#ghoap slow burn

[swordsandholly]

Across The Way

Ch. 2: And So It Begins

Retired!Ghoap x fem!plus size!Reader

MDNI

Ao3 | Previous - Next

Word Count: 2.6k

Summary: You go to Scotland with high hopes for your future. After all, you have the bakery you always dreamed of and a whole new life to live. Plus, the men who own the butcher’s shop across the street seem nice.

A/N: I got this out a lot faster than I thought I would. Hopefully my work doesn’t get too insane and I can get the next out in a timely manner - it’s going to be a bigger one!

“You were right.” Simon carefully cuts through the loaf with a serrated knife. He’s never lost his skill with them, despite their uses becoming increasingly more domestic over the years. It’s charming, in a way - the juxtaposition of where they started and where they are now.

“Right about whit?” Johnny asks.

“She is a pretty little thing.”

“Donnae tell me I need tae be worried about ye sneakin’ off at work.” He jokes. Simon would never, of course, but it’s fun to see the way his cheeks heat up at the implication. Without his mask he wears every expression with reckless abandon.

Simon settles his large frame into the seat across from Johnny at the dining table. It’s small, they don’t need much. The chairs always creak under Simon’s weight in an almost threatening fashion. He pushes a plate with two pieces of the bread and some eggs over to Johnny. There’s an odd tug in his chest when he picks up the slice - an urge to be gentle as he spreads butter over it. Gentility is not a compulsion he feels often.

“S’good.” Simon mutters around his bite.

Johnny nods along after taking one himself. There’s love in it - he can tell. A piece carefully crafted with only absolute perfection in mind. How strange that food can carry such a feeling.

“Was a wee bit worried we’d be stuck across from the nicest, worst baker in the world.” He mutters.

Simon huffs out a half laugh.

~~~

Your first week goes by in a blur. For a small town they sure do manage to keep you busy. It’s good, you remind yourself. Better than none. If you keep it up at this rate you’ll be able to hire help by the end of the summer quarter.

By Monday, the first day of your “weekend”, you’re overdone. Head dizzy and body exhausted, you spend the day in bed. It’s a gratifying exhaustion, one you hope to build more of a tolerance for. As of now, though, you elect to remain deeply buried under the covers.

When you wake for a second time the sun is already near setting again. The entirety of Monday slunk by with you in bed. You grumble to yourself angrily like an old man. You wanted to unpack today - to at least get your clothes and kitchen items put away.

“Stupid.” You grouse. At least you still have time to shower, you suppose.

As you stand the world blacks out for a moment, your body swaying in place. You allow yourself to fall back on the bed, sitting while your vision slowly comes back into focus. Blinking away black dots and off squiggles that dance across your eyes. On attempt number two you manage it, making your way to the bathroom.

The work is worth it. The pain is worth it.

This is what you always wanted, after all.

You are happy. You can feel it in your bones. They’re lighter than they used to be - your whole body thrums with excited energy even as you have to lower yourself with the upmost care into the shower seat. Even as you have to scrape one of the cheap fold out chairs you managed to get over to the stove while you cook a late night dinner. Thank god for low counters.

When you were arranging your schedule it took a while to get it perfected. To compensate for your body you have to have time to rest and be able to do a lot of baking preparation before the work week starts. Monday and Tuesday are for rest. Wednesdays are for prep. The shop is closed but you’re in the back working your ass off mixing and kneading and shaping doughs. As well as practicing new recipes you want to add to the store’s line up eventually. Your goal is to sell American biscuits, preferably in batches of six, but those take a lot of work and don’t keep as long. They’ll have to wait until you have hired help.

It’s all chance and whatever you can manage to make happen. You learned to be okay with that, though.

You’ve got plenty of spoons, you tell yourself. Just need to use them wisely.

When you finally close the fridge, now fully stocked with dough ready to proof and bake, you check the clock. It’s still the early afternoon. You finished sooner than you assumed you might. The thought makes you giddy - makes you feel accomplished.

It makes you feel normal.

As you exit into the warm spring sun you take a moment. Ever since you arrived you haven’t been able to just stop. To just take everything in - let the foreign air fill your lungs and the aura of the town sink into your bones.

It’s a lovely little main street that you’re located on. The building to your left is a large family owned pharmacy (very convenient for you) and to your right is an empty brick building. It looks like a former post office, but from what you know the current post office is a few blocks down beside the grocers. It’s quaint, the lot of it.

Your eyes settle on the shop across from yours housed in a simple brick building painted white. The upstairs is an apartment much like yours, you think, but from what you know it currently remains empty. The sign above the door reads A Cut Above the Rest. You wonder if that was Simon or Johnny’s doing.

Would it be weird to go in? You suppose not, after all they came to yours. It’s only fair you give them some patronage as well. Plus you need to ask how the bread was. Hopefully they liked it - you realized halfway through the night that you didn’t even ask if they like sourdough before shoving it into their hands.

That thought kept you up later than you’d like to admit.

You look both ways down the street. This particular spot doesn’t have a crosswalk but the road is so dead even when the downtown is busy you figure it’s worth risking. The lack of danger doesn’t stop you from fast-walking across, though.

The shop’s old-fashioned door bell chimes prettily as you push it open. For a butcher it smells extremely clean - almost clinical. It’s small, with an L shaped display counter and a register at the end nearest the door. Packages of sausage links and the like hang on displays across the back wall. Beside the wooden saloon doors that lead behind the counter is a little dog bed with a very well crafted name plate reading Riley hanging right above it.

So cute.

“Afternoon.” Simon appears from the back, wiping his hands on a rag. You jump a little, so lost in taking in your surroundings you forgot what you came here for.

“H-hi!” You smile. You forgot how intimidating Simon is. His gaze levels you - pins you underneath him like a fly under a swatter. Maybe that’s a bit dramatic. “I thought I’d come check your shop out and ask how the bread was?”

“It was good.” He replies bluntly. Totally monotone. The corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. You decide that’s it’s a smile - whether that’s the reality of his expression or not.

“It’s really nice in here.” You look around. There isn’t much for decoration. The walls are too covered in menus and diagrams of cuts to leave room for anything extra. There’s a shelf of odds and ends opposite the main counter full of high end mustards and condiments. Little things to go with whatever you could think to make out of the varieties of meat they offer.

“Thanks.” Simon nods. “One moment.”

You watch with curiosity and a slight frown as he makes his way into the back. He almost has to duck under the doorway. Old buildings with low ceilings and all that. The place definitely wasn’t made with a six foot plus behemoth in mind. You continue to look around, rocking back and forth on your heels. They have a perfect score on their inspectors plaque. You might not know Simon well, but he seems the type to be absolutely precise about everything. The score doesn’t surprise you.

Yours is almost perfect - some rules are different here than in the US. Next time, you swear you’ll get it top notch! You look across the street at your shop. You wonder if you made the wrong choice with The Honey Bun. It’s bit much now that you see it from afar but it still makes you smile. That’s what matters, you guess.

Simon comes back out with a small, nicely wrapped package. “You don’t ‘ave any dietary restrictions d’you?”

You shake your head and he pushes the package toward you. Your eyes widen - it’s a great cut of high end beef. Like, really good beef as far as you know. Something you’d never be able to afford even if your business wasn’t brand new. You stare between Simon and the little pack in your hands. “Th-this is so nice but I-“

“It’s only fair.” He cuts you off. “Neighbors, yeah?”

You can’t help the grin that splits your face, eyes misting up despite yourself. Kindness has not been a constant in your life - more of a rarity. Something you had to claw and fight to earn. Being given it so freely but such a taciturn man has you reeling just a bit.

“Thank you… I’ve got to head back but, uh, thank you. Really.” You press the small package to your chest. “Tell Johnny I said hi?”

“Course.” He nods.

“Thanks again!” You grin, giving a little two finger salute before practically skipping all the way back into your dingy little apartment. Happily, you pack away the meat to use later. It’s too nice to just make any dish out of - best to save it for a special occasion. Your first gift in your new life. Best to savor it.

~~~

“Afternoon, bonnie.” Johnny appears in your doorway while you sweep up from the Saturday rush, bell chiming upon his entrance. “Hope I’m not a bother.”

“Not at all.” You smile, resting the broom on the counter. “Hello to you as well, Miss Riley.”

She huffs out a quiet bark in reply, sitting dutifully at Johnny’s feet. You don’t have much experience with service dogs - other than the well known rule not to pet them while they’re working. They were always too expensive for you to get and your condition wasn’t labeled serious enough to warrant financial aid. (Despite the fact that you can, and have, passed out and hit your head on something hard.)

“Can I get you something?” You ask.

“Och, I’m a’right. Just wanted tae stop by an’ say hello before headin’ home.” He gives you that dashing, bright grin. “Simon always kicks me out of the shop at close.”

“He doesn’t need help?” You ask. Surely cleaning up a butchers shop is a huge task. You have your work cut out for you with all the flower - you can’t imagine cleaning that amount of blood and mess.

Johnny shrugs. “The cleaning chemicals trigger my migraines.”

You hum. “Well, you’re always welcome to stop by. Actually,” you turn on your heel, “I’ve got somethin’ I’d like you to try, if you want.”

“Never one to say no to food. Especially from a pretty girl.” Johnny says as he follows. He tells Riley to stay in front and she listens - the perfect little lady that she is. You nearly trip at his comment, keeping your back turned so that he hopefully doesn’t see the heat spreading from your face and down your neck.

“I-it’s, uh, you ever had American biscuits?” You ask, praying he doesn’t notice the shake in your voice. You have to get on your tip toes to reach the small basket you made the day prior - carefully lowering it and pulling back the gingham cloth you wrapped them in.

An image of home.

“Aye, had them once on a layover at some chain diner.” He nods. “Donnae think they were fresh, though.”

“Well these are proper biscuits.” You carefully cut one in half with ease. “Sometime I’ll have to make you some gravy to go with.”

“Yer gonnae make us fat, hen.” Johnny chuckles.

“There are worse things to be.” The words come out more defensive than you would have liked. An automatic mechanism - a harshness you've honed over the years.

You hate how easily you wield it, sometimes.

Johnny leans forward over the table, a furrow in his brow. “I dinnae mean-“

“Here.” You cut him off and hold out the biscuit on a napkin, smothered with butter in the middle.

Johnny lets your interruption go. Probably happy for an out. He takes the fluffy baked good slowly, cupping it in his large hand with care. You wonder if he always does that, touches things with such gentle love. Is it learned? Is it just natural to him? Does he touch Simon like that? Gentle caresses?

What’s that like?

Johnny takes a massive, enthusiastic bite. Somehow his blue eyes manage to sparkle even more, grinning as he chews. “Sh’gew!”

You laugh at his attempt to talk around the food. “Glad you like it.”

He swallows roughly. A full body gulp. “Why’d ye start bakin’ anyway?”

“My grandparents raised me.” You fold the biscuits back up in their little basket. “My grandma taught me how. She was the best in town - won the pie contest almost every year.”

“Tha’s lovely.” The smile he gives you is so genuine it makes your chest constrict.

“Mean old bat but she could beat anyone in the kitchen.” You laugh. “We swore she had some kinda magic. Like a green thumb but for cooking.”

“My mum’s like tha’. Can make anythin’ out of nothin’.” He nods along.

You fall into an easy back and forth - never breaching anything deeper than the most surface level of content as he eats. It’s manageable. Johnny doesn’t push and neither do you.

Riley barks from the front of the shop.

“Och, tha’s my queue.” Johnny brushes off his hands and checks the front of his shirt for crumbs. “Take care, aye?”

You smile. “You too.”

~~~

Johnny’s words keep ringing in your ears. You don’t know why. It’s nothing special. There’s no reason to attach to them. You raise a hand to wipe off the fog and stare in the small mirror hung above your bathroom sink.

Pretty girl.

You scoff. You’re not a pretty girl. You’ve never been a pretty girl. Fat girl. Stupid girl. Sick girl. Tired girl. Sad girl.

That last one you’ve heard more than anything else. Out of all the descriptors of you it stands out as the most used. By everyone from teachers to your own family. Always just a sad, sad girl.

You got it from your mom, they’d say. It’s not like you would ever know.

You rip your eyes away from the mirror and try to let the thoughts melt away as you sink into the comfort of your blankets. Those thoughts live back on the other side of the Atlantic. They don’t get to follow you here.

[codsoup]

Double look at the husband 💕

[m-1-8]

Part 3 of: Fight Dirty The spar haunts our dear Lieutenant How far will he descend into madness? Part 1

[ashtronomyys]

Our Future Days

Cover Art by @tamdrry

A John "Soap" MacTavish / Simon "Ghost Riley TheLastofUsAu

// General Warnings for Graphic Depictions of Violence, Zombies, Apocalypse Setting, Nightmares, Side Character Death, Family Member Death, Grief, and Body Horror(There's a Happy Ending I swear lol)

With so little knowledge to go on, he could really be riding into anything, a pack of runners, clickers, refugees seeking shelter, or a band of marauders ready to kill all that stand in their way. A bit of wishful thinking tells him that it really could just be nothing, and that this surveying of the area is all for naught. The practical side of his brain screams at him that this is a bad idea, screams that the scars lining his body ought to serve as a reminder for him of the dangers lingering out there, waiting for him… Simon shudders. Whatever it is that he'll be rushing into, he'll need to remain vigilant, keep an eye on his surroundings and stay light on his feet. There’s no telling what sort of monsters he could be coming up against. ************ “Hmm... Got any fours?" Alex clicks his tongue, giving him a look of pity. "Afraid not my friend. Go fish.” “Ahh, come ON! Yer kidding me!? Agaain?!”

-Explicit

-Longfic, Slowburn, Angst w/ a happy ending, It gets real dark before it gets real better

(Very) Sporadic Updates coming to Tumblr, Twitter, and eventually Ao3!

OFD Masterlist:

Ao3 link here (To be added later)

Chapters - Section by Section

Chapter 1 - When Hurricanes and Cyclones Raged 

Chapter 2 - TBA

[starlightvld]

Simon slouches lower in his seat, and their chairs are close enough together that their knees brush. John fights back another blush and then scowls when he notices Simon's stupid smirk, visible due to the mask still rolled up past his nose. Simon glances at John again before pressing his knee more firmly into John's.

"Proud of yerself, are ye?" John grumbles.

"A little," Simon admits before adding in a low, teasing tone, "Always like seein' you blush."

- Broken Bones and Shattered Hearts, Chapter 9, Art by the incomparable @kibagib

[pentrologram]

What Normal People Do - 7

You reach a discovery.

warning for one use of the f-slur and implied homophobia (from a minor, unnamed, unfaced character)

it's been three whole weeks... i'm sorry, y'all. at first i was gonna publish this on my birthday, then the sunday after and now it's been two weeks. anyways, hope you enjoy :)

ao3!

ghost/soap/gn!reader (established ghoap)

Something's Happening To Me

Maybe you’ve been sidelined a little.

Johnny has really started to boom with his online endeavours- he started a TikTok account, which he had told you excitedly about a month ago. Mostly, he posts videos about his Etsy shop and how his art process works, but… Well, he’s also Johnny. He’s bright and bubbly and that lures some odd hundred thousand followers to his account- perhaps they didn’t come for his personality, but they sure stayed for it. His following nearly triples when Riley becomes a fixture in his content.

It's good to see Johnny thriving on something he hadn't even considered a possibility not even three months ago. He's enjoying his new community, you can see it, in the way he's always excitedly talking your ears off about new friends and new experiences he's being invited to or planning or participating in or setting up. It's awesome seeing how he gets some recognition at a nearby art museum he sometimes goes to film content at, how the museum has started to carve away time for Johnny to sit in utter silence and just... be. They also let Riley in, which earns them more brownie points.

After a month or so of you tagging along with Johnny’s endeavours, the same museum hosts a sponsorship for Johnny, letting him come in any time he wants in a secluded part of the museum, away from prying eyes. In exchange, the museum gets some of his framed artwork for his own exhibit in the museum. It's a win-win, really, for Johnny and the museum- Johnny and Riley get a good time and his TikTok page grows, and the museum gets basically free publicity and a fresh, cool new artist to bring into their fold.

It works wonderfully for both parties involved and before you know it, other small museums are doing the same- inviting Johnny over to sit down and make content while talking about the exhibits the museum has. Johnny being Johnny makes it hard for the promotional videos to be uninteresting, though, and they only serve to further Johnny’s following.

Summer is rapidly coming to a close and you can tell by the almost violent influx of fairs being held. There are apple fairs, tech fairs, scissors fairs, knitting fairs, sewing fairs, flower fairs- you name it and there's probably a fair for it. The people of Durham are enjoying the good weather before the blunt end of fall drops and makes the trees turn grey and the grass lifeless. 

Johnny gets invited to his fair share of the ‘good-weather-craze’ fairs, and you do too by extension.

He’s invited to make a showing of some of his art or to open a stall to teach random people how to use charcoal properly or even doing face painting for toddlers, once. It's quite enjoyable for you, being able to see Johnny in his natural element and see other people get infected by the magic that is so uniquely Johnny. It feels like you’re passing his pure goodness on.

Seeing Johnny squint his eyes as he leans forward in his plastic folding chair, carefully keeping a squirmy six-year-old still with callused hands as he paints flowers around the kid’s cheekbones inspires a steady thump-thump in your chest, but the feeling is promptly shoved down. Now, nor ever, was a good time.

Simon and you are along for the ride as you watch Johnny bloom before your eyes. He’s talking to a group of admirers animatedly at an outdoor art bazaar while you and Simon enjoy milkshakes from a purple-haired man and his cat.

Simon’s already halfway through his while you’ve just started to lick the whipped cream, and you’re about to tease him when someone walking by bumps into you with a rushed apology. The whipped cream smudges on your chin, making Simon’s brow furrow. He bends down a little to wipe it off of your chin with his finger, before licking it off, startling a barked laugh from you. If you had turned a little, you would’ve seen Johnny staring intently from where he was.

“That’s- oh, my god. That’s disgusting.” You giggle. Simon smiles from underneath his mask- you’ve gotten better at reading his emotions, such as now, when his cheekbones raise and his eyes crinkle. He grunts.

“Couldn’t let it go to waste, could I?”

The comment makes something flutter in the cavity behind your heart. You know exactly what it is, of course, but. Well. Now doesn’t feel like an appropriate time for those feelings to ruck their way up. Simon and Johnny are happily together- honestly, you’re convinced they’re married and never told you. It simply wouldn’t be fair of you to push these feelings onto them when you know they don’t reciprocate.

“C’mon, love. ‘S go back to Johnny.”

The next time that pesky lighthearted feeling comes back is when Johnny gets invited to a restaurant for a small, intimate talk with himself and 200 other influential people in the area. The restaurant itself is more art-focused than most, boasting authentic pieces from the greats- such as Picasso, a Rothko, and even a Monet. As a gift, Johnny gives the restaurant three pieces- first, a sculpture he made ages ago but was still proud of, and then a matching set of two canvases. One was of a shapeless, nameless figure (Johnny) and a big, hulking figure (Simon). They met halfway, in the space between the canvases, in a kiss. You were invited, of course, and you had pulled out one of your nicest outfits for the occasion.

The three of you had been led to your table, surrounded by other people. Most of them weren't artists and were likely just very faithful regulars, but the effort was appreciated all the same. You listened to quite a few speeches from persons you had never heard of while you were served very fancy and very good food. Simon didn't eat, too uncomfortable to slip his fancy cloth mask from his face in the presence of so many people.

When all the plates are cleared, the visitors either leave or explore the art installations. Simon was hungry and apparently fancy restaurants didn't offer takeout boxes, so Simon and Johnny left early, leaving you alone.

You wandered around before finding Johnny's exhibit near the other smaller, less-known artists. You stand and stare for a second until someone else comes to admire with you. You give them a small smile, noticing their appearance as.. odd. All black while wearing a ski mask. They put a gloved finger up to where their lips might be before uncapping a thick, industrial-grade Sharpie. Suddenly, they lunge forward and scrape onto the canvas:

F AGG OT

In the heat of the moment, you gasp before lunging forward with them, making the person press the sharpie harder into the canvas. They're more agile than you, though, slipping away. In a fit, you throw Johnny's sculpture after them, and with perfect aim, you hit the back of their head.

They grunt and you, still enraged, shout something along the lines of 'help'. By the time the manager finds you, the person has long since escaped and you're crying from the lack of adrenaline and also the guilt of knowing you broke Johnny's sculpture. The manager is kind, though, helping you calm down and gently instructing you to call Johnny so you can tell him what happened.

Johnny and Simon are there again within the hour.

Johnny sort of... sadly stares at his defaced artwork with you and Simon on either of his sides. The cleaning team sweeps up the remains of the sculpture, and they ask Johnny if he wants to keep them. He just shakes his head and doesn't watch as they dump the clay shards.

The manager comes back and Simon leaves to ask her about security cameras, leaving you to hold Johnny's hand as you both stare at the wall. The guilt gnaws painfully at your gut.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I saw them. And I didn't- I didn't do anything." You say, hanging your head. While you had thrown the sculpture at the assailant, it hadn't done anything at all. They had gotten away. And when you think about it logically, they probably would've left the sculpture alone, seeing as their motives were purely and singularly homophobic. You weren't keen to tell anyone of your accident.

"Nothin' we can do, bon," Johnny says quietly. He squeezes your hand. "Nothin' we can do."

Simon comes back shortly, frustrated, and that's when the fluttering feeling comes back. He's not trying to upset Johnny but he's also mad- mad that there are no security cameras in this part of the art wing, nobody to protect the smaller artists' work. You know you shouldn't but you're secretly relieved- nobody will know that it wasn't the vandalizer who broke Johnny's sculpture.

It takes a while for Johnny to get back to his usual bubbly self. It's a moment of mourning, being brought down to earth, remembering that terrible people exist in the same world that Johnny does. The police get involved at some point, and you think that helps him. Just a little.

It takes a little while for things to go back to normal. You and Simon are there every step of the way, making him smile when it seems the hardest. Maybe your reassurance isn't needed all too much, but the guilt of everything compels you to be as useful as humanly possible. That means bringing baked goods around, helping with Riley when Simon is preoccupied, and helping ship out old orders from Johnny's Etsy. It also means helping Simon moderate the comments on Johnny's Tiktok page- ever since the vandalism incident, there's been a significant flux in hate comments.

Simon thanks you for it over tea when Johnny's out with some friends.

"'S been hard for him." Simon laments, surgical mask foregone as he cradles his little plastic cup of tea, dwarfing it with his two massive paws. "He's doin' a lot better now, thou'." You nod. Simon sighs and downs half the cup. "A real fancy exhibit's goin' up a week from now. And.... Well, Johnny got invited to display som' stuff. But... I don't know if it's gon' be the right thing for him."

"Yeah, but... Well, doesn't it sound like a good opportunity? Have you asked him?"

"No," Simon says sheepishly. "But-"

"You should." You cut him off with. "It could... I don't know, be like exposure therapy or something. Ask him." You press.

"Yeah." He grunts.

That's how you find yourself in a modern, sleek building, inside, watching Johnny give a speech in front of a whole wing dedicated to his artwork. There are Men In Black-like security guards there, to prevent any future vandalism. The light in Johnny's eyes is back and it warms your heart to see.

"Bonnie!" Johnny says, giving you a toothy grin as he bounds off the stage to strongarm you into a hug.

"You did great." You tell him the second he releases you. His grin is almost blinding.

He's about to continue the conversation before another bright-eyed well-wisher comes about. You smile at him before leaving him to his admirers. You sniffed out Simon nearby Johnny, watching like a protective guard dog. Eventually, you decide to slip out by yourself. You feel so fancy, in your finery, looking at Johnny’s lovely pieces, wandering around while cradling a glass of bubbly champagne.

Johnny’s display for the night is influenced by the fall season that’s on your heels. There’s photorealism of Riley in a white cloth like a ghost (you never thought that he could do photorealism, but then again it’s Johnny) and there’s a few of an environment- his flat, you know, specifically that of a messy bed and a singular potted plant. A single green tree surrounded by bunches of yellow ones.

You have one or two too many glasses as you wander aimlessly. Just as you’re about to throw in the towel, tired from the alcohol and fancy shoes, you come across a little crowd- which is odd, as it was a free-form exhibit, meant to be processed at your own pace.

Curiously you squeeze yourself through, peering up at the piece hung up along with a few other viewers.

It’s a white canvas with two black charcoal figures; one you can easily recognise as Simon, what with the familiar broad shoulders and the hulking frame Johnny loves to draw, but there’s an underlying softness to it, a gentleness as he hunches over the second figure, his brows tight as he cradles the other figure’s hand.  It takes your mind, impaired by the alcohol, some time before you’re able to see the other figure for what it is- you. Yourself. It makes you gasp and nearly topple over from shock- Johnny had rarely ever included anyone else other than Simon in his work, and that had only been one time, and it had been his mom. Seeing yourself, dwarfed by Simon, warmed your heart and yeah, maybe you cried a little.

It probably wasn’t the most normal thing to do, but, well. You had reached an epiphany- that persistent throb in your chest wasn’t just attraction.

You loved the two of them.

<- back

[igotbloodonmyhands]

Royal guard

Note: I got the idea from a prompt on Pinterest

Ghoap but Soap is a energetic, bored prince and Ghost his stoic, quiet body guard

Soap huffed and rolled his eyes, looking at Ghost in his stupidly body shape enhancing armour. „Would it kill you to relax?“, he teased, knowing Ghost would either not say anything or give a short answer to make him shut up.

„Probably“, Ghost replied, eyes still trained on the wall in front of him. „Likely it would kill you too, that’s rather the point“. Soap let out a groan. „Why do you always act like you got a stick up your arse?“ Silence. „It’s my job to protect you. Not entertain you“. „Why not both? You definitely look like you could be….fun“, Soap shamelessly flirted.

Ghost visibly tensed up at his comment. „Oh, stop clutching your pearls, Ghost.“ He grins. „I‘d know a way or two how I could get you to relax“

Ghost cleared his throat. "This is highly inappropiate" Soap strolled towards Ghost, who stood there as still as a statue. "Oh come on, relax a bit", he grinned. He held out his hand. "Dance with me"

Ghost looked at him with a uncertain expression, but didn't take his hand or made any movement in general.

Soap rolled his eyes and took Ghosts hand in his.

"Now, do you really want to disobey the princes orders, guard?"

[soaps-hoe-141]

Masterlist

Links - Twitch, Tumblr, and AO3 links here

One Shots

Soap x Ghost

Locked Together - (NSFW) They're stuck in a bathroom on a train

Konig x Watcher (Male OC)

Gaymers Unite - (NSFW) Lil bit of fluff, some tech support, most smut though, hope ya enjoy

Gaymers Unite Again - (NSFW) Just some more Konig smut, hope yall are feasting

Soap x Ghost x Konig x Watcher

They're Fraternizing Your Honor - (NSFW) Foursome between the gayest lil military men, it's filthy and it is all smut. No plot, not a single bit, enjoy.

OC Lore

Everyone's Ages

Height Chart Comparison

Speck Lore

Speck Pictures

Wade Pictures

Watcher Lore

Watcher Pictures

Spotify Playlist

Just Some Team Stuff

What The Dog Doin? - What the dog doin?

Series

Back Together (Soap x Ghost)

Originals available here

Part 1 - Dropping some OC lore, starting earlier than the original Back Together because I had ideas. Got some pining from a distance. I hope yall enjoy. Fair warning no actual Ghost sightings in this one just Soap's gay thots. That man is fighting for his life for real

Drowning In The Depths (Price x Male!Reader)

Part 1 - (NSFW) Slow night at the bar turns into a little more than the reader bargains for

Part 2 - (NSFW) Feed on the pining my lovely and supportive readers

Part 3 - Price and Speck fighting their gay demons

Part 4 - (NSFW) Interrogation done. Time to meet the team, make him jealous, be a thot, be an idiot, refuse to elaborate, leave, take your punishment like a man

Part 5 - (NSFW) Got a lil competition inbound, some more of Cerberus being the besto boi, and some NSFW content cause I truly just cannot stop myself. I am insatiable so feed

Part 6 - (NSFW) Reader is doing the interrogating now, get in there Speck

Part 7 - My boy getting some clothes, got some op planning, and then the op itself of course

Part 8 - Angry price, unhinged Speck/Reader, hurt and comfort, there is a lot of Speck lore being dropped in this chapter honestly

Part 9 - (NSFW) Smut, getting a bit more Speck lore for those of you who are now invested in this man because honestly same

Part 10 - (NSFW) We got a lot going on in this one, I ain't gonna lie. Pretty much just the aftermath of Soap and Ghost walking in on them (barging and running in on them) and Speck finally trying to deal with his past (in a healthy and productive way).

Part 11 - Come rot ya teeth. Both of them are being vulnerable, this shit as rare as a double rainbow (heh get it cause it's pride...I'm sorry).

Part 12 - (NSFW) Who said Price gotta be the Captain all the time? I am so sorry in advance

Part 13 - A stressful flee home

[gh0stwh1sp3r3r]

NEW GHOSTSOAP FIC COMING SOON!!

ngl i lost motivation in TLAG and didn’t have any ideas or plans to finish it hence why I scrapped it and have mostly been inactive other than that one short fic that I posted on Wattpad

anyways doing an interest check to see how many of my followers r still active and who’d be interested in this before I pull multiple all-nighters eventually to finish writing it!!

It’s kind of like a much higher quality, revamped version of the TLAG fic but with better plot line, writing & story (and probably grammar too), that focuses more on what the original idea for TLAG had been!

This will ACTUALLY be a slow burn (I hope) and not just full blown smut. Where reboot MWII storyline merges with the original games!

dom!Ghost x Brat/Sub (or possibly switch)!Soap

Simon will be suffering from the loss of his former partner (and lover 👀), Gary, and whilst he vowed not to ever fall for anyone again, he meets Soap fucking MacTavish and that plan goes down the drain.

Don’t want to post any previews yet as I might scrap or change it and don’t want it to be stolen regardless! ��😓

#ghostsoap #wipfic #fanfic #ghostroach #ghostsoaproach #cod #callofduty

[codsoup]

Look after you Part 2 / Ghost x Soap

Summary: After soap gets better he confronts Ghost about the sneaky kiss. Read Part 1

————-

As Soap's injuries slowly healed and he regained his strength, he couldn't shake the memory of that almost kiss from his mind. Ghost may have thought that Soap was sleeping, but boy was he wrong and now there was an unspoken tension between them, a palpable connection that had grown stronger during his recovery.

One evening, as they sat together in their quarters, Soap decided it was time to address the elephant in the room. He turned to Ghost, his gaze steady.

"Hey, Lt," Soap began, his voice soft yet tinged with a hint of playfulness, "remember that night when we were sharing my bed?"

"Be more specific Johnny, we have shared your bed multiple times by this point." Ghost chuckled. "Right, I mean the night you almost kissed me?" Soap blurted out.

Ghost's eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by Soap's directness. He cleared his throat nervously before responding, "I…I remember."

Soap couldn't help but smile, his tone gentle as he continued, "Well, I've been thinking about it, and I can't help but wonder why you didn't go through with it."

Ghost looked down, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "I… I didn't want to overstep, Soap. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

Soap chuckled softly as he scooted closer to Ghost. "You know, Simon, I've had my fair share of troubles in this line of work. And if there's something I've learned is that life is too short to hold back, especially when it comes to the people you care about."

Ghost swallowed hard, his eyes locked onto Soap's. "Soap, I—" he began, his voice wavering.

But Soap didn't let him finish. With a tender smile, he closed the distance between them, pressing his lips firmly against Ghost's. It was a kiss filled with a mixture of longing and affection, a silent affirmation of the emotions they had both been wrestling with. Ghost moved his hand on top of Soap's thigh as he leaned further in, making Soap smile against his lips as they continued to kiss softly and slowly. As if there was no rush to love. As if they had time.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads rested against each other, and Soap whispered, "It was better than I imagined."

Ghost let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, relief washing over him. He cupped Soap's cheek, his thumb brushing against Soap's stubbled jaw. "Soap, I've wanted this for so long."

And in that moment, with their feelings no longer hidden and their connection laid bare, Soap and Ghost embarked on a new chapter of their relationship, one where their love for each other could flourish without restraint.

---------

Where's the L word though?

This shall continue 😎

Part 3

[ciderwitch]

Not to jump on the Soap x Ghost Bandwagon but how cool would a Witcher X COD AU be?

Just beefy Witcher boys teaming up to hunt, and as much as Simon gripes he hasn't actually tried to shake Johnny off yet.

[pxnkedniall]

Chapters: 11/16 Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley, Rodolfo Parra/Alejandro Vargas, Simon "Ghost" Riley/Gary "Roach" Sanderson Characters: John "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley, John Price (Call of Duty), Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Rodolfo Parra, Alejandro Vargas, Valeria Garza, Phillip Graves (Call of Duty), Kate Laswell, Gary "Roach" Sanderson, König (Call of Duty) Additional Tags: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Game: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II (2022), soap is a shit head, ghost is a shit head too, Emotional Constipation, Emotionally Repressed, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Roller Coaster, Swearing, I swear a lot I'm not sorry, Abuse of Authority, slight ?? saw a post about it on tumblr that ghost should hold his power over soaps head, The Author Regrets Nothing, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Author Has Played Call of Duty, attempting to make ghost more flirty instead of closed off and cold, soapghost, Updating tags as I go, dad price is concerned for his boys, influenced by tiktok and tumblr, Protective John Price (Call of Duty), John Price Acting as Task Force 141's Parental Figure (Call of Duty), Parental John Price (Call of Duty), Simon "Ghost" Riley Has PTSD, Soft Simon "Ghost" Riley, ghost is soft for soap, ghost gives soap a sweatshirt, Hurt John "Soap" MacTavish, Emotional Hurt, Angst and Feels, Mentioned Gary "Roach" Sanderson, Dead Gary "Roach" Sanderson, Mute Gary "Roach" Sanderson, König is a Task Force 141 Operative (Call of Duty), Mentioned König, Simon "Ghost" Riley Likes John "Soap" MacTavish's Hair, John "Soap" MacTavish Loves Simon "Ghost" Riley, Simon "Ghost" Riley Loves John "Soap" MacTavish, John "Soap" MacTavish / Simon "Ghost" Riley Angst, John "Soap" MacTavish Has PTSD, Needy Simon "Ghost" Riley, Idiots in Love, idiots to lovers, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Guilt Series: Part 1 of It's Not Living (If It's Not With You) Summary:

Being a part of Captain Price's Special Task Force 141 was no easy work. Often away from loved ones for extended amounts of times, dropped in the middle of nowhere, with intelligence that could crumble life and society as we know it today or could launch another world war with only your closest battle buddies being there to support you; sometimes it was someone you had only known for six months being on your six and trusting they were going to get you out alive. Being killed or captured was always a threat and work was never easy. Missions often went sideways, and you sometimes only had the supplies in your bag with the clothes on your back. Blood often stained the hands of the members of the 141, they flirted with the grim reaper often, and any distractions could risk your life on the field.

So why couldn't the tall Manchester rainstorm get the short Scotland sunshine out of his head?

Something in the Orange - Zach Bryan These characters are from Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II (2022) developed by Infinity Ward and published by Activision

[starlightvld]

Couch Surfing: Ch. 6/6 (Complete)

A leather couch in Price's office, Pt. 2

The 141 is back together, at least for a little while. Ghost and Soap spend their first night together in their new flat.

They didn't speak as they walked. Johnny kept a bit of distance between them — enough to know they were walking together but not imply anything improper. Simon hated it and also loved Johnny for it. For the first time, the mere existence of the mask was suffocating. As soon as the door to their flat closed and locked behind him, he ripped off the mask, grabbed Johnny's hand, and pulled him close. "Simon, wha—?" He cut off the question with a savage kiss, pushing all the evening's pent up frustrations into the punishing pressure of hands on hips and mouths sealed together.

Read Chapter 6 * or * Read from the beginning

Also, don't miss the new art for Chapter 5!

[pentrologram]

What Normal People Do

John 'Soap' Mactavish and Simon 'Ghost' Riley have routines. They have also each other, the truck, the dog, and their flat. That is until the dog practically manhandles you into their life. Changes ensue. please be warned this is very self indulgent and probably not in character at all. i have never played MM2, i haven't watched a single playthrough (unless countless tiktok edits count) and I only know what I do about their characters from a lot of tumblr posts and fics on ao3. speaking of- ao3! ghost/soap/gn!reader (established ghoap)

I'll Run Away With You

Simon Riley is not known for being tender and soft-spoken- he wasn’t a lieutenant because he spoon-fed soldiers and tucked them in on cots in the middle of a war field. He earned his stay on Earth, earned his title, hell, earned the clothes on his back. God would have had his head if he hadn’t made sure the younger, more incompetent kind didn’t have to, too.

It was hard for him to find that balance between the harshness of his job and the still bad but significantly less thorny outside (or inside?) world. Sometimes, while on the field, old injuries from years past would randomly decide to rear their heads. Maybe it would be an old knife wound that felt like it was bruising all over again or his ears would ring like he was hearing gunshots in the middle of a Marks and Spencers.

He was a valuable soldier, he knew. There were bunches and gaggles of people who wanted his head mounted on a stick- too many to count, and properly address. He was only one man, though. It would make sense that after all those years, it would weigh on him.

When he was younger, newer to the military, he tried to be normal when he was off duty. What his mam would have wanted for him, had she not been a deadbeat and dead. Polo shirts that stretched around his wide frame tucked into jeans, taking care of the flat he rented somewhere in the countryside-city (it’s not really a suburb but he calls it that anyways because who cares?) and pretending to debate about vacuums and silverware. Because that’s what normal people do.

But as time went on, it got harder to separate work from his life, and he just… let it consume him. Now that same suburb-y flat is in a place more urban than sub, “prime real estate,” he overheard in a decent pub with a pint once in between missions. Rent’s gone up, that’s damn sure. He offhandedly considers buying the whole building sometimes- he’s got bloody enough money, more than enough from saving absentmindedly, as the money had nowhere notable to go- but he wouldn’t be present enough to be a landlord and that shite. The flat he tried to furnish when he was twenty-something is still furnished the same way, if not a little more touched up by Johnny and his never-ending energy, and sometimes, it feels like being in a dead person’s house. It’s lived in but in a state of perpetual disrepair, never feeling like an actual home (at least for him).

The fridge was rarely ever stocked with anything but condiments and beer during their military days- he and Johnny never really had the energy to cook, preferring to use their free time elsewhere- but the bed had a frame (better than what he can think of some of his friends, bleedin’ Johnny and bringing girls back to a mattress on the floor before he moved in with Simon) and a rug underneath it and even a potted plant on a side table that is 100% plastic. It catches the light nicely in the wee hours of the morning, though, so it’s worth dusting the thin, leathery material of the fake lily now and again.

The flat is more furnished now, now that they’re officially in retirement. Knick knacks found at thrift stores or random handouts from the festivals and fairs that they go to every season, just to feel a little human again. There are more plastic plants on the side table now and Simon even tentatively tried a spider plant six months ago. It’s still alive, flourishing even, and now Simon has a couple of gardening books. Sometimes, when neither of them can sleep, Simon reads them out loud while Johnny fiddles with some new craft. Johnny says out loud once that they should get a house, for Simon and his plants.

Johnny came home with him every time they got some leave time together. The two of them are one in the same, really, feral animals without an off switch. It makes it easy for a relationship to foster, their understanding of the other in such an intimate and vulnerable way. It lets them open up guarded and bruised hearts, letting the other shine a flashlight on them and deciding to love them anyway. It’s the same as the hopeless romantic shit that you see in movies but plays out a lot dirtier in real life- it’s all the love and passion and borderline insanity that comes with a real first love mixed with the obsession of two retired soldiers who had been in the game too long and longer still without anyone normal to add some perspective to their lives.

That’s how it’ll always be, Simon thinks to himself as he stares at Johnny, hulk of a man he is, curled around Simon like a docile little thing- he surely looks it, as he was dwarfed by the extra five inches and the fifty pounds Simon had on him. He’s asleep- man sleeps like the dead, anywhere and everywhere- mohawk unruly and sticking up every which way. Getting long, Simon thinks to himself as he runs a hand through it- slightly sweat slicked but soft from a shower that night. It’s the right on the cusp of summer, the AC working hard- in this old flat, it doesn’t work the best but gets the brunt of it done. Simon’s opened up a window, (hesitantly- but between him, Johnny, and the dog, it’s sweltering and he fears he might get heatstroke) the one closest to his reach, so that the mesh covering can ventilate the room. They’re three stories up, but neither he nor Johnny enjoy having windows open. Too many weaknesses. He takes advantage of the window, though, lighting up a cigarette with a Zippo Johnny got for him a year ago.

His life is full of opposites, he finds. Johnny tends to take up a room, but Simon moves silently, just like his callsign. Johnny sleeps like a log while Simon struggles with his insomnia (right now he hopes the cigarette will help quiet him enough for sleep).

It won’t, Simon thinks to himself as he watches the moon move through the window and sinks below where he can see and eventually, the sun makes its appearance known. He puts his cigarette out sometime between the sun bleeding to view and the first rays of dawn because time keeps on moving and then Johnny is shifting awake at 0800. Johnny blinks, eyes already bright, ready for the day. He’s always alert when he wakes up, force of habit, Simon supposes. He doesn’t sleep enough himself to be so put together when he wakes up.

Then their day goes as follows:

Johnny puts the telly and the kettle on while Simon makes them brekkie. After two cups of tea are made (one with enough creamer to strangle a cow and the other black and simple, the way God intended it, as Johnny’ll tell Simon) and toast and egg sandwiches like the ones from cafes that Johnny learned how to make on a whim are put together, they sit for a while, just enjoying their company. Johnny fiddles with something- today it’s the newspaper- and Simon reads a book, and every once and a while, there’ll be a fair advertised in the paper. The fairs have always been there, in the city, but the two of them never really had the time while in the military. Now, they have more time than they can think to do with it, and so Johnny dragging Simon to them is now a familiar routine.

“‘S strawberries thi’ year,” Johnny says out loud.

“Mm?” Simon hums, immediately knowing what Johnny is talking about.

“Shite, 't started tae days ago.” He puts the paper down and puts his hands on his knees, and Simon puts a bookmark in his book before getting up.

They work cohesively around each other while getting ready to go to the fair. Johnny searches through the walk-in closet for a shirt and Simon digs through their dresser for socks. Johnny fixes his mohawk while Simon hooks a surgical mask around his ears. Johnny laces his sneakers up and pulls Riley’s harness on and Simon pulls on a hoodie, and then the three of them are in Simon’s truck, chugging along to the Town Center, where there are tents and stalls and people with strawberry hats. They get strawberry cider, strawberry pound cake and strawberry-shaped pasta to take home and strawberry cider that the both of them conclude is just Sp

rite in a pink glass bottle. Simon has to talk Johnny down from buying a big, ugly strawberry hat for Riley and compensates with a ceramic strawberry planter. There are strawberry-printed picnic blankets spread underneath trees with strawberry lanterns connecting them, lighting up the public park as the sun dances in the sky. Simon watches idly while Riley bites at a chip Johnny offers her.

They have a moment of peace there, on the picnic blanket, before Riley loses her shit and starts pulling on her leash, her distress signal- usually for Simon, but obviously for someone else now, if the desperate way she’s struggling against her harness is anything to go by. Simon gets up begrudgingly, the metal plate in his knee protesting as he jogs to meet Riley’s speed as she practically sprints behind one of the stalls. There is you; half curled on yourself with your phone in your hands. Riley rips herself out of Simon’s hold and barrels into you, calculating her speed so she’s at a trot when she lays her weight across your lap. You blink, phone forgotten, and Simon watches, silent, as you flinch away. Riley’s nothing if not persistent though, and eventually her weight forces you to calm down. Huh. Simon thinks offhandedly. You still haven’t noticed him, big and hulking as he is, just focused on Riley’s comforting weight as you calm yourself, slow, stuttering breaths evening, phone forgotten. DPT, Simon thinks to himself. When you calm entirely, you spot Simon. Your eyes go wide and you immediately try to wiggle out from underneath Riley.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, your dog sort of- um, trapped me here, I didn’t mean to-“

“No.” Simon says, and his gruff tone matched with his physique is enough to quiet you. “She wanted to help you. ‘S fine.” He says.

“Um,” you say. “Okay. Are you sure?” Simon just grunts in response.

"Are you okay?” He asks, his voice softening just a little.

“Oh, um. Yeah.”

Simon doesn’t believe you.

He stares down at you for a long while, and your expression gradually grows more anxious.

“I just, um- I have an, um. A thing.” You say quietly.

“Are you okay?” He asks again, giving you a chance to tell the truth, to redeem yourself. “Riley doesn’t start DPT on total strangers for no reason.” This time, Simon’s insistent, giving you no wiggle room. He stares two holes through the back of your head. You look uneasy.

“No, I’m OK. Just… got a little upset.” You say, giving him a little smile. Simon stares longer than necessary. Just as he’s about to answer, Johnny comes in running.

“Si, ‘ave found a strawberry sex stall-!“ Johnny starts before his eyes land on you. Pleasantries are exchanged before you squeak out an excuse and you make a point in scurrying out before Johnny can even start his main charming event. Johnny pouts but watches you go.

“Bonnie, that one,” he murmurs, if a little mournfully. Simon only grunts in agreement.

Later that evening, the interaction is forgotten about. Passed off as just a weird event, perhaps an endearing story to tell about Riley- (sweet girl, always so concerned for others- took off running for a stranger once, she did)- and nothing more.

That night goes as follows:

Johnny and the dog watch telly until Simon is done with dinner. They eat together, their little family, Riley eating her generic shepherd’s meal through her slow feeder, chowing loudly while Simon and Johnny talk about everything and nothing at all. Then they all sit together on the sofa to watch a random movie. It’s time for bed after, which means brushing their teeth, showering, washing hair and getting the last of Riley’s jitters out. Then the three of them settle in bed- it’s barely past 1100 before Johnny’s out like a light.

This is where the routine of retired life varies:

Sometimes Simon will sleep. Sometimes he will stay up for a night, then two, then twelve. Sometimes he’ll take the medicines he is supposed to and others he will wake with night terrors. Sometimes he’ll wake up and feel so broken he’ll wake Johnny up so that can cuddle and fall asleep together and sometimes the dog will wake Simon before an especially bad nightmare.

Yes, his life really is full of contradictions, Simon thinks. Because knows he is in love with Johnny but somehow cannot get his mind off the brief meeting he had with you. He takes after his father in more ways than one, it appears. The heart of a cheater hidden in the skin of a new mind. He and Johnny have had thirds before- but Simon’s never felt so enraptured by one before. Not so quickly, not so strongly, not so potently. He finds himself craving to know more about you, to learn everything about you- the same way he felt about Johnny when they first met. The revelation makes him stay up and smoke and watch the moon bleed to the sun, with Johnny curled to his side and Riley in their bed.

Then their day goes as follows:

Johnny puts the telly and the kettle on while Simon makes them brekkie. After two cups of tea are made and omelettes are put together, they sit for a while, just enjoying their company. Johnny fiddles with something- today it’s a new paper craft- and Simon reads a book. Sometime during that, they'll part ways. Maybe the dog needs a walk or Johnny takes a piss- it's a little like a game of wills, looking for who will tap out of just sitting there first. Today, it's Johnny. He gets up to get his laptop before settling back on the couch with the TV buzzing lowly. Johnny job hunts. Simon reads. Johnny feeds the dog. Simon ponders their pension. At some point both of their minds wander to the same topic- you.

Then their night goes as follows:

Johnny and the dog watch telly until Simon is done cooking dinner. They eat together, their little family, Riley eating her generic kibble, chewing loudly while Simon and Johnny talk about everything and nothing at all. Then they all sit together on the sofa to watch a random movie. It’s time for bed after, which means brushing their teeth, showering, washing hair and walking Riley to tire him out. Then the three of them settle in bed- it’s not even past 1100 before Johnny’s asleep.

Then the routine of retired life varies:

This night, Simon lays on his back like a log before curling into Johnny's back. He sleeps that night.

next ->

[igotbloodonmyhands]

Alive / Part V

Note: Soooo, quick disclaimer. I hc that Soap was grazed by the bullet on the left side of his head, and also shot in the left shoulder. I'm not a doctor, so there will be medical inaccuracies. Word count: 332

One and a half weeks later, Soap was finally discharged from the military hospital (He begged the nurses to let him go). Price had placed him on sick leave. "Where're you gonna go now, Johnny?", Ghost leaned on the doorframe of Soaps room, watching as the other man struggled to pack his stuff with his arm in a sling. "Fucking shite. Home, Ghosty. See my family again", he, unsuccessfully, tried folding his shirt with only one arm. Ghost rolled his eyes and stepped towards him. "Can't watch that", he mumbled before sitting down next to Soap and starting to fold his shirts. "D'you only have compression shirts?", he eyed his shirts. Soap shrugged, immediately wincing. "Brings out the muscles, you know?", he winked. "I s'pose...", Ghost couldn't keep himself from staring at said muscles a second too long. "Like what you see?", Soap eyed the lieutenant, grinning. "Shut up before I make you." "Tempting." They continued folding and packing in silence for a few minutes, Ghost occasionally on Soaps rather interesting shirt prints. "Aren't you on leave now too?", Soap asked. "Yea", Ghost put the last shirt in the bag. "Why?". He shot Soap a suspicious glance. "Y' could come with me. Doubt you got better plans". Ghost stilled. "I- I don't think that's a good idea." "Why?" He sighed. "I don't- I don't want to scare your family. Or put them in any danger." Soap chuckled lowly. "My family is Scottish, a little skull mask ain't gonna scare them. And as for the danger, again, we're Scots. We've dealt with worse. Besides, we got a farm, in the highlands. You can run around all ye want, don't have to talk, just be there." Ghost sighed. "I don't know, Johnny". "Why not? Or are ye so keen on staying here in the dirty barracks for two weeks?", Soap gave him puppy eyes. "Please, Simon" Ghost rolled his eyes. "Don't Simon me." He got up and flicked Soaps ear. "I'll think about it."

This is the shirt Ghost likes the most

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 1; ghoap x reader) masterlist

-

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately.

Ghost listens because the periods between missions are long and colourless—he fills the time with paperwork, PT, exhausting his muscles in the gym, and dissociating in a booth at the only good pub on base when Johnny drags him along—and it’s better to tune out the thoughts in his head and replace them with something else. Besides, for as much as he gripes about poorly trained dogs barking too much, he enjoys the sound of Johnny’s voice. It quiets the faint ringing that follows him wherever he goes, an agitated humming that leaves him, on his best days, on the brink of rage.

“Tinnitus,” a doctor says when he brings it up during a routine check-up. Can you shut that fucking noise up?

“Best we can do is get you hearing aids.” Apologetic, sincere even. Stained, as always though, by a trembling, noxious unease. It emanates off the doctor in waves. 

Hard not to feel uneasy around a man in a mask, Ghost assumes. That’s all part of it though. He doesn’t cultivate comfort, doesn’t attempt to engender soft feelings or put the mind at ease. His body and persona are designed to put the body and mind on the knife’s edge of fear, and then tip it over. He leaves the sweet talking and charming to men like Johnny, who babbles red language in a tongue like larkspur. 

Ghost’s first language is oil slick. It stains and it covers and it darkens everything it touches. 

And now, Johnny’s talking about a bird.

A couple months after Las Almas, the first picture comes out. Not a folded up keepsake tucked away in the pocket of a bag or a wallet or the inside of his jacket, but right on Johnny’s lockscreen on his phone. He disapproves at first glance. Not of the girl, but at the thought of keeping something so valuable on display for anyone to see. It’s not how he functions. Everything sacred is burned, destroyed, or—if precious enough—buried so deep underground that salt miners might greet it on the way down.

“Pretty, eh?” Johnny goads, nudging Ghost with his shoulder. He’s all wide grin, eyes electric-blue like the flames of Kawah Ijen. 

She is pretty. Pretty as pie. Not a speck of grit or blood on her; if there’s any edge to her at all, it’s tempered by her smile in the photo on Johnny’s phone. A sugar sweet cunt, by the looks of it, sure it’d taste like candy if he got his mouth on it. He angles his eyes with Johnny’s lips and wonders how many times he’s eaten her out, if hers was the last cunt he ate. Likely. His boy’s the loyal kind, hard to shake off once he’s got his teeth in. Swapping spit or blood, he doesn’t leave once he’s got a taste. 

“Where’d you find her?” he asks instead of agreeing, and takes a swig from the bottle in front of him. The bar’s hardly filled out yet; the two of them come early because Ghost’s an old man—that’s what Johnny would say—and doesn’t like to be around people once the sun’s set. It’s a burnished gold now, sun hovering low in the sky when Ghost turns an eye to it. 

“Florist. Met her when I picked up flowers for mam’s birthday.”

Nearly a month then. “And I’m just hearin’ about this now?”

Not in this same pub three times a week since then. Not on the tarmac, suited up and sweating already beneath two layers of gear. Not in the shower beside Ghost’s, fingers reaching over the side for a bar of soap because Johnny can’t be arsed to get his own. Not with his head slumped to let Ghost shave the sides of his head nice and neat, thick fingers splayed over the delicate bone of his skull that Ghost knows would take nothing to break. 

It rankles him until he looks back down at the phone in his hands—the one he’d plucked from Johnny’s fingers even while he whined about Ghost always stealing his shit—and feels his heartbeat slow. It levels out like staring into the scope of a rifle, the molecules of his breath melding with the molecules of the air until even the sound of his heartbeat dulls to the insects around him. 

Johnny purses his lips. “…Wasn’t sure then. Am now.”

“Cunt’s a cunt. What’s there to be sure about?”

“No.” Johnny shakes his head vehemently. “She’s no’ like that. She’s special—I’m telling ye, Lt—” he stresses when Ghost snorts, the sound thick with scepticism, “—she’s a good egg. Smart one. Sweet as pie.”

Sweet as pie. Mutt half-shares his thoughts these days. They must have brought more home than just shellshock and keloids. 

Johnny squawks when Ghost unlocks his phone and thumbs through his photos, trying to wrench it out of Ghost’s hand to no avail. He’s easy to hold back. All he has to do is put down his beer for a second and get a handful of hair and jerk, and there it is. Peace and quiet. A wince bleeding into his peripheral vision while Johnny mumbles something under his breath about him being a mean bastard. 

He snorts again. Even from Johnny, he’s heard worse. 

There isn’t much left of him these days. A tired husk and a taste for Guinness. He bleeds and shaves and wipes it off, smells the viscera still staining his mask that he hardly ever washes, can’t bear to honestly. Waste of fucking time, as far as he’s concerned. Just going to get dirtied again, soaked in blood again within the week. Shaves his head too just to have less to deal with, less to distract him from the single-minded intensity he brings to the job. He’d dematerialize if he could, become a ghost in name and shape, if only the laws of physics allowed. 

Instead he’s saddled with a body that echoes back his age in creaking joints and low back pain. Scar tissue that aches when it gets cold. 

In the months he’s known Johnny, he’s never let himself think about the world outside their bubble. His rank demands a certain level of socialising, and while he doesn’t schmooze with the brass like other lieutenants might, Ghost hardly has the privilege of isolating himself all the time, but still he can count the people he considers close on one hand. 

Not family, but close. The thought of family is sheathed within him; he knows to leave the knife in lest he bleed. Still, Johnny’s fought his way onto the list and now he has to pay with his pound of flesh. 

There’s a switch that’s been off for years, closer to a couple decades, and it flips back on when he finds this man that trusts him without question, that follows his orders and looks up at him with these big, puppy blue eyes. It twists something in his chest. It turns him into a thing that says maybe it’s better to take than just covet. 

There are other photos of the girl in Johnny’s phone, some likely not meant for present company (Johnny flushes red when Ghost flips to a picture of his bird in a pretty little number, lace cupping her tits and ass, sitting on Johnny’s bed back home and looking back at him over her shoulder with a little grin). Still, it interests him to see this side of his boy; he’s maybe thought of it before in abstract terms. He knows that Johnny’s no stranger to a wandering eye, not with the way he’s built and his pretty boy face. He’s well acquainted with Johnny’s dick, hard not to be in such close quarters; it’s a nice, pretty thing, just like him, a good handful. Nothing like the ruddy battering ram in between Ghost’s legs. The one Johnny once got a glimpse of in the showers after a two week long stint in Kyrgyzstan and paled, mouth gaping open while he stared until he could finally laugh it off. 

Ghost remembers thinking detachedly about how lovely that little gaped open mouth would feel around his cock. 

Surprising that it took this long for him to cotton on to his own desires. 

“Bring ‘er around then. I’ll see for myself how sweet she is.”

Johnny scowls at the sudden uproar from a nearby table. “No’ a chance in hell. Dinnae trust any of these fuckers to behave around her.”

Ghost hums. He’s not wrong to be wary; under the table, Ghost runs a hand over his bulge and gives it a squeeze, lifting his thigh to readjust. She has a lovely mouth too. 

He’s been breathing fire and brimstone recently. Hungering to hear something break. It takes Johnny’s hand on his arm to hold him back, every cigarette puffed down to the filter. The pictures on Johnny’s phone make it seem easy though. 

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately, preening at every opportunity to show her off. He doesn’t know that it takes approximately eight seconds for Ghost’s brain to file the girl in Johnny’s phone under mine, slotting her right under Johnny in that category and isn’t that just perfect because it also takes approximately eight seconds for Ghost to imagine what she might look like under Johnny. 

He hands Johnny back the phone, face down. “You get one week. Then I wanna meet your bird.”