#Sweet ghoap

[thatoneautisticshark]

Would you consider writing about hybrid Ghoap? Wolf hybrid Simon "Ghost" Riley who has always considered the 141 his pack but is still fairly solitary and dog hybrid John "Soap" MacTavish who also gets the pack instincts but in a more domesticated dog-ish way who somehow managed to get close to Ghost is on my mind more often then I'd like to admit. Lots of wagging tails. I've never sent an ask before but you seemed sad with how few you had :)

Ghost, safe to say, was pissed. The higher ups decided they needed a new team member into their pack, but they were totally fine.

Not only that, he was a canine hybrid?

They had a wolf in the group already, adding a second canine hybrid, that they had never met to the pack meant almost certain fights, and dominance issues.

At the very least the new Hybrid was only a sergeant. So even if he was a cocky bastard trying to be the dominant dog, Ghost still out ranked him.

Although Gaz was excited, he at least understood Ghost's annoyance. The time they had tried to add in another harpy did not go well.The fights that had started were viscous, the new one didn't want to accept that Gaz would not bow to him, and it ended with the new harpy downright trying to fuck up Gaz’s wings with fire, just so he could have the dominant position.

Price was the only one without an issue. Lynx were rare in the military, and usually Reacted more with an automatic bond, then fighting.

But Price understood Ghost's reluctance, and promised he'd deal with the brat if he caused issues.

And so here he stood, with his pack on the tarmac, waiting for the new mutt to arrive. Gaz had dropped his wing over the wolfs shoulder in a little show of comfort that Ghost appreciated.

The truck finally pulled up, containing the new team member. Out hopped a pup with a stupid mohawk? At the very least he wasn't a wolf, and didn't smell of cocky young dog.

The young one, Soap, walked over, his tail lazily wagging. “Heya! I'm John Mactavish, callsign soap. Hybrid of German Shepherd and a retriever.”

Price stepped forward first, introducing himself. “Captain John Price, lynx hybrid. Good to have you on the team.” He introduced, shaking the dogs hand.

Soap nodded “Good to meet you sir.”

At the very least he seemed to have manners, Ghost mused. He wasn't immediately trying to challenge the captain.

Gaz stepped forward, introducing himself as well. Although Ghost could see the tension, he was worried about how the pup would react to Ghost. “Hey mate. Sergeant Kyle Garrick, call sign Gaz. Harpy hybrid. Nice to meet you.”

Soaps' tail was wagging, making him look like an excited pup as he responded. “Nice to meet you too! I like your wings, they look cool.”

Well he was either good at flattery, or very sweet and excited. He moved Infront of Ghost, who was still glaring.

Instead of any kind of challenge like Ghost was tensed for, Soap showed submission. Bowing his head slightly, ears moving back, and tail dipping. Ghost blinked at him for a second, not expecting him to immediately acknowledge Ghost as the wolf in charge. It took him a second to right his brain, before speaking “Lieutenant Simon riley, Ghost. Wolf hybrid.”

The dog kept his head slightly bowed “Nice to meet you”

By the time a few weeks had gone by, Ghost was amazed there had not been an issue. Soap was talented, that was sure, a good shot, skilled fighter and amazing with bombs.

Him and Gaz had struck it off well, already being close friends, and he got along with Price.

He was quickly becoming a part of the pack, and Ghost, surprisingly, didn't resent it.

Soap was always respectful, and still showing signs of submission with Ghost, however ever did seem to seek him out.

Whenever Ghost spoke to him, his tail would be wagging slightly. And despite himself, Ghost found himself enjoying the company of the new pup.

Almost always sitting by him in the mess, working well in tandem, and thinking of him as part of the pack.

So naturally when management decided 3 months after Soap had joined that, no he didn't fit, they had a better placement.

Soap wasn't happy. He thought he'd been bonding well, but he supposed not. He was a bit hurt; none of the team had just told him, rather than getting him moved.

He wasn't expecting when the general brought it up in a briefing that he would be being removed, Gaz to jump to his feet, wings fluffed up in anger demanding why the fuck they were moving soap.

Prince sprung up, ears against his skull in anger “Why are you moving him? He fits in perfectly well?” His voice was laced with anger and growl.

The general stammered slightly “I well.. you guys already have a canine so it'll cause arguments with Ghost” He tried, before being cut off by a deep growl from Ghost.

Ghost stood up, grabbing Soap and pulling him protectively behind himself. “Don't you fucking dare.” He spat “Johnny is part of our pack. I will rip out your fucking windpipe if you try.”

The general froze.. “Uhm.. change of plans, soap is a permanent member.” He quickly stammered.

Ghost gave a huff, nuzzling Soaps, who looked dumbfounded, head.

That was really the jumping point for the close bond. Pretty soon, if one was seen the other wasn't far. After long missions in the heli, they'd be sitting against one another, tails wagging as they nuzzled eachother.

[ghostlysoaps]

John MacTavish used to spend parts of his summers in England visiting extended family and this is where he ends up meeting a boy a couple years older than him named Simon. Surprisingly enough, they hit it off. His bombastic, extroverted personality somehow manages to compliment Simon’s rather timid, introverted one. Joined at the hip, the two of them quickly call themselves best friends, and, as children tend to do, develop a bit of an innocent crush on each other – going so far as to promise to marry one another if they haven’t found anyone else by the time they’re both twenty-five.

But then autumn arrives and goodbyes are made and their promises to meet up again never come to fruition.

He doesn’t forget him though. Their friendship remains a fond memory, even a decade later, though much of the details are blurred with time. Perhaps it’s because they’d been each other’s first kiss – if the chaste peck of lips-on-lips can be called as such – or it’s the ring of twined straw, brittle as tinder, he has tucked away in his box of mementos that make that particular summer an unforgettable thing.

That and his steadfast insistence no one else is allowed to use a certain nickname for him.

In any case… those faded months are far from his mind when John Price is showing him around their base of operations, introducing him to people as they go along. The one-four-one consists of near enough two dozen operatives though he’s told it’s not uncommon to be mostly paired off with a select few of his fellow soldiers if they play to each other’s strengths. He nods along and pushes for the use of his callsign when folks wish to be friendly. Until, eventually, he finds himself face-to-face with a man who needs no introduction. A living legend as it were; who’s records Soap had worked hard to beat.

“Well then, last but not least. MacTavish, this is Lieutenant Simon Riley. Also known as–”

“–my future husband,” John finishes for him, based on a name, twelve percent of a full thought and the manc accent he’d spied when hearing him dismiss a batch of recruits.

Youngest to ever make the SAS and about to be the quickest one ousted, he thinks miserably when the eyes assessing him narrow at his declaration.

“Johnny?”

Oh.

“So ye do remember me!” Pivoting from mortification to delight, and heedless to any gawking voyeurs, John slings an arm around Simon’s shoulders to draw him into a loose side-hug. “No’ long now ‘fore we need t’ get hitched, aye?”

“Courthouse is a twenty minute ride,” Simon says drily.

Soap laughs, brighter than he can remember doing for a long time, before he immediately starts teasing Ghost about not proposing properly.

(He does, of course, do so years down the line.)

[bressynonym]

lunch date!! 😋

menu for today: boba and pho! 🧋🍜

[gomzdrawfr]

gimme a kiss, Simon!

[verdantcreek]

art for sundowning by @losersimonriley ☀️

[hatsbuckets]

[i do not need a fwb situation, i tell myself repeatedly. (i'm in college it'd be way too easy lmao)]

Head Canons (some suggestive stuff in this but not much)

Thinking about John Mactavish volunteering at animal shelters whenever he can. It ends up being like a few spattering of days every month, but he'll spend all day there. He loves being around the animals. And he loves getting to be useful and help wherever he can.

You, a longtime volunteer, there nearly every day, love having the enthusiastic, charming... strong... muscular... funny... extra help too. You were the one who showed John around on his first day, a volunteer event day that he happened upon. A few dozen people showed up, and this mohawked, military man was among them.

He was one of the few who came back to the shelter after the event, and on some random day every week, he's there to lend a hand, listening intently to whatever instructions you give him (he's very motivated to listen to you and help the animals out) and even after a couple weeks of absence, he comes back again, apologizing that work took him away so suddenly.

And after a few months... this silly, mohawked, (might I add effortlessly charming, handsome, pretty?) military man's scattering of volunteer days has become a welcome surprise every time. He's always so sweet when he talks to you, throwing a friendly, "good mornin', love. Survive without me?" Carrying on easy conversation throughout the day, and occasionally something that feels like flirting, but you don't read too much into it.

He's a blessing to have. Dogs need a run? He's the first to grab their leashes. Cats' litter boxes need cleaning? He's there with a scoop in hand. The small collection of rodents' pens need a new layer of bedding? He's already headed to storage.

He comes back drenched in sweat from runs, his tank plastered to his chest. Sweaty thighs peeking out from below his shorts as he squats down to pet the happy, panting dogs. And you pass him a towel, and his smile just beams up at you. God he's adorable and hot all at once.

His arms flex against his shirt sleeves when he hefts the heavy bags of food up onto his shoulder and god if only he'd do that that you.

His hands are so gentle with the tiny new litter of cats that just came in, helping you clean them off and place them safely into the crate with their mum. need I say more

You learn more about each other. Where he's from, what he does for work, and of course you'd pinned military, but he doesn't quite go into the work that he does. He talks about the men he works with, and you start to recognize names like Price, Gaz, and Ghost. He even shows you pictures of the first two. Not the latter though.

And then another few weeks he's not there... You're starting to miss the loud Scottish voice that normally fills the space as you hose down the concrete patio in the back the shelter. Your thoughts drift to how last time you did this with him he had sprayed you very intentionally with the hose. And you nearly tackled him to wrap your soaking body around him. His hand discarding the hose and wrapping under your legs as he hoists you happily up into his arms and oh you were so close, laughing, smiling, teasing about getting soaked. You were definitely blushing as much as he was.

a couple of days later, just like he'd never left, he's back, helping you organize the larger storage closet. Sharing jokes and teasing. Until you have to reach across him and his face is so close to yours and he completes the distance, catching you oh so off guard but you melt into that kiss. and he presses and prods until your job to reorganize is interrupted by the sudden to fuck each other into the next dimension.

and then a few days later it's the same... You had simply gone to grab a new leash from the closet... he had come for a bag of dog food... or that's what he'd told you at least...

And then your bodies are close, his hand at the back of your neck, your hand travelling down and down, his mouth on yours, hot, needy, quick, and amazing. You're both happy to do it. And it seems you both don't think much of it.

This becomes a routine, in his oh too few volunteer days each month, you make a habit of occupying small, mostly private spaces of the shelter, the small break room, the storage closet, his car, your car. It's only been two or three months, and it's not like it's a big shelter, not that many employees, but damn if it doesn't excite you all the same.

And then after one of these sessions, as you're slipping you shirt on in the back of your car, he pecks a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth. "I'll be gone a few weeks this time, bonnie. Jus' though' I might warn ya." (his accent gets thicker when it's laced with lust, you've come to notice.)

And he is, gone a while, that is. And during this time one of your old flings comes to town... some business trip... and God is this one always a good time, so charming and kind, buys you chocolates and all, a good person truly, just not one to settle down. That's fine by you. So, you let them take you home, let them in your bed, and have a good time. And then they head back to whatever the hell fancy job they have in whatever town they live in now.

It's longer than you expect before John comes back. And when he does, he greets you with that charming smile and you put him to work almost immediately, and he's happy to get to cleaning the dog kennels with you. You get to talking, he asks how your past few weeks have been. And John is so easy to talk to. And you mention your old friend you visited, how they visited your home, even bought you chocolates, the goof. But John gets quiet at this... you don't mention it, not yet...

And then of course, he walks you out to your car that afternoon and of course you end up in the back of it (I should mention here that you do not own a small car, after being the animal lover you are, you need the space to load crates in the back seat) and something about how John takes you this time is needy, needier, possesive in the way he nips at your skin and presses against you.

And at the end of it, he leaves with the same gentle peck at the corner of your mouth, but this time there's no quip, no tease, just a "drive safe" and a gentle smile...

A few days later this man returns to the shelter and before he even asks what needs to get done, he's offering up a small box of chocolates with a bashful little smile.

You thank him and accept the chocolates. and then it's back to work. That evening though, after a particularly long day after getting three new dogs and a new cat, when John walks you to your car, you ask if he wants to go home with you. You'd thought about it all day... somewhere between cleaning and intaking the new animals, mustering up the courage to ask. He accepts with that same enthusiasm that the dogs have when someone walks in with their leashes.

You wake up tangled in him, his arm slung heavy over your waist, his chest warm against your back, one leg thrown over yours like he’s actively trying to wrestle you into the mattress in his sleep. And this man sleeps light, military training and all, but the second you start shifting to sneak out of bed, his grip tightens. "Where ya goin’, love?" all rough morning voice and sleep-heavy slur, nose nudging against your shoulder like he could just sink right back into you and stay there. (You do not go anywhere.)

And things stay the same, mostly. He still only comes around every few weeks, still volunteers, still fills the shelter with that chaotic, obnoxious, charming energy. Still gets drenched in sweat from running the dogs, still lifts those massive bags of food onto his shoulders like he’s personally showing off for you (and he is), still sneaks off into the storage closet with you when no one’s looking, grinning against your mouth before pressing you up against the nearest shelf.

But then, one evening, right as you're closing up the shelter, he lingers by the front desk. Hands shoved deep in his pockets. That telltale shift of weight from foot to foot like he's got something rattling around in his skull, something he's been turning over for a while now.

"Was thinkin'..." He exhales sharply, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his boots like they’ve got the answers. "I've gotta go again, but maybe next time I’m back, we go out somewhere. A proper date, aye?"

And fuck. That shouldn’t make your stomach flip. But it does. You should say yes. You want to say yes. But you don't.

Because life is a cruel and petty little bastard, your old fling had waltzed back into town. Just for you. A familiar, easy thing. The kind of person you don’t have to think about too much. And for some reason, you say yes when they ask you to dinner. Maybe because you don’t want to wait for something uncertain. Maybe because John is John—flirty, gorgeous, disgustingly good at making you weak in the knees, but never around long enough for you to be sure. (And John doesn't show it, not outwardly, but it breaks his heart.)

And then John comes back. Finally. And he’s not alone. There is a mountain standing next to him. Big. Broad. Dressed head to toe in dark clothes and hoodie like he’s ready for spying, the lower half of his face covered by a black medical mask. He looks like he could crush a man with one hand and still have fingers left to spare. And his eyes, dark, cold, sharp as a fucking blade, land on you like he’s personally offended by your existence. Oh. Oh, this must be Ghost.

John, completely unfazed, grins. “Ghost wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” Ghost says nothing. Just stares. (You have never felt more judged in your life. The fuck did you do to make this walking fortress glare at you like that? You know he doesn’t know. There’s no way he knows. Right?)

And things go back to normal, kind of. John keeps showing up, keeps doing his usual thing. But there’s something off this time. A shift in the way he looks at you, something quietly considering behind his eyes. It all comes to a head one evening when you’re closing up together, standing in the back room trying to fix a shelving issue. He’s quiet. You’re quiet.

And then, you break first. Spill it out like you didn’t mean to—how your old fling wasn’t what you thought, how you shouldn’t have agreed in the first place, how you let yourself get caught up in something easy instead of something real. And John? He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, listening, nodding along like he’s already pieced this all together. Until you mutter, "And I don’t even fucking like chocolate."

And that is what makes him pause. And his brows pull together. Just a little. And then, in the softest, most John way possible—"...Oh."

And the next time he walks into the shelter, it’s not with chocolates.

It’s with a small paper bag. He hands it to you with a little smirk, and inside.

Fresh strawberries. From the farmer’s stand down the road. You’d only mentioned them once. Some passing comment made one day while you were both cleaning up in the yard outside. And John had remembered. And with a charming little smile, he takes your hand. "Let me take ya out properly." And you blink up at him, caught off guard by how easy, how simple he makes it sound. "I—yeah."

And yes, you go on that date. And yes, you end up back at your place. And yes, you have a very, very good night.

And yes, eventually, John introduces you to Ghost properly. (and Price and Gaz too, ah John and Kyle.)

And yes, somehow, someway, you end up with not just one, but two terrifyingly strong military men helping out at the shelter—John still enthusiastically doing everything he can, and Ghost looming in the doing every little thing you ask without question, surprisingly good with the most feral old cats, somehow terrifying and begrudgingly helpful all at once. (He makes it a point to lift two bags of dog food for every one John carries. Jesus Christ)

And yes, eventually, Ghost ends up in your bed too.

But that’s another story.

Thanks for reading.

[4me2knowandyou2wonder]

Hey COD writers, I just want you to know that in some army pants, there are holes at the top of the main pockets for breathability. What I’m trying to say here is that if *someone* stuck their hand inside *someone elses* pocket—as long as that someone else doesn’t have their shirt tucked in super deep—this person could touch the other’s stomach and maybe even their treasure trial.

That’s all, thank you for your time.

[majinbangus]

Yeah, this would be them

Soap coming in with his arm wrapped around you and holding the leash to guard dog!Ghost's collar: Where's the captain?

Gaz, eyeing Ghost's leash: Um, whatcha got there?

Soap, squeezing you closer: My bonnie sweetheart <3

[a-5-m-0-d-3-u-5]

Have I ever even touched a COD game in my life? No.

Do I plan to? Who knows.

Am I smitten with 141 and crave male reader stuff, so want to offer it? Very much.

I just hope no one cares if I get them wrong lol

[crashnbrn]

[temeyes]

Hello! Ik you probably hear that a lot but I wanted to tell you that I absolutely love your art. It's so smooth and aesthetically pleasing, also I love your version of Johny and Simon. Also good luck on getting your tattoo done!

~🐸 @froggy-anon

aHIII thank u so much sweet sweet froggy anon!!! <33 and my tatt session went pretty nicely yesterday actually and i'm LOVING it! (tho i'm planning to have it retouched cuz i really want it to look more like ghost's skull plate LMAO)

here's a quick dood of johnny and simon w/ my ghostsoap tatt for u froggy anon so you, and everyone else, can see AHSAHSH mwAH

[jazmeanb]

Uploading the WIP. Special thanks to @ave661 for their renders. I owe you my life (✿◦’ᴗ˘◦)♡

[kibagib]

More scenes for @starlightvld's fanfic Broken Bones and Shattered Hearts.

Also, a little bonus:

CHAPTERS 1-3 / CHAPTERS 7-9

[yourdeerauntsally]

Chapter 2 of Sweet on You (sugar daddy Soap and sugar baby Ghost) is live!!

[slashhinginghasher]

No Such Thing As A Free Ride

Ghost x Soap Hitcher AU

Part 1 Part 2

tw: light blood/gore

Oh, he needs this fucker out of his car. He needed him out at least 20 miles ago. Johnny's hands are clammy on the wheel, cold sweat pricking along his hairline. Ghost's eyes are boring into him, measuring his reaction. It doesn't feel like the anticipation of a person who's just told a really shitty joke and is waiting for you to groan or laugh or get angry. It feels like a cat waiting for the mouse to twitch so it can pounce.

Ghost never did put his seatbelt on after getting in the car.

Johnny's got a knife in his pocket, a stupid little thing with a star-spangled handle and a decal of an eagle wearing a cowboy hat, which he picked up at a roadside shop because it was so hilariously ugly. He's not even sure it'll make it past airport security when he goes home. But right now, it feels like providence.

The road is dark, no headlights or taillights when he glances at the mirrors. No oncoming traffic to run into if the car spins out. He nudges the accelerator, urging the car just a little faster. He'll have to be fast and, more importantly, lucky, because he'll only get one shot.

"What do you call a guy missing a part of his skull?" Ghost asks, flicking the butt of his cigarette out the window.

"I dunno," Johnny says, surreptitiously bracing himself. He's proud of how steady his voice is. "What?"

"Open minded."

Speaking of shitty jokes.

Jesus fuckin' Christ.

Johnny slams on the brakes.

The wheels shudder and Ghost bounces off the dashboard, head and hands. The seatbelt cuts into Johnny's chest and shoulder harder than he expected, but he can't cater to the shock of pain just yet. He whips the knife out and grabs a fistful of damp jacket with the other hand, holds the blade to Ghost's throat.

God, he hopes this cheap piece of shit is actually sharp enough to cut.

"What the fuck-" Ghost groans, voice muffled by the hand over his face, but Johnny cuts him off by the pressing the metal edge a little harder against the exposed skin of the other man's neck.

"Ride's over, pal," he snarls. "Get the fuck out." He grits his teeth and scowls, trying to look intimidating instead of pants-shittingly terrified. Ghost looks at him from the corner of his eyes.

"What're you doing?" He sounds a little nasal now. Johnny hopes he's busted the fucker's nose. His pulse, though, is infuriatingly slow and steady under Johnny's hand.

"The fuck does it look like I'm doin'? I'm sendin' you on your merry fuckin' way."

Should he shake him a little? It seems like it might be the correct thing to do, but Johnny is terrified of losing his grip.

It's so quiet. Drip of the rain and the tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine. The sound of Johnny trying to wrangle his breaths into silence. He swears he can hear Ghost blink.

"You ever stab anyone before, Johnny?"

No, no he fucking hasn't. He's never used a knife in self defense before, just for dumb tricks to impress people at parties. Ghost's skin is burning hot against Johnny's knuckles. He has no idea if he's close to drawing blood.

"It's awfully messy," Ghost continues. "Be such a shame to have clean all that up, 'specially since it's not your car."

There's a purr in Ghost's voice that's almost sexual, and it kind of makes Johnny want to die. Something warm trickles over his fingers, and he realizes in a sick rush that he's broken the skin.

"I'll say this one more time," he grits out, drawing on every cold-blooded action hero he's ever seen to keep his composure. "Open the door. And get. Out."

For an awful moment, he thinks Ghost isn't going to listen, and he's not sure if he's actually prepared to use real violence against the bigger man. It's a relief when he slowly pops open the door and, with an unwavering gaze, slides even more slowly out of the passenger seat.

Johnny thinks he's in the clear, but then Ghost's hand lashes out. He grabs Johnny by the wrist (his fingers almost touch, they almost fucking touch) and he licks his goddamn blood off of Johnny's fingers.

Johnny recoils so hard he hits the driver side door, and floors it. His arm bends painfully before Ghost stumbles and relinquishes his grip and he's able to pull it inside, dragging the door shut with it. Miraculously, he doesn't drop the knife, but he does almost cut himself with it several times as he wipes his hand off on the seat so fervently he gives himself rugburn. The other hand is gripping the wheel so tightly it hurts, barely keeping the car from careening off the road.

Ghost's silhouette fades, swallowed by distance and rain.

***

He almost cries with relief when he sees the sign for the rest stop. He's been driving for hours, checking the rearview mirror every five minutes just in case Ghost somehow materializes in the backseat, and figures he's put enough distance between them that the hitcher won't catch up to him on foot, even if he sprints. There's no one else in the lot, which is unsurprising but does make him feel conspicuous. He parks under a tree, the thick trunk providing an extra barrier between him and the road.

He swears he can still feel Ghost's spit on his skin, even though he's rubbed his hand almost raw.

The thought of falling asleep and leaving himself vulnerable makes him sick with fear, but the adrenaline crash is hitting him hard. He triple-checks the locks on all the doors and reclines the driver's seat as far back as it will go.

Eventually, he dozes off, clutching the glorious, idiotic cowboy knife to his chest.

***

The terror of the previous night is starting to feel like a fever dream in the bright morning sunlight. Johnny wakes with a crick in his neck, a bruise on his collarbone, and a sore elbow, but the parking lot is still empty and so is the road, which he can see for miles in either direction under a clear blue sky.

The bathrooms are locked, so he takes a piss in the bushes before inspecting the big map posted on the wall behind a sheet of scratched plexiglass. There's a truck stop about 45 miles away with a gas station and a diner. Johnny's stomach growls at the thought of a big, greasy American breakfast, and the knot in his chest loosens further at the thought of seeing some regular, sane people.

Stretching his back with a loud groan, he saunters back to the car. Honestly, he's starting to second guess himself a little. Nobody would straight up admit to murder to a stranger, right? That would astronomically stupid. Ghost (clearly a fake name) was probably one of those weird cunts who read autopsy reports for fun and got off on making people scared. Johnny doesn't regret kicking him out of the car though, even if the knife was overkill. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, or whatever; don't act like a demented freak around the bloke giving you a ride if you don't want to be dumped on the side of the road.

The passenger seat is barely damp when he touches it. By the time he reaches the truck stop, it'll be like last night never even happened. He spots the cigarette lighter still rolling about in the cup holder and tosses it back into the center console. Out of sight, out of mind.

His fingers brush something sticky.

Johnny's heart leaps into his throat and his stomach plummets down somewhere below his arse. Shaking, trepidatious, he plucks the object out from the console and immediately throws it as far as possible with a startled cry of disgust. It bounces a couple times before rolling to a stop some 15 meters away on the pavement.

His stomach clenches and his throat convulses as he dry heaves, trying to choke back another scream. He rubs his hand frantically through the condensation gathered on the hood of the car to get the tackiness off his fingers because if he wipes it on his leg then it'll be on his pants-

A crow flies down from the tree, eying Johnny suspiciously before pecking at the object. It gives a few exploratory nips to the pink, stringy bit before moving on to the fleshy white sphere. With a triumphant caw, it picks the whole thing up and tosses its head back.

Johnny doubles over and vomits as the bird gulps down the bloody human eye Ghost left in his car.

[imaginatio-n]

Ghoap Cheating Ficlet Pt 2: Ghost POV

[First] [2] [Next]

Ghost, of course, is absolutely convinced Johnny is cheating on him.

Johnny didn’t come back to Simon’s room last night even though he promised. He is skittish all morning. Doesn’t let Simon in his room. Is he hiding someone- No. No Johnny wouldn’t do that to him. Not after everything they have been through together. Not after everything Simon has told him, trusted him with.

He could have sworn there was a black hair on the sheets Johnny is hurrying down the hall to get rid of. Simon shakes his head to dislodge the nausea slowly raising in his stomach.

Fifteen minutes later there is a guy disappearing down the corridor, Johnny’s „Text me later!“ burning a hole into Simons heart. Surely he heard wrong. He would be the bad guy here if he did not believe Johnny’s explanation. No matter how- disjointed it sounds.

In the mess Simon ignores the first three texts lighting up Johnny’s screen. This is not a telenovela, he will not play the part of the jealous boyfriend- but when another two come in in quick succession he can not stop his eyes from snapping over.

‚MM‘

‚9 New Messages‘

It reads in big bold letters. Simon knows Johnny has saved all his contacts with first and last name, even him. There is something dark and primal and broken brewing deep within his guts.

Like a bloody grown up he asks Johnny about the messages when he returns. Barely gets a full sentence in return before his Sergeant is gone, phone clutched to his chest. Simon doesn’t think, just stands and follows right after him.

His steps are silent, breath even. It’s almost as if he is in the field, tailing a target. The only thing off is the way his heart is threatening to beat right out of his chest. Johnny wouldn’t. He would never-

There is a shirtless man on Johnny’s screen, grinning brightly into the lens. Someone’s beside him Simon thinks, but Soap turns before he can make out any specifics and- is that a picture from last night? After the two of them had stumbled into Johnny’s bed, tangled up together. Fucked on the very same bed Simon fell asleep on three days ago, pressed to Johnny’s broad back. Woke up together tangled in soiled sheets Johnny hurried to get rid of right away.

The look on Johnny’s face can not be described as anything other than panicked. „I can explain-„

Simon can not do this. He runs. He runs from all the hours spend pressed against warm skin. He runs from all the words whispered as the sun rose behind drawn curtains. He runs from the feeling threatening to rip open his chest.

---

Johnny doesn’t see Simon for two days straight. He isn’t there during drills, another Lieutenant covering his shift. Doesn’t open his door whenever Soap knocks.

Gaz and Price thrown him questioning looks he can only answer with a shrug. He doesn’t know what is eating Simon either. But it is getting close to Christmas. Maybe that’s it.

He will ask the Captain for a free weekend sometime early December. Get the two of them out of the city and away from all of the holiday hustle and bustle. Take Simon’s mind off things.

Yeah, a few days away from it all, just the two of them. That sounds nice.

But before all that he needs to find a permanent home for Lieutenant Meow.

Yesterday Mathewson and he nearly got caught trying to smuggle her into the kitchens to find her some milk and a bit of meat. They were out of there before anyone could stop and ask for their names, but Soaps haircut was a kind of curse in that regard.

He wouldn’t be surprised if the attending Chef ran straight to Ghost or Price. Just his luck.

---

Simon nearly decks the chef complaining about „Sergeants abusing their ranks to sneak about for little trysts where they are not supposed to be-„ but manages to ask for the other recruits name before he speaks some placating words to get rid of the guy.

Marvin Mathewson. MM. Ghost looks up his file. Under appearance his hair colour is listed as black.

Simon isn’t stupid. He knows he is damaged goods. Has been broken beyond repair, barely managed to cobble together enough working parts to make up a human being.

But he has made peace with himself. Worked through all the pain and trauma to reach a place of mind that allowed him happiness. That allowed him to open up to Johnny and accept his- love. What he had thought to be love.

But apparently Simon isn’t enough. Not for Johnny. Maybe he lost his appeal sometime after he managed to loose the mask in private. Mystery solved.

Maybe Johnny’s just got sick of all the nights Simons nightmares keep them awake. He has enough on his own, doesn’t need Ghost to rob him of the few nights he manages to catch some sleep.

Maybe- it doesn’t matter. Simon isn’t enough. So Johnny went somewhere else. To someone else.

And fuck. Simon loves him. He is angry and hurt and feels like he is bleeding out on the inside, but he loves Johnny. He wants him to be happy. And it is fucking pathetic but if Simon isn’t enough, if Johnny needs someone else too, then maybe Ghost can let him have that.

He can turn a blind eye. Can pretend everything is alright. Can play the oblivious bastard waiting for Johnny to come home, not noticing his smell tinged with another mans cologne.

For Johnny’s happiness he is willing to do a lot of things.

That night when a knock sounds on his door, Simon doesn’t hide underneath his covers.

He gets up and lets Johnny kiss him, kisses him back so desperately it almost hurts. Lets himself be pressed down into the mattress and clings to naked skin, sucks marks into Johnny’s throat, leaves scratches down his back. Pretends not to see the ones already there, the ones on his arms and neck Simon knows he isn’t responsible for.

Despite the nausea he tries his very best not to breathe in too deeply.

Yeah, this is all he needs. Whatever Johnny is willing to give him, is gonna have to be enough.