#//throws a brick at gaz

[temeyes]

soap, somewhere in the base: "CAPTAIN GARRICK IN THE HOUSE!!!"

[sweet-as-an-angel]

so! you mentioned in the 'p0rn preferences' post that Gaz is not the one who jerks off the most in the 141, and I humbly ask you, who would that be?

I don't mean this as a request, just a little discussion, cause I feel like Soap would just be going at it at any chance possible, like a bunny. he probably doesn't care much if someone hears it, but that's just me thinking too much into it.

Who Jerks off the Most in the 141 + König

Warnings: 18+, Heavy Mentions of Masturbation, Male Masturbation, Implied Reader in Individual Headcanons, Accidental and Implied Voyeurism, Edging, Brief Mention of Injury, Men Who Moan <3, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except 'You'.

A/N: As per Anon's question (which I just had to turn into a post of its own) I present to you the list of the 141 members (and König) who jerk off from the most to least <3

Soap

I have to agree with you here, Anon - Johnny is most definitely the king of self love when it comes to the 141.

He doesn't much care where he is or who he's with; when he has to satisfy his needs, he'll do so.

Though, he'll spare whoever's with him the sight of watching him throwing his head back, trying to stifle his moans behind gritted teeth whilst the wet sound of his hand slipping up and down the length of his shaft fill the room.

Unless they want to.

For one reason or another, he's nigh-insatiable when it comes to his libido, and the fact that his stamina affords him the luxury of beating himself off until his cum is practically translucent doesn't help.

The slightest thing can set him off.

Someone brushing past him ? Hard.

Someone stroking his ego a little too enthusiastically ? Bricked up.

He sees something that's shaped to be a little too curvy or phallic ? Stiff as a pole.

He remembers something mildly suggestive you did three years ago in that restaurant ? He's going to the Horny Realm.

Yes, his teammates have complained about his incessant moaning-come-grunting-come-whimpering through all hours of the night, his voice contorting through a spectrum of desperation and Johnny always ending up spent and overstimulated by the time the sun comes up.

And then he's ready to do it all again the second night touches the horizon line, giving his teammates a knowing smile when he walks into the room sporting nothing else save for a pair of boxers and a monster that looks to be trying to tear itself free from them.

Gaz

Dude's young. Of course he's throttling that rooster on a nigh-daily basis.

The only reason he's not at it as much as Soap is because he likes to believe he still has a few threads of his self-restraint intact.

He doesn't.

Especially when it comes to you (regardless of whether you're dating yet or not).

But he doesn't need to know that.

Honestly, the only thing that separates him from Johnny's unmatched libido is the fact that it takes a little more than the slightest provocation to get Gaz going.

Albeit, that line is a thin one.

If he so much as accidentally sees something explicit for upwards of three seconds, he's hard.

The only advantage of his need for satisfaction is the speed with which he can achieve it.

He and Johnny actually timed each other once to see who could get off the fastest.

Gaz won. Though, only by a slim margin.

Needless to say, that made for a rather interesting conversation with the Captain when he walked in on two of his best soldiers sat panting on the edge of their cots, an almost-translucent spray spattered across their stomachs, eyes half-lidded and hazy.

Ghost

The third-in-line for the Throttle Throne is none other than our beloved Ghost.

Unlike Johnny and Gaz, Ghost is more likely to leave himself alone at the first sign of trouble, toughing it out until he can will his mind to less lustful pastimes.

He won't make his jacking off known to anyone, either, often doing it in the shower where the water beats down so harshly that no sound can be heard for the water's fall.

That, and he's a master at keeping his voice low, no matter the circumstances.

More often than not, Simon makes quick work of jerking off purely because it’s a means to an end. However, if it’s you he’s thinking of, he’s much more likely to take his time — to immerse himself in the fantasy of your body around his, taking him so well in one capacity or another. Fucking yourself dumb on his cock.

During these times, he’s thorough — much more likely to edge himself, to throw his head back and growl between gritted teeth, to savour the sensation coiling in his stomach, his balls growing tight.

Otherwise, he’ll stroke one out as quickly as he can, getting back to business as usual.

And to look at him, on the surface, you'd never know that he just spent the last three minutes rubbing one out in the bathroom (yes, he is also a contender for first place in the 'Who Can Jack Off The Quickest Competition', but he'll never allow Johnny or Gaz the luxury of witnessing his unprecedented skill; that's for your eyes only).

Until he corners you, breathing down your neck, scolding you for tempting him - a man whose restraint lies only in his ability to hold off from reducing you to an exponential reflection of his prior state, breathless and covered in fluids.

König

Have you seen the size of that thing ? Man should be in the olympics for being able to throw that weight around.

Similarly to Ghost, König only gets himself off when it's absolutely necessary.

Only if he doesn't have you lying around to help him, of course.

Though, he lets himself have a bit of fun with it. Especially if it's been a tough day.

He's vocal, too. Though he tries not to be.

He just can't help it. Days' - maybe even weeks' - worth of unspent adrenaline and semen is hardly any way for a soldier like König to go about his life. So, he expels it in the privacy of quite literally any isolated space he can find.

König is not an adventurous spirit by any means when it comes to self pleasure, but when needs must, he's willing to shoulder the weight of the prospect that someone on his team could walk in at any second and catch him spraying his stomach or the wall white with, let's face it, thick ropes of cum.

Hong-Jin's actually caught him doing that before now.

That's actually how the two became friends: Horangi heard König grunting in the store cupboard and, knowing how stubborn his Colonel was with letting others know when he was injured, sought him out. Wanted to offer his help.

Catching Colonel König in the act of throwing his head back whilst growling the name '(Y/N)' into the darkest corner of the room was, suffice it to say, not what Horangi had been expecting.

Price

You just know he's cool with it. And by 'cool', I mean incredibly intentional, controlled, and not ravenous in the ways our other favourite military princesses are.

Sure, Price has gotten hard on the job a few times.

Who hasn't ?

But thanks to his level head, unwavering devotion to his work, and absolute refusal to acknowledge that he did, in fact, get a little bit of a chub during a shoot-out, he's managed to gain control over every facet of his body.

Until he comes home to you, of course.

Until he's able to loom over you like an omen and run his hands down your sides, stopping at your hips and pressing kisses that become more open-mouthed the further down the side of your neck he dips.

Pressing his hips into yours. Something demands your attention.

There have been very few occasions where a cold shower wasn't a quick enough fix for him.

When the days of having you milk him are too far out of sight, he's had to suffice with his own hands before now. Had to imagine - remember - what yours felt like in his place, your lips curled up as he gripped the chair arms, breathless as he moaned into the warm tones of your shared apartment.

But don't worry ! He'll be sure to catch you up on everything you've missed while he's been away once he returns.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

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[bits-and-babs]

✦ 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐍 ✦

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader (delta) | smut, 18+ | 4.1k

summary: you, soap and gaz make a silly bet at ghost's expense for an invaluable prize.

cw: mw3 spoiler free. 141 ridiculousness, humour, attempts to remove the mask resulting in life threatening (not really) injury, mild exhibitionism if you squint, very talkative ghost, 'interrogation' wink wink, unprotected p in v sex, reference to f receiving oral.

ghost mlist | main mlist | taglist

"Y'know, I'm sure as shit that L.t's got brown hair," Soap pipes up in the middle of the silence that had settled inside the safe house. 

The members of Task Force 141 glance up one by one, querying eyes cast Soap's way as the guesstimated observation hangs in the air. It's louder than chopper blades, thudding against your skull and roaring in your ears as you attempt to recall the information you have on Ghost, what little physical attributes you can attribute to him. Each time, you hit a brick wall. The only image conjured in your minds-eye is the black voids of the mask's eyes and the piercing amber of his irises. 

The wind howls outside, battering the windows with Wyoming snow and creeping in through the cracks in the panes. It makes a yowling sound as it slips through the crevices, carrying your memories of Ghost's appearance with it. He truly was like an apparition, there one moment, then gone altogether. 

Gaz's brows crease in the middle, little crevices in the skin showing his mind working over the sentence. 

"He doesn't," he eventually retorts, eyebrow cocked while shaking his head, "He's blonde." 

"What makes you say that?" Price scoffs at his colleague's certainty, "You ever seen his face?"

The silence that follows makes the Captain chuckle. A wordless 'that's what I thought'. 

"You willin' to bet on that?" Soap pushes Gaz with a lopsided smirk. There it is, that ridiculous playfulness that the Scotsman continuously let slip over coms. Simon had once reprimanded him for how it would get him killed– you were almost certain if he continued down this path in particular, he'd be in a box by daylight.

"I am," Gaz counters thoughtlessly, a smug lilt to his tone as he leans the crown of his head back against the rotting wooden wall, "He's got blonde eyelashes. He's gonna have blonde hair."

"What're ya gettin' so close tae him for?" Soap grins wide, loading the new ammunition and hitting a bullseye on the first shot, "You been snoggin' him or somethin'?"

"Lads," Price warns. It's only one word, but it says a lot; 'he'll have your head.' All of you know Simon 'Ghost' Riley well enough to know it's not a joke. Seen enough of the mangled bodies he left behind to know it wouldn't be clean, either. More like he'd hack your skull from your neck, picking out the dullest blade that'd struggle to slot between vertebrae.  

"Bets on, then," Soap continues, white teeth gleaming in the low light, "First to confirm gets the honour of shootin' Hassan between the eyes." 

It's like throwing a match at a body doused in diesel. 

                           ✰

The parameters of this wager are as follows... First: the competition is between you, Soap and Gaz. Price was ruled automatically exempt the moment he admitted he had, indeed, seen Ghost's face. It was a revelation that caused quite a storm- and a promise from Gaz of £100 if he'd tell.

The Captain, quite frankly, told him where to stick it. 

Second: None of you could just ask Ghost himself. That was boring; no fun in that. 

Thirdly, there are no other rules. Acquire the information by any means necessary to claim victory. Perhaps this rule should have been revised- because to say that 141's tactics for getting Ghost to reveal his face were a little unorthodox is an understatement of the highest order. 

Despite his hulking frame, Ghost is like a cunning fox, cognizant of even the slightest changes in energy and hypervigilant of those approaching. The midnight void of his grease paint that frames his eyesockets contrasts the whites of his eyes as they dart back and forth between you all. He appears to have noted the devious scheming, practically hearing the cogs turning in your heads the moment he returned from his watch. Something is amiss, and you know Ghost knows it. 

He says nothing. 

Day One; the grumpy, black-clad special ops soldier sits back in his seat as he crosses his arms over his vast chest, cautiously observing the minute movements the three of you made. He'd bristled when Gaz stood from the sofa simply to enter another room, poised and ready to pounce at whatever fuckery the younger soldier would attempt. 

"Hey, L.t.," Soap's drawl cuts through the humorously tense atmosphere in the room, and you brace yourself for his master plan. "When was the last time ye got a haircut?"

Ghost hesitates. Waits a beat. The silence stretches almost uncomfortably until he answers, thick, bassy voice almost booming in the box room. "What're you playin' at, Johnny?"

Soap shrugs his shoulders, exuding complete nonchalance as he settles into the seat across the table from the hulking mass of man. "Just wondered if the mask ever came off. How do you cut your hair?"

Amusement ripples through you in the sound of a chuckle, both men glancing your way. Ghost peers at you, suspicion pooling thick in his pupils. 

"Shave it," Ghost rumbles bluntly, with an air of finality that leaves no room for argument or for Soap to encourage him to try something stupid like curtain bangs or, God forbid, a mohawk. 

You can't help but grin from ear to ear as you watch the Scotsman's shoulders slump in defeat, already waving a white flag upon seeing how unwilling Ghost is to play whatever stupid game you're all partaking in. Even you can't deny the anxiety that prickles across your nerve endings when you see the way Ghost's biceps flex beneath the camo fabric of his uniform, primed for action. 

When Ghost's aqua irises slide to you, your shoulders shrug comically, putting on the performance of your life to appear as though you had no idea what Johnny was up to. You see the way Ghost's blacked-out eyelids squint in suspicion. He doesn't believe you, but doesn't say as much. 

Day Three and the polite, roundabout tactics had been discarded in favour of the nuclear option. Gaz had tried ambushing Ghost in the shower, opening the door without knocking as if pretending he didn't know the Lieutenant was in there. The door slammed so quickly into his head that an egg had been steadily growing on his forehead for the past hour and a half, blood seeping from his almost certainly broken nose. 

"You'll stay out next time, Bravo 2-6, if you know what's good for you," Ghost had growled through the crack in the door before shutting it with a click of the lock. 

Holding his face and slinking away, mortally wounded, Gaz uttered a humiliated 'Yes, lieutenant'. 

Soap, clearly not having learnt from poor Gaz, decided that the next best option was a trip, so to speak. Executing a ludicrously overexaggerated stumble, Johnny reached out to grab Ghost's mask to 'steady himself' and ultimately drag it from his superior's head. 

Ghost had leapt from his seat with a roar, threatening to send Sergeant MacTavish back to Scotland in a box with the Saltire draped across the lid. The standoff only settled upon Captain Price's barked orders to stand down or hang up the uniform. 

By Day Six, Ghost had bruised your opponent's egos enough that neither Soap nor Gaz dared attempt to peek beneath the mask again. They look at you like you're absolutely bonkers when you finally announce it's your turn to try and tame the beast. 

"Yer fuckin' mad, hen," Johnny grumbled, watching you observe Ghost from across the room. He'd settled on a chair in the corner of the room, ensuring no one could sneak up on him. "You can't seriously be plannin' on-"

"I want Hassan," you shrug, a smile playing on your lips. Though, at this rate, you couldn't care less about the terrorist and the honour of dispatching him. No, Ghost had made this ridiculous game far more competitive than needed, and you planned to win.

"Have fun," Gaz scoffed bitterly, still icing the blotchy green and purple bruise that had welted on his forehead as a medal of dis-honour. You hadn't exactly helped the healing process, poking it harshly with the pad of your thumb as you laughed at his mortifying misfortune. 

You wait patiently for Ghost to move, like a stake out on a mission. Lying in plain sight in a ghillie suit, a sniper rifle pointed right between his eyes and your finger on a hairpin trigger. You wait for him to break, for exhaustion to creep in. Thankfully, you don't have to wait long. The Lieutenant rises from his chair, announcing to 141 that he's headed to bed. 

A quiet mumble of 'goodnight' from each member grants him leave, and Ghost walks out of the room without further word. You waste no time in hurrying to your feet. 

"Are you gonna...-" Soap winces when you stand, trailing off when you start after Ghost, not allowing either of your colleagues to talk you out of this suicide mission. 

Though, the moment you turn the corner, you wish you had. Ghost's broad frame practically fills the narrow hallway like someone had plucked Everest from Nepal and shoved its hulking mass into a matchbox. He's ginormous, his usually silent footsteps causing the aged, rotting wood beneath the soles of his boots to creak with the weight he applies when he turns to face you. 

The dark hallway obscures Ghost's skull-face mask, but a glittering reflection of the golden light bleeding from the bulb in the living room area flickers across the wet surface of his eyes as he observes you. You can't allow the weighty pressure of his stare to phase you if you're to push ahead with your plan- so you step forward, swallowing down the nerves that Ghost's attention inevitably dredges up. 

"Lieutenant, sir," you address him smoothly, voice low as you gaze up at him through your lashes. Ghost's eyebrow arches in response, noting your somewhat suggestive behaviour. "Permission to spea-"

"I'm hopin' you'll tell me what you're all up to," his eyes spear your nerve as he interrupts you, "They're not lettin' up, but I'll get it outta you one way or another." 

"What... Did you have in mind?" You chance, heart slamming up against your chest when you realise just how obvious you're being. It's dangerous- you hadn't planned to be so forward. The idea that he'd be able to read your flirting so soon set off mortars in your veins. 

There's a pause. It dizzies you, throwing your previously sturdy confidence off kilter when Ghost tilts his masked head slightly. He's turning it over in his mind, considering the past few days' events. Then, he turns everything on its side. 

"I know what you're doing," he speaks suddenly, the rich baritone of his voice ricocheting off the walls and ringing in your ears like he's just discharged a round of ammo with each syllable. You jerk upright, standing to attention. 

"I don't know what you m-"

"You want the mask off," he interrupts you again, cutting your pathetic excuse short as he steps forward. It's ridiculous, the sheer size of him as he looms over you. "You lot made a bet."

Another beat. Ghost waits for a response, an admission of guilt. It feels like he's cornered you; every answer that springs to mind is incriminating. You know he can see your rueful expression, wide-eyed and panicked by the ease with which he puts you on the ropes. 

"Was this your plan?" He murmurs, reaching to grasp your chin. His palm settles on the hollow of your jaw, fingers fanning out across the bone. "Get me into bed and see if I'll take it off?"

Trembling in his hold, you whimper as Ghost's thumb stretches across to trace the curve of your lip. It follows the delicate arc, lining the shape of your mouth and trailing the dip of your cupid's bow. 

"'M sorry," you mumble weakly, cheeks hot beneath his touch. Again, you fold beneath the intensity of those honeyed irises. It's a miracle your knees don't buckle when he pushes the pad of his thumb just past your lips, so that it brushes the edges of your teeth. 

"That was your plan. Y'can still give it a try, love. But..." he hums, his voice throaty and quiet and settling in the pit of your stomach. It's embarrassing, the ease with which he figures you out, but his words drip over you, easy and warm, and all you can focus on is the slip of his thumb as he presses the pad against the flat of your tongue. 

"The mask stays on." 

Ghost’s insistence makes you giggle sheepishly and your stomach flip in dread, like a child caught with its hand down a bear trap. Despite the lewdness of him pushing his thumb past your lips, you know that he’s being serious, deathly so. You nod clumsily in recognition of his executive order, and Ghost gently taps the skin of your cheek with his free hand, the soft slap of his palm against your flesh standing your hair on end.

“Go.”

The word hangs in the air for a moment, weighing heavily in the claustrophobic space of the small hallway. It takes a moment for your mind, rendered utterly useless by Ghost’s imposing presence, to understand exactly what he’s implying. Only when he removes his thumb from your mouth to shove you forward towards a bedroom door does his intention become clear.

Oh. Oh!

Scrambling to force your feet forward, they practically float across the threshold of the bedroom door. You can feel Ghost looming just behind you, can practically feel the heat radiating from his chest warming the expanse of your back. Fingers clasp over your shoulder, practically swallow the curved flesh, and shove you back against the bedroom wall.

The force of impact winds you, the air expelled from your lungs swallowed down by Ghost’s lips bearing heavily down upon your own. He’d ripped the mask upwards, the hem of the ski-mask balanced across the bridge of his nose. Simon’s tongue licks into your mouth– intrudes upon the space like he’s kicking down a door, like he’s swallowing the breath he’d expelled from you with his heavy hand. 

Once the dazed dizziness dissipates, you moan in relief at finally getting what you wanted. Ghost’s gigantic paw takes hold of your jaw in a firm grip to fit his mouth perfectly against your own, his swirling fingerprints indenting in the soft flesh there in a mottled bruise. The soft pine he coaxes from you bleeds past your open mouth despite your attempt to suppress the frankly pathetic noise. 

Fuck it, this was worth it– all of it was worth it. The fear of getting it wrong, the anxiety of being caught, the panic that Simon could turn you away… All of it seeps into the darkness in the corners of the room when your superior drags his tongue across your lower lip. It’s though he’s relishing in the taste of the aftershocks of the arousal he sparks between your legs, the dopamine that rushes through you.

“Was this your plan?” Ghost grunts, grasping ahold of the scruff of your neck. Gasping weakly, you’re almost certain your eyes roll back in your head when he uses his harsh grip to steer you towards the bed. “Get me out of my fuckin’ mind so I don’t notice you takin’ off the mask?”

“That’s–” you huff, rendered breathless by Ghost’s intruding tongue, “That’s not it–”

Your pitiful attempt to excuse yourself is made useless when Ghost practically launches you onto the mattress of his bed, the rusted metal frame screaming under the sudden weight of your body. 

“No?” he queries, the usual boom of authority in his voice replaced by something that sounds far more like goading amusement as he places the hefty weight of his palm against your sternum, holding you down and thwarting any attempt to escape. 

He needn’t worry. The last thing you wanted was to leave. 

“Tell you what,” he muses in that smug tone you always hear over the comms, his free hand quick to grasp at the leather of his belt. The buckle clinks in the quiet as he works his fingers over it, “We’ll run through this mission, yeh? See if you can complete your objective, Delta?”

Your retort, or lack thereof, dies in your throat when Ghost pushes his crotch into your own. If it weren’t for the yelp of bliss that the Lieutenant had to smother with his palm, you’d hear the way he’d practically purred when he dragged his cock against you. 

“C’mon then. Try it,” he urged. 

It’s pointless, his mock-support. You just desperately reach for the waistband of his khaki uniform trousers, cockdrunk from the tease of its shape against you. Even in the low light, you can see Ghost’s scarred lips, the way they stretch into a smirk at your desperation. 

“Abandoning mission, Sergeant?” He asks you, unzipping his trousers. “Price’ll be disappointed to know this is all it takes for Delta to go AWOL.”

“Shut up,” you moan into the cold air of the cabin. You can see your breath. “Shut up and fuck me.”

When Simon removed himself from his trousers, making some glib comment about you being demanding, you marvel at the size of him. Girthy, swollen, the ruddy tip leaks precum down the arch of his cock and traces the pulsing veins. He’s rock hard and throbbing, framed by a thatch of pubic hair. 

Fumbling with your own trousers, you awkwardly try to remove them given Simon’s weighty palm still pins you down by your sternum. He watches, a glint in his eye in the low light that would almost embarrass you if you weren’t so focused on the task at hand. 

“What was the prize?” 

“H-Huh?” you stall, mind fried by Ghost’s unexpected line of enquiry. He picks up where you left off, violently yanking your trousers down your thighs and pushing your panties aside to expose your glistening cunt to his prying eyes. 

“What. Was. The. Prize?”

You hesitate for a moment, feeling Ghost’s fingers press against the inside of your thighs as he probes this unexplored territory of you. His touch skirts the areas you want him most, teasing and goading you for more information. “H-Hassa-ahh!”

You barely manage the first syllable of your answer before Simon rests the arch of his cock against your slick pussy lips. His body jerks slightly at the heat of your swollen cunt, the ease with which he can slide himself through your drenched sex. 

“You got to kill Hassan?” he asked for confirmation, his voice unwavering. You wonder how he manages to stay so steady– you’re coming apart at the seams, trembling as the head of his cock bumps your clit clumsily. 

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes rolling back as he continues his laboured, steady torture. His free hand settles on your hip, arching your pelvis up slightly to meet his own. You grind your hips upward against his cock, and Simon expels a soft scoff from lungs, those piercing eyes settled on your contorting expression. 

“Mhmm,” he hums, rolling his hips again. This time it’s even slower, teasing. “A temptin’ reward–” 

Simon is interrupted by the moan that splits your lips when he drags the length of his cock heavily against your clit. It sparks arousal deep in your abdomen, clings to the inside of your thighs wetly. 

Perhaps the disturbance is one transgression too many tonight, because Simon grasps your hips so hard that you are forced to stop gliding over the length of his cock. You pine in protest, but you choke on the pitiful sound when Ghost suddenly plunges his cock inside of you. It spears you open, breaks you apart, and you find your back arching desperately against the mattress. 

The palm that had rooted itself to your sternum flies up to clasp against your mouth, smothering the shriek of bliss that threatened to expose your extracurricular activities to the rest of your squad. You sob through your teeth beneath his life line, tears welling in your eyes as you feel him stretch your walls open to make room for his intrusion. 

You can’t help yourself. You need something to grasp onto, and opt for his wrist above your face. Digging your nails into the inked flesh there, you watch as the pain sparks something dark and twisted in Simon’s pupils, his azure irises swallowed by the expanding blackness.

He likes it. You can tell. His cock arches up inside of you, pushing deep and rocking against something earth shattering inside of you. Damp with sweat already, the skin of his wrist ripples as he tightens his grip on your face, refusing to withdraw from your pussy walls and instead opting for sharp, shallow thrusts that push you up the mattress with each connection of your hips. 

“Fuck,” he spits, using his tight grasp to pull you back towards him. It’s obliterating you, ripping you apart and pushing all your pieces back together in a mangled, jumbled mess. You whimper as you suffer through his brutal pace, marvelling at how good it feels when he consistently spears your g-spot. 

“When would you have done it?” Simon asks you, a little breathless now as he chases the high that begins to build at the edges of your body, tingling and pulsing. 

“Shut up–” you beg him, the low rasp of his voice launching you towards that pleasure that threatens to consume you. Jerking your hips up to meet his, your body mindlessly reacts to the sound of his timbre. 

“Oh, no,” he chuckles, shaking his half masked face. There’s a silver laden scar that stretches across the base of his chin. It matches the one that splits his upper lip to the base of his nose, the ski mask hovering tantalisingly over the bridge. “When?” 

The seriousness of his tone makes your thighs quiver when paired with the sharp thrust he punctuates his question with. Years of training in maintaining a cover-story while a hostage are blown to bits as though Ghost has launched a mortar at your resolve, because suddenly all your state secrets are spilling out of you quicker than you can shove the incriminating words back into your traitor mouth. 

“I’d– Hagh… I’d do it j-just as you’re cummin–hhah!”

“And spoil my fun?” Ghost hums, that heavy timbre licking up your spine and sparking viscous embers at the base of your spine, “Anyone ever told you that you’re very fuckin’ selfish, Delta?” 

You’d offer a witty comment, but Ghost’s angled his hips just right, and your jaw is falling loose to let out a panicked whimper. 

“There it is, shit. Look at you, Sargeant. Fuckin’, you’re so tight–” 

You’re like a slip knot, tightening around him further with each knock of your g-spot with Simon’s ridiculously large cock-head. Prickling tears of bliss threaten to spill over the edge of your waterline, continuing to sting even when you shut your eyes. You’re shaking, trembling beneath his rocking hips as you mewl his name. 

“S-Simon! Fuck–”

Wild, wet squelches of Simon sinking into your soaked cunt echo in your skull as he ramps up his violent thrusts, the springs of his mattress screaming an unmistakable rhythm to anyone walking by. He doesn’t seem to care now though, his eyes zeroed in on your expression like he’s stalking a victim with his sniper scope. Aiming for complete obliteration. 

“C’mon Can feel you squeezin’ round me,” he murmurs, the steady tone he’d offered earlier shuddering slightly as you squeeze impossibly tight around him, coil threatening to snap, “You’re so close, Delta. C’mon, paint my cock an’ I’ll eat you out with my cum in you–” 

                           ✰

“He’s blonde.” 

Gawping jaws drop to the floor at your very simple observation, Soap’s eyes nearly rolling across the uneven, rotten floorboards after falling out of his skull. You can’t help the smug smile that threatens to tug at the edge of your lips, especially given the sensation of Ghost’s eyes boring holes into the back of your skull. 

The awe only worsens when Price gives a subtle nod of confirmation from the corner of the darkened room, crowning you the winner of this utterly ridiculous joust. 

“How do you know?” Gary is as shaken as Soap by the confidence with which you’d offered your final answer, in disbelief as to how you could have possibly obtained it without being maimed, given the egg on his forehead was still throbbing despite days of icing it with the snow from outside the safehouse.

“His pubes are. I assume the curtains match the drapes,” you shrug dismissively. 

The sheer incredulity that flashes across Johnny’s face is utterly hilarious. The smirk that had been threatening to break finally cracks across your lips at the confirmation of your victory. Ghost’s eyes appear to have lazered through your skull, singing brain matter with the ferocity of his scowl. Frankly, you couldn’t care less– you can see it in your mind's eye; the gorgeous contrast of a blood-red crosshair settling across Hassan’s forehead, the weight of the trigger beneath your finger as you pull it back.

cod mwii/kinktober taglist:

@mockerycrow @bubuslutty @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @levi-llama @thebiscuitsheep @maelstrom007 @alexxavicry @bug-sy-boy @glennrheesworld @kittenfrostt @luvfromkat @blingblong55 @whore4dilfs @wolfyland07 @doggydale @dog55teeth @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @whore-for-anime @i-love-ghost @cyberpr1m3 @mockerycrow @bubuslutty @lundenloves @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @babychoi03 @infectedkura @allekat1988 @whore-for-anime @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @mockerycrow @cyberpr1m3 @i-love-ghost @allekat1988 @infectedkura @babychoi03 @freakquenci @maviee @yunggoblin @sleepystaarr @watyousayin @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @damn-dean-blog @pheonyxmoon @magicalreviewphantom @limegreenbabx @johfaam0 @iaur @justsayk

@mortallyuniquepeach @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @crybaby-blue-blog @heart-atttack @pansa-1-san @maviee @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @s-u-t @ghostslynx @solidly-indulgent @glitterypirateduck @gummyfang @bii-aan-ckaa @konigsblog @crissteetee @crissteetee67 @sylvanasthebansheequeen @akaym2 @exploremyworldsm @thriving-n-jiving @su57 @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @tusk89 @bellasbees01 @dog55teeth

[sunshowersanddandelionwine]

au where ghost, who either never enlisted or is discharged/retired, works as a scare actor in a local haunt. he really enjoys the play pretend part of haunted houses, where yes people scream at the sight of him masked, covered in fake blood, and wielding a (chainless, but still loud) chainsaw, but they also laugh at themselves or their friends or just because. It’s safe, there are rules, everyone knows that when going in so everyone is on the same page.

Or at least, everyone should be. Because there’s always Those Guests, the ones who drag unwilling partners or friends with them just to watch them scream. Or the ones who try to show off for their less than enthusiastic partners and just run off screaming. Ghost has a knack for breaking these kinds of guests, and takes a bit of selfish pleasure in doing so.

That’s what he thinks is going to happen when he sees a small group of maybe four or five teenagers coming through his section of the maze. One of them, clearly the ringleader, is talking a whole lot of shit, playing himself up for the “entertainment” of the girl next to him who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. So ghost revs his chainsaw, and gets ready to pounce.

The shriek the ringleader lets out is nothing but satisfying, cracking on the high note as the whole group hightails it out of there. Well, almost the whole group. As it turns out, the ringleader isn’t above sacrificing his date to spare himself, and all but throws the girl at Ghost as soon as he pops out. Ghost nearly drops his saw trying to catch her, who goes down like a sack of bricks.

The girl, who Ghost learns is named Maggie, twisted her ankle pretty badly when she was pushed, is a chatterbox once she gets over the whole “chucked at a masked serial killer by her kind of sort of not really boyfriend”. He ended up carrying her backstage once they both realized she couldn’t put any weight on her ankle and she rants about the guy and his bullshit without seemingly taking a breath. Ghost manages to butt in, asking if she has a way home. Maggie, unsurprisingly, says that her not boyfriend gave her a ride, but she could call her older brother to come get her.

They wait backstage for him to arrive, and Ghost finds he doesn’t mind the chatter. His opinion of Maggie’s “friends” gets lower and lower with every word, but he’s not going to tell her that. He can’t, not with how on a roll she is.

Price, who manages the haunt with his partner Nikolai, lets the two of them know that the brother is here, and Ghost can hear him cussing up a storm down the hallway.

He’s not prepared for John MacTavish to storm in, furious and ready to kill. Maggie looks entirely unsurprised, maybe even a little annoyed. There’s banter between the two, that good natured sibling rubbing that only comes when you know a person their entire life, but Ghost can’t hear it. He’s just bluescreened in the corner, because holy shit.

John finally looks at him to thank him for helping Maggie, and he stops cold. Ghost is half worried the whole blood and guts getup is enough to earn him a right hook to the face. Instead, a faint blush rises on John’s cheeks.

Maggie is so done with this, and hobbles out with the help of the entirely too entertained Gaz and Roach.

After much stumbling over his words, Ghost manages to earn himself both a hastily scribbled phone number on the back of a haunt flier and a tentative date the next week. Not at a haunt, thank god. John leaves with a wave and a bashful smile. Ghost can’t do much more than wave back.

Well. Back to work, he guesses.

(And if ghost goes back to stalk and scare the piss out of Maggie’s “friends”, that’s just between the two of them)

[bi-writes]

they want the best. and they need to eliminate the recruits that can't stomach reality. (18+, sniper!fem!reader x ghost)

you have met them all save for one. pretty boy gaz, with a nice smile, and you wonder momentarily how many barracks bunnies make bets on how they'll get him in their bed.

he's too pretty not to be a slut.

and then there's johnny. big, snarky, with a potty mouth, and he always sounds right stupid when he talks, but when you see him in the field, you are in awe. he has nimble fingers, and it scares you how well he can use them.

their captain is kind. he exudes something fatherly, a keen sense of responsibility. it is obvious that chaos rolls off his back--he is calm, collected, easy to think and fast to act.

but the last one, the lieutenant--he has never been seen. he's a ghost, in name and in physicality. he was there, once, when it was the first day of your arrival. you stepped out of a car with five others, and when you stood in formation, he was standing by the door, arms crossed over his big chest as he surveyed the room.

he hasn't reappeared for six weeks.

six, grueling, terrible weeks. crawling through mud, through snow, in rain. breaking your nails as you climb walls of brick or wood, throw yourself over obstacles lined with barbwire, scrape your knees on hard sand as you hit your targets from a distance. you wake up before the sun is out, and you sleep once its long gone, and by the time the six weeks have passed, there are only three of you left.

you want this. you want it so bad, you feel it in your bones. you were bred for this, born for this, and you have everything to lose if you do not succeed. the girl beside you? she has a college degree. the cocky frat boy in the next tent? he's white, blond, and well-spoken--he will have it easy.

but you are you, and nothing is that simple, and you will not fail.

you cannot fail.

you stand shoulder to shoulder, your eyes trained on the wall as they size you up. you see a shadow at the door; you recognize it. you're asked to pick an opponent, and since you finished first during drills this morning, you are allowed to pick.

your head turns, and you eye the skull mask that glares a few yards away. you don't say anything, just meet his eyes, and the captain follows your line of sight before hooking his fingers into the straps of his vest and chuckling low.

"ye sure about that, sweetheart?" johnny asks, and you only blink.

"that one," you say softly. "that's the one."

that's the one.

it rings in his ears. the one. he's the one. you've chosen him. he hides, and yet you have seen him, and you choose him, and he is the one.

he stalks into the room, and his steps are heavy. his boots can crush skulls, and yet he walks easy, fluid as he makes his way over to you and looks down at you.

you have not seen him so close. he is huge. a bear of a man, wide and tall and hulking, and you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes.

your lips part, and his gaze lowers as he watches your tongue slide over your teeth just that much, a telltale sign that you are not afraid.

ghost straightens, turns, and he gives the captain an unreadable, parting look before he leaves. you stare after him, and then back, and you swallow, wondering if you had done something wrong.

but johnny grins. and gaz raises a brow. and your captain sniffs, masking a chuckle, and you watch the three of them settle in front of you.

you realize later, when ghost has you bent over, knees spread so he can put his face between your thighs, that their reaction was simply acceptance.

you choose him. and he chooses you.

[kalivodas]

i CRAVE roommate!gaz who lowkey makes your jaw drop everytime you see him chilling on the couch in an exercise tank top and shorts with his stupid little perfect smile

FALSE GOD — kyle garrick

might’ve started drooling i fear roommate trope means everything to me !! enjoy this quick lil thing i spit out

warnings gaz is hot and cocky what’s new

KYLE GARRICK HAD a sickness. an insatiable hunger at the base point of his skull that told him to strum your nerves like raw guitar chords.

he followed it’s beck and call. ignored every one of yours.

that’s why he teased you like this. he needed you to admit the things he saw dance behind your eyes when he called you sweet little names.

his head dipped on the back of the couch, chiseled jaw grinding as his body stretched. a large palm laid flat on his taut belly, thumb hooked just past the waist band of his shorts.

you opened the door, and his stupidly beautiful face split in a grin. it was truly nothing you’d hadn’t seen before, you seemed to always catch kyle at the worst times.

“go take a shower, you whore.” you throw at him, then your keys and bag.

he tosses it to the side with a grunt.

“i’m not a whore,” he says simply, but the way his left eyebrow arches up — you question the validity of the statement. he cocks a forearm up behind his head, flexes it, and you know it’s a lie. he fucking knows he’s hotter than a two dollar pistol. and it irks you.

but damn it, he was pretty enough to lick the sweat off of.

“staring at me like you could eat me and i’m the whore,” gaz scoffs, and some acid bitten laugh falls from your mouth.

“oh, you’ve done it now, garrick.”

you lunge at him, crossing the couch in a few lousy jumps before you start throwing cushioned blows into his abdomen. you ignore that it feels like you’re hitting bricks.

he tips his head back and laughs, actually lets you land some of those strikes before he kicks a leg under you. his hands follow your wrists, pin them together and then you to the couch.

a gasp falls out of your mouth before you can stop it.

your eyes jump around frantically, some pathetic attempt to ease the concrete set gaze he has on you. you struggle against his grip, but it’s unwavering. makes a coil tighten in your stomach.

“kyle, let me up,” you huff, but he’s beaming like a damn cheshire cat.

“no.”

you jerk against the restraint again. “please?”

he cracks, and the bruising of your arms briefly alleviate, but when your eyes find his, he pushes down harder.

“admit you like me,” he coos, and it sounds foreign coming out of his pretty mouth. this six something, two hundred pound man, pinning you to your shared sofa, almost pleading with you to admit something so juvenile.

you laugh. “i don’t.”

“do too,” he rebuttals.

“do not.”

he hikes a meaty thigh between your legs and pushes it against you. something that stings you like arsenic and warms you like whiskey hits the back of your throat. he feels the heat of you against him and has to bite his cheek not to vocalize it.

“do too. i can feel you, lovie.” at least he tried.

your head lolls to the side. you can feel his eyes burning fever onto your turned cheeks. “fine.”

“fine what?” he implores, and his free hand falls to squish your chin, make you look at him again.

“fine, ithinkyou’rehot.”

“hmm?” he’s not having it. prick.

“you’re beautiful and you make me sick when you look that good sweaty as a mug. happy?”

he nods and licks his teeth. you can tell he feels accomplished, like he’d won something out of a claw machine. maybe he had.

“yes.” he grinds his leg again just to see you swallow a whine then releases you from his sick vice. pats your cheek for good measure. “thanks, pretty little dove.”

when he rises to his feet to go off and shower as you’d originally suggested, there’s a twisted triumph etched on his face. it makes your eyes roll. he’s honestly just glad you caved before he had to start walking around the house naked.

a/n : begging someone to ask for a part 2 im drooling

the part 2

[the-raindeer-king]

Part 1

Part 2 to teen! Ghost (reader is mentioned to being smaller than the others, but is otherwise gender neutral. minor mention of child abuse.)

This has to be some kind of joke. Maybe Ghost has a kid, and didn't know how to tell you. Maybe it's some elaborate prank, and Ghost is in his room, decompressing.

But... Price wouldn't joke around about something like this, especially not when it comes to Ghost. The looks on Soap and Gaz's face only further confirm the truth, and the pit in your stomach only widens.

It's the way this kid - Ghost, Simon, - stares at you that makes you want to throw up. You knew Ghost didn't have a good childhood, that there's no family for him to go home to anymore. But to see the haunted look of fresh trauma in this poor kid's eyes, it makes you hate the world. He's just a kid.

Wiping your hands on your pants, you give him a small smile. "Hey, kiddo. You're not in any trouble," you say, voice soft and gentle as you approach. You crouch down by the chair Simon's sitting in, making yourself smaller in an attempt to make him feel better.

It's weird, seeing just how small Ghost used to be. You've only ever know him as the brick powerhouse Lieutenant, tall and wide, the biggest man in the room. It's feels wrong, seeing him as nothing more than a scared child, barely taller than you are.

"Are you going to call my dad?" he asks, and the undertone of terror in his voice makes you want to cry. It makes you want to find whatever shithole Mr. Riley has called home and kill the old bastard with your bare hands.

Instead, you shake your head, answering softly, "No, Simon. We're not going to call your father."

He relaxes at that, shoulders sagging in relief. You could honestly cry, heart aching for this poor kid who's been dealt such a shitty hand. Somehow you don't.

"I need to ask you a couple of questions, sweetheart. I just need you to be honest with your answers, okay?" you tell him.

"O-okay," Simon agrees, glancing towards the door, where Soap and Gaz are standing. Gaz has a look on concern on his face, eyebrows pinched together and mouth downturned. Soap, on the other hand, is staring so intensely at Simon you'd think he was trying to kill him with his eyes.

While you know that's not the case, if anything he's probably trying to figure out how to help, you can see why Simon looks so nervous. Trapped in a room with four adults, three of whom are burly men, it's a miracle he hasn't had a panic attack.

"MacTavish," you call, and Soap's eyes fly to you. "Run to the mess. Bring back a water and a pudding cup, yeah? Vanilla preferably, butterscotch if they're out."

With Soap gone, Simon seems to relax a little more, his gaze returning to you. You give him another smile, and the ache in your heart eases a little when you notice the corners of his mouth twitch upwards in response.

"Am I right to assume that you don't recognize anyone in the room?" you ask.

Simon nods his head in confirmation.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Simon's quiet for a moment, hands fidgeting together. You've never seen Ghost do that before, and you're not sure if it's a good or bad sign, but you don't call him out on it.

"Tommy and I went to bed, and... and I woke in that building, with the men with guns," Simon explains. He pauses, gesturing over to Gaz, "And then he came in and rescued me, and... then we rode in a helicopter back here."

You glance towards Gaz, who nods his head in confirmation. But that doesn't explain how Ghost suddenly became a teenager again. And if teen Simon is here, where's Ghost? All the variables make your head spin, and you need to be focused on what you can control right now.

It's Simon that brings you out of your spiraling thoughts. "Can I call my mom?" he asks meekly.

"No," Price answers, gruff and authoritative.

The sharpness in Price's tone makes Simon flinch, and you reach out to gently take Simon's hands in yours.

"You're going to have to sit tight, buddy, while we figure out how you got there. But I'll call your mom and let her know you're okay," you lie. The guilt hits immediately, but you can't bring yourself to deny him this small comfort, even if it's a lie.

"I can't talk to her?"

Simon's hands tighten around yours, when Price beats you to answer. "No. Enough questions."

[pfhwrittes]

have a chunk of tradie!141 for your reading pleasure.

it's fuckin' pourin' down, has been for the last 3 days and the forecast ain't getting any better. thick, claggy muck sucks at the soles of simon's boots, threatening to pull 'em straight off his feet as he crosses the quagmire to slip into the portakabin-cum-office where he knows his skipper'll be.

price is fumin' under his hard hat, his ancient brick of a phone glued to his ear as he barks out demands to whichever poor sod is gettin' an earful off the boss today (probably nik, who straight up refused to drive onto site, stating bold as brass that the wagon would get bogged down, fuck the delay, captain. i'm not hurting my girl for your timetable).

with a disgusted snort price throws the offending phone onto the cluttered desk sending a sheaf of papers careening onto the floor.

"fucks sake, riley. what d'ya want?" price growls out in his direction and simon just lifts a battered eyebrow at the tone. no point gettin' his knickers in a twist over weather but price has always thought himself better than acts of nature and god himself.

"told the lads to put the tools down and go 'ome."

if looks could kill, simon would be buried in a shallow grave under the portaloo. price's face is as stormy as the sky rumbling ominously outside.

"well tell 'em to pick them back up, for fucks sake! we've got a fucking job to do here, simon." price snaps, his patience well and truly gone and it isn't even dinner time by simon's watch.

simon's hi-vis jacket creaks forebodingly as he straightens up.

"no."

there's a beat as simon squares off against his skipper, the unstoppable force of john price smashing against simon's immovable iron will. simon's known john a long fuckin' time and he'll play dirty to keep the crew safe if he has to. john's seen him walk off jobs for less.

price sighs noisily, ruffling the ends of his moustache.

"right then. who're we losing?"

"gaz can't work with the humidity, ale and rudy can't paint if gaz ain't finished the plaster, don't trust soap not to fry 'isself, and flash is sat in the van dryin' out." simon counts off on his fingers.

price's eyebrows hike up to his hairline at the mention of the plumber's apprentice.

"'s matter with flash?"

simon chuckles at the memory of flash covered head to toe in mud after an unfortunate tumble.

"debuted 'is mud-wrestlin' career f'r us."

price snorts out an amused sound and shakes his head. poor sod'll be miserable for the rest of the day without any spare kit to change into.

"right, go on then. tell 'em they can fuck off for the day." price reaches for his abandoned phone, probably to tell the client, some jumped up property developer-slash-social media wanker, that the job's been delayed by the shit weather. (simon doesn't envy him in the slightest, last time he met her she looked him up and down like he was scum and he was tempted to "accidentally" score the side of her flash car with the end of a length of 22mm copper pipe.)

simon offers price a nod and turns towards the door of the 'kabin, hooking the flimsy hood of his jacket over his head.

"oi, riley. you better not have stuck flash in my van."

"nah, stuck 'im in with soap and gaz. i ain't gettin' that shit on our seats."

price's barking laugh follows simon out the door into the pissing rain.

[yeyinde]

i apologize if you’ve already answered this question before somewhere - but would you ever consider writing something with an explicitly male reader? i’ve been an avid reader of yours since mw2022 came out and after having read most of your works, i can’t say i’m not curious as to how it might change the dynamic

it would change the dynamic a little bit. more so because i think there's more options to explore with a male mc in an m/m relationship. especially with the 141. these are all super rough ideas i dreamed up at lunch lmao so an actual fic might change a lot of them but:

Simon is basically the same but more physical. aggressive but in a condescending way. always seems like he's goading you into a fight (and he is, but that's just so he can throw you to the ground and rest his weight on you until you beg him to get up). but i don't think he interprets gender. it's mostly just people who he can be rough with and those that he can't. the f!mcs i write fall into this weird middle ground of he can't, but he wants to. he has to be softer but he wants to ruin them. i'd probably do the opposite with a m!mc - should be softer, but can't. if only because mean Simon bullying the guy he's down bad for would be so fun to write. it'd be more animalistic because the m!mc wouldn't have an issue with fighting back against his ugly form of love.

you'd meet him in a bar. he's the scary guy in the back who says nothing to you at all but every time you look at him, he's already staring back at you. picking a fight, you'd think. and it'd cow you a little. as much as you can hold your own, as often as you get into tiffs, he's a tank. his size makes your belly twist. makes all those ugly feelings in the back of your head well up, the ones you tried to bury behind a too-bright grin and forged masculinity that fits like clunky armour. you feel sick looking at him. jealous. envy. greed. a noxious cocktail roiling around the generous sips of flat beer. so you don't. you look away. but the glares you send over your shoulder only make him huff, his head angling down toward his chest in a way that oozes a droll, acidic sort of amusement. stay away.

and you do. but he catches you at the mouth of the alley when you try to make your escape for the night, shoving your face into the brick as he grunts into your crown about fuckin' teasin' him all night. don't worry, though. he's gonna give you exactly what you've been craving, pretty boy. just be good for him, yeah?

Price is crass. rougher. but like Simon, gender, sex, and identity are all narrowed down to two categories for him: those that need his help, and those that don't (and then beneath that: those that deserve it and those that don't). if you're in control of your own life, competent, he'll force you into the former. bully you until something breaks. he's a bit more reserved with his advances but only because knocking you up isn't really an option. so, he has to be smart. cunning. it's a waiting game with Price, really.

with Gaz, there's almost a sense of a rivalry in the relationship. he definitely understands his attraction to you, knows what he wants, but he likes to push the people he's interested in and a m!mc would let him test the limits a bit more. he likes to mould the people he likes around him. re-build their entire life until it's tangled up in his. a m!mc would be a harder catch. like Price, it's not like he can just knock you up and keep you forever. he needs to strategise a bit more and i think that would make him more desperate.

Soap is basically the same. rougher, though. crude, too. has a thing for forced feminization. would call you hen and bonnie even as he manhandles you on the bed and rides you until you pass out. he's softer when he pursues a f!mc because he knows he can't play his hand right away or they'll run, but with a m!mc, he's all teeth. always grinning wide but like a shark. a touch scarier as he slides his hand up your thigh and coos in your ear about how badly he wants to fuck you stupid. but he won't let you cum. no, no - you're only allowed to cum inside him so you better not get off when he's fucking you or he'll have to show you some self-restraint. bites a lot. everywhere. always has a bottle of lube stashed away somewhere. it's intense. wrings you dry.

[moody-alcoholic]

Chapter 5 - The Bait

Summary: 5.1k words. 141 decide what they're going to do about your ex, leave it to the police or get themselves involved. Either way they're going to need your help. Also Simon has feelings...

CW: Smoking, language, abusive ex, stalking, mentions of domestic abuse, mentions of a suicide (Not reader or 141), violations of privacy, physical violence, blood, hurt/comfort, angst, mental health, mentions of trauma.

Previous - masterlist - Next AO3

Enjoy <3

She hasn’t moved from the spot at the table, her fingers still running over the photos. Simon was stood by the door waiting for Price to arrive. Simon told him not to knock, he left the door open telling him to just walk in.

As soon as he does Simon locks the door behind him. Her head snaps up to look at Price then back down to the photos. Price sighs looking at the damage to the window.

“You stayed the night?” Price asks him quietly so she can’t hear. 

“He came to her door.” Simon replies just as quiet, Price sighs.

“Not getting to lost in the mission are you?” 

“No sir.” Simon replies, it’s a lie. Simon turns to look at Price. He knows Price can tell, Price can read him like a book. Truth is he’s in way too deep, there is something about you he can’t quite put his finger on. He want’s to be around you all the time like he can’t get enough of you. Johnny would say it’s something silly like ‘it’s love at first sight.’

It’s been years since Simon has had any kind of feelings he would relate to love. Maybe that’s what this was. There was something burning inside him a need to touch you, be near you. At least at work he could avoid you, push the thoughts away focus on the job. Being here in your flat, talking, opening up, watching you sleep. It was a good feeling, a feeling that made his heart skip. Maybe Johnny was right. 

“What’s the problem?” Price asked crossing his arms looking back over at her.

“She wants to call the police.” Simon says. 

“Okay then let her.” he replies.

“Then we have to back off.” Simon says through gritted teeth. Price sighs. 

“Throwing bricks through windows this isn’t just a simple stalking problem anymore.” Simon says thinking back the colourful letter that came with the photos. Price hums, he’s thinking. 

“Don’t think a simple talk will sort this one?” He asks eventually. Simon shakes his head. It’s been a while since they’ve had such an extreme stalker case. Most of the time a stern word and a few vague threats are enough to get most people to back off. If that doesn’t work a little bit of blackmail and a few knocks to the head usually do it. This time it’s different.  

“Let her call the police, get the restraining order I’ll talk to Soap and Gaz.” Price says smiling at her as she looks at him. At least he’s trying to put her at ease. He looks round the flat one more time before going to leave. 

“Actually, you should get Gaz here to check for bugs, wouldn’t be surprised if you found some.” Shit he hadn’t even thought about that. Simon pulls his phone out to text Gaz as Price leaves. He goes back over and sits at the table. 

You watch as Simon types on his phone, he sits down looking up at you.

“What did Price want?” You ask. 

“Checking to make sure you’re okay.” Simon says putting his phone away. 

“Do you still want to call the police?” He asks, you nod reaching for your phone. Simon nods and moves to get up.

“Stay,” you say looking up at him. He must be able to see something in your eyes as he immediately sits back down.

“I’ll stay,” he says, nodding at you. You almost want to reach across and grab his hand, you swallow instead calling the non-emergency number.

It’s about another 20 minutes before two officers show up. Simon lets them in, they’re nice enough, one is a woman and that puts you at ease. You answer their questions while they collect evidence including the brick, the letter and the photos. By the time they’re done you feel drained, they talk to Simon too taking his details, witness statement.

They explain with the evidence they have they might be able to make an arrest. That makes you feel better knowing he’ll be locked up. Getting the restraining order might take some time. If he is arrested you’ll be granted an emergency one for the time being. You listen to what they’re saying and thank them when they leave. You turn back to Simon letting out a breath. The smashed window has let the cold in and you shiver. 

“You should take a nap, you look exhausted.” He says, you shake your head. There is no way you would be able to sleep now. Or at least not a sleep that won’t be riddled with nightmares. There’s a soft knock at the door. Simon is already on his feet before your head even gets a chance to look. He opens it and you see Kyle, with a laptop under his arm.

“What happened?” He asks when he sees the state of the flat. You were not looking forward to cleaning all the glass up. You stand going to the bathroom where the cleaning supplies are while Simon explains the situation to Kyle. You wonder what he’s doing here. You don’t have to wonder for long as when you come out the bathroom with a dustpan and brush Simon is already waiting for you. 

“Gaz is going to check the place for bugs, cameras, what not.” Simon says. You feel sick, you hadn’t ever thought about that, your hand grips the broom tighter. 

“D-do you think he’ll find anything?” You ask your mouth suddenly dry. Please say no. 

“I hope not,” He says his hand finding it’s way to squeeze your arm. He sounds sad about something, you look up at him. You can’t tell what he’s thinking, you like feeling his hand on you. 

“I’ll start in the bathroom.” Kyle says, Simon drops his hand. You nod at him and force a smile going over to start sweeping the glass. Simon says he’ll call a someone to replace the window, apparently he knows a guy.

The cleaning is a good distraction and Simon comes over to help finding a box for you to put the glass in. You’re on the balcony when you see Kyle come out the bedroom into the living room. You sit down on one of the patio chairs as you tip the last collection of glass in the box. You look up at Simon. 

“I could kill for a cigarette.” You say letting out a breath, Simon smiles and heads back inside. You watch as he goes over to his jacket pocket coming back out with a packet and a lighter. He smokes the same brand as you. He passes you one and you’re almost shaking trying to light it. You take a deep suck in letting the smoke warm your lungs you watch Simon light one too leaning up against the balcony wall. 

“You don’t have to stick around.” You say eventually. Simon looks at you almost like he doesn’t understand what you’re saying. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Simon asks.

“No,” you blurt out a little too quickly. You don’t want to be alone right now, not that you’ll ever admit that. 

“I mean if you have work or something.” You take another puff of the cigarette. 

“Right now this is my work.” He says looking back inside as Kyle’s walking around the room. You suddenly feel exposed being out on the balcony, the photo’s you saw earlier flashing back in your head. You rub the rest of your cigarette out on the wall and throw it in the box with glass. You want to get out of this flat even if it’s just for a few hours. 

“I think I’m going to go into work.” You say as you head for the balcony door. 

“I’ll come with you.” Simon says flicking the cigarette butt on the floor and stamping it out. 

“Gaz stay here, there’s a guy coming to fix the window in about an hour.” You hear Simon say as you go into the bedroom closing the door. You sit down on the end of your bed putting your head in your hands. You don’t want to go to work, you want to just curl up in bed and do nothing. But you need to get out this flat, even if it is just for a few hours.

 If nothing work will be a good distraction. You let yourself take a second to processes what’s happened. The brick through the window, the searching for hidden cameras. Spending the night with Simon in your flat. Your emotions are all over the place. You’re starting to feel overwhelmed. You stand up pushing the feelings away. You’ll deal with them later.

——————————

When you get to work Simon leads you straight up to John’s office. He drags you in without knocking and you stand there sheepishly not quite knowing what’s about to happen. You hear John sigh as he puts down whatever he was working on. 

“We need a plan and I want her to be involved.” Simon says. You’re taken aback by how direct he is. You try to remember what he was telling you last night about how he met them but you were so exhausted, you fell asleep after a few anecdotes. John looks over at you then back to Simon. He stands up, you feel like you can see something in his eyes. Annoyance? But not at you at Simon. 

“Come on.” He says as he walks past Simon out the office. Johnny is making his way up the stairs as you all pile out. John tells him to turn around and you’re being lead to the storeroom. You grip Simon’s shirt and he turns to look at you. 

“It’s okay,” Simon says and before you know it you’re in the room. It doesn’t look as scary as you remember. There’s a smell you can’t quite place, a smell of metal and rubber. Everyone walks over to the table in the middle as John brings a laptop over from one of the counters. 

“What’s the plan then?” John asks as he stands back folding his arms. Johnny catches your eye and smiles at you, that puts you at ease. 

“Let’s lure him out, grab him before the police do.” Simon says. 

“So the police are involved?” Johnny asks. Simon explains what happened this morning as well as the police saying they think they will have enough evidence to charge him. 

“Why not let the police just handle it?” Johnny asks looking at John, who’s still standing over the laptop with his arms crossed. 

“It’s not just a simple stalker anymore, he’s violent throwing around threats. If he get’s bail who knows what he could do.” Simon says. Johnny nods. The storeroom door opens and Kyle walks in. He looks surprised to see you in there but he comes over to the table anyway. 

“Your guy was late.” He says dropping something on the table. You don’t quite know what it is it looks like a bunch of wires. Simon picks one up in his hand you can see it’s a tiny camera. 

“Where?” You ask Kyle as he moves to put his laptop away. 

“You don’t want to know, trust me.” He says.

“I do, I want to know please.” You ask almost begging, your mind going to the worst places they could have been. The bathroom, in the shower, looking at you on the toilet. In your bedroom, watching you sleep. The thought sent shivers up your spine. You look over at Simon he’s still inspecting the camera in his hand. It’s small, they all are. 

“These two were in the bathroom, this one was in the bedroom.” Kyle says picking them up.

“That one was in the kitchen.” He says as he takes the camera from Simon’s hand. 

“Do they record?” You ask swallowing the lump away. Kyle shakes his head.

“Live feed only, and you would have to be close to access them.” Kyle explains. That’s some comfort at least. Or is it? You’ve still been spied on your privacy violated. Knowing he only had to be a wall away from you to view them. You feel sick. 

“Should we tell the police?” You ask to the room. 

“Yeah, we’ll tell them, after we’ve had a chat with him.” Simon says, he sounds angry. John sighs, you feel like they want to talk about something but they can’t with you around. Johnny seems to pick up on that too. Walking round the table to meet you. 

“C’mon lass let’s get something to eat you look like you could use it.” Johnny says, you mindlessly follow him out the room, watching Simon’s eyes dig into John like they’re mentally communicating something. 

Johnny takes you back to the same sandwich shop. You’re not hungry but you get something anyway, because if you didn’t Johnny threatened to force feed you. He leads you back to work and you both sit on the sofa’s upstairs. 

“You don’t do deliveries do you?” You ask Johnny, while you pick at the bread on your sandwich.

“Sometimes we do, we have to keep some kind of cover.” Johnny chuckles. “Cannie file our taxes as ‘blackmailed a stalker.’ Easier as ‘delivery to some office.’” 

“Is that what you do blackmail stalkers to get them to stop?” You ask before he changes the subject.

“Sometimes, sometimes we have to be a bit more aggressive.” He says taking a bite out his sandwich. 

“What kind of things do you do?” You ask. Now is the time to push him, he might give you some answers.

“Nothing you need to worry yourself with lass.” He says, you sigh. You’ve lost your chance.

“What about me?” You ask. “What would you do for my situation?” Johnny hums, he looks at you thinking for a second. 

“I would let the police deal with this one, if he’s as bad as he seems. They have enough evidence to lock him up for this. Most of the time when people come to us they’ve already been down the police route. That or they’re involved in something illegal and need, discretion.” He explains.

That was more then you were expecting, maybe they were just being open with you now. They let you in the storeroom, they let you listen on how they plan things. Maybe they trust you. Or maybe they can blackmail you into silence. 

“Seems like Simon’s taken a personal interest in your case though.” Johnny says. You frown at him. 

“What do you mean?” You ask. Johnny is about to reply when the storeroom door slams closed. You watch as Simon makes his way up the steps to you both. 

“I need to have a word with her, Price will catch you up with what you’ve missed.” Simon says gesturing for him to get out the chair. He doesn’t seem too impressed being forced to move huffing and wrapping his sandwich up. You feel nervous all of a sudden as Simon takes Johnny’s spot. 

“How's the sandwich?” He asks, casual, like they weren’t just planning on grabbing your ex, whatever that means.

“I’m not really hungry.” You say offering it to him, you’ve never seen him eat now you think about it. Only sip cups of tea, like a lot of tea. He shakes his head, you wrap it up placing it on the coffee table and scooting over to him. 

“We’ve got a plan. All you need to know about the plan is your role.” He says leaning forward. 

“My role?” You ask, trying not to sound nervous. Simon nods.

“The best way to get a stalker out is to bait them out, like what you did with your post. If we want to get him we have to move tonight. Otherwise the police will have him and we don’t know what will happen after that. The easiest way to get him out is for you to set up a meeting with him. You’ll be the bait.” He explains.

You gulp, you would have to message him, then meet him somewhere. You don’t like the sound of that, the thought of even having to do that made you feel sick. 

“You don’t have to do it, but then we’ll leave it in the police’s hands.” Simon says. 

“What do you plan on doing to him?” You force out. 

“Just a chat, like with most stalkers, they just need someone to spell it out for them.” Simon says. You don’t know if you believe him but you trust him. 

“You won’t kill him.” You ask looking directly into Simon’s eyes. He shakes his head. 

“We don’t kill people unless absolutely necessary. We’re not hitmen. If it makes you feel better the last person I killed was over a thousand miles away and I was still a soldier.” He says. You nod, that does make you feel better. You swallow your nerves looking at Simon, you trust him. 

“I’ll do it.” You say reaching for your phone. Simon smiles.       

—————————— 

You’re nervous. You trust them but you’re nervous. You’re on your second cigarette, if you have another one you might actually throw up. At least the smell will keep him away from you. You don’t know where Simon and Price are but you know Johnny is behind you round the corner of the building. He’s the closest to you, you think.

You check your phone you did say 8pm. It’s now 8:15, typical, he’s late and he’ll find some excuse where it’s some how your fault. You hear footsteps behind you. You swallow hard turning as the footsteps get closer. You can tell it’s him from the way he walks, the way he clears his throat. He’s stood a few feet in front of you. You purposely blow smoke in his face. You see a cheeky grin form on his lips, it makes you feel sick. 

“Missed me?” He asks. You take in the last puff of your cigarette and move away from the railing to the middle of the path. Just like you were told to do. Keep him in the open, don’t let yourself be cornered. 

“I don’t know if missed is the right word.” You say flicking the cigarette at his feet. He takes a step towards you. 

“Well I missed you baby.” He says, the smile still on his lips. His arms are outstretched as he takes another step towards you, you’re frozen in place. Move! Your brain is screaming at you. Move do anything don’t just stand there! Your legs are betraying you though and before you know it his hand is on your arm. You freeze tensing your arm as he grips it, his eyes are burning into you when you feel a hand on the small of your back. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Joe asks as he looks past you. His fingers digging into your arm.

“Just some guy.” It’s Johnny’s voice. It doesn’t make you relax you wish it was Simon. You want to look around for him but you don’t want give away that there are other people.  

“Is this the kind of girl you are now, sleeping with random guys? Turned into a right little slut.” Your ex spits. You try to pull your arm from him, his nails dig into your skin. He let’s go taking a step back which surprises you.

You hope it’s over that he’ll just walk away now, you couldn’t remember what was supposed to happen next. You shudder, it still feels like his hand is on your arm. You watch as he looks around almost like he thinks someone is watching him. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun. 

“What the fuck Joe!” You say shocked, he’s not pointing it at you, just holding it against his stomach. You feel Johnny straighten up taking his hand off your back. It’s a show of force, there is no way he would actually use it. You look past him for a second your eyes being drawn to movement. Please be Simon, or John, or Kyle.

“Maybe you should move on, leave me and my girl to sort things out.” Joe says, there is a shake in his voice, you can hear it. 

“‘Course, clearly you love her more then me.” Johnny says taking a step aside. You want to beg him not to leave. You see a shadow behind the bushes moving silently all in black. 

“How long have you know each other anyway?” Johnny asks. He’s trying to be a distraction. The shadow moves closer you try not to look so your ex won’t get suspicious. 

It happens quickly. A body pounces on your ex pinning him to the ground as he shouts. The weapon flies out his hands sliding across to your feet. Johnny picks it up unloading it. You look round as Kyle and Price make their way over. 

“He had a gun?” Kyle asked his eyes looking at you. You shake your head. You had no idea. The sound of zip-ties drags you back to your ex being hauled to his feet by Price and Simon. Simon’s wearing a mask, not the normal black surgical masks or balaclava you’ve seen him in.

This is different. It’s a skull, your hairs stand up on the back of your neck as he won’t meet your eye line. Johnny is by your side again as Kyle takes the weapon out his hand. Joe is still shouting profanities, you can see he has a bloody nose now. 

“We'll take it from here.” John says his hand landing on your shoulder making you jump. You can’t help looking at Simon, he looks scary now, it's not the Simon you know.

“Anything you want to say to him?” John asks. You look up at him not expecting him to ask you that. You don’t know what to say. You’ve dreamt of this moment, for what you would say but your mind is blank.

You look back at your ex, he looks mad, blood running down his face his hands tied behind his back. You have nothing to say to him. You shake your head. John’s hand leaves your shoulder. 

“Pathetic,” you hear your ex mutter under his breath as he spits at your feet. You don’t even register your step forward, your knee thrusting into his groin. He buckles forward groaning in pain despite Simon trying to hold him up. 

“I’m pathetic!?” You shout a wave of anger washing over you. 

“I’m pathetic? I’m sorry, I’m not the one who can’t get over the relationship! I’m not the person who beat the woman they’re supposed to love! I’m not the one who hides cameras! You’re pathetic!” You push his chest with all the strength you have left, feeling your eyes well. You turn away before they spill over. You will not let him see you cry. You don’t even remember what you said, adrenaline is pulsing through your body. You feel an arm wrap round your shoulder, as you suck in deep breaths.

“Quite a set of lungs on you there lass.” Johnny says as you wipe your eyes. It didn’t feel good why didn’t it feel good. 

“Take her home Soap, we’ll see you later.” John says and you hear them walking away. You hear Joe’s protesting. You don’t know what comes next, you don’t care, you just never want to see him again. You stand there for a few more seconds letting the adrenaline wear off as you breathe in the cold London air, but all you can smell is the river. 

“Ready to go home?” Johnny says after a few seconds. You nod and let him guide you to a car. You don’t bother asking Johnny want happens next, maybe it’s best you don’t know.      

——————————

It’s still dark out when you hear the door of your flat open and close. Johnny is gone, you see Simon now. You blink a few times trying to orient yourself reaching over for your phone to check the time. It’s almost 3am. You sit up, looking over at him, he’s standing by the door, like he wants to ask you something. You push the blanket off yourself and go up to him. 

“Did you do it? Will I never see him again?” You ask as you approach Simon. It’s dark in the flat but you can still make out his features, the living room curtains are still open so the outside light is shining on his face. 

“You’ll never see him again.” He says, almost like he’s relived too. A weight you didn’t even know you’d been carrying melts away at his words. You fling your arms round him squeezing him tight. 

“Thank you,” you whisper into his chest. He smells good, salt and gunpowder. You learned what that smell was when you were in the storeroom last. You break away realising what you’re doing. His hands rest on your shoulders and you look up at him. His eyes are shining in the light, beautiful and golden brown.

One of his hands moves to your cheek, following your jawline round to your chin. You find yourself moving closer to him, his hands are warm on your body. He leans in slightly, his arm dropping from your shoulder to your waist. You know what he wants he wants to kiss you. You don’t know if you’re ready, you don’t care, right now you want to kiss him too.

You lean in pressing your lips against his. You have to stand up on your toes to reach him properly as you push your tongue in his mouth. He lets you, moving his hand from your chin to cup your cheek. You feel your body tingle as he starts playing with your tongue his hand gripping your waist as he tries to get you to stand back down. You don’t care throwing your arms round his neck and pulling him down to you.

You moan, he tastes of ash, and something sweet. You’re not thinking, lost in a world of your own as his hands start to move round your body. You grip his neck running your fingers through his hair. One of his hands finds your waistband and his thumb slips under your shirt, the skin to skin contact makes you shudder and you pull away. His hand drops from your waist.

“What’s wrong?” He asks. You look up at him. How do you even explain it? 

“That was the best kiss I’ve had in years.” You say letting one of your hands drop from his neck to rub his cheek. 

“Too soon?” He asks. You shake your head. This is it, you’re never going to be able to have a normal relationship again. You can kiss him but you flinch at the slightest mount of physical contact. He probably just wanted to run his hand up your back? It doesn't matter your brain registered it as a threat before you can even react. 

“I’m sorry,” you say dropping your hands from his neck. 

“Want me to leave?” He asks. 

“No, stay.” You say, grabbing his shirt. Great, attachment issues too. 

“Want me to sleep on the sofa again?” He asks. You look up at him. You press your lips against his again this time his hands stay over your clothes. He breaks away first.

“I know what it’s like.” He says his voice barely a whisper. “I get what you’re feeling, you don’t have to explain it. Just tell me when to stop.” He kisses you again, a quick kiss. It still takes your breath away.

You take him by the wrists and lead him to the bedroom. You can do this at least, or you’re going to try. He stands as you do what you need to do. Rearranging the bedding, getting extra pillows and the spare duvet out the wardrobe. When you’re done you turn to him. 

“You shouldn’t sleep on the sofa it’s bad for your back.” You say leading him over to the bed.

“Believe me I’ve slept on worse.” He says smiling, that puts you at ease. You let go of his arm to climb into bed, pulling your duvet around you leaving the other half of the bed open for him. 

“Mind if I.?” He gestures to his trousers, he wants to take them off. You nod, watching as he unbuckles his belt letting them slip to the floor. It’s too dark to see anything anyway, or at least you hope so, then he won’t be able to see you blushing.

He makes sure you’re okay before moving slowly into the bed. He pulls the spare duvet over him lying on his side so you’re face to face. He reaches over slowly, his hand brushing your cheek, then your hair. His touch is gentle, soft as he tests what your limits are. 

“Want me to tell you this funny story about Johnny?” He asks. You smile nodding. “I’ll let you take the piss out of him tomorrow.” As he tells the story you close your eyes. His hand comes back periodically to brush your hair. It feels nice you let yourself enjoy it as you drift off to sleep. 

You’re woken the next morning by the ringing of the doorbell. You shoot up in bed. 

“I can get it.” You hear Simon groan. 

“No, I’ll get it.” You insist praying that Simon is right and you never need to worry about Joe again. You look through the peep-hole it’s the police officers from yesterday. You open the door.

“Morning, sorry to bother you.” The female one says. 

“It’s okay,” You respond automatically. 

“We thought you might want to know there has been an update to the investigation regarding your stalker.” You look at her confused. 

“What happened?” You ask. 

“When the officers went to arrest him this morning he was found dead in his apartment. We’re very sorry, we suspect it was a suicide.” The officer says. Your hand grips the door harder as you hear the words. 

“He was your ex-boyfriend correct?” The officer asks. You nod swallowing to get the lump away in your throat. 

“He had you written down as an emergency contact, we’ve been unable to locate his family, do you happen to have their contact information?” She asks. 

“I-I have his mothers number, just a second.” You say using all your willpower to let go of the door. You head back into the bedroom to get your phone. Simon’s back is facing you his legs swung out of the bed. You go back to the officers telling them the number. 

“If you have any questions, or anything you need to add don’t hesitate to call us.” She says smiling. You nod and thank them as they leave. You close the door behind you, slipping the deadbolt into place. Suicide. The word spins round in your head. What the hell did they do to him?

Next

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[sgt-tombstone]

Dance You Off My Mind

Civilian AU where Soap got broken up with by his long-term boyfriend and his best friend Gaz tells him to come visit in London for a week or two (both as distraction and to make sure that Soap isn't alone). Soap mopes for the first few days, and Gaz understands, but by the fourth day, he's over it and he drags Soap out to the nightclub around the corner to get smashed (hopefully in several ways).

Soap is hesitant at first. He hasn't been dancing in a long time; his boyfriend (ex-boyfriend, he has to remind himself) never enjoyed the club scene, so he had stopped going out. For a while, he sticks to the wall, nursing his drink, watched Gaz on the dance floor. When he finishes his first drink, though, Gaz presses another into his hand, and that's how he finds himself three drinks deep and in the middle of the crowd, whirling like he owns the dance floor, not a care in the world.

Simon is ex-military and picked up a job as a security guard/bouncer at the nearest gay club just to keep himself sane. He has a strict, self-imposed (and possibly club-imposed, he's not really sure but it's never mattered) rule not to even flirt with customers. He's gotten more propositions than he can count in the years he's been here, and he's turned them all down. He might look good (he makes sure to keep himself in shape because it helps to both look like he could throw London's largest bear out and also have the actual strength to back it up), but he's working, and his job is to keep an eye out, to keep everyone safe.

The man with the mohawk, however, has caught Simon's eye several times. He's there with someone, but that hasn't stopped him from giving Simon a once-over so salacious that it should be illegal. He has to stop himself from falling into the man's magnetic allure, crossing his arms over his chest and setting his jaw against the temptation. The pair leave just before the club closes, stumbling against each other as they exit, and Simon tries his best to push them from his mind as he helps clean and close.

When he steps out into the chilled night air, he's shocked to find a mohawk waiting for him, the man leaning against the brick wall nonchalantly, and this time, he doesn't resist the pull. He pulls out a fag and offers one to the other man, exchanging names over twin glowing tips and exhales of smoke. As the other man, Soap (weird fuckin' name, but who is he to judge? He went by Ghost for almost his entire adult life), is obviously less drunk than he had been when he had left the club the first time; either time and cold air have sobered him, or he's a damn good actor. Either way, Simon has absolutely no qualms about tilting his head up to press a soft kiss to his lips, especially when Soap whines and presses impossibly closer, his mouth tasting of smoke and ash instead of liquor. His eyes are bright, clear, and eager when they part, and Simon can't wait to get this beautifully responsive man into his bed.

He ends up putting a ring on his finger, in the end, and all of their friends graciously pretend to be shocked by the news (though Gaz does roll his eyes and mutter "it's about damn time" when he thinks that Soap can't hear him)

[randooffthestreet]

(Inofficial) Ghoaptober

Day 24: Wish

Summary: Ghost buys flowers for Soap

Going to a pub or a bar was a regular enough occurrence that the 141 had a little bit of a system. Price was the designated driver, so he’d nurse one drink for an hour or so before cutting himself off. Gaz and Soap drank enough to cause Ghost to get a sympathy headache, and Ghost himself would have a drink or two. Of course, he was never allowed to drive since Soap wouldn’t let him hear the end of what had happened in Las Almas.

If one or both of the sergeants got clingy, they wouldn’t bring it up in the morning.

“Ghost….Lt.” Soap whined, leaning against the brick wall of a man fearlessly. “Y’know I've never gotten flowers before? Have nae seen many flowers since I was a bairn.” Ghost sighed heavily. “That so?

The Scot nodded, taking a sip of his final drink. (Price had cut him off) “Dunnae why… Maybe cuz ah’m a big lad? Maybe…cuz they think ah would nae like em. But ah do! Love flowers.” He set his drink down. “It’s mah birthday end o’ this month. Prob’ly will nae get any flowers this year either, ye ken.”

Ghost just hummed. He’d known about his upcoming birthday, Gaz having already planned an outing to a pub that evening. He’d bought him a new sketchbook and nice pencils after learning about his affinity for drawing.

Soap groaned, his stomach lurching slightly. Ghost hissed, scooting away from him. “Don’t you dare throw up on me.” Soap laughed, wincing. “Ah won’t. Ye- ye ken, my ma had a flower garden. Before we grew apart, I used to help her tend to em. Loved the roses. They were mah favorite. Cliche, I ken.” He sniffled. “Miss em. Hell, miss me ma.”

Ghost sighed, hooking his arm over his shoulder. “You’re drunk, Soap. We should get you home.” The man groaned, but didn’t protest.

The day before Soap’s birthday, Ghost found himself thinking about that conversation. Sure, Soap had been drunk, but he also tended to be a bit more honest when he was drunk. Ghost found himself looking for stores near the pub that sold flowers.

When he found one, he just stared at the bouquets for a solid ten minutes before an employee came over. “Need help, sir?” She asked him, smiling a little wearily. He hummed. “...don’t know flowers.” He said in lieu of an answer. She looked through them. “Well, who are you looking for?”

He thought for a moment. “Friend’s birthday. He likes roses.” She nodded, before pointing out a pretty looking bouquet. “This one has roses and sunflowers. Does he like those?”

Ghost didn’t know, but from what little he did know about flowers, he knew that sunflowers would turn towards the sun, yearning for any bit of light from its rays.

They reminded him of how he acted around Johnny, always looking for his next fix of his sunshine’s attention.

He nodded. “That’ll do.” He picked it up and bought it, praying to whatever being that may exist that Soap would like them. They smelled pleasant enough, at least.

When he walked into the pub, the others hadn’t arrived yet. He’d already texted Gaz that he’d be coming separately, and would save them a table.

He tucked the bouquet in the booth seat next to him nervously when he saw them enter. Gaz ordered them a round and a cake, crowing at the uninterested waiter that it was his friend’s birthday just to piss Soap off.

Price got Soap a nice bottle of Scotch, and Gaz had laughed when he saw it because he’d gotten him the same thing. Soap didn’t mind, just grinned. “I get two bottles of the good stuff, why would I be mad?

Ghost gave him the sketchbook and pencils a bit nervously, but his nerves were soothed when his face lit up. “Oh wow! These are good supplies.” He grinned. Ghost touched the bouquet next to him lightly, having second thoughts, before sucking it up and handing them to him.

The table fell quiet, and Soap looked at him with wide eyes

“For me?” He asked softly, holding them so gently they could be made of glass. Ghost nodded, feeling really dumb all of a sudden. He felt a weight lift from his chest when Soap beamed at him.

“You remembered! Christ, this is too muchI was so sloshed when I said I wanted flowers, but… thanks. They’re beautiful. And- and they’re roses… like I said…” Soap was smiling so widely it made Ghost’s heart hurt.

“I love them, Lt.” Ghost had to fight back the disappointment that came with the title. It was his sergeant’s birthday, not his boyfriend’s.

Gaz and Price settled down a little upon hearing Soap had asked for flowers specifically, though Price did shoot Ghost a knowing look.

The rest of the time was business as usual, drinking and laughing with friends until they inevitably got drunk and had to go home when the bartenders cut them off.

Ghost walked Soap back to his room. The other man was so drunk he was just mumbling under his breath.

As Ghost eased him into his bed, the Scot spoke up. “Thanks for the flowers, Lt, Really like em. Specially from ye.” He smiled before knocking out. Ghost stood there for a few minutes before sighing quietly to himself and placing the bouquet on the nightstand next to Soap.

For the rest of the week, Soap was in a significantly good mood. Watching him interact with the recruits, Ghost found himself smiling softly. If a simple bouquet of flowers made him so happy that he was beaming every day, then Ghost would give him all the flowers his heart desired.

And the gestures would never lose their meaning; no, Ghost would put just as much thought and heart into every one, just like he did the first time.

In any universe, he would give him flowers just to see him smile.

From a church altar to a gravestone.

The sunflower and his rose.

[appleciderp]

I literally cannot stop thinking about how Price and Ghost are most likely only a few years apart.

Like the "Good to see you again, Simon." scene hurts me more because of it.

Imagine Private Simon and Price, they both don't really know what they're doing but they want to do what's right. They share the same barracks, and they encounter each other, but they don't really talk yet.

Then Price gets a promotion to Lance Corporal and has Simon in his lil section, they become friends at this point, cracking jokes and spending time together.

After a few promotions on either side, Price can say that Simon is definitely his closest friend in the Army.

And Price doesn't hear about Simon for a while. He gets a promotion to Officer Cadet and Simon isn't there for his promotion, which unsettles him. But Simon was always a bit introverted and quiet when it came to his private life, it's not like he expected anything.

Between his officer training, Price manages to corner Simon when he's back on base, and he tells him that he had to settle his family affairs. Don't worry, it's all solved.

Then Roba happens, and he mourns Simon. He meets Tommy, Beth, and Joseph at the 'funeral', offering them his condolences.

But a few months later he overhears the whispers from other officers about Simon not actually being dead, that he dug himself out of a grave with Vernon's jawbone. They're calling him Ghost now, they've given quite a few promotions for the whole ordeal, but he isn't on base yet, anger management issues they say. Price doesn't blame him.

Then he hears about his family.

He hears about his revenge.

He doesn't see Simon again. He does meet Ghost, and he thinks the nickname is apt. The man was a husk of who he once was. There's an occasional quip, he still talks as he does. But he's not happy, he doesn't have a smile that tore through his face anymore.

They get deployed for more missions together occasionally. Price does see his face once or twice, the same as before but marred with concerning scars. Price still considers the man one of his closest friends, but there's a wall he's trying to break down, but it's getting built up again as soon as he can take a brick out.

The harder he tries the higher the wall gets built. Ghost no longer takes missions with him, with anybody in fact.

Price's biggest concern is that he'll never know if anything happens to him, Simon is dead. He's going to die behind enemy lines and he'll never know.

So he throws himself into work too, helping with training new recruits. He meets John MacTavish; friendly, cocky, hot-tempered, quick-witted, with a deadly aim to boot. He doesn't want the military to crush yet another person as it did Simon, so he forces him to be better. Stronger.

Looking back he probably let his own emotions make him too strict on the kid, but he doesn't regret it.

He hears through the grapevine that his callsign is now Soap, dumb as shit, but then he hears the why. The boy's so quick and efficient at clearing house. Pride swells up in him.

He's a Captain now, he heard that Ghost got Promoted to Lieutenant not too long ago. He meets Kyle, another young hot-shot Sergeant, he reminds him of Soap, and he mentally reminds himself to check in on MacTavish.

The kid's good but lacks experience. Prefers to do what's good over what needs to be done. He didn't miss him heaving after tossing the hostage over the edge of the railing in Picadilly Circus or the color slip away from his face as they tortured information out of the Butcher.

There were things he could protect Kyle from, but as they were; Price always knew what he'd pick when looking at the trolley problem.

After the whole ordeal is done, he wants to make a task force, so he asks Laswell for files. He tacks on Simons, hoping that he wouldn't ignore a direct order. But if Simon worked for him, he'd know if something happened to him.

He's surprised when Simon accepts. He's not when both Soap and Gaz do.

He can't help the smile when he sees him for the first time in years. They chat, they joke, they go on a few missions, and Ghost reluctantly opens the door to Simon again.

When he and Ghost talk about the teamwork required to get Alejandro's base back, he can't help the pride that seeps through his pores. When he removes the mask and lets these people in as well, he knows that, for the first time in years, this is Simon. He's back.

It takes another few months to realize what had lit the fuze, so to speak.

Of course, it was the demolition expert.

[mylarena]

EVERYBODY shut the fuck up. coffee shop barista au. soap is a barista and this one guy comes in at the same time on the dot every day and orders the same thing every time. (its straight black coffee with so much added caffeine that soap thinks it could kill a horse.) the man is like, 6′4″ and built like a brick house. soap is a pretty big guy himself, but god does he makes him look tiny.

his hair is blond, light enough that in some lighting it looks nearly silver. it seems to be a mess constantly- wavy locks that curl around the tips of his ears, fringe just long enough to partially cover one of his eyes. just long enough that someone could reach up and tuck it behind his ear. and soap wants to, if not just to get to feel his hair- it looks so fucking soft and smooth and soap wonders what his hair care routine is. (because surely you cant get hair that good without putting work into it, right?)

his upper face is littered with scars; over the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks, under his eye. theres probably more, but anytime he shows up he has a face mask on, one with some dumb skeleton design on it that would probably look stupid on anyone else, but somehow he makes it work.

and his eyes- god, his eyes. his left eye is a brilliant shade of blue with a shock of green at the bottom, something soap has never seen before. the two colors seem to clash and meld together all at once, an enchanting phenomenon that soap wants to study. his right eye is a deep, gorgeous chocolate brown, swirled with a lighter caramel tone that brightens his eye but makes his gaze no less intense. anytime he locks eyes with soap, he loses his breath- hes never seen someone so fucking beautiful in his entire life.

his voice is low and gravelly, a deep, accented rumble that soap swears to god he can feel in his bones. the man doesnt mince his words, but every time he does speak soap can feel himself shiver. he hopes it isnt visible.

the only name he gives for his order is ghost. that isnt enough for soap. he wants his first name- his real name, a name he can place to the beautiful face that lurks in his mind. (and in his sketchbooks.)

so he tries to pry it out of the man. he offers his own name first, john mactavish, but ghost doesnt give him his own name, instead opting nod and hum. he takes to calling soap ‘johnny’, something that soap has notably refused to let anyone call him, no matter how close they are. he allows ghost to call him it, finding the heat it spreads through his body pleasant and welcoming it. gaz, his fellow barista, is disgruntled when he finds out that soap is letting someone call him johnny when he was firmly denied the permission to do so himself.

every day soap asks for a name for the coffee, hoping that one day he’ll slip and tell him, but he never does. its always ghost, you know this, johnny. he keeps trying despite the ineffectiveness.

sometimes he throws out guesses. over time they get increasingly ridiculous, trying to get a huff or a snort out of the man when he looks at his cup. whatever name he chooses is accompanied by some shitty dad joke- one time ghost had told one that was god awful, but soap could see the glee in his eyes when he groaned and complained. he sees ghost look at the writing everytime he hands over the drink, and he adores the amusement he sees dancing in his gaze at the jokes, so he keeps it up.

their banter shifts from friendly teasing to flirting constantly- oftentimes mid-conversation. sometimes its soap who does it, (”the maaask... take it off?” “show my face?” “yes.” “no.” “are you ugly?” “quite the opposite.” “i doubt that.”) and other times its ghost. (”you like tequila?” “could use one right about now.” “id murder for a whiskey.” “you mean scotch?” “i drink bourbon.” “like a good ol’ boy...” “...  i love kentucky.” “yer out o’ yer mind, ghost.” “thats for sure.”)

(gaz is this fucking close to complaining to price about the sexual tension around them. if he has to deal with soap making eyes at this customer for one more fucking minute he thinks hes going to snap.)

[waffles-art-writing]

Headache, Migraine?

Had a headache, almost migraine. Thought of this after a nap. Hopefully some can relate or it helps others.

Simon Ghost Riley / John Soap MacTavish / Kyle Gaz Garrick / Captain John Price X Reader

No use of Y/N, Pills mentioned, Headache/Migraine talk, description of pain. If I missed something tell me. NOT PROOF READ

(Divider found on Pinterest - NOT MINE)

The throbbing stinging behind your eyes causes you to curl around yourself, pushing your face further into your pillow, trying to drown at then nonexistent light in the room. The blinds are drawn, the door is shut, even the alarm clock is switched off. The only light in your room is whatever is seeping through under the door, or the very edge of the blinds, yet it’s not much.

You’ve kicked your blankets off, pulled them back on many times, the damp towel sitting next to a cold bowl of water discarded on your bedside table. The two empty water bottles laying on the floor, the pain meds not doing anything to help your head.

The room floods with light, clearly coming from the door, which your back is facing. You cringe as you bury yourself deeper in the pillow and bed sheets, the light almost stinging your eyes through your eyelids. Confused, and disoriented on who the hell opened your door without knocking. Maybe they did knock? You just didn’t heart it over the pounding of your own heart, which sounded like it was in your ears.

The light quickly leaves the room, the bed dips behind you as you sink towards the new weight. A large hand comes to rest on your waist, warm and heavy. Gently circles being drawn into the fabric of the bed sheet, their voice hushed.

“Sweetheart?”

You groan, turning away more, squeezing your eyes shut more. “Go away…” you whine, almost sounding like a child who’s throwing a temper tantrum.

“No… what’s wrong?” He pushes, needing an answer from you.

“Headache…” your answers pulls a small hum from him, their weight shifts as they stand from the bed. Muttering something quietly, something you barely catch over the rushing of blood through your ears. Light floods the room again, then it’s gone. Door open then closed.

He left… he clearly doesn’t care. Why would he? He’s not your parent, he’s not your significant other, you’re in the god damn military. There’s no room to be held back by some headache, a migraine.

Your eyes are barely open when light casts itself across the wall again, then vanishes as quickly as it came. The bed dips again, the sound of water sloshing behind you, droplets falling back into the bowl of water, the towel being rung out. The soothing cold settles across the back of your neck, a hand brushing your hair to the side, out of your face, away from the sweat crowing your forehead.

His hand rests on your shoulder, thumb pressing into your sore muscles, which draws a quiet whine from you. He prompts you with a quiet ‘sit up for me, doll’ or something along those lines. All you feel is a light tug on your shirt, feeling your head sway like a sack of bricks as you sit up.

“Here… take these.” You see the two small pills in his hand, a cold water bottle in the other. You take the pills, followed by the cold water which you sigh at. Glad that it’s cold, better than the room temperature water you already have. “Thank you…” you mutter, leaning your forehead against his shoulder.

“It’s alright… how long have you been like this?” He asks, a hand coming to rest on your back. Drawing small patterns, listening to you mutter something about a few hours. Followed by an apology, which he shakes his head to, saying there’s no need for an apology. “It’s okay you have a headache, things like this happen. You aren’t invincible…” he states, leaving a kiss on your temple.

“Just rest… don’t strain yourself.” He states, guiding you to lay back down. Hand resting on your shoulder, eyes flickering across your features in the dark, a small smile playing on his lips as he feels your breathing even out. Leaving you to rest quietly, not before pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. Muttering a hushed “sleep well, sweetheart.” Before slipping out the door, closing it softly.

Hope you liked it :))

[ditzdove]

Gaz: What if I lied this whole time and I'm actually 18?

Dib: Gaz, stop trying to get drugs.

Gaz: Don't suppress my interests.

Professor membrane : Clembrane? What are you doing here?

Clembrane, wearing a hawaiian shirt, sunglasses and holding a gatorade: My best.

Zim: I woke up and chose VIOLENCE. I WILL COMMIT ARSON AND BURN EVERYTHING TO THE GROUND!!! I AM ANGRY-

Dib: Awwww, you’re so adorable! Give me a hug~

Zim: Wh-What? nO, yOURE SUPPOSED TO BE SCARED OF ME! TREMBLE BEFORE MY WRATH-

Clembrane, recording: This is so cute.

Clembrane: How would you like your pancakes?

Professor membrane: Plain.

Dib: With sprinkles!

Zim: Chocolate chips.

Gaz: Potatoes.

*Zim, Dib, and Professor membrane look at Gaz*

Gaz: What? They're good.

Dib: I love murder mysteries!

Zim, trying to impress them: I've been a suspect in four murder cases.

Gaz, to Dib: When was the last time you let someone hug you?

Dib: *thinking*

Dib: 2012.

Zim: 2012…?

Dib: Yeah. I almost died and it really freaked dad out so I let him hug me.

Dib: If I had a face like yours, I'd put it on a wall and throw a brick at it.

Zim: If I had a face like YOURS, I'd put it on a brick and throw a wall at it.

Zim: When did you become a hero?

Dib: Um… the moment I saved you from getting killed.

Zim: You’re the last person on earth I wanted to rescue me.

Dib: Well… sucks to be you, don’t it.

Gaz: Clembrane, gather the others. We need to have another Dib-is-doing-something-stupid-again-and-we-have-to-stop-them-before-they-hurt-someone convention.

Clembrane: What are you writing?

Gaz: The government wants to know what kind of weapons we have in the house. I'm letting them know it's private information.

Dib, looking over Gaz's shoulder: This just says 'fuck around and find out' in calligraphy.

Zim: I’m a bad person, I’m a very bad person, I’m a horrible person.

The Squad:

Zim: No you’re not, Zim! We still love you, Zim!

Dib: Ok so, apparently the "bad vibes" I've been feeling are actually severe psychological distress.

Zim: How do tall people people possibly sleep at night when the blanket can't possibly cover you?

Dib : Zim, it's four o'clock in the morning.

Zim: So, you can't sleep, huh? Is it because of the blanket?

Dib: If you see me talking to myself, go away! I’m self-employed and we’re having a staff meeting!

Dib: Wow, it sure smells like wrong dog in here!

Professor membrane : Oh buddy...

Dib, already sobbing: ASK.