#it’s my first simon fic

[floral-force]

Oh, please, please, PLEASE tell me there will be a second part to American Hospitality!!! I’m a Chicago native too and I just love Simon SO MUCH!!! Your writing is amazing!!!

thank you for reading and enjoying it!! i so appreciate the compliment :’) it’s stuff like this that helps me stay motivated and gives me energy. it also adds 5 years to my life.

i’ve gotten a few comments asking for a part 2…i’ve been seriously considering it 👀 i have a couple WIPs and a long din djarin one shot i want to finish, so maybe once that’s done we will revisit simon and his chicagoan american girl ;)

in the meantime, i’m more than happy to fill requests for short one shots, drabbles, and headcanons. check out my guidelines and send me an ask if u so choose. thank you for reading ♥️

ps: chicago natives unite!!!

[readwritealldayallnight]

I would love a take on boyfriend Ghost coming home to surprise you, but he finds your bed empty and doesn't realize that you are in his room in his bed. Thanks.

The placebo effect, was what he kept trying to convince you it had to be, no matter how many times you rolled your eyes and told him he was wrong

How else could one explain your insistence that Simon’s bed smelled so much like him, becoming your safe space when he was away on long deployments, when he only ever slept with you in your bed most nights to begin with

Hard to believe it was nearly three years ago now that you’d told your friend since childhood, Johnny, about how your search for a new flat was going miserably. You remember how he’d perked up and recounted with a mischievous glint in his eye about how his Lieutenant was apparently searching for a flat mate at the moment, someone who’d be looking after the place while he was away for work

Unsure about living with a strange man you’d never met before, but trusting Johnny’s judgement (though the way he seemed just a bit too eager about this meeting did kind of throw you off-) you had reluctantly agreed to meet with him and at least give the flat a glance before you simply turned him down

It wasn’t until you were knocking at the door of the address Johnny had written down for you, that you’d realized he’d never even given you the man’s goddamn name, only ever referring to him at Lieutenant or LT

Johnny apparently also failed to mention the absolute SIZE of the guy, his huge frame blocking nearly all of the light from behind him as he had swung the door open and stood in the doorway before you

In a slight panic, thrown off by the massive man before you and the way the butterflies in your stomach suddenly began to flutter at the sight of him, you had greeted him for the first time with a squeaky, unsure voice saying ‘Um, hi, are you the Mr Lieutenant?’ (something he has never let you live down since)

He knew then and there that you would be the one

Not just his flatmate (though what a generous flatmate he was when he offered insisted on moving all your boxes out of your old place and into his that very same day), but the one, something he reluctantly had to give Soap credit for, seeing as he was the one who wouldn’t stop talking his ear off about you

You would be his other half, his better half

And all these years later, the two bedroom flat truly only acted as a one bedroom, considering that from the start Simon was always falling into your bed with you at the end of each night, limbs tangled together under the warmth of a lovers embrace a thousand times more comforting than an actual comforter

Still though, that first time Simon had to be gone for work longer than a few weeks, you found the lingering odor of him clinging to his bedsheets to be one of the few things keeping you sane in his absence, taking to sleeping in his room for the time being, imagining that the pillow you cling to your front was a strong muscular arm instead, littered in scars and tattoos you feel confident you could recognize from touch alone

And when his long awaited flight back home to you landed a few hours earlier than expected, tires touching down in the dark, stillness of late night hour, he decided he’d surprise you and come straight home, rather than calling you to meet him at the base like you’d insisted, not wanting to wake you

Barely able to contain himself, he decided the elevator ride up to the seventh floor would take too long, take away precious seconds that brought him closer to you, and so up the flight of stairs he went, taking them two or three at a time, rushing to see the face etched behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes, to hear the voice that haunted his dreams each night

Quietly as a man his size could, he crept into the flat, snuck his way into your room, expecting to see your sweet, sleeping form cuddled up amongst the blankets and pillows. But his heart dropped when he noticed the bed was still perfectly made, not a thread out of place.

Trying to remain calm, though his mind was instantly swarming with every possible scenario that could have taken place, he knew he saw your shoes and jacket by the door, you couldn’t have gone far… but where were you?

He glanced into the living room, wondering if he missed you sleeping on the couch after a long day, he poked his head into the bathroom, even went so far as to check the small balcony, but finally there was only one door left to open.

And there you were, safe and sound, a tiny ball curled up into the center of his huge bed, clinging to one of his old masks and holding it close to your chest as though it were a security blanket (you’d been sleeping in his bed so much you needed something that still smelled strongly of him, you were getting desperate)

Stripping himself down to only his boxers, he tiptoed towards the side of the bed, his mind finally feeling more at peace than he ever had, gently pulling the sheets back just enough for him to slip in behind you, his strong arms wrapping around your middle and pulling you into his muscular chest

Though it should be alarming to suddenly feel a pair of hands roaming over your skin, a body holding you firmly against their own, it’s as though your body knows who it is before your mind does

Any tension you were still holding onto during his absence instantly melts away, your own hands coming to land over top of his, giving a slight squeeze of acknowledgment, not yet willing to fully leave your half asleep state, but needing to touch him, to confirm he really is here

“Hmm,” You hum, voice groggy with sleep and a smile slowly stretching across your lips, snuggling further into his embrace. “You’re home.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, breathing you in, wishing he could bottle up the scent of your shampoo and lotions and perfumes, if only to have something to hold onto while he’s away, understanding now why he found you in this bed rather than your own

“I am.” He whispers into your hair, sensing that you’re already drifting back into dream land, safe in his arms and his bed, knowing he’ll be there when you wake. He feels his chest tighten when he knows that you weren’t talking about the fact that he’s physically home, in the flat, but something more, something much more, because he means the same thing when he tells you, “You’re my home too, love.”

[gomzdrawfr]

content warning: blood

Loyal to a fault

bonus + other versions:

Bonus:

Alt:

the words on Ghost's body reads:

LOVE (level of violence)

it takes a monster to destroy a monster (poorly cropped i apologize)

Loyal Dog

Vēnor (Latin verb for hunt, chase)

this is something very different to what I usually do I hope yall don't mind....also this was me when I was sharing this with my friends...because priceghost/ghostprice dynamic really gets a grip on me

[temeyes]

and he says he doesn't burn

[stellewriites]

ghost and soap that move in together in between missions to save on money and eventually - inevitably - fall into bed together. but somethings missing

they’re both a little too sharp around the edges, need something sweet to ease their cravings and soften their bites, but no one fits right

until you, that is. so don’t be surprised when they make sure you’re sticking around by any means necessary

[tavysboy]

No other love can warm my heart, now that I’ve known the comfort of your arms.

Unedited version under cut 💛

[charliemwrites]

This is for the two (!) anons that asked for Keeper!ghost and kept!reader’s first time.

You wait a day after he gets back from his last trip. You’ve… missed him? It’s weird to admit, even if just to yourself. You could justify that your body misses him but it’s a bit more than that…

Not to say your body didn’t miss him, though. It did. You practically climbed him when he came in the door, made him drop his bag just to support all your weight as you shoved his mask off and demanded to know if he’s injured. He’s not, but you still gave him a day to sleep off the mission.

And now it’s morning and you’re climbing into his bed naked, appreciating how the morning light highlights his stupidly handsome features. He was awake the minute you walked in the room but he lets you get all the way up before opening his eyes.

“Well.” He says and then stops because he’s too busy starin. You huff, wiggling up against him. He’s in just a pair of underwear and you rub your body all along his, luxuriating in scarred skin against yours.

“You’re being sweet this morning,” he notes.

You hum, nip lightly at his wrist when he threads his fingers in your hair.

“You were gone too long,” you say.

“Was only a month.”

“Too long.”

He chuckles as you climb onto him, kneading at his defined chest.

“You owe me.”

He arches his eyebrows, pets soothingly up your thighs and ribs, then down again. Over and over.

“What do you want, feral?”

“You.”

He rubs his thumb at your hip. “Yeah? You’ve got me here. All my attention, my love, my energy.”

You flush down your chest. “Yeah and I want it all fucking me.”

He blinks, just once.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” You hiss the ‘s’ sound, grinding on his lap. “So gimme.”

He chuckles, palms gently but firmly holding you still. “Alright, pretty, but I’ve gotta get you ready.”

“Nooooo.”

“It’s not a negotiation, little one. If you want my cock inside this gorgeous pussy, you have to cum twice on my fingers first. Not going to hurt you.”

And you bite him for that, but he’s not going to budge so you let him. It’s not like you’re going to complain about extra orgasms after all. He’s brilliant with his hands, petting and stroking at your soaked walls, stretching you so perfectly while toying with your clit.

You cum twice easily - almost reach a third before you whine and scratch at his biceps, little nails leaving livid marks behind.

“Want it, gimme, you promised, Si.” You chant. “Want it, it’s mine.”

“Yes it is,” he coos, sitting up so that you can hold onto his shoulders, brace yourself up on weak knees. “Easy now, don’t rush.”

He won’t let you rush, damn him. Settles you down inch by torturous inch, distracting you with licking kisses and teases at your swollen clit. You flutter around him, so wet that you’re dripping down his shaft, his balls, pooling on the blankets.

When he finally bottoms out, you instantly try to start moving, want to feel him ruining you. But he holds you down, squirming and whimpering, pressed tight against him.

“Not yet, you’ll hurt yourself,” he reminds.

He only shushes you when you protest that you don’t care. When he finally eases up, you push your weight forward, flattening him against the bed, hands braced on his broad chest. It changes the angle just so and makes you see STARS.

“I’ll do it,” you say, voice only shaking a little.

He murmurs encouragingly, palms light on your thighs as you start to rock. It feels so fucking GOOD.

“Like you were made just for me,” you babble, delirious.

He croons that of course he was, he’s here for you, to take care of you. Helps you find a good rhythm that has you grinding your clit against the downy blond hair above his cock. It’s a lot - too much really after already cumming twice - but you don’t stop even as tears slip down your cheeks, highlighted by the soft sunlight.

He feels so so good, fills you up so nicely. The head of his cock curves against your walls and rubs so perfectly against that spot inside you. You moan and gasp with it, nipping absently at his neck and collarbones.

Ride the edge for what feels like hours before you make a whiny, high pitched noise.

“What is it, pretty? What’s wrong? Are you alright?” Simon asks, genuinely concerned.

“I can’t…” you huff, trying to improve the angle but no that’s worse. “I can’t…. Si, I wanna….”

He catches on, croons gently to keep you from tipping into genuine distress.

“Can I help?”

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut in frustration. And then he rolls his hips. A slow filthy grind that presses and rubs just right.

“Yes, that!! Again again, please,” you breathe.

You come apart barely thirty seconds later, jolting and shaking, collapse on his chest with a wet sob, back still arched to keep him inside. He strokes your spine through it, eases the aftershocks as you squeeze him so, so tightly.

“O-okay,” you murmur after a minute, sitting up a bit and looking utterly ruined.

“Done?” He asks, about to help you off.

The sound of you whacking him echoes through the bedroom. He stops, tilts his head at your glare.

“Finish,” you demand, clenching down and smirking when his eyes flutter. “C’mon, I want you to cum in me before breakfast.”

You stay on top, but three mind-shattering orgasms have basically turned you into a ragdoll. He easily drags you up and down his cock and you’re happy to laxly follow along and squeeze down every time he pulls out, milking him. You stare dreamily at his jumping muscles and make little noises at the oversensitivity, freely crying but clinging to him.

When he cums, you moan like you’ve finished again too, tilting your head back as he twitches and spills, overflowing onto his own thighs. You fall limp against him while he shudders through the last of it.

“That what you wanted?” He asks.

“Mhmm”

“Are you alright? Not sore?”

“Mhmm.”

“A bath while I make breakfast?”

You consider that offer, then shake your head and press your forehead to his chest. “Bath and then breakfast.”

He catches your meaning instantly. “Alright, little one. Let’s get cleaned up.”

[gazspookiebear]

Thinking about waiting for Ghost to be ready for a relationship (kind of continued from this post

(Kinda angsty, self doubt/depreciating thoughts)

When you ask 'What are we?', he panics. He doesn't know. He isn't ready to be a boyfriend, to meet your parents, to open up about his life-

His internal monolog is interrupted by your hand on top of his own. He hadn't realized how anxious he must have appeared- sweaty, hands trembling, shallow breaths, the works. He felt like he was being strangled, and all of this was over a simple question. Why did he ever think he could do this?

You tell him it's okay. You tell him you don't need an answer now if he's not ready. You say that you're fine with the way things are, and if he isn't ready to move forward yet, you'll wait for him.

You tell him you'll always love him regardless.

The world might as well have stopped spinning, because you love him?

He wants to tell you he loves you too, but he's scared. He's still waiting for you to leave. For him to lose feelings. For this to all have been a huge waste of time, or for you to realize you deserve better as soon as he confesses how he really feels.

For a split second, he thinks about leaving. About ghosting you. Maybe even breaking up with you- but that would require him to admit there was something there in the first place. It felt like you had snaked your way around his heart and were squeezing with all your might.

God, he couldn't imagine himself without you. He felt like a fool, naive and childish all over again. Why were you so patient with him? Couldn't you see there was something rotting inside of him?

Once again, he's dragged out of his mind by your presence. You look worried. He can't fathom why you would be worried about him. Nonetheless, he squeezes your hand in return. A simple gesture, but it means the world to you. You know he's trying. You know he's fighting with himself and losing half the battles.

You're determined to win the war.

[eats-a-berry]

wjatever......i dont even care.........WHATEVER

[roachs-pet-roach]

do you think the 141 ever talked about what they wanted to be before they joined the military?

———

Price leaned his head against the side if the heli with a soft thud. The whole unit was exhausted, the mission had gone to shit and they were lucky to have escaped as uninjured as they were.

“Hey captain?” Soap’s voice rang out. Ever the talker, even after missions. The adrenaline made him hyper on the missions where the rest of them can’t find the strength to get up through the blinding soreness.

“Yes MacTavish?” Price replied, sitting up straight and looking at him. Johny grinned

“What did you wanna do, before ye joined the military i mean”

Gaz looked up from where he had been watching Roach lazily play rock-paper-scissors with himself.

“why do you come up with the most random shit every exfil?”

Soap just shrugged, grinning unabashedly

“it’s a talent”

“Or a curse” Ghost replied dryly.

“Jus’ answer the question” Soap said, lightly kicking Ghost in the shin. This drew a hiss of irritation from the balaclava-clad man.

Price shrugged, opening an eye to look at the man, head returning to rest against the side of the heli.

“Something in public service- Police, Fireman, SWAT, that kind of thing” he grunted.

Soap nodded, turning to Ghost, who sat across from him.

“What bou’ you?” he asked. Ghost grunted, tearing his eyes away from watching Gary

“Figured i’d end up a butcher, never leave the hometown” he grunted. His words sat in the air for a little too long.

The whole force had varying levels of knowledge about his past.

“Engineer” Gaz broke the silence. “Always liked it but then i figured out how much i liked this” he explained at Price’s questioning look.

“Bug?” Soap asked, looking at Roach. The man snapped his head up, hands pausing mid-game.

He scrunched the visible parts of his face, thinking.

“Paramedic” He replied before going back to his game, leaning his shoulder into Ghost.

“what about you?” Gaz asked Soap. The man grinned

“a stripper” he said, drawing a short round of snickers from the men, Roach pausing his game to snicker, covering his masked mouth.

“but seriously probably just a daycare worker or something” he laughed.

Price rolled his eyes, looking at his boys, thinking about what they’d said. Soap would have been good at that, kids loved him. Gaz and Roach? theirs fit them surprisingly well. Ghost’s felt like when the man was a child, he had never dared to think of anything other than what he’d been he would do.

—-

sorry idk where tf this came from

[gatorlovebot]

read more king!simon here

simon liked it just being the two of you in most moments.

he didn’t want to be surrounded by people, didn’t want to be followed around by young page boys or secretaries hanging off his every word. he wanted quiet and he wanted his space, something that few little people in his royal court could understand. he didn’t want one person bathing him, and then another person dressing him, and then another person accompanying him to his meals. no, he just wanted one person and that person was you.

simon never liked the idea of marriage. when offered even as a tool to gain more political power he would scoff, why share his life with someone who he didn’t even potentially like for just a touch more power? simon already felt powerful enough, he didn’t need a union to prove it. he didn’t want a union, didn’t want someone that close. but sometimes, in the dead of night, when the castle was dark and quiet, king simon would yearn.

and that’s why he picked you. someone who could be close, but not too close. and maybe you didn’t even know it, but you always played by simon's rules. 

sure he liked his sleep, but he liked watching you more. lounging in his silk sheets like a lion while the sun begins to stream in from the curtains. watches you as you go through his closet, picking out this and that for him to wear, watching each little expression that crosses your face as you ponder outfit choices for him.

he loves to press his luck in the morning. loves to keep his eyes closed and hear your little voice whine, “siiiimon, you’re going to be late.”

every morning he awaits to hear your footsteps in his room, puttering around, careful not to wake him. he’s been up for almost an hour waiting for your arrival. he does begin to doze as he awaits your hands on his shoulders, urging him to get up. but your hands never come, instead he feels beads of cold water on his face and his eyes shoot open. 

you’re stood there, at the edge of his bed, with a shit eating grin on your face. before he can even grasp at words, grasp at you, you’re turning away from him, “time to wake up, your highness.” you sing song. 

king simon was fucked.

[fallenneziah]

GhostSoap but they're in the punk scene and used to date. A few years later their new bands meet at a convention/festival and the now exes are forced to be in close proximity together and work through their unresolved shit slowly through unethical means. Whether that be fighting, flirting, or aggressive eye contact for no reason.

Yeah, it's enemies to lovers, yeah it's rekindling exes, and yes, there are moshpits, rock bands and hate fucking.

And yes this is a fic I'm writing 🙃 Its my first long form fic in a while so I'm riding the hype of it coming together.

[lilynotdilly]

Swagger

I haven't seen anyone strutting round Manc like this for ages, then I saw one- parka, swinging arms, feet turned out… I figured pre army Ghost was probably a swagger boy…

"Smile love" Simon tells Johnny as he poses with the statue of Emmeline Pankhurst in St Peters Square. Johnny hops onto her chair beside her, slings his arm over her shoulder, and leans in to snog the lady for the camera.

"Jesus wept, you fuckin’ mutt! Are you trying to set feminism back half a century? Mrs Pankhurst was the leading figure in womens suffrage, and certainly deserves better than being pawed by a grubby mitted Glaswegian like you!"

"Sorry Mrs P"

Johnny climbs down, a little shamefaced, and poses like a normal person for a holiday snap. "Where to next, babe?" He asks as he slips his hand into Simons. They start wandering towards Oxford Street. 

"Almost everything happened on this road Johnny" Simon starts pontificating. 

"Workers rights, Pankhurst, Rutherford's first nuclear reaction, Turing's computers. Even Noel Gallagher got his first guitar on this street."

Johnny rolls his eyes. "I thought this trip was gonna be more about you, Simon. Not you tryin’ out for the Manchester Tourist Board…”

“...Had my first blowjob at Jilly's Rock World...” Simon points down to his left. “Got me first tattoo, bit further down…”

"Tha's more like it!" Johnny grins. "Any more filthy Riley history you wish to share?"

"...Saw my first porno down there. Dad snuck us into t'mucky picture house." A sly smirk crosses Simons face, as a memory of seventies porn and salt and vinegar crisps flashed by.

"Fuck-ola! It really does all happen on this street!" Laughs Johnny. "I think I'm gonna need a sit down if it's gonna continue in such an ungodly manner!"  He wafts himself like Victorian woman having a fit of the vapours.

Simon pulls Johnny's hand and leads him across the road, and down Lower Moseley Street. "You're in luck then babe. I thought we'd go to the Britons for a drink. It's the pub I went to for some Dutch courage before I enlisted. It's got over 300 different whiskeys! I thought it'd be right up your street!"

As they walk past the Bridgewater Hall, it's clear Simon is in his element. His gait has changed, it's looser, somehow baggy with a pronounced bounce in his step. By the time they can see the Britons Protection, his shoulders are rolling, his arms are swinging and he's walking crotch first!

Johnny drops his hand, and observes this strange phenomenon that's taken over his boyfriend. "You OK babe?" He asks.

"Yeah, course" 

"Are your trews riding up?" 

"Wha'?"

"Your undercrackers giving you trouble?"

"The fuck you on about Johnny?"

Johnny cocks his head, like a golden retriever, as if he's trying to make sense of Simon's strange behaviour. "It's just that you're walking like someone is dragging you by your dick!"

You can take the lad out of Manchester, but you can't take the Manc swagger out of the lad!

Animation- Mancunian by Nat Wood

[reds-skull]

Not Alive, Nor Dead

[NEXT PART]

Okay I'm trying to be brave and post this before I chicken out, first time writing a fic, and I'm not sure if this is any good.

So, since I don't have time to draw out all of the revenant au story, but I still want to share it, I'm writing it instead.

Will continue this if people are interested!

[this isn't requiered but reading the comic might help you understand this better]

[also there's a Soap pov version of this by Badolmen, it doesn't line up 100% because we didn't work together but it's very very good and you should read it regardless]

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking, Ghost.”

He shifted in his place. Can never get used to Price’s voice in his head.

“You know I work best alone. All he’s gonna do is get in the way.” 

Price’s mustache twitched, as if he’s fighting a smile. Bastard is about to drop something to win the entire argument, Ghost already knows.

“He’s a revenant. Strong one too.” 

Fucking figures. Still, he could argue he doesn’t need any support-

“Intel is rigged with explosives. And the Sergeant just so happens to be explosion-proof.”

…Fuck.

Ghost sighs heavily like he was presented with an unreasonable amount of shit to deal with. He watches as Price sits there, shit eating grin spitting at him. He looks back to the folder, at the details of this already annoying mission, “you said there are 2 buildings?”

Price snaps from his self boasting to confirm “one suspected barracks and the other an abandoned warehouse. Warehouse contains the majority of explosives.” 

Finally finding something to work with, Ghost straightens his back to his usual self-assured posture, “the Sergeant can deal with the warehouse, I’ll clear the barracks. No need to work together.”

Price seems less happy about that. Serves him right. He sighs and drags a hand over his face, and Ghost almost feels bad for ruining his plan to get him to play with a team. Almost.

“Will it kill you to try and work with the lad?” Price asks offhandedly, while organising the folder back to the never-ending pile of documents on his desk.

“You mean again?” Ghost would wear his own shit eating grin if his face wasn’t permanently covered.

Price still seems equally pissed. Probably saw it in his literal mind’s eye. “Get out of my office Lieutenant, wheels up at 0500.” He gets up and walks around his desk to face Ghost, “don’t scare the kid off alright? I have a feeling you two could mash well together.”

Ghost tilts his head and projects the most doubt he could muster at Price. “Yes sir.”

This is going to be a bloody long day.

It’s not that Ghost hates people per se, it’s just that most of them seem hell-bent on being annoying, disruptive, or boring. Useless on the field for someone of his caliber, and even more useless off-field.

He knows he’s not exactly easy to relate to, but he couldn’t care less about trying to be. He’s here for one purpose. And it’s not “making friends” or whatever Price and Gaz has been trying to push him towards.

He wonders which category the Sergeant currently standing in front of him will fall into. By his fidgeting nature and easy smile, Ghost would put his money on “annoying”.

The Sergeant, “Soap” apparently (Ghost wonders if that callsign was given to him before or after he died a probably painful death), now directs that smile at him, seemingly undeterred by the giant man wearing a skull like a stereotypical grim reaper. He has to give it to the lad, at least he hides his discomfort well.

“You must be Ghost, eh? Let’s get ourselves a win LT” The Sergeant says with an obvious Scottish accent, fist-bumps his shoulder and walks off towards transport.

Oh, annoying is definitely winning.

Despite that, Ghost can’t feel like Soap really fits it. He’s unlike the other muppets in the category, He’s not poking him like the rookies do, trying to make him reveal his powers.

No, the Sergeant is annoying like an overly friendly dog is to someone that doesn’t want to be licked. He’s acting like they’re just two normal soldiers on their way to a normal mission, not the unnatural, unexplainable phenomena they actually are.

Ghost will have to keep watching. Certainly on field he will be able to find out his true colors.

On the helo, Ghost picks his usual spot near the ramp, where the lights don’t reach as much and most prefer not to sit, and observes Soap. His fidgety nature stayed the same, but the carefree expression he wore on ground morphed into a determined one, face stern and serious. He seemed lost in thought, eyebrows twitching here and there. He sees how his fingertips flicker, watching flames dance between them before the rapid movements put them out.

Well, at the very least Soap doesn’t fall into “boring”.

Clearing the barracks is a laughably easy job, even without using his powers. Although, it would’ve been so much faster with them… too bad he doesn’t hate the Sergeant enough to send him to Limbo.

They practically run through both buildings, untouchable storms. Ghost has to admit, Soap is clearly competent, disarming bombs and taking down hostiles at an impressive rate.

God, he hates when Price is right.

“Ground floor clear, heading to the basement” Soap relays on comms. 

“Copy, clearing third floor, keep an eye out for Intel.” 

“I have to say LT, you’re not quite like I expected.”

Feeling’s mutual, Ghost thinks to himself. “That so?”

“Aye, you’re not a major cunt for starters.”

That startled a small huff out of him. What the hell do the rumors say about him? He would have to ask Gaz about that, “Could still change that Sergeant.” he mock-lectures him.

A small laugh is what he gets in return, “I doubt that. I’ve worked with some bastards before, you barely make top 50.”

“Only 50? I hoped for at least 20”

“Got work cut out for you then, sir”

“That I do.”

Ghost continues clearing the floor methodically before faltering for a moment. Why was he entertaining the Sergeant like that? Since when does he joke with people? 

Though, he would’ve done it more if he had someone so ready to joke back…

Useless thoughts. 

Cursing Price, Soap, and all other stupid distracting things swirling in his head, Ghost takes down another hostile.

The mission is going without a hitch. Which is usually when something “hitches”.

A couple of minutes after Soap’s last words, Ghost sees a bright light flash from the warehouse, before a soundwave shakes the windows of the now barren barracks.

One of the explosives went off… “Soap, what the hell happened there?”

No answer.

Ghost knows he’s fine. Price wouldn’t brag about how “explosion-proof” he is otherwise. But he’s not answering…

“Sergeant, give me sitrep, now.”

Ghost stands still for another minute, listening to static. He checked the last room right before the explosion went off, so he just has to go to exfil and wait for the Sergeant at this point. His part of the work is done.

He should just go to exfil.

Ghost climbs down the stairs and heads for the warehouse, a foreboding plume of dark smoke billowing from its roof.

If asked why he didn’t ignore his gut feeling and use his brain like always, he wouldn’t have an answer.

Maybe he just wanted to exchange one more joke with the Sergeant before they finish the mission and never see each other again.

Arriving at the doors, he sees how the ground floor caved in, creating a ramp down to the basement. He starts making his way down, when he sees bodies littering the debris. Was Soap ambushed?

“Soap? Where the fuck are you Sergeant!” Ghost shouts. He has half a mind to be quiet, not wanting to attract enemies to their location, before realizing no one would’ve survived this. No one but-

“LT…?”

“Soap, why weren’t you answering comms- what…”

He stumbles upon Soap. Soap, who's laying on the grey concrete floor, wheezing and shaking, a metal rebar in his hands. Ghost walks closer and realizes the rebar is going through his stomach and pinning him to the floor. 

The Sergeant’s eyes blearily look at the metal “I need, I n-need to get this out…”

He lifts himself half an inch and Ghost sees how the blood rushes out of the wound, how Soap pales. 

Ghost rushes to his side. “Stop fucking moving”, he slides his hands under his torso, feels his gloves getting soaked in blood, “let me help you”.

Soap’s breathing becomes less harsh, and he looks up at him, “you… you don’t have to-”

He slowly lifts Soap before he can say another useless remark. The muscles under his fingertips clench and the Sergeant chokes out a scream.

“Fuck” Soap mutters between pants. 

“We’re halfway there, you’re doing good.” Ghost lets him rest before continuing to lift his body up. The blood keeps rushing out of the wound, enough that he doesn’t understand how Soap is still conscious. The sergeant let go of the rebar, and is now gripping Ghost’s forearms like he’s about to fall to his death.

After a few seconds, which Ghost is sure felt like hours for Soap, he eases him off the metal and onto the ground. Soap immediately collapses, shuddering and holding his hands around the wound.

Ghost then realizes he’s not sure how the Sergeant’s powers work. Is this supposed to even happen? Is he actually dying?

Soap looks up at that moment, giving him a small smile that looks more like a grimace, “I just… give me a minute to heal, I’ll be ready to go soon.” he uncurls and drags himself to sit against a piece of wall.

Ghost frowns and slowly steps towards Soap and slides to sit next to him, “take however long you need.”

He doesn’t look, but from his peripheral, he sees Soap’s head whipping around and staring at Ghost like he told him he’s giving him a million pounds.

He seemed to find something in his expression (however much he could even see of it), and looked down at his bloodied hands, “thank ye…”

Ghost blinks down, “I hope this doesn’t lower my cunt rank.”

Soap lets out a small laugh that turns into a fit of coughs. More blood rushes out of his wounds, and Ghost internally winces.

“Ha… I think it takes ye off the list, mate.”

Ghost heaves an over-the-top sigh, “shame”.

Soap smiles at him, and Ghost notices it’s different from the one he gave him before the helo. This one is… warmer. Or at least it makes him feel so.

Soap lifts his shirt to inspect the wound, and Ghost can’t help by take a look. The wound stopped bleeding, and when Soap wipes some of it away, he can see how it’s already closing.

So he does get hurt… it just heals. Ghost still wonders how it all works, but he knows their powers work with bizarre rules, weird exceptions and what not. He can almost hear his Reaper laughing. Or whatever you would call that chilling noise it lets out when it finds something funny.

It doesn’t matter either way. Not like he’ll get to work with Soap again. 

The Sergeant exhales and lets his shirt drop, “a’right, let’s fuckin’ finish this.” he slowly starts lifting himself up before Ghost wordlessly grabs his arms and helps him.

Soap mumbles a thanks, “did you find any intel?” 

Ghost looks ahead. The climb out of the basement won’t be easy on his wound… “Negative. We’ll keep looking.”

Eventually they reach a door labelled “storage”, that is blocked by several tonnes of concrete and metal. Ghost internally curses.

Soap, who’s been trailing behind Ghost, reaches the door and looks around. Ghost is about to ask him if he’s got a few C4’s hidden somewhere when the Sergeant asks him, “permission to use my powers, sir?”

Ghost raises an eyebrow, “what are you planning?”

“Gonna blow it up sir” Soap says like it was obvious.

“...go ahead.” Ghost replies, half baffled Price forgot to mention the Sergeant, besides being unkillable by explosions, can also create them. 

Was probably in the folder he didn’t bother reading.

He takes a step back to let Soap Have a go. The Sergeant rests his palms on the debris, inhales, and…

A loud boom makes Ghost’s ears ring. He’s momentarily blinded by the bright explosion before he regains his vision, and sees Soap stepping around the remains of the door into the small room.

Ghost shakes away his slight shock and joins him. Soap’s powers intrigue him… he wonders what else he could do.

Somehow, the intel survived the explosions. Ghost could barely care. At least they won’t have Price on their case later on. 

As they walk towards the exfil point, a heavy feeling sinks within Ghost. He’s not sure what to call it, but if he had to it would be “regret”.

Regretting what, he’s not sure. Maybe he should’ve prolonged their walk.

And from a glance at his face, Soap might understand this feeling as well.

“You did well Sergeant.” He has the sudden urge to say. Maybe it will make him regret less.

Soap casts a smile at him. It doesn’t warm him in the slightest.

The chopper blades slashing through air never made him feel worse.

“I guess this is it then.” Soap says when they land.

Ghost turned to face him. That heavy feeling in him just kept getting heavier throughout the flight. Why?

“So it seems.”

Soap stares for a moment longer before sighing. Ghost wants to do something about the annoyingly heavy air of despair around them.

“Soap” the Sergeant hums, “Why did the Scotsman’s prank fail?”.

Confusion takes over his features, “what?”

Ghost inhales, “because no one let him get away scot-free.”

Soap stares at him like he brought shame to his entire bloodline. Ghost grins like he did.

“Steamin’ Jesus LT, that was horrendous.”

“Ah Sergeant, just admit my jokes are better, no need to be a sore loser.” 

“My gran got better jokes than this, fuckin’ hell” Soap laughs.

“I’d like to meet her.”

“So you two could battle? I rather not see you die of embarrassment sir.”

Soap’s transport decides to arrive at this moment, chasing away the small joy they both found.

Soap looks back at it and turns to Ghost.

“It’s been great working with you sir.” if Ghost was feeling bold, he would say Soap almost looks sad, “I hope we’ll get to go another round later.”

Ghost hates the hopeful tone in his voice. Hope is uncertain, leaves everything up to chance.

Useless.

“Likewise, Sergeant.”

He stays standing there for a few minutes, staring at the truck vanishing towards the horizon. As if it will lighten the boulder in his chest.

“So, Simon, what’s your verdict?” Price finishes after debrief.

Ghost thinks about the entire endeavour. Not annoying, not disruptive, or boring.

Soap is…

“He’s something else…”

Critiques are welcome! Nobody beta'd this so I'm sure there are mistakes lol (that and this isn't my first language...)

[lushrue]

ive really fallen in love with how you write the hockey au men. i need more, maybe of them watching reader skate a complicated choreography for the first time? (◞ ‸ ◟ㆀ)

yeah absolutely! thanks for the request, anon! sorry this has sat for so long, i wanted to do it justice!

there might end up being a scene like this later in the fic (haven’t gotten the whole storyline planned out yet), but for sure reader’s nervous. there’s a lot of complicated jumps in there and some skills that they haven’t quite mastered yet. they’d be practicing at the rink almost every day, probably getting a little hard on themselves when they’re still trying to iron out the kinks in their routine. they wouldn’t let the boys watch them practice, except for gaz. he’s the least intimidating of the bunch to them, more concerned about the artistry than the technical execution. but having the others watch would put too much pressure on them, so the first time they all see it as a group is when reader competes it.

they sit on the bench, waiting with bated breath as you skate onto the ice. you’d told them about it, of course. you had to when they saw how stressed you were and demanded to know what was mucking up that pretty head of yours. the shaking of your hands didn’t go unnoticed by them as you struck your starting pose. simon caught the puff of your exhale, your chest visibly deflating. when the music started, they all tensed up, their eyes locked on you.

price would fully be in captain mode, watching you like a hawk for any missteps. he would see the missteps and grimace, as much as he tried to keep his expression encouraging. he’d have a list of critiques in his head running as you skated. lift the leg a bit more and your turn will be more stable. speed up a little going into that jump and you’ll have the momentum for one more rotation. but he’d never tell you any of it, not unless you asked. it came from a place of love, a desire to see you reach your full potential.

simon would be stoic, just in case you looked at him. he didn’t want to throw off your game, so he tried his hardest to blend into the crowd, act like he wasn’t even there. he still wasn’t quite sure if the four of them watching you added to your nerves (it did, just a little) and he didn’t want to be the reason you didn’t land a jump and injured yourself. but make no mistake, he held his breath every time your skates left the ice.

soap would be the most encouraging of all of them to look at, a smile plastered on his face as he watched you twirl and leap. you’d think the man had never watched figure skating before with the way he whooped and hollered every time you stuck what he perceived to be a difficult skill. he clapped loudly for you, his bonnie little skater. everything you did impressed him, and it gave you an added layer of confidence going into some of the more difficult sections of the routine.

gaz is fully the mom from mean girls. he’s doing the choreography along with you on the bench, but, like, the seated version. he’s also the one videoing the routine on his phone. (price mostly got the head of the person in front of him last time, soap was so loud that you couldn’t hear the music you were skating to, and simon would get so caught up in watching you that he’d forget to follow you with the camera and not just his eyes.) he gives you quiet praise when you successfully execute a difficult skill, hoping that you’ll watch the video back and hear how much he loved your routine.

regardless of their expressions during your skate, they’re the first on their feet when you finish, clapping and cheering loudly. when you find them after, price has a bouquet of flowers for you, soap’s grabbed you a hot chocolate from the concession stand, gaz helps you unlace your skates, and simon is there with his big burly arms to give you all the comfort in the world.

please please PLEASE send me more stuff like this, i eat this shit up

[lemonwrap]

Imagine: a Dishonored AU where Ghost is marked and gifted with the Outsider’s powers, and Soap is the royalty he protects.

As a young child, Simon grew up poor—so poor that his father couldn’t repay the debts he racked up. Not when he spent nearly every cent on booze. 

When Simon is eight, the street gang his father had been avoiding for nearly a year finally catches up with him. Although Simon manages to escape, the gang kills his entire family as retribution—his father, mother, and older brother, Tommy. Ghost didn’t care for his father in the least, but it’s still a shock to see a corpse. 

That night, as he sobs on his cracked front doorstep and mourns the loss of his mother and brother, he falls asleep. He awakens in a strange place, where chunks of buildings and land float throughout a vast abyss. 

Simon wanders around for an unknown amount of time investigating—it could’ve been minutes, or it could’ve been years. A flurry of inky black particles form in the air and quickly arrange themselves into a…being.

There’s something distinctly godlike about the being. He isn’t human. His eyes are pitch black, an abyss with no bounds, and his skin is pale as snow. He holds himself with a rigid posture, arms crossed, and chin lifted as he looks down upon the young boy. 

“Hello, Simon,” the being says. 

“Who are you?” Simon whispers. 

“I am the Outsider. Your life has taken a turn, has it not? I have chosen you and drawn you into the Void,” he says. “There are forces in the world and beyond the world, great forces that men call ‘magic’, and now these forces will serve your will.”

Simon doesn’t say anything else, mystified. What is he talking about? There’s always been stories of magic, of the Outsider, but magic doesn’t really exist, does it? But nothing else can explain how real this all feels, from the cold, empty air to the calls of the whales as they float throughout the chasm of this realm, to the Outsider himself. 

“This is my mark,” the Outsider says, and he lifts his hand. Suddenly, Simon’s own left hand is burning, and he jumps at the pain, looking down at it in alarm. There’s an intricate design forming on the back of his hand, and when he tries to wipe it off, it’s smooth and stays firmly in place like a tattoo would.

“Use this newfound power, my gift to you, Simon. How you use what I have given you falls upon you, as it has to the others before you. And now, I return you to your world—but know that I will be watching with great interest.”

In the morning, Simon wakes up on his doorstep again. He immediately checks his hand and is startled to see that it’s still there, and it doesn’t come off. It wasn’t just a dream.

He lives on the streets after that. 

Simon spends years honing his abilities, including his ability to Blink moderate distances, Wind Blast opponents or objects, and his sword fighting skills. He also maintains a strong, agile body ready for just about anything, and even adopts the name Ghost, coming from his ability to Blink and his stealth. 

In his dreams, Ghost sometimes finds himself in the Void, but he never sees the Outsider. His mark is as visible and strong as ever, though, and so he keeps it covered constantly.

At sixteen, Ghost enters the Blade Verbana, an annual sword-fighting competition. The prize is a spot in the Serkonan Guard, something he would have almost zero chance of gaining otherwise.

Ghost wins, of course. Even without his powers, most of his opponents were no match for him. He didn’t use his powers in the competition because using his Wind Blast to throw one of his opponents into a wall or Blinking to dodge would give him away. Black magic is feared and looked down upon, and its discovery would subject him to arrest or death. Ghost knows that is what he possesses, so he keeps it a secret, only using it when alone or in an emergency.

After two years of service, the Duke of Serkonos sends Ghost to Dunwall to serve Empress Anne MacTavish. The Empress assigns him to be the Royal Protector, specifically for her son. 

That’s when he meets John MacTavish.

He’s Ghost’s age, has a stupid haircut in the form of a mohawk, and likes to be called Soap. Ghost thinks he’s insolent and irritating, with the most redeeming thing about him is that he doesn’t talk down on Ghost and doesn’t purposely flaunt his wealth or status. It makes his attitude a little more bearable. However, Soap has a healthy disrespect for authority and, to Ghost’s annoyance, likes to flee the elegant balls his mother hosts and sneak out of his room in the tower at night. It’s Ghost’s job to protect and guard him, and Soap is making it a pain in the ass.

Ghost isn’t particularly attached to his fiery ward until one night, when Soap slips out of his room yet again. Ghost tracks him down and eventually finds Soap in the middle of a brawl with three men in an alleyway, losing badly. Ghost helps him. He and Soap fight side by side, though Soap is clearly lacking in any real technique, and Ghost chases the men away. He could’ve easily Wind Blasted them, but he doesn’t want to try and explain that to Soap. 

He’s about to yell at Soap until he realizes there’s a girl there, too. A teenager, only a few years younger than them. Soap had been defending her. Ghost is still annoyed, but not quite as upset as before as he drags Soap back to the tower. He tends to a pouting Soap’s scrapes and sends him back to his room with a blooming black eye. 

The next day, when Ghost is reprimanded for allowing Soap to leave his room and get hurt, Soap jumps in to defend the Royal Protector. Ghost manages to avoid punishment, although Soap and his black eye make quite the sight as his mother chews him out. 

After that, they get closer. 

As it is his duty to do so, Ghost follows Soap just about everywhere, much to Soap’s annoyance. When Soap isn’t sneaking out, roaming the city streets, or meeting up with his friend Gaz, he likes to find reprieve in the small patch of woods near the tower. Sometimes he takes a dip in the small pond located there. 

“C’mon, Ghost,” Soap urges, waggling his eyebrows as he tosses his shirt to the side. “The water’s fine.” 

“I’m supposed to be guarding you,” Ghost says gruffly as Soap steps in. He tries very hard not to look at Soap’s chest, his strong biceps, or his tanned skin.

“You’re so serious all the time,” Soap huffs, taking his arm and playfully splashing Ghost with water. From the edge, Ghost is torn between wanting to splash him back and wanting to stay on guard. 

“I won’t let you get in trouble,” Soap assures him. “You need to relax a little!” 

Ah, fuck it. What’s a little fun? Ghost has more clothes back at the tower, anyway. He kicks off his boots.

“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Ghost says. 

“Warn me about wh—“

Ghost doesn’t hear the rest of his sentence. Clothes on, he impulsively cannonballs straight into the pond, splashing water all over the place in a huge wave. When he rises to the surface, Soap is sputtering and spitting water out of his mouth. 

“I didn't mean come in like that,” Soap laughs incredulously. Later, when they return to the tower, Ghost dripping all over the floors and boots squelching with every step, Soap tells his mother that he pushed Ghost in just so that Ghost wouldn’t get in trouble. 

Between their banter and jokes, Ghost also teaches Soap more about self defense, and they spar frequently. Soap gets better and better, but against Ghost’s years of experience and unnatural talents, Ghost still wins. Soap gets some good hits in, though, and he can hold his own in a fight. 

Soap quickly becomes likable—and despite his intention to stay distant, Ghost starts crushing on Soap. He’s still professional, of course, but it’s hard for him to not like Soap, especially when they spend so much time together. Soap treats him well, too, and the brazen-faced man often shows him a softer, more kind side of himself. Ghost’s own facade slips more often than he intends it to.

Sometimes, Ghost wishes he could tell Soap about the Outsider’s mark. He doesn’t, and the Outsider never visits him either. Perhaps Ghost is too boring for him now that he isn’t a street rat. 

Less than a year after Ghost is appointed as Soap’s Royal Protector, the Empress falls ill and dies. At only eighteen, Soap becomes the new Emperor of the Empire of the Isles. 

Soap doesn’t get a lot of time to process it all when the council urges him to make a public statement and officially inherit the title. After, Soap stands with Ghost at his side as the aides move Soap’s belongings into his new quarters—his mother’s old room. 

Soap doesn’t say a word and just stands there with watery eyes. Unsure if this was a line he should cross, Ghost attempts to go stand outside Soap’s door, but Soap asks him to stay. The new Emperor cries into Ghost’s shoulder that night. 

Ghost tries his best to help Soap deal with his grief, but even with personal experience, he’s not the greatest at it. Even so, Soap begins to get the hang of being Emperor and proves himself to be a benevolent and competent leader. The people become fond of Soap and respect him greatly.

It isn’t enough to keep him from being targeted, though. 

It’s a quiet night, nearly three years after being appointed Emperor, when a group of assassins makes an attempt on Soap’s life. Soap and Ghost are resting in a gazebo, looking out at the water, and standing much too close for Ghost to even pretend he’s being professional. He can’t stop looking at Soap, from his grown-out mohawk that hasn’t been trimmed in months to his beautiful blue eyes. Ghost wants to kiss Soap so, so badly, but he does no such thing, and resigns himself to observing.

Neither of them are prepared for the attack, but Ghost recovers first. There’s six of them, all covering their faces like Ghost does—perhaps they had heard of Ghost’s fighting prowess and thought that they could overwhelm him with numbers.

He doesn’t let that happen. 

Everything comes in a rush, and he’s using the Outsider’s mark to prevent them from even touching Soap. Soap knocks one of them out in the ensuing struggle and beats the shit out of another, but Ghost is a whirlwind, dodging and Blinking to avoid blows, Wind Blasting his opponents to the ground, and using his sword like it’s an extension of his own body. It’s over quicker than Ghost had expected. 

“Shit,” Soap says breathlessly, visibly shaken when Ghost pulls his sword out of the last assassin’s stomach. 

“You alright, Johnny?” Ghost asks, stumbling forward, and finds that he’s very out of breath. 

“Simon? What’s that on your side?” Soap asks, his brow creasing with worry. “Are you—“

Ghost staggers, and suddenly his side is bursting with pain. He can’t believe he didn’t notice it before. He reaches his hand to where the pain is radiating and can feel the hot blood quickly gushing from the wound. 

“Simon?!” Soap rushes forward, and suddenly, Ghost feels a little too woozy. Shit, they must’ve gotten him bad.

“It’s fine,” Ghost grunts, trying not to worry Soap too much, but it’s starting to get dark and Ghost is dizzy.

The last thing he hears is Soap frantically calling his name.

When Ghost wakes up, he’s in a dim room that he recognizes as Soap’s quarters. There’s a weight on his thigh, and he looks down to see Soap’s head resting on him. Soap’s closed eyes are puffy like he’s been crying, and there’s shadows under them, too. Ghost shifts and lets out a groan as a sharp pain shoots through his side, and Soap immediately notices, his eyes snapping open. 

But then his face switches from relief and crumples into a terrible, terrible guilt. 

Soap sits up and lays his hand on Ghost’s chest, and Ghost realizes that he’s feeling how his chest rises and falls. Ghost doesn’t know what to say, but anything he possibly could fades when Soap lets out a shuddering gasp and begins to cry. It quickly turns into hiccuping sobs, and Ghost worriedly grabs Soap’s hands in his own, trying to soothe him. 

“Ah, shit. Johnny, it’s okay,” Ghost says, wanting to lean forward but wincing. Soap pushes him back against the propped-up pillows, his cheeks wet with tears, lip wobbling, brows upturned in utter sorrow. Ghost feels like an asshole for letting himself get hurt so badly. 

“It’s not. I thought you were going to die,” Soap says, his breathing hitched. 

“I had to protect you,” Ghost says, running his hands up Soap’s arms. 

“But—“

“Johnny, I’d do it a thousand times if it meant you lived.” 

Soap sniffles and lays his head back down on Ghost’s thigh, and Ghost pets his hair. 

Later, they talk about what happened. At Soap’s probing, Ghost cautiously admits that he had been marked by the Outsider as a child. Soap doesn’t seem to find this off-putting, nor does he call for Ghost’s arrest or beheading. He doesn’t seem to think any differently of Ghost, although he does seem incredibly intrigued by the mark on Ghost’s hand that he’d diligently kept hidden until now.

Only a day and a half after being stabbed, Ghost gets out of bed and hobbles around some, much to Soap’s displeasure. 

When he gets tired, he lets Soap lead him back into bed. They’re close, and Ghost just can’t help himself. He strokes his hand through Soap’s hair softly, and Soap allows it—seems to enjoy it, even. 

And then he’s using the hand in Soap’s hair to urge him closer, kissing him before he can stop himself, because he’s wanted to do this for three years at this point. Ghost quickly pulls back, though, stunned at what he’s just done.

Soap looks just as stunned for a moment, but then he grins.

“Is this your way of telling me you’re feeling better?” Soap laughs, following Ghost’s lips and kissing him fiercely. 

“Better because of you,” Ghost manages to say between their desperate kisses. He doesn’t even care that his side still hurts like a bitch and that it’ll likely be weeks before he’s back on his feet.

“You big fuckin’ sap,” Soap says. “I love you.” 

“Yeah?” Ghost breathes. 

“Yeah,” Soap affirms, and that’s that.