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bluelizard100 · 3 months ago

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Have y’all ever read The Four Horsemen series by Laura Thalassa?

What if… four horsemen of the apocalypse 141‼️ Also NSFW warning and spoilers for the Four Horsemen Series!

-First we got Pestilence. I went back and forth with this one because I wasn’t sure who would fit best— Soap or Gaz. I couldn’t decide who would be Pestilence and who would be Famine, but I’ve decided that Pestilence goes to Gaz.

Pestilence makes it very clear in his book that he does NOT enjoy what he does. He doesn’t like spreading the plague, watching people suffer as he infects city after city— he only does it because those are his orders.

I feel like for those reasons Pestilence fits Gaz the best. “Where do we draw the line?” And him being so rattled after Price threw that dude with the bomb strapped to his chest over a ledge to save the both of them (idk I never played the games 🫥) falls right in line with Pestilence.

Pestilence holds a grudge against Sara, the FMC, for almost the entire book, but eventually falls for her (duh). He finds intimacy to be sacred and fights himself a lot in the book— there is SO much tension between them. Idk, I feel like that fits Gaz the best

(Also Pestilence is really pretty and so is Gaz LMAO)

I’d like to point out that I don’t really think Pestilence is a good fit for Gaz otherwise. If I’m being honest, I think Ghost fits the Pestilence vibe the best, and that if Pestilence and Death swapped personalities then it would be a better match.

-Now we have War. War obviously goes to Price. When war finds Miriam, he snatches her up onto his horse and takes her back to camp. He calls her wife, leads an army, just commands authority in general but goes back to being gentle (as gentle as you can be when you’re a horseman of the apocalypse) with Miriam.

War also teases a lot, whether it’s about Miriam always finding her way into his little portion of the bed or about how all she’s gotta do is ask and he’ll make her feel good. He won’t actually fuck her until she surrenders to him (surrender meaning accept the fact that she’s his fated wife, but he’ll drive her crazy with his fingers and tongue.

I feel like that’s such a Price thing to do. He’ll def take care of his little wife but he’s not gonna give her what she wants until she gives in, and he’ll wait patiently.

-Famine! Yay! Famine is a sassy little fucker and he really, really does not like people. Now I really thought Gaz would fit Famine because Famine is also really pretty and like, a plant king! But he wants to wipe out humanity and enjoys watching people suffer because of what humans did to him, so I decided Soap can be Famine.

Famine holds a special spot in his immortal heart for Ana because she saved him after he escaped where he was being held prisoner and tortured.

When Ana and Famine meet years after, Famine is an arrogant prick and has an entourage of men do his dirty work for him. He takes the biggest house he can, lets people give him offerings in hopes that they’ll be spared, and then has his men kill them! I feel like Soap matches the spoiled vibes, and he probably enjoys taking out his enemies (which, in the book, all of humanity is Famine’s enemy so it’s okay lol).

He mistakenly has Ana killed when she goes to meet him with her brothel madam cuz he doesn’t recognize her, but Ana magically survives and hunts him down. Famine’s like “well I wouldn’t have killed you if you would’ve said something” and then kinda keeps Ana as his prisoner sorta but he’s kinda nice to her.

He’s also kinda bad at taking care of her which just kinda feels like a Soap thing. Like you can’t tell me that dude didn’t forget about a few childhood pets when he was a kid.

Also I think famine is the freakiest of the horsemen— he grows vines to use as bondage lmao you can’t tell me Soap wouldn’t do that if he also had plant magic.

But in all seriousness, I feel like Soap would be the most likely to drag a woman around with him while he ended all of humanity because he liked her. I mean, he did give her the chance to go on her own way, and she was the one who came to him the second time… that’s gotta mean something, right?

-Last but not least, Death. Now like I said earlier, I feel like Death would fit Ghost the best if he swapped personalities with Pestilence, but since we can’t do that then this is the best I’ve got.

Death literally just rides his horse through cities and everyone just drops dead. Poof, snap, whatever— they’re dead just like that. That’s all Ghost, dude: “If you see him, you’re already dead.”

Everyone except for Lazarus!

When Death realizes she doesn’t die from his magic, he concludes that she’s his fated wife and he does the only logical thing— he snaps her neck! There’s no way that isn’t a Ghost thing to do. Like, his mission is to cleanse the earth of people so She can heal again, and he knows that this woman will only get in the way of doing that, so he just kills her.

Lazarus (again) comes back to life, and then they spend a long ass time hunting each other down and killing each other. So romantic! But eventually Death decides that the next time they meet, he’s taking her with him and she doesn’t have a choice.

Death is also abhorrent at taking care of humans. He doesn’t know how they work. Ghost probably barely takes care of himself, so how would he take care of another person?

Now here’s where things kinda get tricky. I thought that Gaz would fit Death’s personality better because Death cares about Lazarus from the get-go despite killing her all the time. He doesn’t want her to suffer, and with humanity, they don’t suffer either. They just die.

But if you look past the whole scary military operator part of Ghost and look to the Simon (stupid and cliche I know)— the caring thing really does fit.

Once he gets the hang of taking care of a person, Death finds the nicest, biggest house in every city he travels in for Lazarus to stay in, and raises an army of skeletons to cook and take care of them. He pampers the fuck out of his wifey. Now, Death also finds intimacy sacred, which I think also fits Ghost. I don’t think Ghost is realistically the type to have a one night stand with any random person. He’d probably rather be vulnerable with someone he’s familiar with.

When Death does finally get intimate with Lazarus, he doesn’t wanna stop lmao he enjoys it very much. There’s one scene in the book where they fuck in the air LMAO.

I think Gaz would fit Death because he isn’t really all that gruff like Ghost is, but I still think they both fit. Death has a mission and he does everything in his power to complete it, even with his lady trying her hardest to stop him. Ultimately, when I was just thinking this up, I decided Ghost would be Death cuz the cover art of the novel is a skull lol.

Alright that concludes my rambling, sorry if this didn’t make any sense! I did not edit it! Also feel free to add on if you have any thoughts and if you haven’t read The Four Horsemen series you definitely should, it’s fucking amazing.

#call of duty #cod #the four horseman of the apocalypse #laura thalassa #bluelizard100 #john soap mactavish #john price #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #task force 141 #headcanon

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danibee33 · 8 months ago

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Part III of undercover!Ghost 🩶

ghost x reader (callsign: Hela)

word count : 4.7k

>>> [PT 1] [PT2]

You aren’t avoiding Ghost. Not really..

Ok, maybe you are.

The week since the undercover mission had been busier than usual, so it’s not like you don’t have an excuse for your absence- you did have other duties and responsibilities to attend to collaterally to the one-four-one. But were you using said collaterals to possibly steer clear of a certain person..? Well, that’s not important.

“Been awhile, lil’ LT..”

You return Soap’s grin, looking up at him as you both take tentative steps- him reaching out first, and you deflecting,

“D’ya miss me that much, sergeant?” You say, eyes skimming his form, looking for any weakness in it, waiting for the right opening.

It wasn’t a planned meet up, you just needed something to do- you’ve been so restless lately, like no matter what you do, it’s never quite enough to stem the relentless flow of thoughts. Which is how you found yourself on the sparring mats opposite the equally restless man at such an ungodly hour.

“Always miss ye, hen..” Soap grunts just before lunging for you, attempting to swipe your leg but inadvertently opening himself up for you to get your arms and legs wrapped around torso- using your body weight to bring him to his knees,

“Steamin’ Jesus, lil LT- worse than a fuckin’-”

Whatever insults he might’ve tried to spew are cut off when you suddenly readjust, but he recovers quicker than you expect- lifting up and bringing you along with him,

“If ye wanted to cuddle, ye could’a just said so..” Soap says, that flirty little lilt at the edge of his words, the same one you’ve heard him use at the bar a hundred times now. And the lopsided smirk on his lips is all too familiar as he tightens his grip around your waist–

God, he’s such a fuckboy…

With a breathless groan, you switch your hold again, crossing your arm over his face in order to put distance between you while still keeping him mostly trapped,

“Shut it, MacTavish. I’m still winning, aren’t I?”

You go back and forth like this until you’re both struggling to breathe and your muscles begin to quiver with fatigue- throwing jokes and jabs easily. It had always been effortless to talk with Soap, banter with him came naturally, but you think it’s only because you two are alike in that way. Never at a loss for words to fill a silence.

And by the time you’re both thoroughly exhausted, all sweat and panting breaths as you stick uncomfortably to the mat, does he roll to his feet, brushing his hair back in the same motion,

“Always a pleasure, ma’am.” He grins, dwarfing your hand in his own as he tugs you up, “And we’re, uh, we’re goin’ out tomorrow night- or well, tonight, I s’pose.” he fumbles over his words in that adorable way he does sometimes, like a schoolboy with a crush on his teacher, “If ye’d like to come.. I can have LT text ye the details.”

At the mention of Simon, you feel the very tips of your ears begin to burn. The sergeant’s prompt too quickly bringing back all the thoughts and memories you had been trying to purge yourself of by coming here,

“Um.. Sure. No promises, though. It’s been busy, ya know..” You say, fighting to keep your tone flippant and casual- but John MacTavish is more keen than you might have given him credit for.

He walks by your side out of the gym, obviously searching for the right way to bring it up, until finally it’s almost like you can feel his own curiosity win over his better judgment,

“Ma’am.. Did somethin’ happen? On the last mission?” The next few seconds are filled with him trying, and somewhat failing but it’s amusing nonetheless, to explain why he’s asking- mostly due to your unusual absences since returning that night. The way you’ve been avoiding the entire team in favor of doing paperwork in your office-

Which you never did because you said you hated being back there on your own.

No, you always preferred to take care of those things in the common spaces, where the chances of having company were always high.

“Was it seein’ LT’s mug? I ken that’s always a bit of a shock for first timers, but-”

“What?” You interject, eyebrows raised in surprise, “No.. no, it has nothing to do with that..”

Well, that’s also not entirely true, is it? But you don’t think it’s for the reasons Soap’s imagining.. It’s more about the fact that everytime you even catch a glimpse of the giant man, you’re reminded of how handsome he was on his knees in front of you, how big his hands felt over your thighs, how his tongue-

“Well, just think ‘bout joinin’ us, won’t ye?”

The sheer amount of hope in Johnny’s voice pulls you out of your reverie, replacing the memory of amber eyes with bright cerulean ones, and that signature fucking smirk,

“Fine! Just chill out with the puppy dog eyes, MacTavish.. Begging like a damn dog.” You concede, waving him away and turning toward your hall without waiting for his reaction. But he doesn’t let you get far before you hear his chuckle, husky and chocked full of guile, bounce off the concrete walls,

“Woof, woof, lil LT..”

Ghost doesn’t like new places.

He doesn’t like being unfamiliar with his surroundings, because he spends too much fucking time being unfamiliar in nearly every surrounding he’s sent to. He doesn’t like leaving things up to chance, doesn’t like how much more stress accumulates around his shoulders and neck- it annoys him, the ache.

But Johnny and Gaz had just been so damn adamant about trying out a new pub. One on the opposite end of town, and he can admit it’s nicer than their usual hole in the wall, but still.

Ghost doesn’t like new places.

Well, that was until he caught sight of you. And then he found himself slightly more drawn to the low lighting that danced over your skin, the way it glowed in your eyes as your survey the bar-

“Hel’s ‘ere?” He asks, downing the last nip of bourbon in his cup.

Johnny’s head whips up then, spotting you in an instant- and there’s something about his response that causes Simon’s gaze to narrow at the shorter man. It’s too… giddy, too reverent for his liking.

“Aye! Invited her the other night.”

That ache in his neck returns but somehow significantly worse.

The other night? You had been with Johnny the other night? When this entire fucking week he hadn’t been able to get three fucking seconds alone with you-

Ok, no, he hadn’t worked up to trying to just call or text, that felt too impersonal. He was shit at all that anyway, he needs to see your body language, needs to analyze all the little expressions that give away so much more than words do. But you had somehow found a way to beat him at his own game. You turned into a ghost, only ever catching your silhouette from the corner of his eye, hearing your voice but never being quick enough to be within a few meters of you.

And possibly the worst was when he would enter a room you had been recently in, the smell of you permeating the air, causing his heart to stutter just so with every deep breath.

Fucking hell..

But here you are. And at Johnny’s request, no less.

Ghost despises new places.

Yet, he does think he could learn to like the overly enthusiastic beat of the music when he sees your hips sway to the rhythm as you wait for your drink. You’re in tight jeans and a black leather jacket that fits your figure like a goddamn glove- and he swears he can feel the silk of your skin by just memory alone, the curves of your body already etched into his mind.

“Gonna get a refill.” He grunts, already walking away from the table with the empty glass in hand.

The sound of a cup being sat on the bartop snaps you back to the present, followed by a heady rush of chills when you hear the baritone of Simon’s voice far closer to your ear than you expect,

“So, she lives.”

You let out a small breath, turning to find the burly breadth of his chest taking up nearly your entire field of view- clad in black from head to toe, which doesn’t surprise you one bit, but it’s not his usual hoodie and jacket. No, this time he’s in a black henley that fits more like a second skin, the fabric deliciously stretched over his pecs and shoulders, the top button left open to give you just a peek at the silver chain glinting underneath and… is that a tattoo?

“She does..” You say, meeting his eyes.

And you really should know better, with too many of your nights haunted by the deep amber of his irises- but the instant it happens, it’s like you’re back in that damned office all over again. The music grows faint, and the people around you turn into little more than blurs at the edge of your vision. He’s all you can feel, the heat of him, the intensity behind his gaze, the way his head tilts softly to the side, studying you as if he might be recommitting your features to memory- not that he needs to.

Because you’ve haunted him just as much. You’ve been the bane of his existence this last week, and somehow the only thing he can see when he shuts his eyes. The sole focus of his loathing and his desire-

“Ma’am, your whiskey sour-” The bartender announces from behind you, effectively breaking the spell you’ve been so wrapped up in right before you hear another small clink, “and a bourbon, neat.”

Without hesitation, Simon leans closer, big arm reaching around you to pull his glass from the bartop and the black surgical mask covering his mouth and nose down in the same motion. He keeps that same heavy gaze on you, your own eyes growing wider at the sight of his face, his crooked nose and scarred lip. You watch him take a short sip, but just as quick as it happened, his mask is back in place, and he’s stepping back,

“C’mon. Table’s over ‘ere.”

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt whiplash quite like seeing Ghost turn his back on you, easily carving a path through the patrons that fill the space-

But you are damn sure the infuriating Brit isn’t going to get the last word in this.

Ghost can feel your stare, feel how it’s directed right at the back of his skull. A perfect kill shot if he were a betting man. But he can also hear the quiet click of your boots following after him, the tightness in his jeans growing more noticeable with every step-

Fuck.

“Lil’ LT! Glad ye’ could make it out!” Johnny shouts over the crowd, blue eyes cast in mischief and that open sort of admiration that Ghost is sure the man couldn’t hide even if he tried.

You round the table, looking up at the Scot with a devastating smile on your lips before nudging his shoulder with your own,

“Yeah, I just wanted to make sure your ego wasn’t too damaged after kicking your ass this morning, sergeant.”

“Ach! -”

Ghost can hear Johnny sputtering on and on in that terrible mashup of English and Scottish slang that’s always grated on the lieutenant’s ears- but whatever he’s saying doesn’t quite register. Instead, he can only really hear the way your laugh brightens the dim room, see the way your head tips back as you take another sip of your drink.

And it’s only then he realizes that he just wishes you would look at him like that. Wishes that he could draw the melodious sound from you, that he could be the reason you smile so brightly-

“Well, well, well-” the group looks over to see Gaz and Price meandering through the throng of bodies, the younger man with outstretched arms, “Hela! Thought you’d up and left our sorry arses!”

All Simon can do is grit his teeth as Gaz embraces you in a quick side hug, Price close behind with a warm grin even on his bearded face,

“And miss out on all the fun? You know me better than that, Garrick.” You say, raising your glass to the Captain in greeting.

So, no, Ghost doesn’t like new places.

But he can’t deny that as the next hour passes he’s smiled more than a few times at his team’s antics. And he certainly can’t say that he hasn’t missed the way you bring them all a little closer, your bubbly brand of forwardness allowing them to each get out of their heads, even if just for a little while.

“What’s this about you handin’ MacTavish's arse to him?” Price’s voice booms over the music, which has only seemed to get louder the later it gets-

Ghost watches you down the rest of your whiskey sour without so much as a flinch, your cheeks flushed such a pretty pink from the alcohol,

“I mean, is that really a surprise?” You shoot back, the man in question all but slamming his glass down on the table in rebuttal-

“Ooh- yer arse is oot the windae! I want a rematch!” Johnny’s words slur together just enough to give away how good he’s really feeling, throwing an arm over your shoulder, “Watcha say, lil LT? And this time we’ll have a proper judge, right Cap? No cheatin’-”

It really isn’t fair how you lean into him as you chuckle, that ache in Simon’s neck creeping up again at the sight.

Christ alive, why can’t he just get it together? Why does he care? You’ve never been one to shy away from physical touch… but fuck all if it doesn’t eat at him.

“Oi, who wants another round?” Gaz, thankfully interjects, drawing everyone’s attention with a collective and resounding sound off.

The others waltz away through the crowd in the direction of the bar, everyone but you- standing across from Ghost at the table, toying with the toothpick in your glass,

"Late night spar, huh?" You don't miss the added gruffness in his tone, or the fact that he refuses to look at you now, staring somewhere over your head.

And if you were a better woman, you wouldn't feel the need to play into his offputting display of jealousy- but you're you after all.. and he's Ghost. So, you give a little hum before plucking the tiny skewer from your cup,

"Couldn't sleep.." You shrug, looking up at him under you lashes, his eyes already on the maraschino cherry that drips down your fingers, "Figured I'd do something a little more productive since I was up anyway-"

Simon tracks your hand, falling right into your terrible little game as you bring the fruit to your lips- it's tooth achingly sweet when you finally bite into it, mixed with the burn of whiskey. And it's when the juice runs down your chin that you meet his gaze, swiping up the liquid on your thumb, he watches with a severity that sends a dangerous chill up your spine- not even daring to blink as you suck the digit clean.

You know he's keenly aware of exactly what you're doing, but that doesn't stop the lust and satisfaction from rushing through you at his deep growl- those coppery eyes darker than you've ever seen.

All too innocently, you flash him a smile, "I think I'll have one more.. you want anything, sir?"

Ghost thinks he can feel the crystal glass in his hand begin to splinter under his grip, unable to tear his eyes away from the red stain on your lips- it's enough to drive him mad.

He gives you a curt shake of his head, knowing that if he had another drink, he might lose whatever vague sense of self-control he's clinging onto so precariously.

And instead of watching you walk away, he turns toward the pool tables, needing something to do with his hands- because if he clenched them any fucking tighter he think he might draw blood with the way his blunt nails dig into his calloused palm.

Without waiting for the others, he racks the balls before picking up a cue stick and breaking the formation- moving around the table just as Johnny sidles up to him,

"Did’nae take ye for a billiards guy, LT.." He says, quickly working to chalk up his own cue.

Gaz and Price follow soon after, eager to join in on teams- and it works, for a short time anyway to distract him. If he can just stay focused on making each shot, then he won't have time to think about you. But, that's a rather silly notion, isn't it? Because sure enough, just as he leans in to take a shot, he spots you bump elbows with his Scottish counterpart.

"Here to give me some good luck, lil LT?" Johnny looks down at you with a lopsided grin, both hands wrapped around the cue stick as he leans on it.

You take a slow sip of your drink, just enough time to glance at Simon- sleeves now pulled up to expose the thickly corded muscles of his forearms and the faded black ball cap on his head turned backwards. He's calculated in his shot, efficiently knocking a striped ball into the nearest pocket-

"I don't think you want any of my luck, sergeant.." You drawl, eyes flitting up to see his deep blue ones already on you, "Can't say I have the best track record when it comes to that."

Soap's chuckle is warm and laced with silk in your ears, watching him copy his superior's movements, finessing his own cue to score a bankshot. Gaz is next, followed by Price, and you follow them ardently, moving around the table as they go until it's back to Ghost-

"Aye, LT-" Johnny calls, "Why don't you show Hela how to do a jump.."

You've managed to get close enough to the towering man now that he has to look down at you before glaring back at his sergeant,

"'m sure she can figure it out on 'er own, Johnny."

"I've actually never really played." You say before your better judgment can stop your mouth from moving- maybe you have had a little much to drink.

And the way Simon's jaw clenches, having taken off his mask as the other patrons slowly dispersed, makes your core tighten- biting the fleshy inside of your cheek between your teeth. You shouldn't push it. You’ve done enough of that already, haven’t you?

Yet, in one swift motion, Simon's hand is on your hip, the other taking the half-empty cup from your grasp before positioning your body in front of his. It isn't exactly gentle, there's a roughness to his movements that put you on edge, a stiffness in his voice that only stokes the the fire in your belly,

"Hold it 'ere.." You take the stick in your hand, the wood still hot from his touch, "and 'ere."

When you grab it this time, he covers your hand, easily repositioning it further down- "Like that."

Very suddenly, you're regretting putting yourself in this situation, so swept up in the feeling of Simon all but dwarfing you, his proximity far more intoxicating than any of the alcohol you've consumed tonight, that you don't notice the sly smirk on Gaz's face- nor the knowing looks shared between your teammates.

In your defense, Simon makes it hard to concentrate on much of anything with the way he slowly leans into you, urging you to bend forward- his hold light but still strong enough to make the slightest adjustments to your stance,

"Lift your elbow now." He mutters, his breath tickling over your exposed shoulder, your jacket left slung over the nearest chair. But it's his hand that catches you off guard, because unlike every other movement he's made with purpose and intention, a man simply doing a job; when he moves now, it's slow, his fingers grazing up your side before softly caressing the skin of your arm,

"Good."

You shift on your feet, your body feeling like it might combust at any moment, the one word spoken in his brassy accent threatening to unravel you on the spot.

The next few moments seem to pass in a blur, you feel him lean in just a bit closer, his left arm bracing over you on the edge of the table as his right hand lands right behind yours on the stick. Whatever he does after is more like a magic trick than logic, rushing the tip downward on the ball with enough force to nearly jerk you forward, but with enough finesse that the little sphere hops off the table- knocking what you assume was the intended target into its pocket.

It takes longer than you're proud of to recover, scrambling to put a bright smile on your face, moving when he does and hoping to whatever deities might exist that it's dark enough to hide the red hue of your cheeks,

"Look at that, a natural, ma'am!" Gaz shouts, clapping a wide palm over your back- and you try to force out a laugh, try to keep your eyes away from the dark form that's moved back towards the table now.

Away from you.

And you wish it didn't make your stomach twist, seeing him pull his mask back on and fixing his ballcap again so that the bill sits low over his eyes-

"Headin' out, Simon?" Price speaks up, an unlit cigar propped lazily between his lips now.

Simon gives his signature nod, which barely a perceptible gesture, but you're all used to it enough by now. The captain, already out past his bedtime, is happy to begin rounding up his own belongings as well, urging the sergeants to get it together and get to the truck,

"I call shotgun!" Soap calls over his shoulder, already barreling towards the exit, Garrick hot on his heels,

"Fuckin' hell.." Price grumbles, looking back at you, "Need a lift, love?"

"No, I'm good. See you tomorrow, Cap." You say, a tired smile reassuring him enough that you would get home-

And just like that, the once bustling pub is more like a ghost town when you step out into the crisp night air, watching the tail lights flicker away. You had gotten a taxi here, but you feel too wired to call for one now- your body felt like it was vibrating, still so lost in the fading memory of what happened inside. But maybe you were just imagining it.. maybe you had let those lines between reality and fantasy blur a little too close for comfort.

Simon climbed into the driver's seat, his hands hitting the steering wheel before ripping the hat and mask off and throwing them onto the dash-

"Fuck."

What was he thinking? He should have never given into it, never touched you the way he did, held you, gotten close enough to feel you against him again. Should have never fed the monster.

God-fucking-damn MacTavish and his annoying fucking antics, never knowing when to quit. Ever since the undercover mission, the man had been a hound with a scent. Testing and prodding and sticking his damned nose in places it didn't belong-

Simon loathes new places.

But there you are. Standing under the milky glow of the street lamp, your hands tangled in your hair and your cheeks puffed in frustration. And so fucking beautiful he can't stand it.

He should leave. He needs to go back to base, needs to take a shower so cold it hurts, needs to bury himself in work just like you did. He needs, he needs, he needs.

Yet, he doesn't do any of those things.

No, like the awful, depraved man he is, he steps out of the truck and makes a beeline right for you- which, looking back on it, might not have been the best course of action because the instant you see his hulking frame he watches how you go on the defensive. Your posture stiffening and your hand reaching for one of your many concealed weapons if he knows you like he thinks he does.

That's ok though, he imagines you could stab him right here in the parking lot and he wouldn't mind one bit. Hell, you could slit his throat and he would smile as he bled out at your feet.

Thankfully, you do neither of those things.

And as soon as you're within reach, he's got those big hands framing your face, crushing his lips to yours.

Shock is all you can register at first. Your mind and body flooded by adrenaline, ready for a fight when you initially saw the shadowed figure coming for you. But in those same few seconds, you recognized him, recognized every purpose driven stride, the steady sway of his shoulders-

Though him kissing you hadn't necessarily been on the list of things you had expected.

You're pulled to your tiptoes, and for a moment you think it might be a dream, the way he audibly groans when your lips begin to move against his. But he doesn't relent, and you don't want him to. So you lean up, wrapping your arms around his neck as soon as your muscles can catch up to your thoughts.

You feel his tongue gently glide over your bottom lip, a gentle urging for you to reciprocate- which you're more than happy to oblige. The kiss turning somehow more heated, sloppy even, something you had never experienced yet something that you never want to end.

But all too soon, he does pull away, his fingers threading through your hair, "I'm sorry-"

Again, hearing Simon Riley apologise was just not on the bingo card for tonight.

He presses his forehead to yours, your heavy breaths mingling with his, remnants of whiskey and bourbon filling your nostrils,

"Sorry?" You look up at him, eyebrows tightly knitted, "For what?"

"The mission.. I shouldn't have- I didn't-" --he stumbles over his words, scarred lips finally pulling into a grimace, "Hel, is it true?"

The way his gaze bores into you feels intimate, like he's trying to peel you apart, "Gonna have to be a little less vague there.. I'm smart, but I can't read minds."

Your breathy chuckle helps to ease the tension, if such a thing were possible with how close he still holds you,

"That you've never been with anyone, like that.."

Oh. GOD FUCKING DAMN YOU, MACTAVISH.

When you take a step back, he reluctantly lets you go, his expression faltering for a moment- and you hate it. Hate that you had possibly hurt him- but you just needed space to put it all together, to try to explain.

"Yes.." his face falls even more, and it's like you can feel the shame that radiates from him, your hands reaching for him on their own, fingers tangling into the fabric of his shirt, "But I wanted it.. I wanted.. you. I want you- jesus, fuck- I'm so bad at this."

"You didn't say anythin'.."

You shake your head, a laugh huffing through you as you look to the inky sky above, "Would it have changed anything?"

"I wouldn't have-"

"You wouldn't have done what you did? Why?"

That seems to stump him, his mouth opening and then closing, opening again, "You deserved more."

"Simon, just because I've never had sex doesn't mean I'm completely naive.." You initiate the kiss this time, mimicking the way he had held your face, pulling him closer, "I'm under no illusion that it's suppose to be this magical moment-"

He eagerly returns your kiss, an arm wrapping around your waist as you continue, "And, let's be honest, having 'The Ghost' on his knees was waaayy better than sex."

You feel his smile right before he bends down and hoists over his shoulder,

"Simon!"

But, your shrieks and giggles fall on deaf ears, hands smacking at his back in a lame attempt to wiggle free, "Mm.. no, no, keep screamin' my name, sweet girl. I like the way it sounds."

a/n: this one got away from me… but your honor, they’re down so bad for each other 😭 thank you for reading!!

[PT 4] (coming soon)

#simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #it’s getting hot in here yall #haha oops #it’s a four parter i guess #sorry?#call of duty #cod fandom #cod fanfic #john soap mactavish #task force 141 #kyle gaz garrick #john price #reader #fem reader #no y/n

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danlag4 · 1 year ago

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This started divergenty and something very call of duty happened along the way

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eksvaized · 9 months ago

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@deadbranch's 100-Word Fic Challenge

another one because I've realized these little challenges are great for getting myself in the mood to write

When a prank idea strikes, MacTavish is usually game. Today, however, even your puppy eyes and sheepish smile don't convince Soap immediately.

"Pink isn’t his color."

Your words drip with sarcasm, as you scoff, rolling your eyes, "He'll love it."

Soap’s protests only cease after you drag him to the laundry room.

You spend hours dyeing all of Ghost's skull masks and gloves pink. But the prank backfires when Riley shows up for the next mission sporting the pink set, handing you and MacTavish matching masks.

Price isn't happy.

Especially when Gaz questions his lack of a matching pink mask.

#i imagine that price forces you to take the pink masks off #but later that night - to your fucking surprise - ghost knock on your door #he wants your help with dyeing two more masks “I want all the colours to match”#when price and gaz are given them--captain refuses to wear it #but somehow you manage to convice him to do it and even force the four guys to take a picture with you #none of you wear those silly pink masks to a mission #but price does end up putting the picture you took up in his office (you printed and gifted it to him)#cod #task force 141 #tf 141 x reader #call of duty #100 word fic challenge

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joelletwo · 2 months ago

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dont ever vote your heart vote with the game theory of figuring out how to tank your least fav result/boost your preferred one

#vote like you are on a final stage task of taskmaster and you need those other four competitors DEAD

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tassodelmiele · 7 months ago

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Noisy little mess

Hi sweetie ⁓

I swear to god i'm dreaming about the future plot lately, and I chukle in my sleep since it's so funny dealing with (stalking) the Task Force even if i shouldn't laugh about the things i'm thinking about and i'm so happy to see you've got the same problem as me.

Send hugs to wherever you are ⁓

DISCLAIMERS: clean from smut, but a lot of ignoring feelings and responsabilities; GhostxReader and his will to pretend she doesn't exist (spoiler, he fails); how-to-not-doing-a-mission-safely; a sprinkle of paternal chat; Task Force being misterious about their Lt.; ghosts scared of gnomes.

..................................................

Third part here:

..................................................

You don't know how you've managed to come back safely to your room.

What you do know is that, since yesterday, your Lt is nowhere to be found.

Oh, and you've finally got menstruations. Soap is the first one who gets aware of this, welcoming you at the breakfast table with the sweetest:

«Ye're finally bleeding, aren't ye?»

Gaz throws him a bunch of towels before Price manages to save the few left, hiding them under his plate.

You sit next to Johnny. It is so rare to have the Captain at breakfast, and it is even…suspicious. You swallow your oatmeal silently, gazing at Price till he murmurs: «What is it?» that smells like coffee and late night work.

«Mmmnothin'»

He sighs, finally raising his sight at you.

«Spit it out. What's wrong?»

«Mmmh…»

He sips his black coffee while exchanging a sight war with you, who're looking at him through the spoonful of chocolate oatmeal, eyes sharpened as a knife. Price leans toward you, willing to win the challenge, when Gaz suddenly asks:

«Have someone seen the Lt? I need to give him a-»

«Speaking of him-» you suddenly burst, breaking the eye contact with Price just to make him sighs for the second times in five minutes. He raises an hand toward your face.

«If you're seeking revenge for your injury-»

«I'm not» you reply almost immediately. «Even if he was a dick»

Price scolds you immediately with a threatening: «language, rookie»

You scroll your shoulders, knowing well you can push yourself so far just 'cause they don't really care about discipline towards each other. At least not at breakfast.

«He's disappeared. So: either he really is a ghost, and he vanished; or he's hiding from me»

Gaz was about to make a joke on your words, but he suddenly stops, with his fork still stuck on the omelet.

«…what? Why from you?»

«Ye'r not that scary»

«I bet i am»

«Hold on, hold on»

Price makes his way through the speech, raising his hands to gain silence. Then he looks at you like he's watching a child trying to convince an ice cream he's not about to eat it.

«So that's what it's going on» and murmurs to himself: «that bloody liar…»

You gasp in surprise, just to make some drama, and Johnny follows your move like a Victorian damoiselle. You slam your hands on the table before Price could speak again, or try to run away from his own words, and you suddenly remember about your elbow. Painful moans are choked in your guts as you spit out a too loud:

«Explain»

And Price answer with an abrupt:

«No»

And Johnny puts out his best puppy eyes, leaning on the table toward his Captain:

«Please! We need to know!»

«We?» John looks at him like he's surrounded by chatty widows. «Why in the bloody hell would you like to know somethin' you're not even involved in?»

«At this point 's a matter of principle»

«A what?»

«We're a team, secrets can't tear us apart»

«That's not a secret»

«Than speak»

«Is it about the fact that Ghost is either tryna kill or getting acquainted with her?»

Three pairs of eyes suddenly glare toward Gaz, who once again freezes with his fork balanced toward his mouth. He smiles nervously.

«…am I allowed to feel in danger?»

Johnny answer with a too sudden: «yes»

Price takes out a cigar with nonchalance, pointing it at Garryk « So you've noticed. At least one brain in my team is not totally burnt»

«Waitwaitwait» you bring back to you the attention, raising an hand to take the floor. «Is he really scared of me? That's why I haven't seen him around in 24 hours?»

«He told me he needed to figure something out 'cause of a problem you've made». Price gives you a look. «I've thought of talking to you about it, but… I'm not blind, rookie. And now that you've speak about him fearing you…i kinda understand what it's passing through his mind»

Gaz nods in agreement. Johnny takes his time to think about it, and after ten seconds of the other two staring at him he eventually realizes something.

Something that you're not getting.

Your eyes jump on their faces with the urge of the only gamer in the team who doesn't know how to cheat. Your fingers dig deeper in the cuticles as you see the three men stand up and make their way out of the dining hall.

«Hey! You can't leave with the secret all to yourself!»

«Sorry kid»

Price pat your head before waving at you, leaving you with what's left of your oatmeal and a few, terse words:

«If he'll feels like it, he'll tell you»

He stops. He suddenly turns serious.

«Do you think you're ready to show us how reliable you are?»

You falter, mumbling: «…yeah…?»

«Good. I've got a work for you, rookie»

Documents are on his desk. Not just any pile of paper: the pile of paper, the intel they were waiting for, the information they've searched for for almost three months.

Ghost is reading the sheets again and again. Yeah, there's no doubt: it's what they've needed, and it is there, on his desk, spawned out of nowhere when he was away for a…mission. Let's call it a mission.

He should be pleased. Happy to say the least, since this kinda intel's like food from heaven for the task force.

But he's…kinda lost in his thoughts. Almost annoyed.

«Who in the bloody hell…» he murmurs as he takes a look at the sheets, not even realizing that someone else has entered the room.

«your fav rookie»

Price's voice makes him fall from his thought's tree. Ghost glares at him through the mask, inspecting his Cap who's clinging on the door frame with a lot of nonchalance, arms crossed and an amused smile on his face.

«…ya'r not meaning-»

«I am»

«Mh»

«surprised? She did an hell of a job, in a good way» he comes in, shutting the door. «She's a good one»

«yeah…»

«That's all you've got?»

Ghost almost stops to breath; his gaze at Price's like laser beam, and he has to collect enough air to blow out a stern:

«Do ya need something else? 'Ve got work to do»

And Price waste no time to smile back a:

«Old demons eat your tongue?»

To what Ghost' s answer's a growl: «mh»

Price shakes his shoulders, approaching the door to go out. «Just an impression of mine»

Ghost's voice stops him at the door knob:

«Ya'r wrong»

«Mmm, yeah? About what?»

«Stop thinking about it, i know you are»

«Tell me what to think then»

«She's not like that»

«Oh, so there is a "she" in your brain»

«Don't read into it»

«You know what's fun?» the Captain comes back, taking a seat in front of Ghost, pointing at him with his judgmental finger «You're dealing with her like she's blackmailing you, or something. Nervous smiles, stupid revenges…»

«Bullshits»

«'S that so? And how do ya call the little problem during training session?»

«A problem. That's all»

«Ghost-»

«No»

He stands, turning his back at the Captain. And that, for him, was the end of the chat.

But not for Price.

«Is not a shame falling for someone»

And the Lt. gives him the coldest glare, jerking his sight at his Cap.

«I'm not» he spit with a harsh voice.

Price doesn't move. He checks his pocket, taking his first cigar of the day just to put it through his lips and chewing the tip lightly, eyes glued to Ghost's. The Cap. nods.

«Good to know» he murmurs.

That was the end of the story. Or at least Ghost has hoped so.

Three days later, he can't help but walk through the base with his eyes fixed on every rookie who stands in his way. He had searched the dining room every morning, checked the training field, the goddamn gym in the evening, even waited for a few minutes every time he passed by her room.

Nothing.

None.

No sign of aggressive gnomes around.

Ghost sips his black coffee in complete silence, glaring at everyone for no apparent reason. He needed to end that odd feeling, those annoying jumps of adrenaline, the bad sensation that something hostile was growing within his stern, cold behavior, breaking it from the inside, scratching away the metal wrap he had built to better control every inch of himself.

And he needed to have her in front of him, speaking out loud the reasons why she was eating his insides like a virus, and asking her, gently or not, to try her best and pretend the two of them do not know each other.

Feeling things for others, either bad or good…it wasn't for him.

«Bloody little idiot…»

«Hope ye'r not talking 'bout me»

Ghost's gaze raises as Johnny joins his solitary coffee-sipping ritual. He put his mug on the table, spreading around chocolate aroma.

The Lt. recognizes it immediately: «That's her goddamn pudding»

«I'm addicted»

Breakfast brings back silent eating and mumbling on caffeine. Soap devours his oatmeal, waiting.

'Cause he knows he just has to wait.

It takes Ghost just one minute and a half to burst out a pretended unselfish:

«Maybe she has eaten that much chocolate that she's become one bar»

«Mh?»

«She's nowhere to be found in person, it seems»

«Are ye searching for her?»

«'Cause of the intel she'd collected» he rushes a justification that Soap doesn't really buy. Johnny almost absorbs his last spoonful, chewing out words mixed with chocolate:

«Price's sent her on a mission. Confidential» he adds. «Dunno 'bout details»

Oh.

That was unexpected; so unexpected that Ghost bites his tongue after rushing out a too fast:

«When?»

The spoon falls in the mug with a metal tingle; Soap's side eyes reach Ghost.

«…are ye worried?»

«No» he bursts.

«Well, we are. Me and Gaz»

That doesn't sound like a lie, and Simon has to lower his shield made of pretending-not-to-think-about-her stuff. Soap keeps on, his eyes wandering around the crowded room:

«Maybe Price's overestimated her skills, dunno…or maybe she's just not ready. 'S strange not having news after three days»

«You two do like her»

Soap sighs, shaking away from his shoulders the morning stiffness.

«She's a good one. She's fun. But she's not so skilled on the field»

«You don't get worried about every rookie's first time. Sooner or later they'll have to be kicked out of the nest»

«If the one that's been kicked out 's ma fav sparrow chick, at least i hope that it'll fall on something soft»

«She's no chick, and not my fav» he rushes again, eagerly to end the conversation and get the fuck out of there. He stands, with a chuckling Soap next to him, who knows his Lt. too well and knows he just has to wait a little more, to give him time to elaborate his thoughts in a more sensible way.

Ghost's first impulse is always imposing himself as a threatening and leading figure. It's an habit.

But this time he doesn't have time to retry his answer.

A worried Gaz appears in the dining room, rushing toward them in some sort of urgency.

«You two» he breathes out, clinging on the table while regaining some air in his lungs «Do you want the good news, or the it-could-be-better news?»

«Were ye runnin' a bloody marathon at the fucking six in the morning?»

«Good new» Ghost answer, still holding his empty coffee mug. «Always good news first»

Gaz gazes at them, elaborating his words as best as he could: «…do ya remember the no-one's-going-to-do-that-mission topic in our last meeting?»

«That sort of suicidal duty 'bout sneaking alone in a mafia boss dirty party?»

Gaz nods. «That one»

«With none to cover your arse?»

«Yeah»

«That one Laswell was tryna to figure out so bad 'cause the goddamn boss had valuable infos 'bout big weapons traffic?»

«Aha»

«But none was that stupid to try it?»

«Soap». Ghost stops his Sergeant's stream of thoughts with a glare through the balaclava. «Cut it. What's the bloody good news 'bout it Garryk?»

«Mission's been accomplished» he spits, with neither a smile nor optimism, and a strange, worried look. Soap's eyes get wider.

«Are ye fucking kidding? Who's the idiot who tried it in the first place?»

Gaz sighs.

«'S our idiot»

It takes a bunch of seconds to link the description with a face, but your silly little smile rushes through their brain almost immediately. Soap stands up so fast the chair almost falls.

«WHAT-»

«The other news » Ghost's harsh voice talks over him, with a hint of hurriness, an almost audible tip of concern that he swallows.

And Gaz wastes no time:

«Now she can drain pasta with her arm»

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