#we deserve gaz content!
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beescrafting · 23 days ago
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Gaz is an untapped fountain of angst...
Like come on people! The angst is right there! We just need to hit him hard!
Think about the helicopter, think about his missions, think about how he's always forgotten, like a side piece or background character.
I spent all day today and yesterday looking for Gaz centric fanfics, you want to know how much I found?
A SINGLE THREAD! an amazing thread infact that sent me looking for more.
Like Gaz is the forgotten middle child, lets give him more love no?
repost with your Gaz Angst idea's, I swear if no one wants to write them, I WILL!
RISE GAZ NATION! RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
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ram-to-the-ham · 1 year ago
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The Sergeants… Different
The newest Sergeant on their little rag-tag team is an odd one to say. It’s not that Kyle thinks he’s weird or anything it’s just… he has some abnormalities about him. He mutters to himself, and is often seen staring off into space. Almost like he’s looking at someone.
One time Kyle was rounding the corner to the gym in the very early hours of the morning. When he heard a very passionate bout of whisper shouting coming from a familiar voice echoing in the gym. He discreetly peaked around the corner to catch Soap furiously pacing back and forth muttering about something or another. Kyle couldn’t really remember for the life of him, but it bewildered him so much that he made a break for it back to his own room on the base.
Another quirk was Soaps over protectiveness of this ratty bloodstained journal he kept on his person at all times. And he wished he was exaggerating but, Soap had that thing with him everywhere. The exception was for when they were in the showers but other than that, you couldn’t see the sergeant without knowing that that journal was somewhere on his person. Did he mention that Soap is extremely over protective of it? Because he very much is. Kyle watched Soap nearly snap a recruits wrist in half because the dumbass thought to try to swipe the journal from one of Soaps tac-vest pockets. He remembered seeing Soap mumble something to the other before the recruit scurried away with his tail between his legs.
The sergeant wasn’t the only weird thing going on either. Ever since Soap joined, Kyles noticed that things have been almost moving on their own? He hasn’t said a word to anyone else about it lest he bent sent for a psych eval. But cupboards he swore were closed when he saw them, became open the moment he wasn’t looking. Pencils he knew had been on the table of the common room are now over on the counter. It’s nothing major but it’s driving him up the goddamn walls. And he can’t say a fucking word about it.
It just seems an air of bizarreness seems to follow their new Scottish sergeant like a lost pup. But Kyle can’t find it in himself to blame Soap for any of it. The man isn’t mean or off putting by any other regard, and frankly he’s one of the nicest people Kyle has ever met. He’s a bit cocky and smart mouthed, but he’s insanely smart and has a bleeding heart that it makes Kyle wonder how he ever survived in the military. Despite his quirks however, Kyle thinks Soap will be a good addition to their already eccentric team.
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beloveds-embrace · 23 days ago
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Fuck it, we ball, I hope that disrespectful anon gets hemorrhoids and they can't get them removed until next year, AND that their insurance doesn't cover it. I'm here thinking about your Omega idea where omegas normally do the pursuing, but with a slight twist; the boys being the omegas. An alpha who is for sure down bad for the boys, but thinks "ah, theyre out of my league, I should be aiming lower, manage my expectations". Only 141 is just as down bad for them, and they're doing everything just short of screaming "PICK UP ON THE HINTS, COME INTO OUR HOUSE AND BEDS AND LIVES AND STAY FOREVER PLEASE"
Johnny is about to say fuck decorum and just show up in reader's house wearing nothing but a ribbon and a tag that says 'free to a good home' (your home is the good one, please keep him, there is no receipt so you can't return him).
Price has the brain cell normally in terms of trying to gently coax you into getting you to say you're into them, he has a 15 step plan that may or may not involve using his various contacts to get you spending more time in close proximity to them. Also he for some reason is always baking, he always comes over asking you for sugar? (He'll take any kind of 'sugar' you're willing to offer, he loves making a variety of cream pies)
Gaz is always gently inviting them to attend 'friend' things, things that could be a date but that he can excuse as 'well we're coworkers/friends/neighbors, we should get along :)'. It's just a coincidence that various other people seem to bail except for any of the other boys, now why don't you sit beside him so you guys can share popcorn at the movies (you both always seem to be reaching for it at the same time, if your fingers touched anymore you might as well be holding hands)
Simon is chasing off any omegas he thinks are a threat to them getting reader, that is THEIR alpha, paws OFF (rip to anyone reader was halfheartedly going on dates with, this man is gonna become those people's sleep paralysis demon)
Hope you enjoy!! :3 💕💕 i lovedddd writing this sm omg
See, the thing is, you’d always thought of yourself as a decent Alpha. Not overbearing, not egotistical, not a demanding freak- just capable and steady. But you weren’t extraordinary. Not the kind of Alpha Omegas like them would look at twice. And so, while you worked alongside the men of Task Force 141 you convinced yourself to be content with just admiring them from a distance.
You couldn’t help it. They were perfect, as far as you were concerned. Perfect, and fully out of your league.
Surely, Omegas like them would want someone better. Someone stronger. You’d told yourself that so many times it was practically your mantra, the only way you’d be able to stop yourself from pursuing them. They deserved someone more charismatic, more confident- an Alpha who could match their brilliance. Not someone like you, fumbling through conversations with them, struggling to keep your feelings in check.
But they’d already decided. They didn’t need a flashy Alpha or someone who tried too hard. What they wanted was you. The only problem? You didn’t seem to realize it, no matter how obvious they made it.
John took the lead, naturally. He knew you were cautious and perhaps a little insecure when it came to relationships (it was fucking visible in you, silly Alpha. He scoffs each time you draw back, frustrated), so he made it his mission to draw you in- slowly and subtly. His plan was meticulous: get you comfortable, build trust, and create opportunities for you to spend more time with them so you’d see that they only want you.
Maybe then you’d break out of that stupid shell you’ve put yourself in.
He’d started baking regularly, a habit you hadn’t even known he had. At least once a week, he’d show up at your place with a tin of cookies, a loaf of fresh bread, or a perfectly golden pie. “Thought I’d share,” he’d say casually, though the slight smirk tugging at his lips told a different story. He peers at you, letting his scent coil just a bit more. “I hope you don’t mind the amount of cream. I happen to like cream pies a lot.”
The way to an Alpha’s heart is through their stomach, and all that.
If he wasn’t offering you baked goods, he was asking for your help to make said baked goods. “Ran out of sugar again,” he’d sigh, handing you an empty container. “Mind sparing a bit?”
It was ridiculous, downright unbelievable how often he supposedly ran out of baking supplies. But his visits became a highlight of your week, and the lingering looks he gave you left your heart pounding long after he was gone.
The one time he’d handfed you, watching you lick the syrup from his fingers with half-lidded eyes, still lives in your mind rent-free.
Kyle took a softer, more personal approach. He wasn’t above using the pretense of friendship to spend time with you, often inviting you to casual dates- grabbing coffee, going to the movies, or just walking through town and shopping. Every invitation was framed innocently, but there was always a little extra effort behind it. He’d pick a movie he knew you’d like, suggest places he knew you’d find interesting, and ensure that others you unfortunately knew joined just enough to make it seem less like a date.
Somehow, though, those other people always mysteriously canceled. It was never anything dramatic- just a sudden cold, a scheduling conflict, or a “something came up, sorry.” Eventually, it would be just you and a very smug Kyle, sitting close enough that your knees brushed or reaching for popcorn at the same time. Once, right as the bowl emptied and you both reached for it, Kyle simply thought fuck it and held your hand.
On one occasion, you both shared a bowl of spaghetti and ended up with the scene from the Lady and the Tramp.
It was so painfully obvious to everyone.
Except you.
“It’s not a coincidence,” Kyle muttered to Johnny one evening after you left, both of them sitting in the spot you were in, bathing in the leftover warmth and scent. “How can they not notice?”
Speaking of Johnny; he’s barely keeping himself together. Subtlety in missions are a must sometimes, but he doesn’t want to that with you anymore. He was just so, so, so frustrated with your obliviousness. What more does he need to do to show you that he- that they- want you?
He’s been dropping so many hints; half-jokes about Omegas waiting begging to be swept off their feet, suggestive winks when you compliment him in that lovely, adoring tone of yours. Once, while watching a romantic tv show, he’d sighed loudly and very pointedly said: “If only someone would claim me.”
“If ye don’t figure it out soon,” he growled at the others one night, pacing back and forth like a wild beast and probably on his way to leave a dent in the carpet, “I’m showin’ up at their doorstep with nothin’ but a red bow, like some bloody Christmas prezzie, I swear to god.”
John sighs, rolling his eyes. “You do that, and I’m leaving you on their porch.”
“That’s exactly what I’m askin’ for!”
Simon took the quietest but most direct approach. Just not exactly direct towards you. While the others worked to get closer to you, Simon focused on eliminating what he saw as obstacles: other Omegas who thought you were free for the taking. It didn’t matter if they were serious or just someone you’d gone on a casual date with- Simon saw them all as threats.
He didn’t have to say much to scare them off. A single cold glare from across the room, sharp bursts of his scent, or a low, menacing comment was usually enough to send them packing. He didn’t care if it was excessive.
You were his Alpha. You were their Alpha, and no one else had a right to you.
But even Simon softened when it came to you. He couldn’t put all his thoughts, all his feelings into words, so he did them with his actions. Quiet protectiveness, gentle, careful touches. Moments of fleeting vulnerabilities shared between you and him.
He was always there for you. Even if you didn’t know you need him with you.
Still, despite all their efforts, you remained convinced that they weren’t interested.
In the end, to no one’s surprise, it’s Johnny who snaps. Johnny, so close to his heat, so absolutely done with your obliviousness and the Omegas that aren’t them talking with you when you should be only focused on them.
He doesn’t care; leaves the carefully made nest with your stolen shirts and none of the others stop him when he just. Drags your surprised self to the nest.
“Johnny! You-“
“I want you.” He hisses, bares his teeth all sharp and desperate. “We want you. And damn it, we will have you.”
And well, who are you to even say no when this is all you have wanted?
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rememberwren · 2 months ago
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Practice
About this: certified drabble gone out of hand. best friend!Kyle Gaz Garrick/fem!reader. PIV, fingering, oral (fem receiving). King of your firsts, you ask your best friend Kyle to take your virginity.
Part 1 here.
-
“Kyle?”
“Hm?” 
“Can I talk to you about something?” 
He sucks in a breath, like you’ve asked for something painful. “No can do, honey pie. I’m just here to sit in silence.”
You roll your eyes, though his joke breaks through the ice of your nerves and melts that anxious, frozen part inside you. Kyle’s good at that—putting you at ease. He does it in such easy, flippant ways that you aren’t even sure if it’s being done intentionally. Just another excuse added to the grocery-list-length of reasons why you’re here now, asking him for this. 
“If I had a favor…a big one. Would you do it?” 
He grins, a flash of pale, straight teeth. “That’s totally dependent on the favor. Does it involve burying a body?” 
“No.”
“—because my answer is yes—“
“Would you have sex with me? For my first time.” The mirthful expression drops from his face, all teasing fading away. He turns to you—literally angles his body toward you—to give you his full attention. You do your best to meet his eyes. See, you can make eye contact too. You’re to be taken seriously.  
He blinks placidly and asks: “Why me?” 
“We’ve practiced stuff before,” you begin to recite, though that grocery list of reasons why Kyle would make the perfect party in your brain has suddenly gone frustratingly fuzzy. “You make me feel safe, and I’m—like, really attracted to you.”
His mouth wobbles, threatening to grin. “Yeah?” he asks, playing at unaffected. He runs a hand over his shorn hair and answers for himself: “Yeah.” 
“Kyle. Focus.”
“Okay, okay, how’s this for focus: all those things you just said? Those are things you’ll probably feel for someone in the future. A partner. Somebody you really want to give yourself to. So why do it now with me? Why not wait for it to be real?” he asks. 
It’s…it’s a good question. With a really good answer. But telling Kyle that this is real for you? That’s not an option. So ignoring the obvious, what’s another good reason you could possibly have for not wanting to wait for Mx. Right?  
Kyle’s waiting, watching, brows raised in an smug expression that says, See. I’ve just talked you down from a dangerous ledge. You’re welcome, when you finally settle on the only excuse you can think of.
“Because,” you say, “I wanna feel good now.” 
-
He can get behind that. He can get underneath it, on top of it. Anywhere it wants him—Kyle can get there. Because you deserve to feel good, and there’s nobody in this godforsaken world who deserves to be making you feel good, but Kyle comes close. You chose him, after all, and he thinks that must stand for something. 
He sinks into the mindset the way other men must slip into well-fitting suits; this is tailor-made for him. He’ll give you the princess treatment: dinner, back to his place for wine, then he’ll sip the taste of it off of your tongue and—
At the first sign of his acquiescence, you whip your shirt off over your head and his brain blue screens. 
“Whoa,” he says. He gives himself a solid moment to eat you up with his eyes: your soft curves, your dimples, the bra you’ve chosen with the lacy edges—god, did you somehow know that he’s a sucker for lace? After the moment ends he contents himself to going hungry, scoops up your shirt and hands it back to you. “I didn’t mean now.” 
You frown, pressing your shirt to your chest to protect your modesty. “When, then?” 
“When I have the chance to treat you right,” says Kyle, laying a hand on your thigh, smoothing his thumb along the curve of your knee. “To take you out first. Dress up. Light some scented candles, I don’t know—“
“That sounds like it will take forever,” you grumble. “Can’t we fast forward? Give me a sec.”
Brushing his hand away, you disappear into your bedroom and then the light to the en suite bathroom clicks on. You leave your shirt behind. Kyle’s fingers are drawn to it, feeling the warmth from where it pressed against your skin. He wonders if it smells like you, but Jesus he’s not going to sniff your fucking shirt. He’s not that desperate—
God, it smells good. 
You reappear just a split second after he tosses your shirt back into its place on the sofa, and you set your boon down on the coffee table. It’s a scented candle, blueberry, half burned off. You flick the sparkwheel of the lighter in your hand and tip the candle dangerously sideways to light it. 
“There!” you say cheerfully. “Candles. All my dreams are suddenly coming true.”
“You are a cheeky little brat. You want in my pants that bad?” he asks, just to watch the way your mouth drops, words turning into stuttered syllables. He laughs and pats his lap. “C’mere.” 
You go, kneeling over him. His hips are slim, but it’s still a stretch for you, his hands finding your waist and helping to keep you steady, thumbs smoothing against the bare skin of your belly. He draws you against him in a hug, tucking your head into the crook of his neck. His hands run up and down the length of your back, soft and slow, drawing shivers from you. 
“What’re you so eager for, hm?” Kyle wonders. On his lap like this, arms looped around his neck, you have a small height advantage. He pulls back to look up at you, eyes tracing over your nose down to your mouth and back up again, memorizing your features in the dim lamplight. “Don’t even know what you’re missing, do you?” 
“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” you murmur, playing with the collar of his shirt. It tickles, but he doesn’t laugh. “Virginity is an outdated concept anyway.” 
“You want it?” 
Your brows raise. “Yes?” 
He’s a bastard for saying: “Don’t sound too sure to me.” 
“I want it, Kyle. Come on, don’t tease me.” 
“Hey—if we do this, you’re in charge,” he tells you, finally relenting against his body’s fervent desire to see his cock harden. You shift on his lap and he has to pause speaking, hands flexing against you. “Whatever you say goes. Whenever you want to stop, we stop. Alright?” 
“Sounds like a lot of responsibility.”. 
“Tough,” he says. “Those are the rules, honey pie. Take it or leave it.” 
“Can I make my first rule?” 
“I’m all ears.” 
You clear your throat and mutter into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, “Kyle, I want you to be in charge.” 
Kyle’s breath leaves him in a rush. He’s a bad man. He must be, for getting so drunk off of those words. For wanting so badly to be in charge of you and your pretty body, for finding your overwhelming trust in him absolutely heady.
He leans up and kisses you. It’s not the first time you’ve ever kissed, but it’s easily the best. You take it to a hungry place and he doesn’t even attempt to rein you in, just sighs into your mouth and sucks on your tongue, your kisses turning into a heated give-and-take that reminds him of ocean waves he wants to be swept away in. 
You settle more firmly in his lap, fingers stroking up through his shaved hair. Your nails against his scalp makes him groan. The two of you kiss until your mouths are numb, until you have devolved into little thrusts against him, seeking friction. 
When you seem well and truly desperate, Kyle slips his hands up from your hips to cup your breasts, thumbs tracing your skin above the cups of your bra. 
“Take it off,” you gasp against his mouth. “Please Kyle, take it off—“ 
“Pretty pushy for the girl who isn’t in charge anymore.” 
“Kyle!” 
“Alright, alright,” he says, hands tracing around your ribs to the clasp at the back. He undoes it on the first try and mutters under his breath: “Score.” 
“What?” you pant, slipping your arms from the straps. The bra comes off, and tumbles from the couch to the floor, but neither of you pay it any mind. 
Kyle can’t speak. He’s never seen you here before, miles of new flesh on display. Your nipples pucker in the cool air under his stare, and he reaches out to rub the pad of his thumb over one, watching you shudder. When he cups your breasts in his palms he can’t help but think how well they fit in his hands, how every part of you seems molded for him. He’s not going to be able to let you go after this. It’s like being behind the wheel skidding on black ice. He sees the collision course he is on, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 
“Are you sensitive here?” he asks, thumbing at the hard peak of one breast. 
“Isn’t everyone?” you breathe.  
“No,” says Kyle with a warm laugh. He pinches you softly, attuned to the breath you suck in and the way your body trembles. You are a sensitive little thing, untouched by other hands, and fuck, Kyle’s never had a thing for virgins but he’s got a thing for you, and it threatens to destroy him. 
“Gonna ruin you,” he says, leaning in to nuzzle at the hammering pulse in your throat. He opens his mouth and scrapes his teeth over your collarbone just to hear the way you squeak.  
“Do it,” you whisper, hips grinding down against the hard line of his clothed erection. “Come on, Kyle, you’re all talk—“ 
“Me—?”
“—said I wanted to feel good,” you say. “Why am I still waiting?” 
Well. It’s logic he can’t argue with. 
He urges you off of his lap. “Bedroom.” 
“Alright,” you laugh. 
Just after you stand on shaking legs, Kyle adds: “Race ya.” 
-
Kyle launches himself over the back of the couch in a move that would not look nearly so smooth if you tried, socked-feet slipping on the hardwood as he races toward the bedroom. 
“Kyle, you cheater!” you howl, rushing after him.
“Blow out that candle, it’s a fire hazard!” he shouts behind him, sending you whirling back to the coffee table to huff a breath against the flame. 
By the time you make it into the bedroom, he’s reclined on your bed, ankles crossed, hat resting over his face like he is taking a restful nap. You’d believe it if it weren’t for the erection tenting his jeans. 
“If you’re tired, I can leave you to nap,” you snark, feigning for the door. 
Kyle whips his hat off of his head and tosses it like a frisbee with frightening dexterity. The hard brim clatters against your knuckles and makes you gasp, clutching them against your chest as you stare at him in shock. 
“You’re not going anywhere,” Kyle says. He sheds his shirt in that slick little maneuver men have mastered, gripping the back collar and tugging it up and over his head. It reveals a length of dark, soft skin stretched taut over muscle that has your mouth watering. You’ve seen him shirtless plenty of times—God, you’ve seen him naked, really, though not all at once—but it never stops having such a heated effect on you. He kneels up and comes to the edge of the bed, sitting on the side, reaching out one hand for you, palm soft and facing up. “C’mere.”
You go to him, taking his hands and lacing your fingers together. He strokes his thumb against yours. 
“You wanna finish undressing me?” he asks. 
“Do you want me to finish undressing you?” 
Kyle stares. Then a slow smile spreads across his face. He gets it; he always does. Standing up, he guides your hand to rest flat against his abs, drawing it downward toward his belt buckle. He says: “Undress me, then.”
Your hands shake as you unfasten his belt. You don’t bother slipping it free of the loops, just let it dangle open while unfastening his jeans. His erection makes that a little more difficult than it might have been otherwise, and every time your knuckles brush against him, he gives little sighs that go straight to your head. 
He’s not wearing any underwear. 
“Gaz you devil.” 
“That’s me,” he says with a warm smile. His fingers find the waistband of your leggings, and it’s his turn to draw them down your legs and let you brace yourself on his broad shoulders while he helps you out of them. With any other man you might have been shy, but there’s no room for it with Gaz. The way he looks at you takes up all that space in your brain for anxiety. He looks at you like he’s seeing artwork, like he wants to pin you to the wall and stare at you for the rest of his life. 
“Bed time,” he says, coaxing you down onto the soft duvet. You shift to scoot back but his hands grip your thighs, fingers denting the soft flesh as he tugs you back toward the edge of the bed in a show of strength that has your heart hammering. He kneels and spreads your thighs. Then he shuts his eyes, muttering under his breath. 
You lean up onto your elbows. “What is it?” 
His eyes flicker open. “In my house we pray before we eat, thank you.” 
“Kyle!”
He’s still laughing when his mouth presses against you. You slip off of your elbows and onto your back, both hands clasped over your eyes as he licks a broad stripe over your folds. Gaz eats pussy with remarkable tenderness, no hint of teeth, all tongue and soft kisses. He lets you hide your face and muffle your noises but draws the line when you try to close your legs with his head still between them. Winding his arms up over your thighs, he pins them open to the bed with his forearms, hands framing your cunt nicely. His thumbs slip in your own arousal when he tries to spread your folds too, and in the end he gives up, burying his face deeper into you to tongue at your entrance. 
He draws back for breath at one point, his pretty jaw smeared with your slick. He sounds winded when he asks: “What do you think, honey? Can you cum like this?” 
You continue covering your eyes with one hand, but the other reaches down to grip at his short hair and guide his mouth back to your clit. He chuckles against you but takes the hint, lapping the flat of his tongue at that aching epicenter of nerves, taking it into his mouth and suckling with sweetness. 
You’re climbing that first peak when he carefully slips his first finger inside you, giving you just enough to whet your appetite. You hadn’t realized how badly you craved something inside you until you had that slender finger to grip, but now you want more. 
“Another, Kyle, please,” you ask. 
He groans, mouth full of you, and shifts on his knees. Pulling back, he guides two fingers into you, easy as anything. “I love your manners. You’re so fucking good, you know that? So good.” 
He stops talking before he can make you uncomfortable—knows the way your chest feels fileted open with any kind of praise or compliment—and gets back to his important work. With his fingers gently working you open and his mouth on your clit, it takes hardly any time for the pleasure to crest, the muscles in your belly tensing as your pleasure draws tight and then snaps clean in two. Your toes curl, groan bitten off as you clamp your mouth shut, pussy spasming around his fingers. He works you through it, dark eyes shut like he’s savoring the taste of you. 
“Can you take more?” he asks, mouth wet, lips swollen. 
Your head bobs in a nod, throat dry from all the sounds you’ve been making. Kyle’s grin is beatific, and he leans down to kiss your closest thigh while he works a third finger into you. This one gives you a pleasant stretch, but there is no pain; you are plenty wet and relaxed. 
“You want me to use a condom?” he asks, smoothing his free hand over your belly to watch the muscles jump and twitch at his soft touch. “You been taking your pill everyday?” 
You roll your eyes. “Jesus, yes, Kyle I’ve been taking my birth control. Do you—?”
“Nope,” he says, shaking his head. “This one’s on you. Condom or no condom.” 
“Could we—without?” 
“We could,” he teases with a smile. He stands, fingers slipping free from inside you. It leaves you feeling empty, aching. 
You hope that he’ll make you cum again. 
Leaning over you, he plants a hand on either side of you and kisses you, still tasting faintly of where his mouth has been. You loop you arms around his neck, pulling him down until he rests his weight against you, chest-to-chest, your legs hooked around his waist. When he pulls back, it’s just to encourage you higher up onto the mattress so he can follow, finding his home once again in the hollow of your thighs. He says: “Let me know if anything hurts, yeah?” 
“Yeah,” you breathe, looking up at him. Suddenly it doesn’t feel like there’s enough breath in your lungs. You feel starstruck by him, by the look of concentration on his face as he angles his hips until his tip brushes against your folds. Slowly, he slips inside you, and it’s a fullness you’ve never known from your own fingers or even his. Your eyes fall shut, but your mouth can’t help smiling, beaming practically. 
“Yeah?” Kyle laughs breathlessly. “That good already?” 
You get the giggles. 
“Not the best time to laugh at a man, you might give him a complex,” Kyle says, grinning. 
“All men deserve complexes.” 
“Except for me.” 
“Sure.” 
He sinks in, deeper, deeper until there’s nowhere left for him to go. His forehead brushes against your own, and your eyes open to find his own closed, mouth parted as he pants softly, looking almost as wrecked as you feel. He opens his eyes and catches you looking, but instead of calling you out, he just cocks his head, giving one of his pretty, closed-lip smiles. 
He sets a slow rhythm to start with, and it’s not enough. Your ankles lock around his back, urging him on, fingers scrambling for purchase against the smooth skin of his shoulders. Every thrust drags against the wet, swollen walls of your cunt, and at the apex his pubic bone meets your clit in a touch that’s nearly soft as a kiss. 
“Is it good for you?” you wonder, taking note of his uncharacteristic silence. 
He drops his head to rest in the dark juncture between your neck and shoulder, kissing you there. “Best it’s ever been,” he admits with a little laugh. “Your pussy is perfect. I’m trying not to cum and end things early.” 
You groan. Something about that knowledge makes the heat in your belly rise up to a boil. You clench around him on instinct, and he hisses a breath against your neck, then teases the spot with his teeth. When he’s drawn blood to the surface of your skin, he leans up onto his elbows to admire his work. His mouth is swollen, but he looks unquestionably pleased with himself.  
For a while the two of you continue on like that: his lazy thrusts and mouth leaving bruises on your neck. Bracing himself on one elbow, he takes your hand and kisses your fingertips before guiding it down between you both toward your pussy. 
“Make yourself feel good,” he says. “You probably can’t cum just from this.” 
Your body agrees. He felt good inside you, but it isn’t until you touch your clit that you feel the first tendrils of that addictive heat in your belly. You chase it immediately, eyes falling shut as your fingers work faster. It’s different with him inside you—like there’s no room for the pleasure to fizzle out and die the way it sometimes does at your own touch. Instead he drives you higher, especially as his tight-knit control wavers and his hips drive into you with more force. 
You forget to tell him when you’re close. It creeps up on you, really. All at once your muscles seize, everything focused on that narrow place between your legs and the epicenter of an orgasm that has your back arching until your breasts press flush against his chest. (You hear him suck in a breath like you’ve stabbed him, his voice shaky when he asks: “Are you cumming?” but there’s no breath to answer him with.) There’s no more room for your hand to work but Kyle’s thrusts drag you through the aftershocks. It seems to go on forever, your sounds embarrassing but your brain wiped clean of embarrassment. 
“I’m not pulling out unless you tell me to,” he says once your ears have stopped ringing. He sounds strained, his chest brushing against your nipples with every shallow pant. “So jot that down.” 
“Don’t want you to,” you admit, boneless. “I want to know what it feels like when you cum inside me.” 
Kyle moans quietly. His head drops, forehead resting against your own as his thrusts grow hectic. He mutters the quietest fuck in your ear when he cums, filling you with a rush of wet warmth that turns the sounds of his cock slick and lewd as he works himself through it with your pussy. 
When he pulls out, it’s jarring. You feel so empty. He kneels back on his heels and spreads your thighs to watch his own spend leak from your entrance and says it again, that quiet little fuck that makes you feel invincible. 
Collapsing on the bed beside you, he finds your mouth, cradling your head in one of his hands, turning you to angle your mouth just right for his tongue. 
“You were perfect,” he says when he breaks the kiss. His knuckles skim your cheekbone. “Thank you. For choosing me.” 
You nod, throat suddenly tight. It’s over now, time to return to reality. Except you don’t want it to be over. You don’t want a reality without Kyle by your side or in your bed. How did you think that this would be a good idea? How did you think you could be so intimate with him and just let him go? Stupidly your eyes burn, and he must see something on your face because he rushes to assure you: “Hey, we’re okay. Nothing’s different now, yeah?” 
Yeah, you think dully. That’s the problem. 
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gloomwitchwrites · 8 months ago
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Break Up with Your Toxic Boyfriend (Bonus)
Task Force 141 x Female Reader
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Find ALL the Break Up with Your Toxic Boyfriend Fics HERE
This bonus material is brought to you by @darkangel4121 (who wanted to see the toxic boyfriends get what they deserve)
I took some liberties with the prompt since I wanted to keep them short. There are two drabbles (100 words each) and two double drabbles (200 words each). The commonality is that the toxic boyfriend always receives a punch to the face. :)
Content Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, minor violence, brief blood
A/N: Part of the Imagines & What If Series
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // break up with your toxic boyfriend masterlist
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Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
“Best step back, mate.” Kyle extends his arm, blocking more of your view.
Your now ex-boyfriend glowers, lips turned downward in a frown. “She’s mine.”
“I broke it off,” you snap over Kyle’s shoulder.
“I’ll handle this,” whispers Kyle, shaking his head.
Your ex guffaws. “You cheated. Shacked up with this wanker.”
The muscle in Kyle’s jaw twitches.
Your ex sneers at Kyle before turning his best smile on you. “I’ve been so good to you. And we both made mistakes.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Won’t happen again.”
“You’re a liar,” you hurl, voice quavering. “You’ll do it again.” And then, more softly. “I didn’t cheat. I left you.”
Your ex takes a step closer, and Kyle matches his movements.
“Back off,” hisses Kyle, shoulders tensing.
“Or what? What will you do?” He keeps moving toward Kyle, nostrils flared, face becoming red with anger. “What will you—”
Kyle swings. He’s so fast you don’t even see his arm move. All you see is the spray of blood and the sudden drop of your ex’s body to the ground.
Your hands cover your mouth. There is silence. Stillness. Then your ex groans, waking, pushing off the ground.
“Piss off,” murmurs Kyle.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Johnny is gonna lose his head if this wanker doesn’t leave.
“She told you fuck off.”
Your ex remains still, not glancing at Johnny. He steps to the side intending to walk around him. Johnny growls. Following.
“Just want to talk. Give me a chance. I’m good for it.”
“You have no right to speak to her,” snaps Johnny.
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
The crunch is loud as Johnny’s fist makes contact. Gratification rolls through Johnny as the man collapses to the ground.
The fucker groans, clutching his face. Johnny grabs your hand, stepping over the guy, leading you away.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
The words don’t make it out of your ex’s mouth.
Simon swings. It is brutal. Raw.
You see red seconds after the crunch. Something is broken. Your ex hits the ground. Simon is already on him, hauling him up by the collar.
“Fuck off with your apologies and sweet talk,” growls Simon. “She’s not taking you back.”
Your ex’s gaze is lucid from Simon’s punch. “If you try to speak to her—fuck, even look at her, I’ll break more than your nose.” Simon shakes him. Your ex groans. “Got it?”
He nods and Simon shoves him to the ground.
John Price
John and your ex are in a standoff.
“Leave,” says Price. “I won’t ask again.”
Your ex rolls his eyes and turns to address you. He always returns with sweet words and kind gestures to lure you back. But not this time.
You’re done.
John grabs him by the throat and shoves him up against the wall. “I told you to leave.”
“You with him now?” your ex says to you, accusation in his tone. “While we’re still together?”
“We’re not together. You abandoned me.”
His lip curls and you know the word he wants to say. It’s sitting on his tongue. He’s used it before.
“She’s not yours,” growls Price.
“Fuck you.”
John drops him, and before his feet hit the ground, John swings, sending your ex’s body spinning into the wall. He hits plaster. Collapses.
“Oh my god.”
John grabs him by the back of his shirt and drags him to the front door. He starts to stir. Kicks out. John kicks him right back, sending him sprawling out onto the front stoop. Your ex sways on his feet, one finger pointed in accusation.
“You—”
“—Are done here,” finishes Price, slamming the door in his face.
taglist:
@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @miaraei @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @berarenado @saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @thewulf @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @jade1605 @contractedcriteria @lovely-ateez @gingergirl06 @kidd3ath @leed-bbg @blackhawkfanatic @suhmie @tulipsun-flower @ghosts-hoe @jaggersinclair @nomercyforthewarrior
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charliemwrites · 1 year ago
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Part 4!! (No content warnings)
Fuck these men :)
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You roll your neck, trying to loosen muscles tense from keeping your head locked in place. Hard work denying natural instinct to look at whoever is speaking, but the 141 doesn’t deserve any more of your attention than they’ve already stolen. Even if they didn’t know they had it at the time.
You’ll have to ask Nikto if he’ll massage out the knot forming there. He’s handy with anatomy like that.
“Listen, about what happened…” Gaz starts.
“Not relevant,” you snap, crouching behind a barrel.
“I’d say it’s pretty relevant,” he replies. “It’s not right, how we left things.”
You nearly snarl. ‘Not right’ is the understatement of the bloody century.
You twist on him. “You’re being unprofessional. Shut up and take this seriously, Garrick.”
You duck as a sniper shot pings dangerously close to your head. Spot Nikto across the way, hand-signaling to ask if you need back up. You reply with a ‘no’ and turn back to Gaz.
Thankfully, it seems he’s caught the message and keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the stupid drill. You resist a snappish comment when it’s over. Up until Gaz starts up again.
“I just think you deserve—”
“I don’t care what you think I deserve,” you interrupt. “I know what I deserve. And it’s a partner that can keep their feelings in their vest.”
Speaking of, Nikto appears at your side like a shadow in shifting light. There’s a disapproving tilt to his head, aimed at Gaz. You shake your head and tap your knuckles against his.
“Need a water break?” You ask, worried about how long he’s been under the helmet.
He shakes his head, then surprises you by bumping his forehead against yours — his version of a kiss. Even in private those are rare. You hum at him.
“Thank you, Nik.”
You have to run the next drill with Soap. Know from the start he’s going to be a stubborn prick about it. Can see it in the set of his jaw and the flicker in his eye.
“Didnae have to be a knob to Gaz,” he says.
You don’t respond, slipping away as the exercise begins. He calls after you and hurries to catch up, nearly blowing your cover.
“He feels bad enough for what happened, ye know.”
You level him a cool, blank stare. “You speak for him now?”
His eyes narrow. “If you won’t give him the chance to, aye.”
You knock his leg out from under him and fire at the “enemy” combatant, Nova. She sportingly goes down, but mutters that you should have let her take the shot. You should have.
“You compromise this drill again,” you tell a toppled Soap, “I’ll tell Laswell direct that you don’t belong on this mission.”
You spin on your heel and continue the exercise, ignoring any and all attempts by Soap to get you to speak again. At the very least, he picks up the slack, earns his callsign.
Nova finds you again when it’s over, arms around your neck and chest plastered to your back.
“Look’it you go, mamas,” she coos. “Shot me through the heart all over again.”
You laugh bending your legs to let her hop up for a piggy back ride. Yeah, you’re tired. But never too tired to carry your girl around. She giggles in your ear as you carry her off back to your captain for her next drill.
“With Price now,” he says, tucking your hair behind your ear.
“Sure thing, boss,” you answer, doing a good impression of enthusiasm.
You know your place, settle into position just behind Price’s left side. No overtures about the past this time. Whatever iota of lingering respect you have for him grows as you complete the drill flawlessly. When it’s over, the two of you are at the furthest point from the designated “start”. And that’s when he decides to open his stupid mouth.
“It wasn’t personal, you know,” he says.
You smooth out your expression even though you don’t turn to him, already starting back.
“Okay.”
“It was the best call,” he explains, falling into step with you.
You tilt him a sideways look, don’t even bother with your full gaze. Spent far too much time looking up to him, by your estimate.
“Okay.”
“I look out for my soldiers.”
You turn forward again. “I wouldn’t know.”
Your captain happens to intercept, sweeping you up with one arm. You yelp, though can’t help grinning as you hook your fingers in one of his chest straps.
“Shouldn’t sneak up like that, sir,” you scold.
“That’s how I’ll know when I need to retire,” he replies with a crooked grin. “When I can’t sneak up on you anymore.”
You huff, snatching his sunglasses off his face to wear all the way back to the start point. Keegan meets you, looks directly at you as he salutes.
“Captain,” he says.
You laugh, give your CO his glasses back.
“Keeping fuckin’ around, Russ,” the captain rumbles, “I’ll take it out of your ass later.”
You gasp, scandalized, and laugh as the little skin visible through his smearing face paint turns pink.
“Off with you, girl,” your captain says. “We’re done after this, so keep it quick and clean.”
“Yessir,” you reply, jogging off to meet Ghost.
Fucking Ghost.
You don’t spare him a single look as you set up for the exercise. If nothing else, you have every expectation that he won’t say a single goddamn thing to you. No attempted apologies, no reprimands, no justifications. Just radio silence, like always.
What you don’t expect is for him to treat you like nothing’s changed. Like you’re still a fresh transfer that can’t watch their own six. You consider just putting your “gun” away and trailing after him until the exercise is over, but that would be just slightly too immature.
So you suck it up, grit your teeth, and do your job. Up until he gets in the fucking way. You’re about to get a sneaky shot on Keegan — a rare thing indeed — but Ghost moves. Goes out of his way to get the shot you already had and loses you both the element of surprise.
“Fucking oaf,” you snarl, scrambling behind a wall. “Is this your first fucking day or something?”
His eyes flash across the corridor. “What the fuck did you just say?”
You don’t reply, getting low and kicking your boot off, carefully sneaking it towards the corner like you’re trying to peek out. Keegan comes around, aiming too high and in the wrong direction, and Ghost shoots him.
Keegan “goes down” — goes out of his way to land on you, actually. You huff and shove at him.
“It’s not nap time,” you groan.
“Can’t hear you, I’m dead.”
You snort and shimmy out from under him. Not so different from most mornings, actually.
“If you two are done…” Ghost growls.
You suck your teeth and stalk off, giving Keegan one last pat to the back. The rest of the drill is barely civil, Ghost’s eyes more on you than on the training grounds.
When it’s finally, finally over, you sigh and pause, trying to work out that knot again.
“Haven’t changed a bit, have you?” Ghost sneers.
It’s meant to hurt. Meant to piss you off. Maybe remind you of the last things he said to you. You don’t look at him, bending to re-lace your boots. Thrilled to realize it’s like poking at an old scar. The skin is deadened, even though a mark remains.
“Fuck you’re so immature,” he growls.
You straighten and just start walking. Keegan finds you almost instantly.
“The hell was that about earlier?” He asks, frown audible.
“Ugh, he got in the way. I would have fuckin’ had you, otherwise.”
His eyes spark with outrage. “He fuckin’ what?” He snarls, turning like he’s about to say something to Ghost. Which… no. Just not worth it.
“Keegs,” you sigh, “c’mon, I told you this would happen. He’s not worth it.”
He scoffs, laces his fingers with yours. “‘Course he’s not. Don’t waste bullets on the dead, right?”
You snort and tug him along. The rest of your team will be waiting.
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forsaire · 10 days ago
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A MacTavish Christmas
When Soap can't make it home for Christmas, Ghost plans a surprise and brings Christmas to him. (~2k)
It's me @emmster! 🤭🤭
Here is your secret santa gift! I hope you enjoy how utterly, disgustingly sweet it is 💚💖
Ao3 link
---
Soap had always made it home for Christmas, it was something he spoke about with warm pride. No matter where he was or how late a flight he had to take or when the last time he slept was, he was always there for Christmas morning. He was always there in his mum’s arms who would pepper him with kisses until he had to pry her arms off him, always handing out messily wrapped gifts with newspaper and anything he could find last minute to his siblings, always letting his nieces and nephews climb all over him in their excitement to have Uncle John’s attention.
He'd been especially excited the week leading up to it, his energy both infectious and exhausting. Ghost often found himself listening in content silence as Soap spoke about his fond memories of the traditions the MacTavish family had been doing for years.
On Christmas day, they hid the baby Jesus figurine somewhere in the house for the kiddos to find and whoever did got to return him to the manger, finishing the nativity scene. They always had these amazingly fresh croissant rolls to eat with dinner that everyone adored, and which one year almost caused World War III when they were accidentally forgotten. Soap’s mum had decided that decorating the Christmas tree would remain a family affair. After all the kids moved out, she waited until everyone came back together so they could put the ornaments on the tree together just like they always used to do as kids, reminiscing at the memories and laughing at the poorly decorated ones.
Ghost enjoyed listening to Soap ramble on, sharing his own family with Ghost even if just in colourful stories. Ghost didn’t have his own, not anymore, so he let Soap paint the picture for him. Soap smiled and Ghost savoured the way his eyes crinkled as they lit up.  
But that smile was stolen.
It was at the end of a debrief, Price giving the men a heads up about an urgent meeting coming up – illegal arms trading hands in preparation for an attack on one of the embassies halfway across the world. But the mission had landed in their lap and it was up to them to stake it out and prevent the meeting from happening.
“We leave at the crack of dawn,” Price finished saying. “0500 hours. Five days from now.”
Five days.
Ghost could see Soap’s face fall as the numbers aligned in his head.
Christmas day.
Soap had gotten lucky all these years, he knew he had. He had leave fall over the Christmas break, or he’d been able to make arrangements with other soldiers, or when he joined the 141 Price had given them the time off, or the world seemed to slow down for a couple days and they simply weren’t needed.
But not this time.
Soap’s disappointed eyes dropped, his lips downturned into a faint frown. He didn’t say anything, there wasn’t anything to say. Nothing would matter whether it came from Soap, or Ghost, or Gaz, or anyone else.
They had a job to do. Service above self.
And Ghost had to watch that heartbroken face all the way back to their room.  
For as much good as Soap put into the world, he deserved better. They saw the worst of the world 364 days a year, and still Soap was able to remain optimistic, warm-hearted, kind.
He deserved better.
So that night, Ghost found himself in Price’s office, a suggestion falling from his lips that he needed some help with organizing. And with a nod and a grunt – the greatest level of acceptance he was ever going to get out of Price – he received a promise that Price would help.
And the days went by, that subtle spark that was always inside Soap continuing to remain dim, his disappointment hurting Ghost because he knew he couldn’t do anything to fix it. As Christmas day slowly approached, Ghost began to worry a bit more that his plan wouldn’t come in on time.
But then, Christmas Eve, 11:30pm.
A knock on the door jolted both of their heads up from where they sat on their separate beds, Soap looking up from his drawing and Ghost looking up from his book.
“MacTavish,” a muffled voice called out from behind the door. “You have a package.”
Furrowed brows glanced over at Ghost in surprise before flicking back to the door. He put his notebook down and walked over to it, Ghost following a few steps behind. When he opened the door, his eyes were pulled downwards.
Sitting in front of them was a cardboard box, 2 feet long, 1 foot wide and tall. It was hastily wrapped with packing tape on both ends, looking as though it had just come from a warehouse. On top of that box was another smaller one, half the size, this one decorated in striped Christmas wrapping paper.
Incredulous eyes glanced at Ghost again to try and find an answer. Ghost simply gestured towards the packages.
Soap pulled the boxes inside and closed the door.
He took out his pocketknife and expertly slid the blade across the tape to break the seal. He flipped open the top and reached into the dark box.
The branches flopped open as he pulled it from the box, expanding as if taking a breath. Faint shock rippled across Soap’s face as he glanced down at what he was holding.
A small Christmas tree only two feet tall, the synthetic pine needles dense, and a bright red base attached to the bottom.
“Uhh…” Soap breathed out as he put the tree on the table. He then turned his attention to the smaller wrapped box.
He carefully tore the wrapping paper off to reveal a standard sized postal box. Soap untucked the tab and opened up the lid. On the very top was a handwritten note, the bright green crinkle cut packing paper surrounding it in all directions.
Soap picked up the note.
“This…” he said quietly, “this is my Ma’s writing…”
He began to read the note out loud.
Hi love,
Ma here, hoping you have a Merry Christmas. We were all looking forward to seeing you, the kids especially. I know you can’t be with us this year and I know how disappointed you were, but we all understand that your job means you have more people that rely on you than just us. And that’s okay.
We’ll miss you dearly, but I hope wherever you are, you can still have a MacTavish Christmas. On Christmas morning, we will decorate the tree in your absence and I hope you get to do the same too.
Come visit when you can. I’ll be waiting to spoil you rotten with my cooking. I love you, mo chridhe.
“P.S., thank Simon for the idea-”
Soap whipped his head up to look at Ghost, his eyes quickly then glancing into the box which was stacked with ornaments. His mouth dropped open a sliver.
“These…” he said incredulously, picking one up, “these are mine. From back home. These are some of the one’s my Ma has. You…”
Soap’s eyes softened as he glanced at Ghost.
Ghost’s smile was warm but reserved. He picked up one of the ornaments, an old looking reindeer made from construction paper, googly eyes, and pipe cleaners.
“You said it was tradition that the MacTavish’s decorate their tree on Christmas day,” he replied tenderly, hanging the reindeer onto one of the branches. “I wanted you to still be a part of it this year. I know it’s technically Christmas Eve, but…”
Soap’s expression had melted into grateful disbelief, touched beyond belief at Ghost’s words. His eyes shimmered as he stared up at Ghost softly.
“Now c’mon,” Ghost said quietly. “Let me see what embarrassing family ornaments you have in here.”
Soap continued looking at Ghost for a few more moments, the weight of all his attention like a warm blanket wrapped around Ghost’s shoulders. Then, he smiled, Ghost’s life being ignited with that spark yet again.
Soap reached into the box and pulled another ornament out, smiling down at it sentimentally before slipping the ribbon around one of the branches to hang it on the tree. They slowly decorated the tree, Ghost barely paying attention to what the ornaments were. No, he was focused on the way Soap’s eyes lit up upon recognizing them, sometimes laughing, sometimes crinkling his eyes happily, something cringing.
“This one,” Soap said, holding up a small picture in a golden-rimmed frame with a young boy inside. He had a round face, crooked teeth, and the same familiar blue eyes. “This one was made in after school daycare. But as a kid I didn’t realize my Ma gave them the photo herself. But she still acted so shocked and thrilled to receive it from wee John.”
“Oh, and this one!” Soap held up a snowman wearing a t-shirt with the Greek flag on it.  “I got this one on a family trip to Greece.”
Soap’s eyes suddenly faltered in reminiscence. He picked up a ceramic dog, the golden retriever peeking its head out of a wreath, the name Baxter on top with the year 2015 on its collar. “This was my childhood dog. He was the best…”
Soap then widened his eyes as he reached into the box again. He pulled out a giraffe wearing a Santa hat made up of a bunch of thin, cylindrical beads that stood on top of a blue base.
“Ghost,” Soap said seriously, holding it out in between them. “I need you to shoot this giraffe.”
Ghost’s air pistol immediately became unsheathed and he levelled it at the giraffe, the muzzle hovering just a few inches away.
“Goodbye old friend…” Ghost lamented before pulling the trigger. His hand jolted up slightly at the recoil as the bullet was fired.
Soap pressed his thumbs into the base from underneath, causing the taut string that the beads sat on to suddenly go slack.
“Gah!” Soap let out, mimicking the sound of getting hit as the giraffe instantly flopped over. After a second, he let go of the button and the giraffe bounced back up, resurrected once again. He pressed the button several times, watching it flop over and over.
Soap giggled. It was so stupid, but Ghost succumbed to Soap’s joy and also found himself laughing at the floppy giraffe, the feeling light and freeing.
With his own smile plastered onto his face, he listened as Soap recounted some of the ornament’s stories. Or they simply laughed at the wonky one’s clearly made by a dumb child. Glittery pinecones, felt mittens, marker drawings on sheets of wood, one with Santa’s bare ass entirely on display, fancier snowflakes and bobbles.
And before he knew it, Ghost’s watched beeped twice, something it did at midnight every night. The tree was crowded with ornaments, some of the branches teetering under the weight. Soap looked down at Ghost’s watch, also familiar with what that beep meant.
Ghost leaned over to peer into the box, it now just a mess of crinkled paper. But peeking out from underneath the stuffing was something shining, yellow. Ghost reached in and pulled it out, shaking away the loose paper.
It was a star tree topper, its miniature size perfect to fit onto their miniature tree. Ghost stuck the curling base onto the top of the tree. It slanted slightly and he adjusted it with a finger nudge to sit up straight. Once he was sure it wouldn’t fall over, he turned back to Soap.
Soap was watching him with indescribable tenderness, an inkling of a smile lingering warmly on his face.
“There’s another MacTavish tradition I haven’t told you about…” he said softly, his voice low and quiet, his words just for the two of them.
“Yeah?” Ghost asked. “What’s that?”
Soap stepped closer, enough to send Ghost’s heart leaping into his throat. He was so close, all he had to do was reach out, he could pull Soap in by the waist, press them together.
Soap’s eyes flickered down to Ghost’s lips.
“The person who puts the star on gets a kiss…”
Then without hesitation, he leaned in, inching up slightly on his toes and pressing their lips together.
As soon as those lips were on him, Ghost’s mind blanked, whisking him away from reality until there was nothing else but the two of them. Ghost immediately melted into the kiss, his soul overwhelmed with relief after having suffered with yearning for so long.
Ghost wrapped his arm around Soap’s waist, easily pulling him as if they’d done it a million times before. Soap’s hand reached up and grabbed at Ghost’s shoulders, locking them in place.
It was beyond anything Ghost could have imagined, butterflies exploding in his stomach, and lights dancing behind his eyelids, and softness greater than anything he had felt. He was dizzy for a second as he felt himself reorient. Then, stillness. Every part of himself pointed at Soap.
Their kiss ended far too soon – though Ghost could have taken those lips forever and never gotten tired of them – and Soap gently rest their foreheads together. His hand cupped the side of Ghost’s face, such tenderness single handedly repairing the deep cavern that had torn Ghost’s heart open long ago.
His thumb gingerly rubbed back and forth.
“Merry Christmas, Simon…” he said softly.
Ghost couldn’t hold himself back and he searched desperately for Soap’s lips once again, finding salvation in their warmth. Soap chuckled and wrapped his arms around Ghost’s neck, happily sighing into the kiss as well.
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soaps-mohawk · 3 months ago
Text
I've got some very exciting news
Since the start of October is about a week away (I know how gross where did the year go?) and we all know that marks the start of the kinkiest month of the year, I've got some exciting news
I am doing Kinktober this year, as I think I've stated before previously. I'm not doing every day again this year since I had to make my own list and just didn't really feel inspired by some and just didn't have the energy to write others.
Then I got a brilliant idea.
This year's Kinktober will have a...bit of a theme...
Allow me to use a meme to explain
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Yes, all of my kinktober fics will be centered around Kyle, our beloved Gaz, Mr. Severely Underappreciated And That's A Crime.
The fics are all kink-related. Some are just straight kinks, others may involve some uh...other things 😏
I'll be releasing a more in-depth post closer to October 1st that will also serve as the masterlist (and I will be linking it on my navigation post as its own link). I have an update schedule planned for Kinktober (and CRCB will still be ongoing during October but we will be having a conversation about that fic separately) and will be posting on my taglist blog for Kinktober fics as well since that blog is for everything that gets released on this blog. So if you would like to be notified of when Kinktober fics come out, give that blog a follow and turn on notifications. (I sound like a YouTuber)
Anyway, that's the plan. We're giving Kyle some much deserved attention and love for Kinktober. I will also have some other things going on over on my Patreon for paid-Patrons since I can't make NSFW stuff public, so if you're interested go and check that out.
But yes, so much content is coming in October for y'all and honestly I'm really excited. You'll get more detailed info in the Kinktober masterlist which will probably be dropping closer to the weekend or maybe even next Monday. We'll see. I'll also be posting some news about CRCB here soon as well, also probably closer to the end of the week.
Anyway, I hope you all have a lovely day and I'll be back regularly scheduled weekly posting (asks and comment reblogs) here probably in a couple hours from when this post originally posted. If you're seeing this later then...I've probably already started 💚
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the-whispers-of-death · 9 months ago
Note
Gaz has a knocking on bear dads! Door at 4am like “I had a nightmare :(“
Soap getting jealous and inviting himself in too 🫧
Bear!Reader would let both of them in too. You'd be like "Yes, come in, I'll make tea." Because Gaz deserves some nice tea after his nightmare. You wouldn't mind having Soap inside either, you can't let any of your boys jealous.
After Gaz has his tea and he's feeling better, you have both him and Soap sleep on either side of you as you sleep in the middle, so they both can cuddle you. They're curled on either side, their heads resting on your torso. Maybe Soap is resting his head on your stomach while Gaz is resting his head on your chest or vice versa, either way they're resting on you.
Your snores (because of course you snore) are what drift them off to sleep, content that they're both with you.
(Do we think Ghost would get along well with Bear!Reader? We've talked about the rest of the 141.)
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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 10 months ago
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A Spark To Ignite (Bodyguard!141 x Famous!Reader Preferences) Mild NSFW
Summary: You see each other every day. He works to keep you protected - a perk of your job and his. Occasionally feeling moments of passion and promises of something more between you two are only normal, right?
AN: I've got another bodyguard!AU for the 141 that's more angst based. I'll post that later. I've also got a Price x Escort!Reader in the works plus the end of "Star-crossed in the Crosshairs". Let me know if you have any requests/anything you'd rather see first <3
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Content warning: Minors DNI, 18+ only, allusions to sexual tension/arousal, second person, no use of Y/N
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
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Another notification of being tagged in the same paparazzi image hit your notification inbox, yet you still opened it and shared a giddy grin at the Instagram feed.
You hadn’t been fussed about going running; it was the company rather than the activity that attracted you. But one thing you were certain about the sport was that no one ever looked flattering whilst doing it.
Yet there he was, your Kyle, looking like a model for Sports Direct. He was snapped midstride, his biceps practically rippling in the glow of the morning sun. There was even a hint of his lean washboard torso with the flap of his t-shirt’s raised coyly.
However, his dimpled smile aimed was the main focus of the headline – mainly because it was aimed at you and your equally elated expression. You blamed the euphoria of exercised endorphins but the way the photo was framed (plus the gaudy text declaring it so) made it seem as if you and Kyle were a true couple in love. It looked incredibly staged. Kyle was an “unknown” though so most budding theorists did not support any claims of it being a publicity stunt. Just two lovers out on a jaunty little run together.
You saved then added the photo to the folder of photos that captured you out with your bodyguard and the headlines that (sadly) misidentified him as your new boyfriend.
“Hey Kyle!”
Blending some fruits. His duties did not include head chef but you had long since allowed him access to your kitchen, even storing some of his favourites around the cupboards and fridge in case he fancied a snack.
Your phone was thrust up into his eyeline, you beaming behind it, “Another Pulitzer.”
Abandoning his smoothie temporarily, Kyle cupped his hand around yours to steady your swaying phone.
“They need to up their standards. Taking you for a jog is hardly a date you deserve,” He commented.
“Ooo, do tell: what do I deserve?”
“Well,” Kyle began pouring the smoothie into a glass, “I could go classic, take you to out on the town to a special place only I know about.”
You leaned onto your    elbows, chin resting in your palms, cheeks creased in a cheeky smile. “Mm-hmm.”
“Wine you, dine you, treat you like a deity,” Kyle said as if he was listing off menial tasks on his day to day whilst collecting another glass for the remaining smoothie. “Take you back to mine if you fancied it, another drink whilst we talk the night away and time passing without us noticing.” Graciously, he slid the other one across the countertop, and your fingers locked against his warm ones wrapped against the cool glass. “Then work up a sweat in a whole other way.”
Blinking away the glaze that had coated your eyes, you restrained the urge to gulp back your desire. A fresh breath in your lungs recovered you quickly and you managed to conjure a teasing quip amidst the fog that had settled over your thoughts.
“Think you could keep up with me?” You said before sipping the smoothie.
The sweetness of it countered Kyle’s smirking reply: “You and I both know I can more than handle you.”
“Better train harder then,” You said, proud of yourself for not stumbling over your playful banter, “I’m a catch, so you better be fast enough.”
“Jog, same time tomorrow?”
“Sure.” And, not missing in the reflection of the oven door how Kyle – for a split second – looked you up and down, you did your best not to collapse or squeal during your return to the sitting room.
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Johnny "Soap" MacTavish
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You leant against the ropes of the new boxing ring with a panting chest and aching legs. Jellied bones dared to let you collapse to the ground but at least, since your self-defence training had begun, you were lasting the full session rather than just after the warm-up.
“I think we’re done for today! Did good, held your own.” Johnny gave you a hearty slap on your back that almost ricocheted you off the ropes. “I’ve still got a few reps to get in.” He leapt out the ring and swigged from his water bottle, tossing you your own.
“Show-off!” You called out after him, though all in good fun, as you caught your bottle and your breath.
Technically, since you didn’t have anything else to do, you could get a head-start on getting cleaned up. You were in the privacy of your own gym, added at your request so that Johnny could train you better and you could do so without being ogled or papped.
Quite hypocritical it was then, that you lingered in the ring to watch Johnny stack up his weights on either side of the bar (the ones you purchased as part of his perks of working for you).
Your day-job came in handy with pretending to do some cooldown stretches, sipping from and pouring your water bottle over yourself. Well, you were actually doing those things but acting as if they were the only things that occupied your thoughts was the main role you were playing. From the corner of your eye, you observed Johnny squatted with a stack of weights lining each shoulder. God, those arms were practically popping, his thighs bulging with the effort of remaining planted on the floor and folding up and down beneath the hefty set. Mesmerising, you forgot to keep up your pretence by the second load of reps.
It left your lips before you could reconsider for the tenth time: “Bet you couldn’t lift me.”
Soap paused in a deep squat and looked up through his lashes at you. Meeting his steely blue gaze was easier than anticipated but maintaining it as he righted himself and rested the weights back on the rack with a restrained grunt was the difficult part.
At first, you thought maybe his silence was his answer. Then Johnny knelt down and assumed the plank position.
“Get on,” He said, loud and clear.
You still doubted him, “Seriously?”
“You made the bet. Now lie in it.”
As elegantly as possible, you dismounted the ring before making your way over to his side. He showed no signs of tiredness during your journey, nor did he when you balanced yourself across his broad back.
“Ok, ready,” You said, your voice close to wobbling.
And so it began. Up and down, you could feel how his body sustained you through both your and his workout gear. His back muscles rippled beneath you and his elbows kissed yours each time he lowered you both to the floor. Out of nowhere, you began giggling and you couldn’t figure out how to put a stop to it. Giddiness flooded your entire system until you were beyond drunk.
Suddenly, your world tilted and you rolled off onto the mat but Johnny refused you any respite, flipping you over onto your back again, like a pancake.
“I win,” He panted, “What’s my prize?”
Still giggling, you felt your cheeks burning at the sight of him hovering over you, his skin glowing, his chest panting. His unrelenting stare had you locked beneath him, barred between his trunk-like arms. If this was your prison, you’d commit any offence to stay in there. God you were so close you could kiss him-
Nope.
“You finish your workout early so you can have a nice hot shower sooner?” You said, covering your mouth to cough and clear your airways of whatever shit you breathed in to make you even consider making out with your bodyguard. You must’ve looked so daft; you blamed the endorphins. Then you blamed Johnny completely as he started to laugh down at you, sending your thighs quaking as he crawled off you and ordered you to get cleaned up – that he’d be in shortly after as a hint to not use all the hot water. As you drifted back to the bathroom, you tried not to think about him in the shower or how you wanted to offer to scrub him down.
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Simon "Ghost" Riley
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“Say the word and I’ll have him removed.”
For a man so stoic and intimidating, Simon sure made you smile a lot. You needed it after that… “interesting” conversation with one of the party’s guests – someone who you knew to be a detractor behind your back.
“It’s fine, really,” You insisted with a winning smile.
Casting a glance over your shoulder where your shadow dutifully remained was a reward you would never be exhausted of. Simon looked so good in his tux. Plus he’d humoured you and worn the silk black mask rather than his usual. You were brimming with privilege at seeing his hair styled beyond the flattened fuzz it would take on after being beneath the balaclava for twenty hours at a time. Even more so, you got to see his tattoos pairing nicely with them like a good bottle of wine.
You could hear the smirk hiding beneath his mask. His veined hands clasped firmly in front of him as he leant close, just his mask separating his lips and your ear.
“We could make a break for it. Ditch these twats. Get a drive-thru.”
He knew you never would agree to it; this gala meant a lot to you. Such a tempting offer though, in such a tempting voice too. His rough tone did nothing but delight you when you heard it. Turning to look at him, you took note of the two mere inches between your face and his.
He continued, “You’ve shown your face long enough.”
“Getting jealous of them stealing my attention?” You asked provocatively.
Simon let out a low laugh, shaking his head fondly with just a hint of patronising, “That’s funny, sweetheart.”
“Well, I’m sure there are plenty of people who are dying to still talk to me.” You gestured with the glass he’d gotten (and checked for any malicious interference) for you around at the room, those who would never have the privilege of being a part of your and Simon’s bubble.
“Just as long as you and everyone else knows that I’m the one who takes you home.”
The implications of that statement swelled in your chest, nestling into your heart like a cat in a warm patch of sunlight. Intently, he looked at your face for your reaction. That was the thing with Simon: always observing, recording every flicker, every possibility in that incredible mind of his. You were certain he could see into your soul with those all-seeing eyes. He kept you safe, kept you on your toes, kept you happy.
But the bubble burst before you could hit back and you abruptly checked yourself back into work mode. The person who’d spoken loud enough to bring you back down to Earth didn’t seem to notice your slip up. You, however, were more than acutely aware of Simon’s lingering presence at your side. So close the hairs on your arm extended on goosebumps, coaxing and begging to touch him.
As you were once again left alone, you found yourself stifled by your need to be nearer to Simon and quickly decided the alcohol was to blame. “I need the bathroom.”
“This way.” His hand grazing the small of your back had an impact tripled, but you managed to submit it to travelling through your nose, rather than gasping out your mouth. But you were certain that Simon had caught you. He never missed a thing.
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John "Bravo Six" Price
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After shaking hands again with the presenter and declaring a few thanks to the crew, you were guided straight to the dressing room by Price. You took off your own microphone and handed it to him, which he immediately passed to a nervous stagehand. Your name in Arial font on an A4 sheet of paper greeted you from the dressing room door.
Sometimes you needed that extra time to decompress and he knew before you did more often than not. Today was not one of those days, though you did request to stop and pick up the bouquet that had been there to welcome you in when you first arrived. It was so large, your favourites blooming in the dew-dropped cellophane, that you had trouble waving to the folks who’d stuck around at the barrier, Price’s arms keeping you walking and guiding you towards the car.
For your safety, you had to go in the back where the tinted windows offered you a hint of privacy. It was a thorn in your side though. You longed to sit beside Price as he fought playfully with you over the music, grumbled with the directions his phone offered, collected your drive-in order. Then maybe your daydream of being his partner could have a little more to stand on.
A true gentleman as well as your protector, Price walked you up to the house and let you set up your evening meal while he made final checks to secure your house again. Normality for you was hearing him walk around and jiggle door handles and returning only when he was certain none had been tampered with and your cameras were fully functioning.
“Anything else you need from me before I leave for the night?” He asked, standing at ease in front of you.
You gestured to the bouquet you were cradling like a baby, “Thank you for the flowers.”
His brows furrowed for a split second then a sheepish smile smoothed out the lines in his forehead, highlighting his eyes instead.
“You caught me,” He said quietly, sparing a look at the flowers he asked the host to order for you, then back at you.
Squinting mischievously, you asked, “Were you really hiding it?”
“I suppose not.” He let his smile soften and dull. Back to business. Yet you could’ve sworn he glanced at your mouth before he asked, “Anything else you need?”
Your heart yearned to beg him to stay and tell you what else he did behind the scenes without a hint of expecting more, so that you could show him how much you cared in an appropriately equal response. His favourite whiskey perhaps for when he was off duty, or one day doing something together that he wanted to do so it wasn’t just looking after you. It was more than that, the job. He’d told you so. But you didn’t want to just be a job to him.
Quietly, you maintained your decorum, “No, thank you.”
John nodded his head, “Of course.”
It was as he was about to cross the threshold when you started to ask, “Do you-”
Not even three words made it out before Price whipped around, already returning to where he’d stood before. You could feel your lungs struggling under the strain of maintaining steady breathing at the gesture, suspending all the blood in your face (and maybe your groin). It stopped your question in its path, as if it was waiting until Price was listening attentively (he always was for you).
“Yes?” He prompted, his voice soft as if to coax you out of your hideout.
Fidgeting with the bouquet still, you cleared your throat and began again, “Do you want to join me, for dinner?”
Price’s hands, now at his sides, tapped on his thighs thrice before he said, “Two conditions.”
“Name them.”
Perhaps you said that a little too quickly because it made him laugh, which only made things worse for you. You had a real weakness for that laugh.
“You teach me whatever you’re planning on making, and you let me help you make it.”
Your heart accelerated and you dismissed his with a smile and a slight self-deprecating remark to soften the weight of this decision you were both making: “It’s nothing special.”
“Those are my terms,” Price insisted. His eyes creased as a smile grew on his face, more beautiful than the flowers forgotten the second you placed them into the vase. But at least it gave you to excuse to look away and gather your expression into something more collected as you ordered him to go and wash his hands.
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jolalibrary · 2 years ago
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you're a storm
simon ghost riley x f!reader (call of duty)
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summary: because we're friends. are we? don't see a queue of other people putting up with your shit, ghost.
warnings: brief mentions of smut, p in v. friends to something close to a relationship (this is ghost). somewhat moody ghost. wordcount: 2.1k dedicated to @theashfallx who deserves a slab of softness and tattoos.
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It’s raining. 
Just like the day you'd first appeared. 
You’d been drenched in it all, baptised for the introduction—droplets falling from your sleeve as you said your name, Price hanging back. 
Your credentials had been told to them all a month ago. Not really asking if any of them minded, more telling them all. More him, than the others.
He supposed he’d do the same if he were in Price’s position. 
Now, pellets hammered against everything they could, including the single-glazed window of his room. It sounded like it was hitting tin than glass, oddly reminding him of you—your talks of caravaning with your family or thin sheets and watching storms out across a sea. 
You’d shared it with him once. Your eyes all transfixed on the lightning in the distance. Hands cupped around a mug that was no longer steaming in the centre of the place they were bunkered down in.
When’s the last time you slept? When was the last time you did, Lieut?
Lieut.
Not L.t. Not lieutenant. Some shorthand version you called him, simply because. 
You who was now avoiding him because of his chosen silence. Because words had caught on the back of his teeth. His fingers not quite quick enough before you’d left him alone. 
He used to like being alone, but somewhere between your rambling and lying next to him, you changed it. Changed him.
It’s the sole reason he’d stepped out. Tired of the four walls of his room, seeking a new space rather than any sort of conversation.
After all, he despised words. He preferred orders. Something concrete, not argued against. Enjoyed the unspoken ones shared between nods and occasional glares. 
Ghost somewhat tolerated (liked) Johnny, sometimes even Gaz. 
But you were the anomaly—the difference. He didn't tolerate you, he secretly wanted you. Wanted a smile, a laugh. Happy and content with just that.
No one knew—not even you—that sometimes you managed to tug a smile behind his mask. That your words from that day began painting themselves in his mind when he should be sleeping.
You share a lot for someone with a redacted file. Well, I like to keep those poking around, guessing.  I’m not guessin’.  No. Guessing means you could be wrong, and you like to be right too much for that, don’t you, Ghost?
You had a habit of pulling things from him. Words. A snigger.
It was all as though your smaller hands had found some rope, pulling on it until he began giving them to you more easily than he did the rest. You didn’t know everything, but he assumed what you didn’t, you’d guessed. 
He’s seen firsthand how you fill in gaps. The way you assess and ascertain. It’s there when you stare at maps, hearing briefings—practically spots the marker in your mind circling things to question. 
It's why he's not sure how you didn't guess you mattered to him.
How that you couldn't see.
He hears a clap of thunder, somewhere in the distance. Thankful it's a short walk to the canteen, the air thick with the scents of mossy earth and dirt before he’s met with the aroma of food and too many bodies trying to stuff themselves before lights out.
Not you, though. 
Ghost watches you slip out through the opposite doors. Across tables and too many bent heads for him to get to with any sort of quickness.
He smirks, if only to himself.
Watching as barely a head lifts from the rest of your comrades and table at your exit.
But then, if they’d been paying too much attention, the gig would have been up a while ago. The secret out. There would have been opinions poked in the holes of their tryst—questions hurtled that had no answers either of you wished to confront. 
He didn’t have friends, but he did have you.
Some scrappy thing which didn’t like to sleep, didn’t like to lose—and had the most stunning eyes. They seared into him even when surrounded by paint, cheeks smothered in mud and lashes clotted with sand. Burned a hole right through him that no amount of time would heal. 
It didn’t help they found him often. Practically sought him, landing on him as though there weren’t others who deserved it. 
Then he gained your sarcasm. Your whispered thoughts and soft smirk. 
At some point between annoyance and admiration, you stepped over the line into friendship. He kept his eye on you outside of being your lieutenant; you checked on him for reasons he didn’t understand. 
If you get lonely at home, my address is in your phone. I don’t have a phone.  Ah yes, the very secret thing at the back of your second drawer isn’t a phone, Ghost. 
He’d considered it: texting. 
Why? Because we're friends. Are we? Don't see a queue of other people putting up with your shit, Ghost.
He'd almost called, merely to check in. Not wanting to visit or any real company, just the sound of your voice to convince him that you’re alive—that you hadn’t slipped in the shower or fallen into a sleep you’d never wake from. That you weren't hurt.
Ghost never called, didn't send a thing. Because it meant something if he did. Meant he cared, meant he’d latched—two things he tried desperately not to do. 
And then, a new line was crossed. One jumped over because of circumstances the two of you hadn’t prepared for. 
Your stubbornness and foolishness caused a blade to lodge in your thigh in a takedown—maroon flowing from around it, beginning to spread. Your radio message made something drip down his spine, his blood cold before Ghost managed to hack up gruff orders that fell from his tongue like lava. 
The metal was still sticking out when he found you, all unmoved from your leg, a half-smile plastered across your cheeks.
He's knocked out, not dead. Don't care, le— I didn't take it out, Ghost. It's better I don't, right? Let me see.
You almost don't let him. And while you’d seen his face, his hands had still shook as he slipped the gloves from his fingers, touching the edges of ripped fabric and hating the sounds of your whimpers.
It's only as he lifted his eyes, his chin, did you kiss him. Right over the mask. Before he can question, before he can surrender, your head rips back, eyes brimming with tears you refuse to let fall. 
Had to, just in case.  None of that, alright? 
Those three words don’t come out easily, almost clotting in his throat like scarlet does around your wound. 
Lift it up. Your mask. 
He’s not sure why he did. 
Why he bent to such a request—an order, but he did. No sooner is it over his nose does he feel chapped lips against his, softly moving, desperately seeking something. A moment, a chance. He isn’t sure and never asks. He just tastes you, the happiness that lives within, mixed with the desert, iron and somehow, even bleeding profusely, hope. 
You kiss better than I thought, Lieut. 
It was a month later before you brought it up. Dangled it in front of him, the chance to do it again—to kiss you, to do more than kiss. 
He’s human. And only a fool would say no to someone as gorgeous as you. Someone good, talented, full of fire and light that could, if you tried, bring him to his fucking knees. 
Which he supposes you did, ironically. 
Your leg hooked over his shoulder, tongue lapping up your want as your hand grabbed fistfuls of his hair. He was praying to you, and you were whimpering a hymn compiled of his name.
SimonSimonSimon. 
You both cross a new line together moments later, the final one. The one harder to come back from and pretend never happened.
Because then he knew how it felt to have your thighs on either side of his hips. To brush his fingers against your cheek and wipe the tears from coming on his tongue all away as he eases himself into you. 
Ghost knows how your hand feels clasped around his forearm as his cock sinks into you. How your nails dig into the ink on his skin, secretly hoping it leaves a similar mark.
So big. Too— You can take it.  I can—I will. I know. Know you will, sweetheart. 
Then it became a habit. 
You became a habit.
You're both heaven and a misdemeanour. Something he craved but knew he shouldn't let himself enjoy. Even if he did—whenever he could.
Ghost runs his teeth along your collarbone, and leaves welts under your uniform. He presses your cheek against cold walls, snaking his hand under the waistband of your trousers and standard-issue underwear, making you mew.
You’d do better with someone else—be far better suited to someone more open. Someone who’ll let you have more than scraps when night falls and will sit next to you on a canteen bench and nudge their knee against yours. 
Ghost won’t do that, but Simon might. 
That's what he clings to, that Simon could be enough.
Even if all of him have been falling for you, all unbeknownst to him until it's all he thinks. Having studied every curve of your body, taken note of each whip of your sharp tongue and marvelled secretly at how your brain thinks when challenged. 
It took him a while to see the brains behind the big eyes and the smirking lips. Now, it’s all he sees. 
He sees both a capable soldier and the person who has had their lips around his cock. The person who has laid in his sheets, staring up at him, mouth parted as you moan; the one who’s rolled their hips against his tongue, pleading for more as your fist clamps around a sheet. 
Friends don’t…. do what we do, though. Suppose they don’t.  What are we, then? 
He didn't answer, and so you didn't push. 
It stung the silence. It worsened when you dressed, when you said goodnight before the lights are even out.
You pulled away after that. And he felt it instantly. The draught of you not being beside him, your body not being curled around his before the sun rises—your laugh not peppering his ears.
Mostly, he found it torturous that your eyes don't land. Your snark swallowed, never meeting the air, never greeting him.
He tried to shake it, even if he beguns to feel the weight of the words he should have said. The ones he has thought for a while, the ones he feels. It not mattering, always coming back to the same thing: it’s easier to show than to tell. 
It’s why he’d let you map his past with the pads of your fingers rather than tell you the gruesome truth. That he lost so much, it’s hard to ever want again. He suspects you can tell, just from how your eyes land on him, when your hands feel the deeper ones—the ones who make him see flickers of how they were caused behind his eyelids. 
Ghost knew he’d fallen, having descended into want and affinity before you'd left that night. It consumed him in the time that followed.
Too many cold showers and anger-fuelled stares, before he truly acknowledges the ball is in his court. Before he lets the fact, he doesn’t want to rot away alone anymore but rather live for someone to fuel him to speak up. 
He considers ordering, demanding. 
Instead, he beckons. Fingers wrapping around your elbow, ignoring your eyes, flicking from the corridor ahead to him until the two of you are safely inside the four walls of his room. 
Then, he pours it out. Mask ripped from his face, lips burning words against yours. It’s different, fuelled by passion than relief—not soft, but not aiming to conquer the other. 
He buries himself in you differently, easing himself in—running his teeth along your jaw until he’s kissing whispered words to your ear. 
“I know…” you whisper fingers curled around his neck.
You say it as though you’ve heard his unspoken confession somewhere else. Like he’s left the script somewhere, and you know the act that's about to follow. 
“Show me,” you add. "Show me you want me, Simon."
And he does. 
Driving himself in and out in long, slow strides. He feels the feather-like touches over his back, the way your breath dances along his chin and neck. The lamp in the corner is the only light source, forcing your pupils to expand until they’ve almost swallowed the colour he admires and hopes to name. 
Ghost finds only his reflection in them—staring into wide and hopeful eyes. Seeing himself back in them, able to glimpse a person who isn’t a collection of shards, but someone almost whole. 
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an: i was listening to some moody music.
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penelopepine · 6 months ago
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Forever in Your Gaze Pt. 3
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Fem Reader
Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
Summary: Night at the museum AU. Gaz and Reader are both paintings directly across from one another, and have been in love for many years now. The only thing is that they are unable to actually leave the confines of their canvas, and have never felt others touch.
Word Count: 1236
Content: Established relationship, fluff, light angst
Kyle is so relieved when he sees you again, and he can tell even through the shock you’re elated to see him as well. He whispers your name and puts a hand up next to yours. When you mirror his action the magical barrier still separates the two of you.
"You're here," You take a stuttering breath, "How are you here?"
"I promised that I'd find you, it's just like I said this situation is not going to keep me from you." 
Your eyes are still red along with tear stained cheeks, but you give him the biggest grin, "What did I do to deserve you?" 
"I think the correct question is what did I do to deserve you?" 
The only thing Kyle can think about right now is you, and how much he loves you. Which is why when he hears a cough from behind him he's generally caught off guard. He had completely forgotten that the others were even with him. 
Price comes up to them and pats him on the back and smiles at you, "Well it seems things are going well here then. The lads and I will leave you two here for the rest of the night while we go look into everything a bit more. I'll come and get you later Gaz." With that the three of them leave the area with parting words of hope and comfort.
Silence after that lasts only for a moment before you ask, "What's happening Kyle? I thought I was going to still be near you tonight." 
It took him a bit to reply, pondering to himself about how to explain that in a week you two may never see each other again if they don't come up with a solution. "Shepherd plans to have you shipped to another museum."
Immediately he can see when his words hit you. Your shoulders slump and give a defeated sigh, "So this is it then?" 
"No! No, you're not going anywhere! We're going to figure something out." 
"But what if we don't?"
"We will." He gives you a sad but reassuring smile as he puts his hand to your face. When he does the barrier's sheen shines at his touch. Kyle's face then quickly turns to determination. "Let's get you out of here." 
"What?"
“Well I’m out aren’t I? That means that you can get out too.” Kyle exclaims as he stands to adjust your frame before kneeling down a bit away from you, “All you have to do is push the barrier!” 
You look at him with an apprehensive look as you put both hands on the barrier. “I think more paintings would be out by now if that is all it took.” That being said, you still begin to push against the magic. Kyle watches as the sheen ripples with the contact from your palms. This goes on for several minutes with words of encouragement being thrown your way. 
Alas though you can't seem to escape, no matter how hard you try. Clearly dejected you give one last push before stepping away from it. 
“We’ll keep trying until it works,” He says softly to you, “I’m not giving up just yet.”
"You're right," You take a deep breath, "You're right, we can try again tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." Kyle is now back sitting right in front you. He knows that it's not the same as actually holding you, but he takes your frame and sets you down in his lap. You both continue talking as you normally would with each other. Just trying to enjoy being so close to one another despite both knowing that all this could be coming to an end very soon. 
It's hours later when Price does eventually come back in to collect him, "Gaz, it's time to go lad. We need to get you back on the wall." 
Kyle very reluctantly lets you go, and puts you back whispering sweet reassurances to you. The only thing that he doesn't do is put the sheet back. He refuses to be the one to put you in the dark, and makes Price promise that he wouldn't do so either until the sun was up.
“I’ll see you soon love,” Kyle smiles at you, “It’ll be just a few minutes of us being apart.” 
“I’ll be waiting for you.” You say back putting on a brave face. This is after all the first time you’ve actually said goodbye to one another. With that Price has to practically drag him out of the room otherwise he wouldn’t have wanted to leave your side.
As they walk back to his frame Kyle can’t help but ask, "Price, do you know where she is supposed to be moved too? Is it at least close by?"
"There wasn't an address listed, the only information mentioned was that the deal was made between Shepherd and Phillip Graves. The whole thing doesn't feel right; I'm planning on bringing all of this up with Laswell when she gets in." 
"You think Shepherd is up to something?"
Price gives him a very serious look before saying, "I don't know for sure, but after going through all the files I could find in his office a lot of things aren't adding up. All things considered this deal with Graves shouldn't even be happening with how incorrectly those documents were done." 
Those words brought so much relief to him. If things were really as sketchy as Price described then he knew Laswell would do everything in her power to put a stop to everything happening; with any luck she'll be able to get rid of Shepherd as well. 
The rest of the walk was fairly silent. Kyle watched as others around him slowly moved to their own areas preparing for the morning light to freeze them in place for another day. 
It was very quiet now as the two of them entered the familiar halls once more; all the other paintings eyeing him as he walked past. He's become some kind of social pariah amongst them it seems, but that is not something he is going to worry himself about right now. 
Once Kyle is back to his own frame he takes a few moments to really just look at where he's been his whole life before finally bringing his hands up to the painting. As if the frame was welcoming him home Kyle slides back in very seamlessly. Unlike when he first broke free there is no pain upon re-entering the canvas.
He quickly gets himself back in his proper place once he's fully inside, "Price, can you promise me one thing?"
"What is it? I'll see what I can do, lad."
"Please don't make me wake up not knowing where she is. I know where she is right now, and I don't know if I'll be able to handle having to find her again." 
"She won't be getting moved again Gaz. I won't let you go through this all again."
He nods and gives a relieved huff, "Thank you." 
A mere few minutes after that Price watches as Kyle and everyone around him goes back to being regular paintings. With that he walks out of the hall, and continues with his usual routine. After making sure everything was in place walks back to the lobby's reception desk and waits for Laswell to walk through the door. They're getting to the bottom of this. 
Note: AHHHH CHAPTER 3 IS DONE! I hope everyone is enjoying this story!
Taglist: @zarsghost @nexthyperfix @kaoyamamegami
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wordstome · 6 months ago
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Thanks for everything, but it’s time to close up shop.
Hello, everybody. Sorry for this post being a portent of doom, but I feel like you all deserve better than radio silence. Originally, I went on hiatus because I got busy with school and work. This is still true—real life is getting in the way of me being able to write creatively, which I haven’t done in a while.
However, I think it would only be fair for me to admit that I’m just not as into COD anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been into the games and always have been a fan of the little fandom of writers here, but I have to admit that part of my difficulty writing is just not being as into the content anymore. Most of it is just naturally moving on from something you used to like, but I also feel uninspired and weird about the idea of writing fanfiction about the military nowadays.
TO BE CLEAR: I don’t suddenly think that all my fellow writers are doing something problematic and amoral, and I vehemently do not want my departure from creating fan works to be used as some sort of gotcha to attack other writers. I don’t think any of us respect the military or US imperialism (I hope not) and I think the tumblr subsection of fandom is especially aware that COD is military propaganda. What we do here is writing about characters, not the institution they operate in. A lot of cod fanfiction doesn’t even take place in the military. I also haven’t drifted away because some writers make heavier/darker content, so I’m squashing that discourse before it has a chance to start.
It would also be disingenuous to say that I drifted away solely because of fandom discourse, but it certainly didn’t help. Thankfully, I only caught the tail end of a recent…controversy? Discourse? Involving other creators. It’s exhausting and disheartening to see this sort of thing happen, but I also realize it’s kind of inevitable that feathers will be ruffled when subjects like racism against Gaz are addressed, and that doesn’t mean we should just stop talking about those subjects. I don’t have a good solution to this and I don’t mean to complain about something that’s just a part of human nature. I just can’t pretend that it isn’t really demoralizing to see people acting poorly and the internet slapfights that result from it. I hope those involved in the recent incident are taking care of themselves. ❤️
Anyway, if you’ve gotten this far, thanks for reading. I have a lot of love left for this fandom, and especially my fellow creators who I have come to consider genuine friends. I feel a deep obligation to everyone who reads and interacts with my work, and I can’t continue to leave people waiting when I know it is, most likely, over. So, to be clear: this is the end of my COD writing journey. I won’t be writing any more or continuing any of my fics.
All of my works, both here and on AO3, will remain up, so you don’t have to worry about anything being deleted. I’m still grateful to cod for bringing my zest for writing back, even if it was only for a handful of months. And if you guys want to see unpublished drafts (like for kingdom come), have questions, or simply want to know my plans for fics that won’t be finished/want to know how they end, please send me asks or reach out! I would love to talk about it. Mutuals are, as always, extremely welcome in my DMs, and it means the world to me that people have been checking in on me during my hiatus.
TLDR:
I’m leaving for good. None of my fics will be deleted, but they won’t be updated anymore. I won’t be active on this blog, but I’ll still check in once in a while to answer any asks or questions about my fics.
I don’t think this will happen, but it’s worth saying: please don’t use my departure to make sweeping generalizations about the fandom or start more discourse. I just drifted away and lost interest. Take care of yourselves.
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yakowo · 7 months ago
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I love ALL CoD characters, I really do, but Gaz holds a very special place in my heart. We don't get much Gaz content, at least not compared to other characters, imo... So I wanted to thank you for: 1. Giving us Gaz content, 2. Giving us content that is so fuCKING GOOD HOLY SHIT, I can't stop looking at your tumblr and twitter and I check for something new DAILY lmao ♡♡♡
Yours and mine, dear anon!❤️‍🔥✨
Gaz is my special boy as well, but it is true that unfortunately there're not as much content of him (even officially) as he deserves! It warms my heart to know that you enjoy my drawings of him and we can share our mutual excitement! 🫶
(please take this little guy as a token of my appreciation <3)
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cherie-doll · 7 months ago
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𓆩♡𓆪 Headcanon : Their Dream Life With You
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✧˚ Ghost, Gaz, König, Horangi
ೄྀ࿐ just a lot of fluff
We all live brief, ephemeral lives. In a world where pursuing dreams is seen as foolish and hopeless; they had found themselves wishing for a merak fantasy with you. That lovely feeling that arose from the most delicate of touches, the feeling that let all fear fall away.
Ghost
He was ecstatic at this chance of a new chapter in his life, the renewed hope of this new fate
While he had control of his life, he wanted to have a facile life
Maybe a cabin set somewhere in the comfort of the southwest
Mornings waking up next to you with the golden sun seeping through the windows casting an aura
Nights falling asleep with you in his embrace, smelling like bonfire
He waited for that day to come when he could be in constant placidness
To fade away with you
“Till the end of this world; I love you”
Gaz
It was still a hazy dream for him; he was a young dreamer
But whatever you wanted, he wanted too
He romanticized the sweet side of life
He had visions of different lives branching out before him; waking up at early dusk to admire your angelic smile, going on adventures with you, he even entertained the possibility of kids with you
How he wished it was all attainable in one lifetime
He envisioned dreamy summer afternoons filled with doting, the clear sound of laughter, and dedicating one’s being to creating a warmhearted atmosphere for a family
The enormity of possibilities where he could experience the most fervid fate with you
With love; that uplifting sensation, he felt like he could go on dreaming forever
König
With you, the sky could be grey, blue, or yellow. There was no specific hue of color in his life. He was content when it rained and he got to cuddle with you, he felt loved when the warmth of the sun glowed on his skin reminding him of your embrace, and he enjoyed the watching the sun set and rise with you, that golden hour of the day
He just wanted a future with you where he could let emotions flow like clear water through his eyes or smile
You both deserved a soft epilogue in life
A quiet ambiance but when desired, to have luxury in reach; in other words, he wanted the bed of roses lifestyle
Cool and brisk evenings where you both come to terms with that love can be scary sometimes
You live to consume and be consumed by one another, to enter the intimacy of the soul
Today, tomorrow, always until the end
Horangi
He was one in need of constant excitement in life
He was helplessly in love, and it will fuel his passion
With him, you can be certain you’ll experience ardent love and ethereal ordeals
The thrill-like feeling that is scary yet exciting, you never know in what direction your heart will throw you in
It’s easy to want to wholly embrace the safety of order, but he sought those places where he could feel an overwhelming sense of breathtaking beauty
You were like two chaotic energies, crashing into one another’s world to coexist briefly together for a short amount of time under the same sky
His veins pulsed, full of life
He craved that enthralling pace that left one breathless but was spellbinding
Indulges in the finer things in life; with him, you’ll spend your days living lavishly
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sentientcave · 7 months ago
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Pompeii//Good Grief
Read on AO3
Johnny's gone, but the sun still rises. There are still missions to go on, the world spins on. Ghost does the only thing he can ever do, and keeps going.
But nothing feels right. He wonders if it will ever feel right again.
Contains: Canon typical violence, Grief, Flashbacks, Involuntary drug use, Hospital setting, Hope, Loss, Love
(Through it all, the love is there)
~3.3k words - MDNI
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“Bravo zero-seven, do you copy? Regroup at infil point— We need to get out of here.”
“Negative. I’m cut off.” Ghost waited for a pause as the soldiers at the end of the hall to ran out of bullets, and took his opportunity to fire back while they reloaded their clips. Sloppy, not covering themselves properly. Amateurish. He expected better from mercs at a top security base like this. He quickly peered around the corner and picked a target— One of the mercs not properly behind cover, and fired three times before pressing himself back behind the corner, broken bones aching sharply. Three broken ribs, left ankle, dislocated shoulder. The strangled yelp was music to his ears, a confirmed hit, if not a confirmed kill.
They didn’t advance, content to hold him in place while the timer counted down on that bomb. He could hear the shuffling of their retreat, dragging their injured comrade behind them.
“Ghost? What’s your location, we’ll come get you.” Typical Gaz. Always thinking there’s a way out. A clever work around.
Not this time.
“Negative. They’re gonna blow the base. Reckon you’ve got forty-five seconds to get clear, so you’d better move sergeant. That’s an order.”
“Ghost—”
“Now, Gaz,” he barked. “No sense anyone else dyin’ in here.”
“Shit. Try to get to cover. We’ll dig for you.”
“Yeah.”
The guns had stopped firing, the enemy soldiers retreating, figuring that the bomb would finish the work they couldn’t.
Ten seconds, give or take. He crawled into a doorway and braced for it.
3, 2, 1.
He pulled blindly at his tags, gripping the little gold cross he’d hung next to them tight. He had never been a praying kind of man, and even now, he wasn’t praying for escape. The explosion ripped through the base, the air turning hot, dust rising up so thickly that Ghost could do nothing but close his eyes against it, burning lack of oxygen tipping him into unconsciousness as the walls rumbled and shook around him.
His last thought, before black jaws swallowed him whole, was of blue eyes fringed by dark lashes, a scarred chin, soft lips and scratchy stubble, the ache of absence. At least he’d see him again.
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“He’s in love with you, you know,” Aileen Mactavish says, putting the newly dried mug back in the cupboard with the rest. She has Johnny’s eyes— Or Johnny has her eyes, maybe, but they’re the same bright blue, and they sparkle the same way.
Simon rinses soap off the next cup and sets it in the drying rack. The kitchen is dark and quiet, compared to the noise in the other room. Johnny’s telling some wild story, and everyone’s laughing, caught up in that irresistible energy that Johnny carries around with him everywhere he goes.
“I know.” Simon struggles to get the words out. He’s never deserved love, never known how to accept it, how to express the depth of what it is that he feels. How can he offer someone like Johnny something as bruised and beaten and scarred up as his heart? It’s not enough. It could never be enough.
“You love him too.” She says it like it’s a simple thing, a fact, undeniable. The sky is blue, the earth is round, and Simon Riley loves Johnny Mactavish.
Throat tight, too tight to risk words, he nods.
Aileen leans toward him, puts a gentle hand on his arm. “You should tell him.”
He does, that night, while Johnny snores softly against his chest. He’s so sure that Johnny’s asleep that he lets the words sneak out, soldiers across an enemy line, stealthy and danger close.
And it strikes like an incendiary bomb, right on target, when Johnny opens his eyes a tiny bit and pulls himself closer, right into the fire.
“I love you too, Si. Now go tae sleep, ye bloody menace.”
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Ghost woke with a start, coughing, ripping at the mask over his face as his lungs screamed for air. The fabric was so thick with blood and dust that breathing through it proved impossible, so he tossed it to the side, laying flat on his back while he pulled in choking, painful gulps of air.
He’d been thrown clear of the doorway, but he was still in one piece. “Johnny,” he growled into the darkness. “If you’re pullin’ some guardian angel bullshite, save it for someone who deserves it. Gaz’d be a good choice.”
As usual, there was no response. Not that he expected one.
It was some kind of fucking sick joke. He was a dead man who couldn’t seem to die. He clicked his radio, hearing only crackling static. “This is Bravo zero-seven. Does anyone copy?”
Nothing.
Well. It wasn’t the first time he’d dragged his own arse out of a grave. Probably wouldn’t be his last either.
He reached into his vest and pulled a glowstick, cracking it, lighting up the pitch dark space with sickly green light. He’d gone through the first floor into the basement, somehow not getting trapped under the rubble that had come down with him. The hallway he’d ended up in hadn’t collapsed fully, but it wasn’t in good shape either. The concrete was cracked, the weight of the ruined complex making the walls groan, broken pipes and conduits hissing distantly into the space.
He braced against the wall and forced his shoulder back into the socket, grunting at the sharp pop of pain. Next thing he needed was a splint for his bloody ankle. An inconvenient break, but fixable. The ribs would be fine, so long as they hadn’t punctured his guts. If they had, he was already dead, it just hadn’t kicked in yet.
So he had to continue under the assumption that they hadn’t. Fine. Splint.
A broken crate nearby would suffice. He crawled over and cracked it apart, sandwiching his foot between two splintery lengths of wood, tying them together with a length of para-cord, looping it around the bottom of his boot a few times to keep the joint as immovable as possible. He pushed himself up, wincing when concrete flaked off under his hand, the wall shifting from the pressure he put on it.
He started moving down the hall, the glowstick illuminating a small circle around him, revealing the gleam of water under a broken pipe, the particles of dust still hanging in the air. A tomb, but a roomier one than Ghost was used to. His ankle throbbed dully with every other step. He checked comms periodically, and got nothing but static in return.
The hallway ended with a pile of rubble. Dead end.
Had be been moving the wrong way? Or had there been multiple charges on the base? It was hard to say— He was pretty sure the cut on his head had been superficial, but maybe he was concussed, disoriented, wandering blindly.
He heard snarling. Distant. Swearing? Someone else was alive down here.
Ghost pivoted and headed back down the hallway to the last intersection— He’d stayed in the main hall because it looked more structurally sound, but the near-inhuman growling was coming from this smaller corridor. Probably an enemy, but maybe they’d have working comms.
He shouldered his rifle and hugged the wall as he moved towards the sound.
The swearing stopped, the hall turning eerily quiet, just the dripping of distant water and the sound of Ghost’s ragged breathing, the reliable thump of his heart. He stopped where he was.
“Oi! Whoever tha fuck ye are, get yer arse over here,” a voice snapped. A familiar voice.
No. No, he was just hearing things. Just a Scottish accent, and he was imagining the familiarity. The voice was a little deeper, a little rougher anyway.
“Hey! Dinnae jest stand there ye dobber. Ah can see you.”
Ghost took a breath to steel himself, and moved closer, gun at the ready. His circle of light illuminated black liquid (blood?) and eyes that gleamed at him from the darkness like an animals. The greenish light illuminated a face a moment later, the lower half covered with a muzzle-like respirator, but the upper half— “Johnny?” he asked hoarsely.
But the eyes didn’t soften with recognition. They were rendered colourless and glassy in the green light, not the sharp, laughing blues he remembered. New scars too, a slash over one eye, and the healed over wound where the bullet had gone through his head.
The bullet that had killed him.
“Somethin’ wrong with ye?” Johnny snapped, shoving at the hunk of concrete that had his lower half pinned to the floor. “I’m no’ yer Johnny. Now gie this fuckin’ rock offa me.”
Simon couldn’t get himself together, he dropped to his knees beside the man, confusion blooming through his head, clouding the mission. He usually knew what to do. But this? “Johnny— 'ow the fuck are you alive?”
“I’m no’ Johnny.” A hand shot out and grabbed Ghost by the strap of his tac vest, hauling him in closer. “Git yer shite together, English.”
Simon flinched. Even with the strange shadows, the unfamiliar snarl, Simon knew that face. Knew his Johnny. “What the fuck did they do to you?” he asked. “They said you were dead!”
“Listen, English, I dinnae know ye. Now, can ye shift this shite or no’?”
Simon shook himself, and stood, checking out the rubble that had Johnny pinned, lifting the glowstick to illuminate the ceiling where it caved in. The pile of debris on top of Johnny was holding up the whole section. “No. The tunnel’s gonna collapse if I do. You’re stuck.”
“Ah, shite.”
Simon carefully lowered himself back to the floor, grunting. “My team’s lookin’ for me. You injured? Got workin’ comms?”
Johnny let his head thump back to the ground. “Fuck. No, no’ injured, best I can tell. No comms either. Blast fried my kit. EMP in it, probably ta wipe the computers on base. I go’ a hard-drive, hopefully it’s no’ crushed under this big feckin’ rock!” He gestures rudely at the concrete.
“Who’d’you work for?” Simon asked. “M16? CIA?”
“None of your bloody business, English. If you dinnae know me, it’s above yer clearance.”
“Doubt it. I’m SAS. Taskforce 141.” It was so strange to tell him information that he was supposed to know. “Lieutenant Simon Riley. Besides, I do know you.”
“Oh, are ye?” Johnny studied him for a long moment. “I thought Riley wore a stupid skull mask all the time. No pictures on file. They call him Ghost, which is a bloody stupid name.”
“That’s me. Your name’s worse. We call you Soap.”
“Listen, English, ye dinnae know me! I’m no’ your sudsy Johnny or whatever.”
“Yes. You are.” Simon took off his gloves and reached into a pocket to pull out the photo he liked to keep on him, a picture of the two of them in Glasgow, in front of the big stone arches leading into one of the parks. Arms around each other, Johnny’s smile brighter than the sunny day. He’d had someone take his phone and snap the picture for them, talking up a storm. Simon had it printed— Had printed most of the good pictures of Johnny— and made an album. This one was a favourite, though. He could see the happiness in his own eyes.
Happiness had died with Johnny. But seeing him again had a little flicker of it coming back to life, even if he did look at him like he was a stranger.
He handed the picture and the glowstick to Johnny, watched the wrinkle of confusion grow between his eyebrows. “I dinnae remember this.”
“Bullet probably damaged your memory.” Ghost shifted closer and brushed his fingers over the healed injury. “Or maybe they did somethin' to you. What’s with the muzzle? You were always a dog, but this looks different.”
“Canister cracked, but it’s for aerosolized— They told me I had a wife. Tha’ she’d died, an’ Ah’d volunteered for this.” Johnny’s thumb brushed over his own face.
“Who’s they?”
"Doctors. God, there was so much missin' I didnae ask the right questions." He sighed. "CIA, maybe. Some of them were Americans. Watcher's American."
"Watcher? Kate?"
"Aye, tha's her name. Laswell."
Simon's hands curled into fists. He didn't much care for the idea that Kate knew that Johnny was alive, and had let him think he was dead this whole time. "What did they say your name is?" He asked.
"Nautilus."
"What, you think that's what your mum named you?"
"Well. Guess no'. Didnae really think about it." Johnny looked at him, something sheepish in his eyes. "Sounds daft now."
"Can't know what you don't know."
"Weel, maybe, but everythin' from before is just a big fuck-off black hole. It shoulda bothered me more."
"What's the cracked canister?" Simon asked. "The shite all over the floor yeah?"
"Aye. Makes me stronger, faster, heal better. Guess it might make me stupid too." He chuckles, tugging the respirator down off his face. "Johnny. Riley?"
Simon snorted. "Mactavish. We weren't married."
Johnny flexed his jaw, working it side to side. "But we were… Together, aye?"
"Yeah. I'm real familiar with the Scotland Forever tattoo on your lower back."
"Away and bile yer heid. Go' it oan a dare, when Ah was a…" He trailed off, realization colouring his expression. "Recruit. Didnae know tha'."
"Between Price and Gaz'n me, we can probably fill in some'f the blanks for you."
"What else do you know about me?"
"Just about everythin'. Got three older sisters. Born and raised in Glasgow. Right pain in the arse. Rangers fan. Cousin in the air force. You're an artist, got sketches that make even me look 'andsome." Simon grinned, brushing a hand through Johnny's mohawk. "Glad you kept the stupid 'aircut."
"Oh fuck off," Johnny said, grinning back, thumping his fist against Simon's chest. The tags spilled over the edge of his vest, the cross catching the eerie light. Johnny stared at it. "That's mine?" he asked. "An' you wear it, all the time?"
"Yeah. You recognize it?"
"Kinda. I guess, yeah."
"Gave your tags to your mum. She said I could keep this."
"I don't remember her. Or you. Or much of anythin' really. Thought I remembered he wife, but I guess I was just tryin' to make sense of what they told me." Johnny hummed. "Didn't do so badly for myself though, did I? You're a big handsome feller." He tried to hand back the picture, but there was reluctance to it, like he didn’t really want to let it go.
Simon knew the feeling. “You keep that. I can print a new one. Show you the rest when we get out of here. See if we can shake loose any other memories.”
Johnny tucked the photo into his vest, letting his arm fall to his side, into the narrow space between them. “Aye, that sounds nice.”
Slowly, hesitantly, Simon wrapped his hand around Johnny’s, slotting together perfectly, just like they were supposed to. Johnny lifted his hand, fingers tightening in case Simon tried to pull away. He studied their interlocked hands for a long moment.
Simon opened his mouth, but he changed his mind about what he was going to say when he heard the distant scuff of footsteps, his busted radio buzzing with static. A rescue already? It seemed soon, but then again, he didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious before he’d started moving.
He clicked through the radio frequencies, trying to get a clear channel, but nothing that came through was intelligible. He picked up his rifle, surging to his feet, ignoring his ankle. “Hey!” he shouted. “Over ‘ere! Got someone trapped.”
The distant footsteps turned into a stampede, so much noise, voices (English, American) talking over each other, the static of radio. They had flashlights— Too bright after all that time with just the glowstick. Simon blinked, trying to adjust as people crowded into the space, separating him from Johnny, hands pulling his gun from his hands.
“Easy, Lieutenant,” a voice said from behind one of those too-bright lights when he tried to hold on to his rifle. “We’ll get you both out of here. Are you injured?”
“I— Yes, but—”
“Nautilus secured,” someone said.
“Oi, get yer hands off me, let me see him—”
This wasn’t right. “No, no! Johnny— Get the ‘ell off me— Johnny!” He tried to push past the hands, to see past the lights, but they pushed back. Something pinched at his neck, and everything turned upside down, his vision warping, ears ringing. “No!”
The world turned white, rather than black.
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There are flashes of colour and sound, reality bleeding in around the edges of the noise. The blue sky, Price’s face, Gaz’s arm pulling him up, more bright lights. They try to get him on a stretcher, but that’s the wrong way— He needs to get back to Johnny.
Price says something, but the words don’t make any sense. Simon grabs his collar, tries to explain, but there’s no understanding in Price’s eyes.
Noise from a helo. Nik’s voice. Blue gloved hands and more lights.
No Johnny.
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He stared at a white grid of ceiling tiles, confused, body heavy as lead. He looked to one side, at Price snoring in the chair, then at the beeping monitor on the other side.
“Price,” he rasped.
Price jerked awake in an instant. “Shit, Simon, you gave us a scare.”
“What ‘appened?”
“You dug your way out— Gaz and I found you passed out above ground. Don’t know how you did it, they said you were exposed to gas fumes, lack of oxygen for god knows how long. You were hallucinatin’ when you came to.”
“No. No, I wasn’t. Price, I saw Johnny down there.”
Price’s eyes pinch with concern. “Simon… Johnny’s dead.”
Simon shook his head vehemently. “No! No, ‘e’s alive, Skipper. I saw ‘im. ‘E didn’t know me. They did somethin’ to ‘im, made ‘im different. Someone came to get ‘im, they must’ve left me above ground.” He scowled. “They took ‘im from me, Price. Again!” He flexed his hands, remembering the feel of Johnny’s hand in his.
That was no hallucination.
“Simon…”
“No. Look at my ‘ands, Price. If I’d dug myself out they’d be bloody scraped up.” He held out his palms, calloused, but unmarred. “I know I’m mad, Price, but I swear. I saw ‘im.”
Price frowned. The evidence didn’t add up, but he didn’t believe him either. If their positions had been reversed, Simon might not have believed him either. They’d seen Johnny go cold. Carried the ashes back to Scotland. He’d told Aileen and the girls what had happened, cried with them.
But it didn’t matter. That was all a bad dream now. Simon knew what he’d seen. Johnny was alive, and he’d find him. And he’d never let anyone get between them again.
Undeniable fact. The sky was blue, the earth was round, and Simon Riley would see Johnny Mactavish again.
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In a spartan, concrete room, a man that might have once been named Johnny stares at Simon’s half-covered, half-familiar face in a photograph, standing next to a mirror image of himself, younger and smiling. Happy.
In love.
He wonders what that feels like. Does it feel like the squeeze around his heart when Simon wrapped his big, scarred hand around his? Calloused palm to palm, bare skin that burned like holy fire where they touched, dark eyes that looked at him with some indescribable emotion? Did it feel like light after an eternity in darkness?
He thinks it must feel like coming home. Like belonging somewhere warm and familiar, in someone’s arms, not this cold, sterile room that now feels only a step above a cell.
He presses a kiss to Simon’s image, and holds it to his chest, and wonders if somewhere Simon is thinking of him too.
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(He is.)
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I've been thinking about writing something like this this since I first saw the new Nautilus skin for Soap. The idea that they were going to Winter Soldier our boy has stuck with me, and when I was listening to these two songs, the idea solidified into something actionable. Sorry it's not a happier ending! But I think it's still a hopeful one.
Thanks for reading!
Image Credits: Basement - Smoke
Pompeii, Good Grief - Bastille
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