod art on Patreon!

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simon "ghost" riley gifs.

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Call signs weren’t supposed to be flattering. More often than not, they were the direct result of some embarrassing fuck-up that trailed a soldier for the rest of their life. They were voted on by the first platoon that a soldier joined, usually within the first few months, and they then spent the next few months cringing every time they heard it. Simon’s first platoon had seen a recruit land the call sign “Seagull” after a drunken dare to nick a fry from their captain’s tray in the mess hall, and he had personally bestowed the call sign “Dash” upon a soldier who had somehow managed to clip himself in the leg with his own bullet. Dumb Ass Shot Himself…

The embarrassment wore off, though. When one was stuck with a name for the rest of their lives, they learned to live with it sooner rather than later. The associated stories either got buried deep or drunkenly flaunted; the stupider the better. The funny ones became a point of pride and the truly humiliating ones eventually settled into something sort of like mundanity. Amusing tales became nothing more than yet another name, a stitched moniker, an email signature. The point was: by the time they made it to the special forces, and especially once they were assigned to a task force, no one gave a shit about their call signs anymore.

Whenever Soap heard his call sign, whenever anyone asked after its origins, he laughed it off, citing his ability to clean house or, more flirtatiously, his ability to clean up after himself, but he always internally cringed.

No one ever noticed. No one except for Ghost.

He never said anything, never asked about it, which Johnny was thankful for, but he was infinitely more thankful that Ghost took every opportunity to call him literally anything else. Sergeant, at first, then Johnny. MacTavish, if he was mad; any other combination of insults if he wasn't, because they both knew he never really meant them. Sunshine, sometimes, in the mornings when Soap stumbled out of bed in whatever safe house they were staying in, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. Scottish Bastard, or Our Johnny, or Pyromaniac, or Lad. Rarely Soap.

It was in his file, Johnny knew, the file that Ghost had read cover to cover, too paranoid to blindly trust Price's judgment with a new team member. Evidently, he hadn't made the connection between the incident report nestled in the sheaves of paper and Johnny's embarrassment. More likely, he just didn't care. Johnny wasn't sure which option he preferred.

Johnny had always had an issue with authority, and joining the military had done nothing to quell his rebellious streak; he was still a teenager, fresh out of basic, barely legal, the first time it happened. His sergeant had been giving him eyes for the entire two months since he'd joined, and Johnny'd be lying if he said he hadn't pushed himself just a little harder in response to the attention. The night of graduation found Johnny in the sergeant's bed, taking everything he was given and begging for more.

He hadn't seen that sergeant again after that, but it had more to do with Johnny's SAS training than anything else, and it started a bad habit. Nearly every unit he joined, he eventually ended up in his superior's bed. It was all consensual, and Johnny would be willing to attest to it if need be, but he never got caught, and he moved from unit to unit so often that it never really mattered.

Until it did.

Two years out of basic, about halfway through his SAS training, he got caught. Rather, they got caught. They were in the showers, his lieutenant pressing him against the tile wall, when their captain had walked in. The implications were clear, especially with Johnny on the receiving end, and the lieutenant had gotten discharged, despite Johnny's protestations. It had been his idea, but it still looked like an abuse of power. Word had flown around the base, and Johnny had gotten stuck with the call sign Soap as a terrible joke; "don't drop the soap" was uttered nearly every time he entered a room, and he ended up being the youngest to pass selection largely to get away from the teasing.

Once he joined the SAS, he never saw anyone involved in the incident ever again. The incident report went in his file, but it got buried among the accolades, the outstanding test results, the exceptional service record. No one except his superior officers had the clearance to read his file, which was for the best; their knowledge of his bad habit kept him from indulging, and he hadn't looked at another superior officer the same way since.

Until Ghost. Who called him Johnny, not Soap. Who tolerated and even encouraged his flirting. Who knew every detail of his file but never pushed for more.

Whenever Johnny got too close to a line, Ghost would switch back to Soap, just once, just enough to nudge him back a step, but he was never cruel. It was a slap on the wrist, not a sharp reprimand, and Johnny had learned enough about Ghost's tone and eyes to see the switch for what it was: a gentle warning, a clearly expressed boundary.

And then one of their missions went to shit, and Johnny ended up in the hospital for months, and Ghost stopped calling him Soap altogether. In the aftermath, Johnny danced closer and closer, always expecting his cautionary call sign to fall from Ghost's lips, but it never did. On and off the field, Ghost simply watched Johnny get closer, stopped holding him at arm's length. He started welcoming his flirting, started actively encouraging him, started reciprocating.

The first time they fell into bed together, something panicked fluttered in Johnny's chest. He'd been here before; he'd gotten a lieutenant wrongfully dishonorably discharged before, for nothing more than the very act that he and Ghost had been dancing around for years. The moment before their lips met, he backpedaled sharply, only to be caught by the rigid warmth of Ghost's arms.

Ghost knew. Ghost knew his past, knew his record, knew what he'd been walking into. Ghost didn't care.

Price knew. Price knew his past, knew his penchant for gravitating towards authority, and still had placed him within Ghost's grasp time and time again. Price didn't care.

And Gaz... well, Gaz was Johnny's biggest enabler. Gaz didn't care.

So he let himself take the final step, the leap of faith, and landed safely in Ghost's hold, in Ghost's bed, and in Ghost's life. Loved, satisfied, and most importantly, protected. Safe.

And if he started wearing his call sign like a badge of honor for the first time in his life... well, he was sleeping with a superior officer, and he wasn't ashamed of it anymore. Whenever Ghost looked at him, reverent, bordering on worshipful, Soap couldn't find it within himself to feel a single ounce of embarrassment over his name.

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"ALONE" SIMON GHOST RILEY COD:MWIII — Season 6

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babbler

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i know we all know and love a down bad johnny, who's begging and already on his knees for some form of sexual attention but let's think about simon in this position.

simon riley, who's so thirsty and down bad that he's damn near pawing at you and whining, simon riley, who's practically drooling and foaming at the mouth at the smallest things, like if you wore a low-cut shirt or comfy shorts around the house.

simon riley, who begs you to let him fuck you, who can't keep his hands off of you, who requires sex at least three times a day; morning, afternoon and night. simon riley who lets you do anything to him as long as he's buried deep in your pussy, or tasting it, simon riley who whines and whimpers and pleads for you to sit on his cock and ride until he cums.

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i hope she does 🫡

Sometimes you have to remember you're here to have a fun time, lest the void gets you.

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Just sniper things 🐦 (low stakes mission)

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How are we not mutuals already tf

oh my god oh my god i'm literally freaking out rn- probably cause i don't post anything tbh my tumblr acc is just to follow you and wren and a few others

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hey. don't cry. I went to Mad At You island and none of your friends were there :)