#implied poly141

[cod-thoughts]

Day 18 of 31 days of COD

Words: 1.4k

Relationships: implied poly141

Tags: outsider pov, dog tags

Harper had seen tight-knit teams before, but 141 was something else entirely. They didn’t just operate like a well-oiled machine; they were like parts of the same organism. And it wasn’t just the battlefield efficiency that marked them as different. It was in the small moments, the in-between times, when their connection became most apparent. Keep reading under the cut or on AO3

Lieutenant Harper had been stationed at the base for nearly a month, long enough to get a feel for the ebb and flow of life there, but it was Task Force 141 that continued to draw his attention. He’d heard of them long before he’d ever set foot in this place—their reputation preceded them. Whispered stories of impossible missions, tight escapes, and a level of camaraderie that no other unit seemed to replicate. But seeing them in person was different. It was the way they moved together, the way they seemed to communicate without words, as though they were always on the same wavelength.

Harper had seen tight-knit teams before, but 141 was something else entirely. They didn’t just operate like a well-oiled machine; they were like parts of the same organism. And it wasn’t just the battlefield efficiency that marked them as different. It was in the small moments, the in-between times, when their connection became most apparent.

He first noticed it during a routine briefing. Captain Price stood at the front, his gravelly voice delivering tactical orders in that steady, confident tone of his. Harper watched as Ghost, Soap, and Gaz stood behind him, their eyes fixed on the map projected on the wall. But it wasn’t their attentiveness that struck Harper—it was the way they moved. Price would point to a location, and before the next word was out of his mouth, Ghost would already be preparing to leave, knowing exactly what Price was going to say. Soap glanced at Gaz, and a silent understanding seemed to pass between them. They didn’t need to be told twice. They didn’t need to ask questions. They just knew.

It wasn’t until later, when they were packing up their gear, that Harper noticed the dog tags.

Every soldier had them. They were essential, a grim reminder of who you were, should your identity ever need confirmation under the worst circumstances. Most soldiers had two tags on their chains, one to stay with them and one to be removed if needed. But Task Force 141? Each of them had four.

It was subtle, something that might’ve gone unnoticed by others. Harper only saw it because he was standing close enough to hear the distinct *clink* as Ghost shifted his gear. At first, he thought it might be some strange tradition, or maybe a memorial to fallen comrades. But the more he observed, the clearer the picture became. They weren’t wearing the tags of the dead; they were wearing each other’s tags.

Harper couldn’t say for sure when he realised this, but once he did, the significance became impossible to ignore. Each man carried the weight of the others around his neck. They didn’t talk about it, didn’t draw attention to it, but Harper understood. It was a vow. A silent promise that no one would be left behind, that even in death, they would belong to one another.

He wasn’t sure if anyone else on the base had noticed this. It was the kind of detail that most wouldn’t think twice about, but to Harper, it spoke volumes about the bond between them. This wasn’t just about loyalty. It was something deeper, something unspoken. Harper had seen soldiers form close bonds in war, but this felt different. This wasn’t just camaraderie forged through fire. It was almost as if there was something more, something intimate, though what it was, Harper couldn’t tell—and frankly, it wasn’t his place to figure out.

The more time he spent on the base, the more he noticed these small moments. In the mess hall, for example, Soap and Gaz often sat together, their banter easy and familiar. Harper had watched as Soap nudged half of his tray over to Gaz without a word, offering the food like it was the most natural thing in the world. Gaz didn’t hesitate. He just took it with a muttered, sarcastic thanks, but the smile that flickered at the edge of his lips said more than words could.

Then there was Ghost. He was an enigma to everyone else on the base, the kind of man who could make a room go silent just by walking into it. But with 141, Ghost was different. Harper had always assumed that someone like Ghost—a man who kept himself wrapped in silence and shadows—would shy away from touch. But Soap would often clap Ghost on the shoulder after a mission, or Gaz would lean into him slightly during a briefing, and Ghost didn’t flinch. In fact, he barely seemed to notice. As if this kind of casual touch was expected, maybe even welcomed in its own quiet way. 

Harper had seen Ghost sit beside Price in the mess, their shoulders nearly touching, both men quietly focused on whatever conversation was happening around them. There was a sense of ease in their posture, the kind of comfort that came from years of trust. They didn’t have to speak to be understood. They didn’t have to ask if the other was alright. They just knew.

One evening, Harper was making his way across the base when he caught sight of them again, gathered in a quiet corner near the barracks. It was dark, the shadows lengthening as the sun dipped below the horizon. Ghost, Price, Soap, and Gaz stood close together, their conversation low but animated. Soap was laughing, his hands moving wildly as he told some story, while Gaz shook his head, smirking in that quiet way of his. Price had a cigar between his fingers, his face mostly obscured by the smoke, but there was a relaxed air about him that Harper rarely saw when the Captain was around anyone else.

Ghost stood a little apart, his arms crossed over his chest, but Harper noticed the way his body leaned just slightly toward the others. It was subtle, so subtle that most would have missed it. But Harper had been watching long enough to know that Ghost only ever let his guard down around them. It was in these quiet moments, in the dim light and hushed voices, that Harper saw the truth of it. They weren’t just soldiers. They weren’t even just a team.

They were something more.

Harper had caught himself thinking it more than once. He couldn’t say if it was friendship, brotherhood, or something deeper, something more intimate. But the bond between them was undeniable, and it wasn’t something that could be easily explained to an outsider. It was in the way they touched, the way they looked out for each other, the way they carried each other’s dog tags. They moved like parts of the same whole, each one connected to the others in ways that went beyond anything Harper had ever seen.

In the weeks that followed, Harper continued to observe them, though he made sure to keep his distance. It wasn’t his place to interfere, and frankly, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to know the full extent of what tied them together. Whatever it was, it worked. He could see it in the way they returned from missions—battered but whole, each one always looking out for the others, ensuring that they all made it back. They never said it aloud, but Harper could tell by the way they moved, the way they positioned themselves in the field, that losing even one of them was not an option.

One day, Harper was heading out for a mission of his own when he passed them in the corridor. Price was talking to Ghost, their voices low and serious, while Soap and Gaz hung back, discussing something in quieter tones. As Harper walked by, he couldn’t help but glance at the chains around their necks. The dog tags clinked softly with every step they took, four tags for each man, each one a reminder of who they were fighting for.

Harper never asked them about it. He didn’t need to. The answer was in their every gesture, every look. They were more than a team. Whether it was love, loyalty, or something else entirely didn’t matter. To them, it was just how things were. They carried each other—literally and figuratively—and that was all there was to it.

As Harper turned the corner, leaving Task Force 141 behind, he found himself thinking about their bond, about the quiet understanding that seemed to pass between them. He’d seen many teams in his time, but he knew he’d never see another quite like them. Whatever it was they shared, it was unbreakable, a tie that ran deeper than the battlefield, deeper than blood. And maybe that was the real reason they always came back alive. Because no matter what, they had each other.

[fractiousmink]

Ghost is making your period everyone’s problem. Not just the team, which they don’t even see it as a problem, those three are all delighted at any opportunity to take care of you, but everyone. The whole damn base. Spends most of the month basically ignoring you and the second you start bleeding? Wears his tac vest even when he doesn’t need it cause it’s filled with snacks, tea bags, pain meds, he’s got a rice filled stuffy that you microwave to heat up strapped to him. He buys you expensive period underwear and reusable pads, which he always has spares on him as well.

Which is great for you, but makes him INSUFFERABLE otherwise. Absolutely refuses to go to any meetings or training you can’t come with, or at least get to him “in case she needs anything”. Will not even consider just leaving the things you might need in your room or something sensible. Sends rookies and random sergeants off to get you a seat so you can sit by him as he runs drills, or to heat up your stuffy when the cramps get bad. And if you need something while he’s talking to another lieutenant or a commanding officer? Fully stops listening to them. Just flat ignores them until you’re squared away. Price absolutely encourages this behavior btw.

Gross period sex ranting below the cut

You cannot convince me that this man, however he is written, doesn’t have a blood kink. Even the sweetest, fluffiest incarnation of this man is a fucking fiend for period sex. Guilt free way of getting his dick covered in blood, maybe get you off for some pain relief? Sign him the fuck up. You and him don’t usually fuck, Soap meets most of his needs just fine, but for the 5 days you’re bleeding? No one else touches you.

Makes you drag your messy cunt all over his abs and thighs, loves the blood on his pale ass skin. Half the time her doesn’t even fuck you, just fingers you till you cry and then jerks himself off with your blood. You like your ghost mean? Don’t worry, he’d be so condescending while bullying your poor sore cervix. “Quit your whining pet, you and I both know you’ll feel better once you’ve come a few times. Now hush and let me deeper.” He’s so mean and acts like her doing you a favor even though he’s literally feral for your blood on his cock.

Sometimes, when you’re extra painful, basically crying as he holds you down, he pretends all the blood is from him taking your virginity. He’s so nasty it’s unreal.

[mariamakeslemons]

Spooktober 2024: Day 20 Succubus

Warning: Reader is female due to the lore of Succubi specifically (not incubi, which are the male version), weirdly fluffy for a sex demon, allusion to sex

You’re starving, but no one in this bar smells remotely good. All of the men smell rancid or filthy, while the women are equally rancid or overly sweetened. You sigh and pout into your drink, mourning the days when you could slip into multiple men’s rooms in the far flung past. You had been young and stupidly believed that technology would never go past the medieval era, thinking you’d have basically a buffet for however long you wanted. You were an idiot.

Suddenly, you’re slammed by four scents that make your mouth water and you pussy clench in interest. Looking up, you easily spot them, a group of handsome men walking into this shit hole of a bar. They’re obviously military, likely special forces with one man’s mohawk and another man’s beard. The man with the mohawk and another man who can only be described as beautiful are the younger two of the group, bumping into each other with snickers, as the older men walk behind them. The bearded man shakes his head while the man wearing a mask seems to roll his eyes.

“Hey, pretty la’y,” a drunkard slurs, stumbling to your table and leaning over to touch you. You turn your eyes to him and flash them, smirking when he immediately succumbs to your hypnosis.

“You’re going to leave me alone,” you order softly, “And you’re going to tell your friends to leave me alone too.” The drunkard nods deeply before stumbling back to the table he and his little friends are drinking at. You take a sip of your drink, turning to watch the handsome group find their own table. They’ve already ordered as a waitstaff scurries from their table, the masked one keeping his back against the wall as he slowly turns his head around the room. You catch his eye, smirking as you raise your drink to him. You can practically see him narrowing his eyes on you, but you continue on, sipping your drink and making looks at the table.

Eventually, the one with the mohawk rises from the table, the whiskey he’d been brought in his hand as he saunters to your table.

“Fit’s a bonnie lass daein’ on yer oon lek ‘is,” he says, accent extremely thick. You blink and arch an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry?” you reply, giving him a smile that couldn’t melt butter. The man blusters before giving you a sheepish smile.

“Ah asked, what’s a bonnie lass doin’ on yer own like this,” he enunciates, “Wanted t’ know ‘f yeh’d be interested in comin’ tae our table.” You pause, licking your lips thoughtfully before giving him a smile.

“I’d love to,” you agree, watching in amusement as the man perks up and leads you back to his three friends. You swing your hips a little bit, taking note on who is more obviously interested. The mohawked man is openly staring while the beautiful man nearly spills his beer down his shirt with how distracted he is. The older man with the beard is calmly sipping his whiskey, but his eyes are on you, while the masked man watches you warily. If nothing else, you suppose, you can try for the younger men as snacks, leave them a little tired as you see if you can’t find more.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Price wakes up the next day, still cock deep in your soft walls. Pushing himself up, he drags his soft prick out of you and carefully climbs over Gaz. He can’t help but pause and take in your true form, which had been revealed the night before, during Soap’s second round. A cute little spaded tail wrapping around his thigh as a pair of small horns sprouted from your forehead, your skin changing into an inhuman color.

“What a cute little succubus,” Price mumbles to himself, picking up his cigar for his morning smoke. Ghost snorts from your other side, his cock still in your ass.

“More a pain in th’ arse,” Ghost argues, “Lil’ tart wan’ed t’ be filled t’ th’ brim.” Despite his gruff words, he pats your stomach gently, emphasizing the little pudge that appeared as they fucked you. Soap grumbles behind Ghost, cuddling closer to the Lieutenant’s back while his hand finds your hip to rest on. Price tries not to snort at the situation, but the deadpan look on Ghost’s face is hilarious.

“Yeah, laugh it up, y’ ol’ bastard,” Ghost grumbles as Gaz finally wakes up enough to sit up.

“Is th’ pretty bird still ‘ere?” Gaz slurs out, blinking blearily around the room.

“I fuckin’ hope so, since I’m holdin’ someone,” Ghost snarks, which seems to wake both Soap and you up. Soap yawns and squeezes your hips before rolling right off the bloody bed while you just blink, obviously trying to figure things out.

“Y’ alive down there, MacTavish?” Gaz calls out as Price finally starts pulling on clothes.

“Away an’ bile yer heid,” Soap rasps out in irritation, clawing his way back onto the bed as Ghost uses the instance to escape. You roll on your back and arch, releasing a moan worthy of the best porn as your inhuman features return to your body.

“Well, that was a lovely night, gentlemen,” you say, “But I should go.”

“Oh no, yer nae,” Soap insists, making it on top of the bed and wrapping his arms around you.

“He’s right, pretty bird,” Gaz agrees, “Can’t just let a sweet thing like you leave.”

“Stay here, we’ll get y’ some food an’ sort some thin’s out,” Ghost instructs you as he quickly redresses as Price finishes getting his clothes on.

“You should have been more careful last night, sweetheart,” Price finally speaks up, “You should have seen that there were predators more dangerous than you at that bar.” The look on your face is confused surprise, before you yelp when the two Sergeants drag you down on the bed, more than willing to distract you with even more sex. Price and Ghost leave them to it, heading out to get breakfast for everyone.

“Y’ think she’d wan’ a muffin?” Ghost asks as they head to the car.

“Might be a safe bet,” Price agrees, pulling out the keys to the car. The only time he’s riding with Simon is during a mission or everyone else is blackout drunk.

[thegnomelord]

sof and cute hcs of eldritch reader trying to learn how to people (and maybe some raunchy ones about learning how human "mating" works) hhhhnnnngggh

Imagine Learning To Be Human

CW: SFW and NSFW First TF141 with SFW, then NSFW headcannons, sexting, masturbation, sex toys, morning after (no sex), sexual nudity, nonsexual nudity, implied poly141. GN reader, 500-900 words for each blurb, so somewhere around 5.5k words. Imma be quiet for the next week or so as I prepare for an exam so I'm feeding ya'll :Dd

Imagine SOAP— It's safe to say you're not the best with expressing what you think, especially not in this hollowed out corpse a tiny fraction of your consciousness inhabits. The more you try, the less human your attempts come out, only remembering that humans don't bend that way or don't do something after you've done it. You find yourself gravitating to Soap because he is the opposite of you, so open and responsive like an open book.

Imagine; observing Soap as he tries to piece together the fragments of a bomb, muttering curses under his breath as if the object had just called football 'soccer'. He's so concentrated he forgets the rest of the world exists, oblivious to you sitting across from him. But that's not a problem as it gives you a chance to watch and try to mimic what his face does; the slight hint of teeth as he nibbles on his lip, the furrow of his brows, the tenseness of his jaw pulling on his throat muscles…

You try to mimic every emotion he goes through as he tries and fails and succeeds and fails again to fit the pieces together like a jigsaw, but the hardest one to do is that smile of his. For some reason you just can't get it right, lips pulling back too far, teeth too much on display and brows too furrowed so you end up looking like an old savage.

Then as if to spite you, Soap looks up at you and immediately snorts. "What're yea doin' there Bonnie?" He coughingly laughs as your facial features return to your statue like state.

"Trying to look like you." You huff; at least you can do that correctly.

"Oh, look strapping don't I?" He snorts, doing what Ghost calls 'fishing for compliments' (though you're unsure how one can fish for abstract ideas).

"No more than the rest." You shrug and see him roll his eyes, though the corners of his lips are still quirked up, a hint of teeth on display and vestiges of dimples framing his mouth. "How do I do that?" You ask and motion to his face.

"Do what? Smile?" You snorts, already beckoning you over like you're a dog. "It's easy."

You lean across the table, tilting your head to indicate confusion but leaving your face a blank canvas. It takes all of your presence of mind not to give an earth shattering purr when his hands cup your jaw, distant stars quivering as his blunt nails scratch at your throat for a blissful second.

"Here," His thumbs settle at both corners of your lips, putting gentle pressure until he pushes the flesh back and up in a way that's natural to the skin suit but not you. "There yea go." He grins and pulls his thumbs away after a few moments, grinning when you hold the expression.

"Now yea're as dashing as me." He chuckles and you two must look like utter buffoons just grinning at one another; you wouldn't have it any other way.

Imagine GAZ — You're not exactly alive, technically you're the antithesis to life and existence, so to you, simple rules like eating or sleeping are no more than chalk guidelines after a rainstorm. Gaz doesn't subscribe to this idea, he's always trying to get you to indulge in these human comforts and you always allow him, even if it does include eating more things in a week than most of your kin have consumed in a millennia, if that.

Imagine; wandering the halls on a lazy Sunday morning, no drills to run or missions to prep for, and being drawn to the communal kitchen by the sound of boiling water and banding pans. You find Gaz cooking breakfast for the boys; he's the only one who can cook (according to him) seeing as Price seasons his food with hope, Ghost burns everything into coal and Soap's not allowed into the kitchen after he'd tried to make tea in the microwave (which Gaz had later asked you to exorcise).

"Mornin'." Kyle yawns and smiles at you, dressed in shorts and one of your 'lost' shirts. You do your best to replicate his expression. "Help me, yeah?" He asks and nods his head at what he's cooking.

Your expression falls back to neutral. "You'll need to show me how." You admit as you get next to him.

"Not a problem," He chuckles as he shifts behind you, pressing his chest flush with your back with his hands hovering over yours. You feel his warmth when he rests his head on your shoulder, his hands firm and steady as he shows you how to chop tomatoes and sausages, how to hold the knife correctly and pulling your fingers back when the blade draws too close to the flesh, talking you through it until you can do it on your own.

After that he leaves you to your task as he almost dances around the kitchen, stirring a pot here then putting the kettle on there and so many more little things while you remain where you are because you, by nature, are slow; to adapt, to age, to change.

But you do it for him.

"Those look great." He grins when you're done and then herds you in front of the cooking pans, and you're a little apprehensive about the bubbling oil when he dumps what you'd cut up into the pan. But his warmth is at your back again, steady hands guiding you on how to cook the food without burning your skin and leaving you to it when you catch on.

Then you feel a tug on your shirt, his presence once again next to you, but this time he's holding a piece of sausage on the end of a fork, a hand beneath it so it doesn't drop, "Hey, taste this for me."

You contemplate arguing you can't actually taste food the same way he does, but he gives you a look that has you letting him feed you. Though it tastes no different from everything else, from his hand it may as well be sweeter than ambrosia.

"Tastes good." The way he brightens up at your words makes the food only taste sweeter.

Imagine GHOST —You and him are similar in some ways, you both prefer to stick to what you know, who you know. It's harder for you to contain what you are inside your flesh body when there is so much life around you that every additional heartbeat pulls at the edge of your cold existence. So you stick to close to the people who's warmth has grown so familiar it's indistinguishable from the burning starts making up your real body.

Imagine; attending a celebration held by both TF141 and Los Vaqueros after a mission gone well, loud music and lewd lyrics blaring in your ears as men drink like teenagers at their first frat party. You're in a more secluded part of the bar next to Ghost, both of you nursing drinks while you watch the rest act like fools.

You're a little confused when you see Gaz and Soap move in a strange way, grinding against one another and pressed so close you'd think they're trying to mate, their hands roaming the other's body so roughly you're surprised no pieces of clothing come flying your way.

"Got a free show for my drink." Ghost chuckles next to you.

"What are they doing?" You finally ask when you can't contain your curiosity.

"Dancing." He answers and swallows the last inch of booze in his cup, setting it down on the bar. "For fun." He adds, already expecting the line of questioning, as if that's supposed to make you understand.

"They just look like they're trying to mate." You point out, receiving a long sigh in return.

"How 'bout I just show you." Before you can say anything he nicks the cup of untouched alcohol in your hand and swallows it all down in one go, putting the empty cup next to his before grabbing you by the arm and pulling you outside through the back entrance. You go along with him, but you're confused when you catch Soap's eyes and he wolf whistles at the two of you.

The world outside is calmer than the busy bar, the air much colder; closer to what you are. You turn to him once he lets you go, tilting your head and furrowing your brow to convey confusion. "So…what do I do?"

"Just follow my lead." A gravely chuckle escapes Simon as he closes the distance between you two, his rough hands settling on your waist as he begins to slowly rock both of your bodies along with the music, though his movements are more contained than what you'd seen, a steady push and pull compelling you to follow him.

"Why is this different than what Soap and Gaz were doing?" You ask, clutching his shoulders in return, your forehead almost resting on his chest as you look at your feet so you don't step on his toes.

You feel his chest vibrate as he chuckles, "They set a low bar." He rumbles and his hand moves to your jaw, tilting your head up so you two lock eyes, the intensity in his brown irises drowning out the sounds of the bar. "Eyes on me."

You nod. Your eyes stay firmly on him as you sway together to a tune he hums, finding a common ground in the way your cold and his heat mixes together. Above you millions of your eyes peer down at him, for as vast as you are, for this moment your attention is on him.

Imagine PRICE — He can tell how tired you are, not physically but mentally; having to communicate and understand people without the use of a mental link, when even the most complex ideas can be conveyed easily, was starting to fray the edges of your control over your human body. He decided to do something about it.

Imagine; Price taking you and the boys fishing to a remote cabin next to a lake. Knowing you don't sleep he pulls you out by the lake at the ass crack of dawn, having you watch as he sits down on the dock, his pants pulled up to his knees so he can dip his feet in the water while he sets up the fishing rods.

"What are we doing?" You ask but follow his example and sit next to him, the cool water of the lake similar enough to the cold abyss your true body resides to calm your nerves, though you're unsure of what to do when he gives you the fishing rod.

"Fishing." He says as he shows you how to cast out the line. "You look like you need it."

You don't argue with him and just try focusing on fishing, letting him teach you how to watch the line to see when something takes the bait and when to reel it in. You’re unsuccessful your first few attempts, and you have half the mind to just jump in and wrangle the fish in the lake with liquid abyss, but he stops you.

"Catching isn't the point." He says as he smokes his cigar while he takes an old boot off your hook. "It's about relaxing, the fish are just a bonus."

You let out a low sound that vibrates the water, but you settle next to him and cast out the line again. You don’t know how long you sit there next to him, your sides touching with the fishing rod sitting loosely in your hands. After some time you manage to yank out your first fish, and you certainly don't gloat when you pull a few more fish out of the lake while he only pulls out seaweed, but the look of pride in his eyes makes it even better.

Any prospects of catching any more fish are dashed when Gaz and Soap wake up and take running jumps into the lake, scaring all the fish with their splashing. "Like school boys." Price remarks as Ghost comes up to you both, offering beers as he sits down on your other side.

"Summer vacation, captain." Ghost says and slips into the water, and you realize this is calming; in the way you haven't felt before, doing something familiar like watching Soap and Gaz trying to dunk each other in the water but feeling like you’re right there with them, laughing alongside them when Ghost scares the shit out of them by lunging out of the water.

“See sweetheart? ‘S not hard.” Price hums, adjusting his hat though his shoulders are already reddened from sunburns. He offers you his cigar and you accept it, breathing in the nicotine and smoke despite not having lungs or a circulatory system to be affected by it, before you give it back. “Taking it easy is good for you.”

You nod your head, content to sit next to him until something tugs on the line of your forgotten fishing rod and you scramble to reel it in. You give a small grunt as whatever is on the hook struggles, "Yank on it." Price tells you and you do, nearly toppling on your back when you finally win the tug of war. You blink as you look at what you've caught.

A Speedo.

"Well would you look at that." Price chuckles.

Judging by the way Johnny's suddenly bare assed and throwing obscenities in Gaelic your way, you assume that it's his.

“Caught a big one there.” Ghost notes, not yet laughing but his shoulders shake with silent laughter as he slaps Soap's cheeks (of his rear).

He yelps, confident enough to be naked in front of all of you, but not shameless enough to where his cheeks (on his face) don't redden from the way Gaz cackles and wheezes with laughter so loudly he nearly drowns. You give Johnny back his trunks before he can drown Gaz but, maybe you should fish any more.

NSFW:

Imagine SOAP— If anyone ever asks Soap why he would ever send a dick pick to an ancient god, he'll blame anything and everything; on being stood up, on loving himself a little less, on mixing up the numbers, in being black out drunk…

Imagine; him being stone cold sober when the thought invades his mind and he spends the next hour trying to take a good picture: in front of the mirror, on the bed, no clothes, some clothes, the list of positions goes on. He doesn't want to come across like he's compensating by just holding his dick in his hand like some cunt; as silly as it is, he wants the picture to actually tempt you, to make you feel something, though the question of if you even can doesn't cross his mind. He ends up with a picture of him on the bed, the tip of his hard cock peeking out from beneath the band of his boxers.

He won’t admit he holds his breath when he sends the suggestive picture to you alongside a ;) , watching the text bubble appear and disappear multiple times before you just leave him on seen. He deflates and has half the mind to delete the picture and chuck his phone to the other end of his bed but he’s stopped when he gets a message from Price.

‘My office. Now.’

Turns out you were with Price when you saw that photo and without a second thought had shown him it and asked what it meant. Granted Price had seen more than just his dick, but he was less than happy about Johnny sending you unsolicited dick pics.

You quiz Soap for nearly an hour, stone faced and unbothered while he gets redder with every question (what can you send, what not to send, how much to send, etc.) and he gets the impression that's how his ma' felt when she gave him and his sisters 'the talk'. “So, yeah.” He clears his throat, whole face feeling hot. “Don’t do it ‘lest yea’r asked or yea like ‘em.”

Thankfully Price finally lets you go when you’re satisfied with his answers and Soap can’t scamper fast enough out of his office with his whole face in flames.

He deletes the photo soon after but you've already burned it into your memory where it will outlast the stars, and the idea to reciprocate festers in your ageless mind like rot until you find yourself in front of your mirror after a shower. You play with the phone for a long time, snapping a few blurry close up shots of your face while you attempt to change it from the front to the back facing camera.

It takes even longer to figure out what to send as Soap wasn't that clear with his answers. Your siblings give you pointers, and first you attempt to take a picture of your most private part — bones snap as your rib cage splits open into a maw, vines full of eyes wrapping around your ribs like ivy as tendrils of darkness unwind just enough for the anti-light of your very essence sucks up all the light in the room — but the mirror cracks and your phone just shuts off with a pitiful whimper.

After fixing the mirror you end up doing what you do best; you mimic one of the statues you'd seen the Greeks make, the towel wrapped just along the V where your thighs connect to your pelvis, exposed from the waist up with your skin still wet. Your body isn't as demure as the muses that sculptor had used, but you hope Soap will appreciate it as you snap a few more photos and send them to Johnny with the same ;) he'd sent you.

Soap nearly chokes on his spit when he gets the photo, all the blood in his brain flooding south as his eyes rake over every exposed inch of skin, every curve and every dip in the muscles making him drool and cock harden and he's racing to your room before you even have the time to turn your phone off.

Imagine GAZ — For all of your pitfalls and misunderstandings he likes the little hints of inhumanity in your speech, in your mannerisms, in knowing you could be anywhere and anytime but you choose to be next to him. He couldn't imagine himself being enamored with an ant, yet you hang on his every word like he's revealing secrets you don't know, making him feel special; he feels so bad when his thoughts of you stop being innocent.

Imagine; He tries to keep things respectful, but his imagination runs wild when you do the simplest things. Bend down to tie your shoe? He's checking out your arse from the corner of his eyes. Stand behind him? He's suppressing a shiver just imagining your body draped over his in post-coital bliss. Check his skin for injuries? Gaz has to bite his lip to keep from begging you to touch all of him, to explore his body. Work out? Kyle's lucky if he doesn't start drooling imagining going over and licking the sweat off your skin, of feeling your muscles tense beneath his tongue while you continue to work out with him between your legs.

When he can't think of you without popping a boner he ends up having to compromise before the shame eats him whole. He goes on a random porn site; he usually prefers just using his imagination but when his mind keeps circling back to you he has no other option, and his conscience gnaws on him when he ends up finding a porn star with similar features to yours. It's not wrong if he's wanking off to a different person, right?

Heat's already burning in his stomach when he slouches in his chair, his back to his room and one earbud in his ear. Shame continues to eat at him when he's both delighted and disheartened by the fact the porn star sounds nothing like you, that his bones don't shiver like they do when you talk.

He keeps the volume low and instead focuses on rubbing and squeezing his cock the way the porn star does to a second actor, and he can't help imagining what you'd sound like; high pitched and whiny? Husky and low? Completely silent or animalistic? The idea of pulling sounds of pleasure out of your throat has him leaking. His head lolls back and he moans as he squeezes the base of his cock, his eyes open just enough to blur the fine details on the porn star's face so you two become indistinguishable.

His heart stops when you burst through his door, a random question leaving your lips before your ears pick up the moans and slick sounds coming from his direction. You're next to him in an instant, looming over his chair and caging him in with your eyes stuck to the screen. "What are you watching?"

"Get out!" He yelps and tries to push you away but it's like trying to move a mountain.

"Why does that human look like my vessel?" You persist, "And why are you watching humans mating when you told me it's wrong?" You tilt your head, luckily not seeing his hand on his hard cock, the porn reflecting in the blacks of your eyes.

“It’s on the net it’s different! People upload it for others' pleasure and-” He sputters and cuts himself off when he registers your words, freezing in place and that accidentally gets him to squeeze the head of his cock.

Your pupils widen like a cat’s when you hear the little moan escape his chest, your head automatically dropping down to see where his other hand is. "Oh,” is what comes out of your mouth when you see his hard weeping cock. “Can I?” You ask, making an odd motion with your head.

He thinks you're asking to leave and nods. "Yeah-" Gaz wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole, his cheeks burning red like he's a lobster in a pot. “-can you pl-please leave-”

He wheezes when your cold hand suddenly wraps around his cock, your hold firm and just at the edge of pain but still making him throb. A few more eyes spread across your skin to see him while you watch the video still playing on his computer, giving his cock a small pump and shaking the stars with your purr when he moans.

"What are-" He neck nearly snaps to look at you, a shiver raking his body and another moan escaping him as you squeeze the head of his cock, your skin like ice yet it makes him burn with arousal.

"Watch." You order and turn his head with your free hand so his eyes are back on the screen. You don't know why he's watching a fake 'you' mate when he could just ask you, but you know one thing; the person on the screen is competition, and by the way you roughly stroke his cock until he's whining and leaking like a tap, Gaz can tell— you don't like competition.

Imagine PRICE — He never imagined he'd need to have 'the talk' with a god; sure, you may understand how sex works, but you're hopeless in understanding the nuances of it all. If someone doesn't directly say 'let's fuck' you assume any touches from them, even groping, is just them being friendly. It makes his blood boil, seeing you be taken advantage of like that.

Imagine; You're in the bar with the boys and Price is a couple of drinks in when he sees being felt up by a stranger and you're oblivious to his advances. A green eyed monster nips at Price's heels and he doesn't notice when he puts himself next to you, 'accidentally' shoving the other guy back with just his bulk. His presence, his demeanor, and the few harsh words spoken in a clipped tone has the other guy scampering off.

He doesn't remember much after that, only the way you'd looked at him — with the intensity of a ravenous void, like he was a bright star you wanted to devour.

What wakes him isn't his clock, but the rays of sunlight gently streaming through the curtains. He groans as he registers the awful ache behind his eyes before he even has a chance to open them. He feels his bed shift and his eyes snap open automatically, he nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees you laying on your side as you stare at him.

"Jesus!" He jumps up, nearly topples over from the sudden vertigo but your steady hand on his shoulder keeps him upright, making him realize he's nude.

"He's not here." You shrug and as you sit up his sheets pool around your waist, making him realize you're naked from the waist up, though he doesn't want to think if you're naked naked. His fists clench when his eyes roam over your exposed body against his will, settling on the various hickeys decorating your shoulders and neck.

His heart sinks. "What…what happened last night?" He asks and doesn't want to know the answer, his stomach churns with shame.

"Oh, uh, you got drunk, I got you home, you started kissing and biting me." You say, tracing the numerous hickeys and indents of his teeth across your human form like they're medals. "Then you pulled me into your bed and wouldn't let me go. Then you passed out." You say as if nothing's wrong, and even if no sex happened it's little consolidation to the fact he took advantage of you.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” He asks as he takes a shaky breath, shoulders hunched up around his ears and eyes downcast, bile burning in his stomach.

"Why would I?" You tilt your head and shift positions to face him fully, the sheets falling away to reveal you are naked naked. "I may not understand you fully, but I would have stopped you if you did something I didn't want."

Price hates himself for how he can't tear his eyes away from your body. "But you let me." He insists and tries to get you to see reason, to be as angry and disgusted with him as he is with himself.

“Yes.” You are growing annoyed as well, silently cursing the frailty of the human mind; things would be easier to explain if you could just use mental communication… “You are less than insects to my kin.” You sigh and move to straddle him before he can get away, pinning him under you. “You are a sun to me.”

Even calling him a sun doesn’t do him justice; suns die out like firecrackers when your immeasurable body passes over them, when you devour them, him, you want to keep, to protect, to wrap in your cold abyss until he’s warm and safe.

He sucks in a breath, the gears in his head turning as he tries to understand. “What?-”

“Can I touch you?” You ask, your hands respectfully on your thighs as if you’re not pinning him in place with your weight. There’s a dark intelligence in your eyes, the same ravenous void staring at him behind the black of your eyes. You are not a child, you are a god.

"Why?" He sucks in a sharp breath as he breathes in your smell, the scent of dying stars and burn ozone tickling his lungs. "You don't have to." He says weakly, because what would anyone, god or not, want with him?

"You left marks on me, I want to do the same." The way you say it makes him think of godhood; not the bleak madness you are, but the type humanity romanticizes. Your lips part as if you're thinking of marking him, bits of oblivion staring back at him from the darkness of your throat when he looks too closely at your mouth.

He submits so fast. "C'mere then," He pulls you close by your head, kissing you like he's trying to steal your ichor, his body burning hot when your hands grip him tight enough to leave moon shaped bruises in his skin — the first of many you intend to give him, until you've marked him as yours and yours alone.

Imagine GHOST — Ghost prefers to show you rather than spend hours trying to explain things to you, he's more stricter with you when you try to do things you're told not to, both for your and everyone's safety. You never do quite learn.

Imagine; Ghost recently confiscated your phone when you tried to see what humans thought about you, or what they imagined you and your kin to be, on a website called 'Rule34'. Ghost had snatched the phone out of your hands before you could even click the link. After a week he gave you the go ahead to take it back, but got called to run a drill so just said to go find it.

Now, you've been told not to go rooting around other people's belongings, but while searching for your phone you'd fallen back into your old habit and snooped around until you found a small box in the bottom of his dresser. Thinking nothing of it you opened it and found…something. A lot of somethings; handcuffs, rope, weird egg shaped thing, a weird tube with a hole in it that squished like a stress toy but had a cunt molded at one end, but what drew your attention — was the dismembered black cock in the middle of the box.

You and all of your kin scratched your collective heads over the thing you now held in your hand, you'd been under the impression humans didn't carry around body parts anymore so you were stumped why Ghost had a dismembered dick and balls in his dresser. Besides the pitch black color and flat base it looked so realistic and the way it flopped when you turned it in your hand made you feel the same way humans did when seeing you.

So you got up and wen to ask Ghost about it, the thing held out in your hand when you found him with the rest of the boys. "Ghost, why do you a have body part in your closet?"

Your question made them all turn to look at you, Ghost made a strange sound like a strangled dog while Gaz and Soap fell over laughing and Price shielded his eyes with the rim of his hat.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” He snarls and before you know it he’s stomping over to you and dragging you by the front of your clothes, “What I tell you about snooping?”

“I couldn’t find my phone,” You try to argue but don’t struggle and just let him drag you somewhere like you're a kitten until you find yourself in his room with the door firmly locked behind him.

"Right." His tone makes it sound like he doesn't believe you, his rough hand pushes you down on his bed and he yanks the thing from your hold. “You want to know what this is for?” He asks and holds the the cock with the head pointed at you like a knife.

You nod your head and try to rise up but he pushes you back down, you're not even sure where he gets the handcuffs from but there's cold steel around your wrists before you can notice it. It's his order to "Sit and watch." that actually keeps you down, and you see the corners of his eyes shift to denote a smirk. "Do what you're good at."

You don't blink as you watch him disrobe until he's only wearing his mask, and your surprise is obvious when he sticks the thing on the floor and it stays up right. "This," He growls and sinks to his knees on the floor, a towel under him, "Is a fuckin' dildo." He reaches over and takes a small tube, squirting viscous liquid on his fingers. "You don't ever take it out of my room. Got it."

He leaves no room to argue and you rapidly nod your head. You find yourself breathless as you watch him reach behind himself and you don’t even notice how a bit of your oblivion leaks from your pores and spreads across the ground like spiderwebs, eyes blooming in the small pools all around him so you can see the way he roughly pushes a finger into himself, your hands clenching as his rim flutters around his large fingers.

"What is it for?" You find your voice, the sound ringing like the inside of a dead star the longer you watch him roughly stretch himself, pushing two then three fingers into his ass.

"Fun," He chuckles and feels so powerful when your eyes have all but turned black with hunger you've yet to notice. "It's a toy, for adults." He pulls his fingers out and squirts more liquid on the dildo, before sinking down on the toy in one fluid move that leaves him hissing at the stretch, his rim fluttering around the thick base.

Something about the way the toy is of a similar color to your real body has you wriggling beneath your human skin, the air vibrating as you groan and try to reach out to him, wanting to cover him in your body and have all of him feel all of you.

"No." Just one word has you sitting back on the bed like a dog, a pitiful sound rumbling across the void as you can do nothing but watch. "This is what you get for snooping." He's so smug with the way he has such control over you without even touching you, his thick thighs tensing as he slowly bounces on the dildo, "Now watch. Maybe if you're good I'll let you touch me."

You'll do whatever he says so long as you get to feel him.

[highermagic]

Big Post of Ghoap/CoD fics!

I've been writing a lot for Call of Duty but haven't been great at keeping up to date on posting, so here's a big list of the things I've been writing! Mind the tags for each as they'll contain specifics. Enjoy!

Twitter Archive: Ghoap | A collection of my threads from twitter and bluesky involving ghoap + cod in general.

Rough-Hewn | Dragon Price, ghostprice, implied poly141. Price is a dragon that comes to defend his hoard when they get taken from him.

Light Up Six Torches | Ghoap WIP. Greek myth inspired AU with Ghost, Gaz, Price, and Roach as sailors who come across Soap, who seems to have survived an attack by sirens. Not all is at it seems.

Ad Astra Per Aspera | Reaper Ghost and Viking Soap who tries to convince Ghost to let him live through the power of his dick love.

Results May Vary | Dragon Ghost and Wolf Shifter Soap, who are in love with each other but have drastically different mating practices and keep accidentally screwing it up. Happy ending!

Snowblind | Ghoap featuring Laswell, an Envoy on her way to visit King MacTavish and his sorcerer consort. Great feats of magic and devotion unlike any other, with lots of my favorite kind of worldbuilding.

Chasing the Rabbit | A CoD x Outlast crossover with Waylon, Eddie, and Miles as well as others from the cast of Outlast. Ghost was captured and put into the machine and Soap goes in to get him out, but of course it isn't that simple.

Like Feeding Something Starving | WIP. Poly141 + Ghost with a womb tattoo where if he doesn't get creampied often enough he'll go insane. Lots of mental fuckery in this one, all of them loving each other as best they can considering the circumstances.

Idle Hands With Time to Kill | Ghost is away on a solo mission and calls Soap to keep him company. Phone sex and very unsafe uses of a knife.

Where the Delicate Stops | Mafia boss Ghost with his right hand man Soap. Soap reminds Ghost what happens when he takes his mask off for other people. Rough and possessive and, in my opinion, some of the best smut I've ever written.

Scars Left By a Stray Cat | A Ghoap AU where Ghost used to be Soap's childhood babysitter, and they find each other again in the military. Very soft.

Weaned on Bitter Honey | Omegaverse Ghoap where Ghost gets dosed with some kind of super soldier serum and everyone keeps a very cool head about it, naturally. Has a WIP sequel with Hannigram and Weddie from Outlast.

Bombs, Babies, and Bullets | Animal companion AU where Ghost has a stork and Soap has a kingsnake, and they fall in love.

Glow-worm | Ghoap. Ghost interrogates a prisoner and Soap is really, really into it.

Bonded Pair: Do Not Separate | Rock pigeon hybrid Ghost trying his best to build a nice roosting nest for Johnny.

The World Ends With a Whimper | Alone Ghost and Soap taking care of each other in the wake of the zombie apocalypse.

Onyx and Lapis Lazuli | Dragon clan Ghost and wolf clan Soap are trapped in a cave together and have to rely on each other to survive.

I have more in the pipeline but that's all of them so far! Enjoy! <3

[devil-in-hiding]

I just started writing fics again this year after years of not writing any and I wrote some nikprice but now ghostprice and poly141 or even qpr141 is swimming in my brain and I can't get them out so much so I'm considering writing for flufftober which is gonna be a journey oop (btw I'm not the anon who suggested the beta thing I realise my ask implied I was and these were the series I'm working on lol)

i wish my laptop worked because i know that would help me be more productive :,) i have so much i need to work on bc i know im slacking and Augghhh

but plz feed the ghostprice worms, the deserve it

[queermentaldisaster]

I'm here with a wonderful rec!

The fic is called Covert Operations by @/StatisticallyCorrupt. I love this one, it's such a sweet fic with a mix of PriceGaz, Ghoap, and (so far) implied Poly141. I definitely recommend it.

[pfhwrittes]

Dark fics Masterlist

banner by @/cafekitsune

noncon somnophilia with john mactavish emotionally manipulative/abusive kyle garrick noncon touching with john mactavish and kyle garrick twisted firefighter soapgaz thoughts (soapgaz, implied gaz x reader)

forcemasc!recruit 1 (pricegaz x transmasc!reader) forcemasc!recruit 2 (poly141 x transmasc!reader) forcemasc!recruit 3 (soap x transmasc!reader)

pfh dark fics tag for all dark and twisty thoughts, asks, headcannons and inspiration.

[processedcheesesquelch]

Bad Moon Rising (5376 words) by netcrow98, MGCraig

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: John Price/Simon "Ghost" Riley Characters: John Price (Call of Duty), Simon "Ghost" Riley

Additional Tags: Mentioned Soapghost, Mentioned Pricegaz, Oral Sex, Dubious Consent, Facials, Edging, Scent Kink, Biting, Mild Blood, Established Relationship, Angst, Past Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drunk Sex, Past Domestic Violence, Power Dynamics, Mentioned Pricesoap, poly141 but make it toxic, Dacryphilia

Summary: No one knows John’s home. He’s only home for the evening at all because the 141 ended up at the barracks outside of London and he figured he should check in on the place. So…not quite no one knows where he is, then. But after how their last conversation ended, he’s fairly certain it’s not Kyle ringing his doorbell. John throws back the rest of his last beer, rises from his desk, and gets the door. Simon’s on his doorstep.

[mariamakeslemons]

Spooktober 2024: Day 4 Satanic Cult

Warning: Heavily inspired by Rosemary's Baby so all the warnings that apply to that apply here (Gaslighting, rape), Reader is AFAB but gender is not mentioned, mentions of menstration and attempts at getting a baby

Also, before I go on, I DO NOT recommend you go through legal channels to watch the movie. As it's made by a known pedo who is still alive and getting money from it, if you must watch the movie, pirate it.

You wake with a gasp again, shaking as memories of the dream fade rapidly from your mind. The new apartment feels cavernous, especially with your boyfriend sleeping in a different sleeping bag from you. There’s no one to hug you, to soothe you and reassure you that everything is okay. Hell, even if your bed had arrived early, he probably would still be snoring, completely ignorant of the terror that is currently running up and down your spine.

“Fuck,” you huff, climbing out of your sleeping bag clumsily, toddling toward the bathroom on stiff limbs.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning of your first true day in your miracle apartment is hectic. Your new apartment is huge, but empty, with wifi and a washer-dryer in it. All of this for $400 a month.

“This is too good to be true,” you repeat as you pull out the dishes you brought, a few of them antiques and a few from your college days.

“C’mon babe,” Brandon, your boyfriend, sighs, “Just accept that we’re getting a break. We’re in New York, I’m at a theatre company, and your writing’s picked up.”

“It’s too good,” you reiterate, separating the plates. Brandon groans and drops his head back, slumped on the couch that arrived at 6 this morning. Apparently, the moving company scrambled to drop your shit off when they heard which building you moved into, which is both great (no more sleeping on the floor!) and terrible (they woke you up and saw you in your shittiest pajamas). You rise slowly, cursing yourself for sitting on the floor again, and pick up the antique plates, moving slowly to put them into the cabinet in the kitchen. Suddenly, a loud knock sounds at your door.

“Babe! Door!” Brandon calls out, still sprawled out on the couch. You huff, idly wondering what you saw in him five years ago, before walking out the kitchen, past the couch, and opening the door. Before you is a group of four men, all of them easily around or over six foot and something in your stomach drops.

“Hullo, sweetheart,” the oldest looking of them greets you, the imperial beard doing nothing to hide his chunky cheeks, “The name’s John Price, and this is my roommate, Simon. We live on your right. These are Kyle and Johnny, on your other side.” You open your mouth, trying to say something, but drawing a blank. There’s something disturbingly familiar about these men, something scratching at the back of your brain.

“Who the fuck are you?” Brandon demands from behind you, startling you out of the spiral John had put you on. The older man’s eyes flash, his blue eyes seeming to change colors, but it’s quick. If you hadn’t been staring, you wouldn’t have noticed, but you didn’t catch the color.

“John Price, one of your neighbors on your right.”

“Whatever,” Brandon scoffs, rolling his eyes and trying to appear bigger. Brandon, who’s 5’6 and 115 pounds soaking wet, against four men who tower over him, “Leave, you limey.”

“Brandon!” you snap, elbowing your asshole of a boyfriend. He winces, but continues to scowl at the men. John frowns, but one of the men behind him chuckles.

“Y’re a lil’ shite. Don’ let tha’ get y’ in trouble,” the man in the balaclava rumbles, something dark rolling underneath his words. Brandon scowls at him while you grab his arm.

“Fuck off,” Brandon snaps, slamming the door closed on the men.

“Brandon!” you hiss again, giving your boyfriend a shake, “What the fuck?!”

“I’m not letting some British assholes take a lookie-loo of my house without permission,” he huffs, making you pause. You hadn’t really noticed, the unreasonable terror in your brain preventing you from seeing it, but the men had been leaning towards you. You thought it might have been to get a look at you, but this is New York. Why look at someone plain like you when they could be scoping out something to steal?

“Still,” you decide to ignore the part of you insisting that they didn’t care about the apartment, “It was rude of you, hun. You’re going to be an actor, you’ve gotta get your temper under control.” Your boyfriend puffs up, a scowl on his face, before completely deflating with a sigh.

“Yeah,” he admits, “It was a shitty thing to do. I didn’t have a good sleep last night, we’ve been moving shit all morning, and I guess I just lashed out due to that.” Immediately, you soften at his tone. This is the man you fell in love with, who can admit when he’s done wrong and work to be better. God knows you love him.

“Alright,” you accept his explanation, “But you owe them an apology.” He nods sheepishly before pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“How about, we finish unpacking the kitchen, then we make those cookies that we’re so good at making? Use those to butter up the neighbors for my apology,” he jokes, giving your waist a squeeze before walking past you, to the kitchen.

“You mean the cookies you make sure I don’t burn?” you tease back.

“Hey! I decorate them!”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

(“Migh’ be a bit ‘arder t’ get Pretty ‘lone, Cap.”

“It doesn’t matter. We can get him to agree with the right bait.”)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, you send Brandon off to speak with the neighbors, cookies in hand and a kiss to the cheek, before pulling out your laptop to work a little more on your book. Normally, you’d play music or have an old show on as background noise, but you’re a little worried. What if the neighbors start yelling, or Brandon loses his temper? What if they attack him, or he lashes out for whatever reason? If you were back at your old apartment, you wouldn’t have these worries, with all the old ladies living around you cooing at how cute of a couple you and Brandon are. But, this is New York. The Big City in the United States. You don’t know anything.

You’re pulled from your worries by someone knocking Shave and a Haircut (damn Brandon for teaching that to you) on your door. Standing up, you hurry over and peek out the peephole. Brandon stands before your door, absolutely beaming with an empty tray in hand. You open the door and he steps in.

“They’re great,” he immediately declares when he steps into your apartment.

“Oh?” you intone, more than a little confused at his change in tune about the neighbors. It usually takes him a month or so to get over a bad impression, no matter who caused it. For him to be so happy? They must have said something about his acting career.

“Yeah,” he practically chirps, “Especially Kyle. He went to one of the plays I was actually on stage for, and he remembered me!” You frown, mulling over the three plays Brandon was on stage for. The only major role he played was…

“He saw you as Mercutio? Wasn’t that at an off-Broadway theatre?” you ask.

“Yeah, but it had a Tartuffe before we preformed, then it hosted The Importance of Being Earnest,” he excuses with a wave of your hand. You frown at his flippancy, but sigh and nod. Abruptly, he straightens up and grins, “Oh, and I invited them over for dinner.”

“YOU DID WHAT?!”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

(“Pretty’s a loud one.”

“All th’ be’er. A bonnie thin’ wi’ a swee’ scream.”

“English, bruv.”)

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Saturday night finds you standing awkwardly in your apartment, glad you managed to talk your boyfriend into changing the dinner to tonight. Unfortunately, that lead to more people being invited, including Farah and Alex, who live across the hall, Ale and Rudy, who are across from John and Simon (the big guy in the balaclava), and finally, Kate and Rosemary, who live across from Johnny and Kyle (an exuberant Scot and the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen).

“So, you write?” Rosemary (“call me Rosy, dear.”) asks politely.

“Yes, ma’am,” you softly admit, flustered and nervous.

“Oh, I think I’ve heard of you,” Farah hums as she sips the wine you managed to get (you politely pretend to not notice how she keeps scrunching up her nose. You’ll offer her one of the better seltzers if she asks for a refill), “Something about…”

“Nonfiction, Darling,” Alex reminds her, “They wrote about the more recent studies into cults and demonology, as well as covering the Satanic Panic of the ‘80’s.”

“Yeah, I did,” you admit, surprised at the fact he even knew. Your book was well-received, but ultimately, it wasn’t a steamy romance between a non-binary artist and their vampiric muse, so it went largely ignored. Alex grins as Farah snaps her fingers.

“That’s it,” she agrees, “You mentioned how a number of horror movies and thrillers of the time help show just what people were afraid of.”

“Ah? Uh, yeah,” you agree, confused at that. While you had spent a page talking about that, the majority of your book had focused more on news articles and stories that were either proven false or used as a cover for something more sinister.

“The Lost Boys, They Live and The Howling. I think those were the movies you mentioned,” Farah continues with a hum.

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “Mostly because of the heavy lean of conspiracy and the manipulation of innocence.”

“You also mentioned a number of movies that use demons and demonic summonings, like Evil Dead and Pumpkinhead,” Alex pipes in, practically melting when Farah patted his cheek.

“Of course,” you acknowledge, “They helped prove exactly what many news sources at the time were claiming as occurring around the country. Especially with Hellraiser, summoning demons for pleasure was a widely used excuse for children being hurt.”

“How long did this research take?” Rosemary asks, tilting her head curiously.

“Um, about two years,” you confess, “Luckily, most of the newspapers and stories made it to archives that was able to upload them to databases when using computers became commonplace.”

“Neat,” Alex chirps, swiping Farah’s half full glass to trade with his empty beer bottle. The look of betrayal on Farah’s face makes you laugh at their shenanigans.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

(“At’s nae fair. Lookit how pretty they ur when they laugh.”

“It’s Farah an’ Alex. They’ve always been good at gettin’ people t’ relax. Makes sense they can do it with Pretty.”

“You see who’s not lookin’ at Pretty?”

“Th’ lil’ shite ‘o’s ‘pose t’ be their boy? Yeah, clocked it.”

“Might need t’ give Kate some money for Rosemary to seduce ‘im?”

“Or get one ‘o th’ birds at th’ corner t’ do it.”)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

A month passes, and you slowly relax around your neighbors. Farah and Rosemary invited you to a book club, often arguing good naturedly about male writers and how they write female characters. Kate and Alex have taken to walking you through understanding sports, while Johnny (“Call me Soap, bonnie!”) will add random tidbits that usually make you look at him in confusion. Kyle, John, and Simon talk to you about all sorts of random things, usually true crime, classic literature, and cooking respectively. Through this all, Brandon’s career seems to be getting better, with him being understudy to bigger parts or acting in decently important minor roles. The downside is that he’s not home nearly as often, leaving you somewhat lonely and lost.

“So, I was thinking,” he starts one morning, when his most recent play wrapped up, “Do you want a baby?”

“What?” you ask around a mouthful of breakfast.

“A baby,” he repeats, “Like, I know we’re still not sure about marrying, but you said when we got together that you wouldn’t mind a baby out of wedlock. A bit out of order, sure, but you seem lonely.”

“And you think a baby will fix that,” you intone. Brandon nods sheepishly, recognizing your tone. Taking a breath, you rub at your eyes, explaining, “Hun, we shouldn’t have a baby just because I’m lonely when you’re working.”

“I know,” he agrees earnestly, “But, it would also be a symbol of love. And you’ve said you wanted one.” Brandon takes a bite of his own breakfast and says, “Just think about it. Okay, sweetheart?”

“…Fine,” you sigh, smiling when he grins at you before seeming to realize he’s got a mouthful of food and scrambles to cover his mouth. Laughing, you stand and drop the dishes into the dishwasher, leaning down to press a kiss to Brandon’s head.

Through the next week, you mull it over. Having a baby is a big commitment, one that Brandon’s shown he can make and one you know you want to make. Just, the thought of a little one, who is half you and half the man you love. It fills you with warmth and adoration, picturing a little boy with Brandon’s big green eyes, or a little girl with your nose. Maybe a little one who laughs like Brandon and smiles like you.

“Okay,” you say to Brandon one night, startling him from his phone.

“Okay?” he repeats, confused.

“Okay,” you repeat, “Let’s make a baby.” He blinks at you before beaming brightly, rolling on top of you and peppering your face with kisses.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

(“Pretty’s ready. Just gotta pick a night.”

“Bin payin’ ‘tention t’ their monthly. Shuid be a week oot from noo.”

“Good work.”)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

You and Brandon work together to calculate when you are most fertile. It took a bit, as you refuse to use those menstrual apps, knowing just what they’re actually used for, but you managed to narrow it down to three days.

“We can still practice,” he had joked and you laughed, bumping your shoulder against his own. Now, however, you aren’t laughing.

“John? What are you doing here?” you ask, looking between your neighbor and Brandon in confusion. The older man gives you a smile while your boyfriend gives you a sheepish grin.

“Oh, just giving a trade,” he explains, handing over a can of irn-bru with a grin, “We never got to thank you for the cookies all that time ago. Figured we can finally give you something in return, thanks to Soap’s mum sending us a crate of th’ stuff.”

“Thanks,” you say, taking a sip of the opened can. John’s smile seems to grow while Brandon’s face flickers. You furrow your brow, looking up at them in confusion again, asking, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Brandon immediately insists, “Nothing’s wrong.” You hum and take another sip of the soda. The three of you stand there and talk for a bit, although something starts to feel off. You blink rapidly, fighting off the woozy feeling that seems to be threatening to overwhelm you.

“I- I think I need to go lie down,” you mumble, stumbling over to the bedroom, not even taking the time to tell John and Brandon good night as you practically fall onto the bed.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

At one point, you open your eyes to see that you are surrounded by your neighbors. All of them are naked and chanting, with John between your legs. His eyes flash red, before he steps back, leaving a beast in the spot he was standing in. Everything is sluggish and dreamlike, even as the creature crawls over you, drooling and growling as something tries to press into you. You try to struggle, your terror sharp despite the lethargy that grips your body. It’s useless, and the beast pushes in. The pain is unbearable and darkness takes you once more.

(“Is my part of the deal done?” Brandon asks when it’s all over. Price scoffs at the little coward that hid in the living room while the ritual commenced, feeling His Lord chuckle at the selfishness of men.

“‘Course,” Price agrees easily as Farah and Alex redress quickly, the couple always a little shyer than the rest, “Now, your acting career is secured. If you want to go higher up the rungs, that’s on you.”

“That’s all I need,” the idiot insists, oblivious of his own inadequacy. Price looks over at Ghost and nods. It’s time to get Pretty away from the shitstain who sold them to His Lord. Ghost nods in return and disappears out the door, not even stopping to pull on a robe. Price huffs in amusement, and starts making plans for the nursery for His Lord’s heir. After all, you will need all the support after your baby’s “father” cheats on you, and they want to support you, even beyond the birth of His Lord’s heir.)

[cod-thoughts]

Day 9 of 31 days of COD

Word count: 2.1k

Relationships: poly141, implied poly141

Tags: miscommunication, flustered ghost, discussion of weight gain (positively though).

Technically related to day 5 but not necessary to read to understand

Gaz elbowed Soap, a grin threatening to break across his face. “Tell me you saw that.” Soap didn’t respond at first, his mouth slightly open as he blinked hard, dragging his eyes away from the sight. He nudged Price, who, for once, seemed caught off guard. “I saw it, I saw it,” Price grumbled, trying to shake off whatever strange hold Ghost’s movements had over them. “Eyes front, Sergeant.” But none of them could look away for long. Keep reading under the cut or on AO3

Simon “Ghost” Riley had never been the type to indulge. Food, comfort, even basic self-care had been secondary for most of his life. Years of war, hunger, and survival had carved his body into something hard, lean, functional—a tool for violence, nothing more.

But things had changed. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he had people looking out for him—Price, Gaz, Soap. Brothers in arms who had wormed their way into his life without him realizing it. They shared meals, joked around in the mess hall, and nagged him when he skipped out on eating. At first, Ghost hadn’t thought much of it. He still ate like a soldier—quick, efficient, only what was necessary.

Yet, somewhere along the way, the team had gotten through to him. Soap’s constant teasing, Gaz’s warm encouragement, Price’s silent but steady approval—it had made a difference. He started eating more, and not just to stave off hunger. He actually began to enjoy meals with them, savouring the sense of normalcy they offered, something grounding amid the chaos of their lives.

And, slowly, his body began to change.

At first, it was subtle. A little extra padding here, a bit more muscle definition there. But over the months, Ghost had softened in ways he didn’t anticipate. His arms filled out, his chest bulked up, and his once-rigid frame now carried a softness that felt... foreign. His cheeks, once sharp and hollow, had rounded out slightly, giving his face a healthier, almost boyish look when his mask was off.

It wasn’t just his body that had changed. Ghost had grown more comfortable around the team. After years of hiding behind his mask, he’d started taking it off around them more often, even in casual settings. His scars, once a source of shame and a symbol of his past, no longer felt like something he had to hide. He’d thought they were past all that—the staring, the whispers, the discomfort.

But lately, things had shifted.

It started subtly, with lingering looks from the team. He’d catch Price’s gaze lingering on him a second too long or Soap quickly averting his eyes when Ghost noticed him staring. Gaz, usually easy-going and unflappable, would get flustered, tripping over his words whenever Ghost was around without his gear. The once casual, comfortable atmosphere between them began to feel... strange.

---

One day, after a particularly gruelling mission, they returned to base for some downtime. Ghost, exhausted but relaxed, peeled off his tactical gear, stripping down to a tank top and his cargo pants. It was nothing out of the ordinary. They’d all seen each other in less—hell, they’d shared cramped quarters for months on end. But as Ghost stretched, the fabric of his tank top clinging to his chest, he noticed the quiet.

He glanced around. Price was sitting at the table, pretending to look over mission briefs, but his eyes kept darting up to Ghost. Soap, who was lounging on the couch, was openly staring, his mouth slightly agape. Gaz, on the floor doing some light stretches, had frozen mid-motion, his eyes fixed on Ghost’s back.

Ghost narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Gaz quickly looked away, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. Soap’s face flushed, and Price cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the mission report in front of him.

Ghost didn’t push it. He wasn’t one to make small talk, and if something was bothering them, they’d bring it up eventually. But the moment stuck with him, gnawing at the edges of his mind. That night, as he lay in his bunk, Ghost found himself running his hands over his body. He felt different. He’d never been one to care about appearances—his body was a weapon, not something to be admired. But now, with the team acting... weird, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.

---

The stares continued over the next few weeks, becoming more frequent and more obvious. During training, he’d catch Soap and Gaz whispering to each other, stealing glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. Price, usually composed, had even been caught a few times, his eyes tracking Ghost’s movements with an expression that Ghost couldn’t quite place—somewhere between surprise and something else Ghost didn’t want to name.

They were mid-training, running drills, and Ghost had lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. It was a quick motion, over in seconds, but Gaz caught a glimpse of his abdomen—no longer all sharp, cutting edges. He had some softness there now, a bit of a pudge that made him look more… human, more real. And damn, if Gaz wasn’t distracted.

He nudged Soap, whispering under his breath. "Mate… you seein' this?"

Soap had already been watching Ghost out of the corner of his eye, noting the way his shoulders filled his shirt more than usual. The way his arms flexed when he wasn’t even trying. Soap’s mind had been wandering for days, just trying to figure out when the hell Ghost had started looking… like that. But now, as Gaz pointed it out, he could barely stop himself from gawking.

"You’re not imagining it," Soap muttered, his voice low, careful not to let Ghost overhear. "Bloody hell… since when did he—"

"Fill out?" Gaz finished, both just a little wide-eyed.

---

Ghost wasn’t oblivious. Sure, the changes in his body hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind—he’d been through hell, after all, so his appearance wasn’t exactly a priority. But it was the way the team’s eyes lingered on him a bit longer than usual, the whispers that fell silent whenever he entered a room, that started to raise his suspicions. At first, he thought it was about his scars. It always came back to those, didn’t it?

The scars, the mask—two pieces of him that he thought 141 had come to accept. No, more than that, he thought they’d moved past them. Over time, Ghost had allowed himself to feel comfortable with them, even around his team. He’d spent so long hiding every part of himself, but with them, he had let down that wall. He’d even taken his mask off more often.

But lately… the staring was starting again.

It happened again in the armoury. Ghost was fiddling with some new gear, bent over one of the benches as he adjusted his holster. His shirt pulled tight across his back, and his arms flexed with every movement. Soap, Gaz, and Price, who had been in the room discussing plans, suddenly found themselves at a loss for words.

Gaz elbowed Soap, a grin threatening to break across his face. “Tell me you saw that.”

Soap didn’t respond at first, his mouth slightly open as he blinked hard, dragging his eyes away from the sight. He nudged Price, who, for once, seemed caught off guard.

“I saw it, I saw it,” Price grumbled, trying to shake off whatever strange hold Ghost’s movements had over them. “Eyes front, Sergeant.”

But none of them could look away for long.

Ghost wasn’t stupid. He could sense something was up, feel their eyes on him like a weight, and it set him on edge. He had been fine for months—more than fine, actually. He hadn’t felt this comfortable in years. But the stares were getting to him. It felt like they were scrutinizing him again, analysing his scars or whatever else might have been wrong with him. Had he let his guard down too much?

Over the next few days, Ghost started wearing his mask more, even in the relative safety of the base. He kept his shirt on longer after training and avoided letting them see too much of him. It wasn’t anything obvious, at least not to someone who didn’t know him. But the team? They knew him well enough to pick up on it.

Price was the first to notice the shift. One evening, while the team was lounging in the rec room, Ghost sat a little further away than usual, his mask pulled back over his face even though they weren’t in the field.

“Simon,” Price said softly, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation.

Ghost didn’t respond at first, not wanting to meet his gaze. Eventually, though, he glanced up, catching the hint of concern in Price’s eyes.

“What?” Ghost muttered, his voice a little harsher than intended.

Price studied him for a moment. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

Price frowned, his eyes flicking to the mask Ghost hadn’t taken off in hours. “More than usual.”

Soap and Gaz, sitting nearby, exchanged glances. They had noticed it too.

Ghost shifted in his seat, uncomfortable under the weight of their stares again. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem?” Gaz echoed, his voice softer than usual. “Mate, you’ve been… you’ve been hiding more. Mask’s on a lot these days.”

“Yeah, I thought you were getting used to not wearing it around us,” Soap added, his tone light, trying to ease the tension. “It’s not like we haven’t seen you before.”

Ghost’s jaw clenched, the quiet tick of frustration rippling through him. He took a slow breath before he spoke. “I thought you lot were over my scars,” he said, his voice low and controlled, but there was an edge to it—a sharpness born of insecurity.

The room went still.

“What?” Soap frowned, the teasing edge gone from his voice. “Your scars? Mate, we haven’t thought about those in ages.”

“Then why the hell are you staring at me all the time?” Ghost’s eyes flickered between them, a frown pulling at his brow. “You think I haven’t noticed? You all keep looking like you’ve seen a bloody ghost.”

Price, Soap, and Gaz exchanged glances, none of them quite sure how to respond at first. But it was Gaz who finally spoke up, his tone gentle, almost embarrassed.

“It’s not your scars, mate,” Gaz said, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s… well…”

Price let out a soft sigh, leaning forward. “Simon, it’s not what you think.”

Ghost’s eyes narrowed. “Then what is it?”

Soap cleared his throat awkwardly, his cheeks tinged pink as he spoke. “You’ve just… you’ve been changing. Physically, I mean. Since you started eating more.”

Ghost stared at him, confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Price chuckled softly under his breath. “You’ve filled out a bit, Simon. We’ve just been… noticing.”

Ghost blinked, still not quite understanding what they were getting at. “So you’re staring because I’ve gained weight?”

“It’s not just that,” Gaz said, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “You look… well, you look good.”

Ghost’s brow furrowed deeper. “Good?”

Soap leaned back, shaking his head, as if he couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “Mate, you’ve filled out in all the right places. We’re not staring because of your scars—we’re staring because…” he trailed off, glancing at Price for help.

Price sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before finishing the thought. “We’re staring because you’re bloody attractive, Simon.”

Ghost froze, his brain short-circuiting at the admission. He stared at Price, then at Gaz and Soap, searching their faces for any hint of sarcasm. But all he found were three pairs of eyes looking at him with a mix of admiration, maybe even affection.

“What?” Ghost’s voice came out flat, as if he hadn’t quite processed the words.

“Yeah,” Gaz added, a little too quickly. “You’ve got… you know… pecs. And your arms—”

He gestured vaguely. “We just… well, you’re kinda—”

“Hot,” Soap finished, blunt as ever.

Ghost blinked, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find something—anything—to say. His cheeks, the same ones the team had secretly been melting over, flushed red under his mask.

“I—” he stammered. “You… you lot are bloody ridiculous.”

Price smiled softly. “Maybe. But it’s the truth.”

There was a long moment of silence before Ghost finally stood up, still flustered but trying to regain some semblance of control. “I’m going to bed,” he muttered, turning toward the door.

“Sweet dreams, handsome,” Soap called after him, earning a glare that was only half-serious.

As Ghost disappeared down the hallway, the three of them exchanged glances, a sense of victory hanging in the air.

“Well,” Gaz said after a moment, grinning. “That could’ve gone worse.”

Price chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “We’ll see how he handles it tomorrow.”

Soap smirked. “Oh, he’ll come around. You’ll see.”

And despite the awkwardness of the conversation, all three of them knew one thing for certain: they were all a little in love with Simon Riley. Whether or not anything would come of it was still up in the air, but for now, they were content just being there, admiring him from a distance, knowing that, deep down, Ghost was starting to accept that he was more than just the scars that had once defined him.