#Joan Soap MacTavish x Simon Ghost Riley

[andaniellight]

Do you think if Ghost got possessed with an ancient deity from one of the missions securing a sacred artefact or something because he’s a non-believer and whatnot, the deity would only last, say, five (5) minutes staying inside his already (very heavily, unfortunately) traumatized brain and perhaps would point at Soap before leaving just to say, with such honesty, “he (Ghost) likes watching you sleep. He makes peace with everything by doing it,” or......

UPDATE: IT’S ON AO3 NOW!!! READ HERE

[thisreputable]

omega!ghost x fem!alpha!soap thoughts

bear with me plz. so, august of last year i read an omega!ben x alpha!rey fic that has lived rent free in my head ever since. ben had isolated himself, doing research that kept him far from civilization - far from alphas - until rey shows up

now, imagine. big, silent, deadly ghost who keeps to himself, begrudgingly accepts he needs to interact with the others of the 141, if only to kept things cohesive out on missions. accepts the fact he had to socialize a little. keeps it to the bare minimum, though. never volunteers anything personal: his past, family, plans for the future, designation. sometimes he'll give short, clipped answers, simple questions. tea over coffee, mystery novels (will never, ever admit, even under pain of death, his love for bodice rippers). action/adventure movies with a sprinkling of sci-fi. nothing too deep. nothing anyone could potentially use against him.

(price knows some things. more than most for sure. an unfortunate necessity as ghost's CO. not everything. not what or who ghost is under industrial strength blockers and the best suppressants money can buy. under the mask where simon lurks.)

so ghost's innermost everything is locked up tighter than america's fort knox. impenetrable. inscrutable. impossible to know beyond mere surface level. even then, the mask assures it's not something likely to happen.

enter joan "soap" mactavish, the newest member of the 141.

loud. young. offensively confident. vibrant. unafraid. alpha.

she smells like his and it terrifies him.

everything ghost has tried to steer clear of for longer than he can remember. since before he died and clawed himself out of the ground. since before betrayal, and being the last riley, and learning the taste of his own blood in his mouth. before ghost and ghoulish masks and too many scars to count.

since the shape of his father's meaty fists bloomed purple-red across a pale canvas. since useless and pathetic and omega became synonymous with simon.

she's everything he fears and hates and admires and envies and desires and covets. everything he ever wished but could never be.

he does his best to steer clear of her. does his job, of course. would never let anything keep him from completing his objectives, keep him from making sure everyone on his team made it back in one piece. wouldn't jeopardize the one good thing in his life just because an alpha has his skin prickling and his hind brain whining for something he'll never be worthy of.

soap's a force of nature unto herself, though. persistent doesn't begin to describe her. every obstacle he attempts to put in her way, she bulldozes right through them. leaves a trail of destruction in her wake with a beatific smile on her face and a manic, gleeful light in her too-blue eyes.

for whatever reason, she's set her eyes on ghost and nothing he does or says seems to sway her from getting closer to him. she seeks him out if they're ever in the same room. will lean into his personal space. will ask him question after question and stare until he gives her an answer good enough to satisfy her curiosity. will sit next to him during meals and shamelessly nab food from his tray before giving him things off of hers (he steadfastly ignores the warmth that pulses in his chest when he realizes everything she puts on his plate are things that he enjoys).

will place a steady hand on his arm or shoulder or back (the one time she touched his chest is seared into his memory). doesn't blink when he flinches. will just smile - a little smile that has too many meanings for ghost to parse - before staring him right in the eye and touching him again. like she's daring him to run away, to tell her to stop.

he never does, tongue tied and mind wiped of every thought.

he doesn't know what she wants, is the thing. to be friends? colleagues? more? less? to be the first to peel back a layer of the thing called ghost and brag to everyone else that she's succeeded where so many others have failed?

to be one soul inhabiting two separate bodies?

eventually, though, he buckles under her continued attentions. like all man made things when faced with the awesome power of nature, his defenses are washed away, eroded until nothing remains but the tender core of a man. of an omega desperate to feel wanted and desired and safe.

until all that's left in the aftermath is simon.

it's terrifying. he feels naked. scraped raw. unmasked. seen.

he expects many things once she corners him in his office and he gives in. expects condemnation. ridicule. confusion. scathing remarks as to his designation. expects to be left in tatters after she realizes that her efforts were wasted on him.

instead, she kisses him. instead, she slides a gun calloused hand to the back of his neck and pulls him down, down, down until their lips meet. instead, she steals the breath from his lungs and the thoughts from his stuttering mind and his awareness of the world beyond a flimsy door.

ghost is remade, reborn, in the seconds-hours-years they kiss. he's left gasping, knees weak and hands fisted in soap's ridiculous (stupidly attractive and absolutely against regulations) mohawk, in the aftermath. it takes more effort than he's willing to admit for his eyes to flutter open. he's met by a sight that steals his breath all over again.

soap's eyes are blown wide, pupils rimmed by the crimson of an alpha barely grasping at self-control. a delightfully fetching blush has spread from her cheeks down the column of her throat. her lips are glossy with their shared spit, swollen and tender looking. just beyond them, he can see a hint of wickedly sharp fangs.

she's the most beautiful person he's ever seen. it's almost debilitating how much he wants her. how much he wants to be hers.

"mine," she says and it takes his foggy mind an embarrassing amount of time to realize that that wasn't some kind of auditory hallucination. that she's just... staked her claim on him. just like that.

ghost is left blinking owlishly, mouth opening and closing but unable to form a comprehensive thought, much less words.

well.

"my simon." a purr underscores her claim. "my omega."

and who's ghost to tell her otherwise? how could he possibly deny her the one thing that has ever felt right in his long, wretched life?

and then something something sudden heat and rut something something reverse knotting something something claiming bites something something years later something something retirement and pups something something they lived happily ever after

...yeah. just a silly little thot 🙂

[ramrage]

How about another Fortune?

chapter 2: Part 2

work rating: M

chapter rating: T

relationship: John “Soap” MacTavish x Simon “Ghost” Riley (endgame); John “Soap” MacTavish x Original Female Character (temporary)

characters: John “Soap” MacTavish, Simon “Ghost” Riley”, Original Female Character

tags:

ao3 link

part 1

part 2 (this one right here lol)

part 3

HELL, MIDDLE OF

“Ma, I hardly see how this is any of your business.”

“You’re right, you’re right. It’s just,” her mother bows her head, peering into her empty mug. These conversations, Joan Mitchell found, never got easier. Always fawn-legged statements, always pushed forward with a stick, offered in the same placating voice. “Seven is years is a long time, Ellie.”

“And what’s it matter to you? You’re not getting married to him.”

“By the looks of it, neither are you,” Sarah interjects with the exasperation of someone who’s heard the same shit play out time and time again.

“Fuck, Sarah, leave it out.”

“I’m just saying,” Sarah explains, “Ma’s right for fucking once. If he hasn’t bleedin’ proposed by now, who’s to say he ever will?”

“Well, he’s been very b—“

“busy lately. Yeah, I remember. But won’t he just be getting busier and busier?”

Ella looks away, arms crossed. It’s dead silent in the kitchen, the seconds hand of the clock counting down the heartbeats, the heaving breaths, the indecisions, etc., etc. Eventually Ella speaks up, still boring a hole into a seam on the vinyl floor. “Do you always have to be so fucking negative, Sarah?”

“Well, do you always have to be so naive?” Joan is a smart, prudent woman and has not said a fucking word. “C’mon, Elle. I’m not sayin’ all this to hurt you. Fuck, I say it because I know you’re hurting.”

Joan is a mother, and above all else, gives a damn when her daughters experience first-hand how shit the world can be. She cares because she loves, and also because she’s been there, too. She takes Ella’s hand. “Are you, Elliebelle?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

STAGE PLAY: DREAMSCAPE

SOAP AND GHOST are shackled to one of the four concrete walls that make up what appears to be a prison. Watching over them is a cruel-looking man, the CAPTOR as well as his burly henchman, GRIGORIY. The CAPTOR is speaking to SOAP who, like GHOST, has his head hung low in defeat. The two captives are bruised and beaten, a stark contrast to their well-kempt captors. Standing UC is the CHORUS and NARRATOR, all of whom are unseen by the other named characters.

CAPTOR

Go on, give your Lieutenant a kiss, pretty boy. You want to save him so bad? You love him? Well, go on, then. Kiss him

SOAP

No

NARRATOR

You see, John—or Soap. Whatever you please—says “No,” and he means it, in a way, but not the way you think.

NARRATOR

Right now, his heart his racing

CHORUS

Racing!

NARRATOR

And his stomach feels like it’s swarming with butterflies

CHORUS

BUT-TER-FLIES!

NARRATOR

And you might call it fear, but it is

CHORUS

Antici-PATION

NARRATOR

But yes, also a bit of fear. Because surely, his Lieutenant doesn’t want to kiss him—

CHORUS

Oh nooo!

NARRATOR

Least of all now

CHORUS

Shit timing! Shit timing!

NARRATOR

Well, enough from me. Let’s see how this plays out.

CAPTOR

What?

SOAP

I said no.

CAPTOR

Well, that is a shame, boy. Because now I have to kill him

(the CAPTOR cocks his gun)

GHOST

Fuck!

(ALL turn to look at GHOST, who is shaking his bowed head, resigned to the situation. One member of the CHORUS gasps.)

GHOST (cont.)

Fuck, Johnny. It’s fine. Just fucking kiss me.

(SOAP nods, knowing this is the only way.)

SOAP

Alright, then.

(SOAP crawls slowly across the room until he is at GHOST’S feet, but he pauses)

CAPTOR

Do you not love him, boy? Do you want to see him die? (a beat) Grigoriy, take his mask off.

(GRIGORIY crosses the room in long strides and yanks the mask off GHOST’s head. SOAP startles at the commotion, and is transfixed by the sight before him: GHOST’s bare face—bruised, sweaty, but captivatingly handsome)

SOAP

I’m sorry.

GHOST

It’s okay. Just do it.

(SOAP leans in and presses a ginger kiss, like a child, to GHOST’s lips. GHOST’s eyes are closed the entire time)

NARRATOR

The time, the place—it’s all wrong, but somehow, it feels right!

CHORUS

So right!

NARRATOR

For Soap, at least. Who’s to say how his Lieutenant feels? One thing’s for certain, though. Their captor is not pleased.

(the CAPTOR laughs)

CAPTOR

You call that a kiss? Pathetic. Do it again, like you mean it, or else you both will die.

(SOAP curses under his breath and repositions his arms for better leverage, trying his best to give GHOST space)

CAPTOR

Don’t stop.

CAPTOR (cont.)

Big one, kiss him back. Touch him.

(GHOST acquiesces and the CAPTOR watches on as, unbeknownst to himself or anyone else, the background is transformed from an underground, cement-walled prison cell into a cramped, but cozy officer’s dormitory. GRIGORIY exits SL and as the new set finally slides into place, the CAPTOR follows GRIGORIY offstage)

(SOAP pulls away from the kiss, breathless, and swiftly removes his own—and then GHOST’s—shackles with an almost-frantic excitement)

SOAP

I’ve never felt—

GHOST

Me neither.

SOAP

Fuck, I think I love you. I think I fucking love you.

CHORUS

Throwback! Throwback to Chapter 1!

NARRATOR

Throwback, indeed! How could it be? John MacTavish is once again proclaiming love? In the very same fic but to a very different person?

CHORUS

But isn’t he straight? Isn’t he straight?

NARRATOR

Put not the cart before the horse, my dear friends. Give it a second.

GHOST

You’re out of your mind, MacTavish.

SOAP

Am I?

GHOST

Soap, love isn’t for men like us.

CHORUS

It’s a self-indulgent reference…to another fic!

NARRATOR

Shh!

SOAP

Says who?

GHOST

Does it fucking matter? You know how this goes. You know all the reasons we can’t, so just…

GHOST (cont.)

Drop it.

SOAP

No, I’m not dropping it. Not when I feel like this, not when I know you feel like this, too. What are you so afraid of?

GHOST

This isn’t your fucking life, Soap, and you fucken know it. You’re supposed to fuck off and retire and have pretty fucking babies with some pretty fucking woman in Scotland, and that’s it.

SOAP

(quietly) and what about you?

GHOST

I die.

SOAP

Then I’ll be by your side when that happens.

SOAP stands defiantly and offers his hand to GHOST, who takes it after a tremulous moment of consideration. Once GHOST is on his feet, SOAP grabs GHOST’s hands and walks them to the cot, where they sit side-by-side, hands still entwined)

SOAP (cont.)

I don’t want to get married. I want you, you thickheaded piece of shit.

GHOST

No you don’t.

NARRATOR

But he does.

SOAP

But I do.

SOAP (cont.)

If you won’t give me forever, just give me tonight. That’s all I’m asking for. If you want me.

GHOST

Okay.

SOAP

Okay.

(SOAP lets out a soft, abrupt laugh, as if he cannot believe his luck. GHOST answers him in kind before taking him by the chin for a deep, sweet kiss, though it soon grows more passionate. Just as GHOST hoists SOAP up by his thighs and throws him to lay face-up on the cot, the curtains close)

A spotlight descends on the curtains and the NARRATOR returns, standing in the center of the stage.

NARRATOR

A glooming peace this morning with it brings;

The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;

Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished:

For never was a story of more woe

Than this of Johnnyboy and his darling Ghost.

CHORUS

Justice for Ella!

- SCENE -

HELL, MIDDLE OF (BUT SLIGHTLY TO THE LEFT. TAKE IT BACK NOW Y’ALL!)

“Wait!”

John jolts forward, thin bedsheets pooling where he hinges at the waist.

He’s alone in his room, just himself and the repetitive, familiar chirping of his alarm. In fact, all of it is familiar. He remembers this bed, how it feels, remembers the walls and the linoleum floor and the smell of it, too. But where’s Ghost? He was just there.

John pats his mattress, as if Ghost was somehow hiding beneath or between his sheets and unsurprisingly finds nothing.

Right. Because he’s alone in his room, just himself and the sheets and the cot that struggles to fit his body, let alone his and someone else’s. He rubs at his sleepy eyes and forces his mind to reacquaint itself with reality, but the dream he’d just had was sticky—clawing it’s way impossibly back from the aether, begging, scrabbling to linger even if just for a few moments longer.

The dream was sticky in that way, and also in another.

John decides that it’s a beautiful day to curl up and die and then die again just to be safe.

HELL, MIDDLE OF (CHARLIE BROWN!)

Hell on Earth exists, and it is Verdansk. Freezing fucking cold, windy as all hell, and dark, dark, dark.

Luckily, Soap has an angel looking over him, but he’d rather not think about that right now.

The angel’s voice comes through tinny and flat and terribly familiar through his earpiece, which does little to mellow its rasp. “Soap, you’ve got three enemies moving in East.” Reliable. The angel is reliable and also professional, and its voice is simultaneously the very same and so radically different from how it sounded a handful of hours ago.

Soap takes a moment to nod to no one in particular before checking left, then right. Indeed, he can make out three figures ambling his way, assault rifles cradled lazily in their arms as they shoot the shit on patrol.

“Copy,” he says, very calm, very collected. In reality, he is very nauseous. “Permission to engage?”

Already anticipating the go-ahead, he readies his muzzled sidepiece and pats the handle of his knife for good measure. He knows it’s there, of course, remembers slotting it in its sheath, but shit has a terrible habit of happening.

“Give ‘em hell,” says the angel, AKA Ghost, FKA Simon, AKA the very last person Soap trusts himself around at that given moment.

To make a long story short, Soap does indeed give them hell. They get to their exfil location. They exfil. Soap doesn’t look at Ghost’s hands (too familiar) or his eyes (also too familiar) and doesn’t get close enough to smell him (too familiar) or anything else, really.

Ghost doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t act like anything’s amiss at all.

(familiar)

SPOTIFY

Discover Weekly

Your weekly mixtapes of fresh music. Enjoy new music and deep cuts picked for you. Updates every Monday.

Made for John MacTavish

1h 43m

Careless Whisper

George Michael

Careless Whisper

George Michael

Careless Whisper

George Michael

Careless Whisper

George Michael

Oops! I Did it Again

Britney Spears

Careless Whisper

George Michael

Careless Whisper

George Michael

HELL, MIDDLE OF (REVERSE! REVERSE!)

An accident becomes several, which in turn become the gateway drug to your deepest desire. Nice guys don’t finish last. They generally don’t finish at all: A Collection of Haikus

oops (sensation)

they’re not your hands (not

hers or yours) but they feel, of

course, so good, so good

i (and sound)

call to me, that voice:

more like thunder (like i). i

needed, yet need more

did (and sweet)

secret taste of salt

and taste of sin. oh, soothe me.

my love, forgive me

it (and scent)

you’ve laid down your arm—

just the one—for me to find,

and covet, and drink

again (and see how fucked you are)

fingers follow your

eye (I’ve caught) and I pull down,

push forth the issue

chapter 3