i am a system, of which ghost is a very prominent member. please keep this in mind when viewing my works/my tags. a lot of my writing deals with dark themes. this is your warning.
requests welcome. my interests vary, but cod is very present, for obvious reasons (☠️)
this is an inherently nsfw space. please do not interact if you are a minor.
i do not consent to the use of ai with any of my work or anyone else’s. fuck off.
Rommy, I beg!! The boys!! What weird ways do they court their omega?? Mostly Ghost because I think he’d be the most odd.
Ohhhh ghost courting his omega is....a danger to anyone involved.... <:0
Others give favourite snacks or drinks as courting gifts. Something small to show they can feed you and know you well enough to follow your preferences.
The first courting gift ghost gives you is multiple coolers full of deer meat. That he personally hunted and butchered, of course. The heart, you notice, already has a bite taken from it...
Others try to show-off to gain affection, usually in competition with others. Arm wrestling is popular, but on base sparring is a go-to. That, or drinking games.
Ghost....isn't allowed to do that after he "accidentally" put that one lieutenant trying to court you in the hospital. Now? You get USB drives full of his favourite bodycam clips from ops. Usually of his brutal hand-to-hand combat and guerilla warfare, but he once got you a 13 hour video of him sniping for you to "fall asleep to, lovie."
All that is to say, anytime you express dislike towards someone you need to quietly assure ghost you don't want them hurt in any way.
Thinking about dog shifter!ghost who is big even by shifter standards.
The kind of big that makes people nervous to be around him. Some instincts in their mind triggered at the sheer size of him. The few times ghost has felt calm or happy enough to shift around others, they freeze up and shift away from him. No one truly trusts him.
No one, it seems, but you.
"Wait, you're a shifter? I had no idea!" You ask him one night when he mentions having to shift on the field. leaning towards him excitedly only to remember yourself and blush "ah. I mean. You don't owe it to me, I'm just curious–"
"I'm scary," ghost interrupts you, eyes half-lidded in that calm way he gets after eating your meals "didn't want to shock you."
"....please? Please ghost, I promise I won't scare." You beg, giving him your best puppy dog eyes.
Thing is, ghost...wants to shift. He wants to sink into that simple headspace, wants to be soft and safe with you. He trusts you more than he should.
So ghost sinks further into the couch, breathes deeply, and shifts.
He's bracing for the anxiety, for the fear, for the forced play of calmness. He isn't prepared for your gasp of awe and hands suddenly petting his face "oh! Look at you!! You're nearly as big as Titus, aren't you, simon?"
Turns out, you grew up with big dogs and all ghost does is remind you of home.
"Awww you're not scary at all!" You coo, scratching behind his ears and giggling in delight when his tail begins to rapidly thump against the couch "just a big boy! Yes! Yesss so cute!!
Is it technically socially unacceptable to baby-talk and shifters in their animal form? Yes. Will ghost stop you? Absolutely not. He's too busy climbing all over your and happily snuffling your neck and face and hands and—
He really likes being shifted. Had no idea he needed it so bad.
That night, you fall asleep with a giant dog on top of you, happily rumbling with your fingers in his fur. It's the first night in months ghost hasn't had nightmares.
Each detail was meticulously considered, your bag so very carefully packed with every possible thing you’d need. Sunscreen, snacks, wet wipes, aloe vera…anything and everything you could think to squirrel away throughout the week for your eventual day among the surf and sea. No one in the world had ever been as doggedly prepared for a day of relaxation as you, surely.
Which is exactly why you are just so fucking pissed that the weather had completely switched up on you halfway through the day.
You’d even checked! Of course you had! You’d been promised blue skies and idyllic puffs of clouds, a lovely breeze, and enough sunshine to leave you pleasantly bronzed. A very different scene from the sheets of rain sloughing off the solid ceiling of slate gray currently choking out the sun and soaking you to the bone.
It was coming down hard enough that visibility was reduced to about a foot or two in front of you, the wind utterly unforgiving as it yanks at your clothes and the bag you cling to. You’re absolutely fuming as you stumble along the sand, wet clumps of it sticking to your feet and wedging uncomfortably under the straps of your sandals. Thankfully, you’d chosen a spot right near the rocky cliffside hemming the beach in. The spot right near the natural cave you’d made note of earlier in the day, revealed by the low tide.
You trudge through sludgy sand a little longer until you make your way to the craggy wall of black stone, palm pressing flat to it to feel along the rest of the way. The cave is close enough that it only takes another minute or so to find, and you slip inside immediately.
Finally given reprieve from the constant barrage of shit weather, you take stock of your situation. You’re wet as a drowned rat, your carefully packed things just as waterlogged, dripping into the thin layer of briny water covering the cave floor while the storm rages outside. There are no signs of it easing any time soon, either, which is just absolutely fantastic.
Upset doesn’t even begin to explain how you feel.
Not much to do about it other than wait it out, though. Which means you have plenty of time to stew in your misery in a big, dark cave. Marginally better than doing it in the storm, you guess. You just hope and pray that the tide doesn’t come in before the sky is finished raging.
Sighing, you drop your sodden bag onto a nearby rock, raking both hands through your hair to shove it back out of your face. This could be worse, you think, trying your best to be optimistic. Of course, this is exactly the moment that a very heavy sounding splash echoes from the darkened end of the cave.
You freeze, straightening into a perfect statue of yourself. Whatever had moved in the pitch black in front of you had sounded very big, but you weren’t sure what could possibly have wandered in here with you. At least, you aren’t until a man’s voice calls out to you, sounding strangely delighted as he calls out to you.
“Do ye plan on jus’ standin’ there the whole time?”
Somewhere in the gloom, something splashes again, and then the man speaking to you hauls himself up onto the rocky ledge separating you from the rest of the cave and into the dim light. Or…you thought it was a man speaking to you, anyway. The finned upper half of the creature currently staring directly at you is definitely not your average human.
“Uh,” you so eloquently answer, distracted by the startling blue of his eyes as they stay firmly fixed on your face, “I was just…getting out of the rain…”
His gaze sweeps over you avidly, curiosity evident in how he stares and folds his arms on the rock, translucent green fins lining the sides of his forearms. He tips his head to the side, humming in thought, and you watch as his pointed ears swivel back.
“Storm caught ye, too, aye? Positively pishin’ doon out there,” he remarks conversationally. His voice is so casual that you almost forget the fact that you have no idea who (what?) you’re currently stuck in this cave with. You nod, just once, eyes cutting to the blur of rain outside and then back to him.
“Aw, yer a shy one, then? That’s alright,” he continues, chuckling like this is some long running bit between you. When he smiles, you catch a glimpse of whetted teeth. “Never seen one ‘a yer types up close before.”
Your nose scrunches, confusion flashing across your face.
“What, shy people?” You ask, half laughing incredulously around the question. He snorts, grinning even wider.
“Nah. Humans. No offense, but ye don’ exactly welcome the unknown, aye? Safer t’keep a distance.”
Well…fair. People could hardly handle each other, let alone…whatever he was.
“I guess we’re even, then,” you answer, returning his conversational tone. He’d given you no reason not to, after all. “I’ve never met one of your kind, either. Uh…I promise I won’t freak out, or whatever.”
He seems delighted at this, pulling himself up further onto the rock. As he does, you catch the glint of scales starting just below his waist. A tail, you realize with a start, the pieces clicking into place. No fucking way this is how you find out merfolk are real.
“Barry! Then I think we can get introductions out of the way. Name’s Johnny.”
He--Johnny--proclaims this with all the enthusiasm he can seem to muster, beaming boyishly from his perch. Try as you might to keep up your carefully aloof facade, his joy is infectious. You can’t help but soften, even as grumpy as you are from the day’s events. You give him your name, too. He snatches it up like fresh chum.
“Lovely,” he croons, “And a pleasure to meet ye, My First Ever Human.”
A rather clunky nickname, if you were to be asked, but, hey! Who are you to question the strange fish man currently buddying up to you in a cave?
Quick reminder that Kyle isn't boring. Not in the slightest. He's tired of everyone's BULLSHIT while struggling to hold himself to a standard of morality that simply doesn't exist in the career of necessary violence he actively chooses to be a part of on a daily basis.
Why? Because he legit thought that being the dark hand of fate would allow the rest of society to live in their light. But he quickly finds out how easy it is to slip into the ugliness of it all. Hell, he was already there from the start of the games.
Because remember, his first conversation with Price is, "Hey, Dad, WHY CAN'T WE DO MORE VIOLENCE TO GET THE RESULTS WE WANT VIA ANY MEANS NECESSARY?!"
That's not someone who is good, or soft or scared to engage with the enemy. That's someone who absolutely believes "The ends justify the means."
So yeah, stop writing Kyle as some paragon of virtue. He's just as deeply flawed as the rest of them. And that makes him awesome, interesting and yeah, just as hot as the rest of the 141.
I despise how the fandom erases him or accuses him of being "boring" because he hides his cracks better than everyone else. The fact that he hides his commitment to violence so well that he comes off as completely normal if you didn't know any better? Yeah, THAT IS THE SCARY PART.
girl with ptsd voice: hey, so something really bad is gonna happen, right? you guys are picking up on that too, yeah? The other shoe is about to drop, I just know it.
hysterica passio | john price x reader | ao3
whet my hunger | kyle garrick x reader | ao3
you are destruction | kyle garrick x reader | ao3
little milk on the tongue | john price x reader | ao3
smiles for men who returned | ghost x reader | ao3
another round with the boys | choose-your-141 x reader | ao3
hot + sleazy
fruiting body | john price x reader | ao3
opportunities | john price x reader | ao3
strange animal | simon riley x reader | ao3
the lake never tires | simon riley x reader | ao3
coke machine glow | kyle garrick x reader (x simon riley) | ao3
angsty + darker
breathe for me, little bird | kyle garrick x reader | ao3
creature in the black night | simon riley x reader | ao3
i can recall breathing easy | kyle garrick x reader | ao3
while we were hunting rabbits | simon riley x reader | ao3
exaudi orationem meam (hear my prayer) | john price x reader x simon riley | ao3
cw: mdni, smut, piv, many liberties taken and likely inaccuracies about the female praying mantis (1.7k)
Simon first saw you at a handover briefing, half the base packed into a room that smelled like instant coffee and damp boots, and you were three seats down with your chin propped on one hand, listening. That was all. But he’s spent his entire adult life reading rooms for the thing that's wrong, and his eye snagged on you and would not come loose, and he couldn't for the life of him say why. Big eyes. Too big, maybe, though he didn't let himself ruminate on it. Arms a touch too long where they folded on the table, the line of them not adding up quite right against the rest of you.
He did not look away like he should’ve. A normal man sees a pretty stranger and has the decency to glance off; Simon’s known for quite some time he was not a normal man – and he fixed on you through the whole briefing… and out into the corridor… and across the next nine days, with the forbearing, unblinking attention of a lion in tall grass. He learned your shift pattern before he learned your name. He could have told you, by the end of that first week, the exact rhythm of your walk from sound alone. He knew which mug was yours, and what the base note of your perfume was: myrrh.
He didn’t find any of this strange – Simon's baseline is strange. The wanting came in effortless and stupid, the way it does for everyone else in the world — he simply routed it through the only instincts he's got, which are a predator's.
It was Soap who ruined him.
Soap caught him at it in the mess — Simon parked against the far wall with a coffee going cold in his fist, focused on watching you eat. Soap followed the line of his stare, found you at the end of it, and grinned like the cheshire cat. "Oh, her," he said, delighted. "Aye, she's one of the hybrids. Mantis." He said it the way you'd mention someone supported the wrong football team. Then, because Soap cannot leave fuck-all alone, he leaned in and cheerfully added, "You'll want to be careful there, big man. Mantis females, ehh— they eat the fella after. During, sometimes. Bite the head clean off and finish the job. Read it somewhere once." He clapped Simon on the shoulder. "Best of luck."
And then he left. Wandered off to find some grub, whistling.
Simon stood very still against the wall, then. Felt the information go into him like a splinter you can't find to pull.
Bite the head clean off?
He looked back at you across the room — you'd tilted your head to listen to the person beside you, smooth and too far round, big dark eyes catching the strip-lights — and the want did not go anywhere, that was the horror of it, the want stayed exactly where it was and the new knowledge simply moved in alongside it and started rearranging some things.
He wanted you.
And being Simon, he did not do the sensible thing and walk away. He did the research.
The thing about dating Simon, you would learn, is that you have never in your life been so well fed.
You understood it maybe six weeks in, when you opened his fridge expecting the usual bachelor wasteland and found it stocked like he was provisioning for a siege. Yogurt. Three kinds of cheese. A bowl of cut fruit under cling film. A tin labeled ‘FROG LEGS’.
It was risk management dressed up as romance, which in fairness is mostly what romance is… Isn’t it?
He'd taken Soap's splinter and built a guideline out of it. He knows — he has read, in studies he will deny owning — that the trouble starts when you're hungry. Or stressed. Or both, which is the cocktail that turns a nice evening into something a coroner writes up.
He has constructed an entire relationship on the single principle of never ever letting you get to that point.
You'll be reaching for him on the sofa, hand sliding up under his shirt, mouth at the hot pulse in his throat, and he'll go rigid and say, in that flat rumble of his, "When d’you last eat?"
"Simon," you sigh,
"Tha’ s’not an answer, love."
"I'm not hungry–,"
"I saw you skipped lunch."
He watches a lot. He watches you eat with open, naked satisfaction, the way other men watch football, and the first time you caught him at it you'd put your fork down and said ‘did you want some?’ and he'd said ‘no, you have it,’ and meant it with his whole strange heart.
The man can produce a plate of food out of thin air, and there's no point arguing, because he'll simply outlast you, planted there immovable as a boulder until you've eaten enough that his shoulders come down from around his ears.
He's never once said the word out loud. Cannibalism. He skirts it like a tripwire. Early on you'd tilted your head at him a degree too sharp while he was shaving — honestly just affection — and caught his eye in the mirror, and he'd nicked his own jaw and not flinched at the blood at all, only at you. Razor frozen halfway up his neck. The muscle in his cheek jumped and his pupils shrank to pinpricks and you'd thought: Oh. He's frightened. Big, terrible Ghost, who garrotes men in their sleep, scared witless by the tilt of your head.
You felt bad for almost a full minute.
You have, in fairness, never confirmed or denied a thing. When he goes still and careful you let him. It's the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for you, this grim devout terror, and you're not about to spoil it with reassurance.
Soap, for the record, has really no idea what he started. He'll see the two of you in the canteen, Simon angling the better-fed plate toward you and think, good lad, taking my advice.
Simon had you down — the eyes that hold on him no matter where he moves, that dark point in each one that stays, tracking, while the rest of your face goes soft and human; the too-far head-turn; the way your hands fold up against your chest when you go truly still, wrists tucked, prayer-shaped.
He did not account for the wings.
You hadn't told him because you genuinely forget they're there — folded flat along your spine, a faint seam under the skin, a sheen across your shoulder blades he'd assumed was an old scar. You can't really fly. You never thought to mention them. Plus, it seemed like he knew plenty.
But now he's got you under him with your shirt long gone and his mouth working at the junction of your neck and collar, and there's none of the careful bracing tonight — he fed you an hour ago, he made sure, he watched you finish — and now there's just his weight and his hands and the husky sounds he makes against your skin. One big palm splays flat on your stomach and slides lower, fingers finding you already slick, stroking slow over your clit until your hips chase it on their own. "So soft, love," he murmurs, like he's not shaking. He gets two fingers inside you, curls them, and your whole spine bows off the mattress.
That's when they snap open.
In the dark it's monstrous; a sudden unfolding of something unknown and far too wide for the room, fanning from your back in a wash of color he can't quite name in the half-light. A deep iridescent purple shot through with flares of red, eyespots blooming towards the tips. One instant flat girl, the next a thing twice your size.
Simon goes to stone, shuts down, every system offline. This is it, he thinks — this is the bit where she takes the head. His fingers still inside you. He holds his breath, bracing.
You make a small strangled noise and pull them back down.
They fold away almost as fast as they came, gone into brackets around your spine, and you throw an arm over your face and refuse to look at him. Your ears are hot. He can feel it where his jaw rests on your cheek.
"Sorry," you whisper. "That just— happens sometimes. It– it doesn't mean anything bad, I swear… just… you… just feels good, is all.”
The single most dangerous woman he's ever shared a bed with has flashed her startle display because he got two fingers knuckle deep inside of her, and now she's mortified, hiding her face like a kid. Four months of Soap's splinter works its way loose, pushing out of his muscle, and falls out somewhere in the dark, and Simon — who has never in his life felt safe and certainly never expected to find it here, of all the deranged places — starts to come softly apart with relief. He pulls himself back to look at you.
"Le’me see you," he says, and peels your arm off your face, and when you do his eyes are doing something you've never seen on him: wet at the edges, wide open, not afraid of you at all.
Worse than not afraid. Pleased with himself.
He leans back down and kisses you hard, pushing his fingers deeper and says it against your mouth because he’s got nothing left to lose: "Do it again. Want to watch."
So you do.
And Simon fucks you slow and then not slow at all, and every time he tips you over they snap wide behind you and fill the room with color, and by the third time he's stopped flinching and started hunting it, smug, learning the exact angle that does it. When he finally comes it's with his forehead pressed to yours and your wings open around the both of you like something out of a church window, and he's saying something into your jaw, rough and ruined, that takes you a second to parse as all mine, there she is, there's my good girl.
Afterward you bite him. Just a little on the shoulder, just to be a menace, licking the taste of iron from your canine.
He doesn't even twitch. "Knew it," he says into your hair, wrecked and grinning where you can't see. "Tellin’ Soap he was right."
Out of sheer loneliness and an urge to shake shit up, you answer a dubious online ad for what looks to be a pet adoption, expecting a retired service dog to be brought to you. You, in fact, get this retired service dog.
There is a man in your living room when you come home from work.
He’s massive, taking up the entirety of your little loveseat, where he currently lounges. Black clothes, arms littered with tattoos and scars under the short sleeves, blond hair shaved into a velvety buzz cut. A face that looked like it had been reassembled more than once, puckered scar knitting together what was once a cleft lip and a crooked nose between heavy, dark eyes.
Your attention, however, locks onto the pair of cropped, fuzzy dog ears atop his head, one of them notched near the bottom.
Ah. Well.
Your panic subsides, replaced with a slow trickle of confused realization.
The personal ad you’d answered a week or so ago regarding a recently retired service dog had seemed just a little sketchy. No photos, only a vague description–a cane corso named Simon needing a loving home after a tumultuous life. Free of charge to whomever would be willing to take him in. You’d been desperate enough to look into it. After all, things got lonely around your place, and his breed were excellent protection dogs. You couldn’t see any downsides to introducing a new companion into your life, especially if the both of you could help the other, emotionally speaking. Add in the fact that he was already trained and completely free, and you were sold.
One quick email, and you had a reply not half a day later. The deal was made. You were told he would be brought over in a few days, a meeting time scheduled just after your shift. Everything was falling into place so easily, and you had been so excited to welcome your new pup into your life.
This man, though, was certainly not the pup you had expected.
“You’re…Simon?”
He grunts affirmatively, head dipping ever so slightly into what was likely meant to be a nod. He’s made no moves to get up yet, arms spread over the back of the loveseat and legs knocked wide, the very picture of bored ease.
“You my new owner?”
His voice drips with sarcasm around the word owner, a wry little curve to his crooked mouth as he rumbles out the question, Manchester accent thick. You grimace, unable to keep from making a face at the wording.
“Uh…I guess? Unless you’ve got a dog hidden somewhere and this is all some weird prank?”
He huffs, a sound you think is probably a laugh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“Dead serious, ‘m afraid.” A pause, his head tilting as his eyes sweep over you, assessing. “Y’thinkin’ of backin’ out already?”
Surprisingly, you aren’t. This was…weird, to put it very mildly, but curiosity was quickly winning out against any impulse to withdraw from the situation. Besides, you’d been all on your own for long enough that any kind of interaction, including bizarre ones like this, felt like water in a desert.
“No,” you begin, picking through your words carefully, “but I have some questions. Like, a lot of questions.”
“Fair. Go on, then.”
You blink. You’d expected a bit more resistance, given how much he’d omitted so far, but it seemed that surprising you was Simon’s specialty.
“Okay, so…” You cross your little living room, shooing him onto one side of the loveseat instead of directly in the middle. You’ll be damned if this guy was going to force you out of a seat for this conversation, no matter how big he was. He complies, another one of those huffs leaving him. Amused, you realize, and most definitely humoring you, despite being the one who’d waltzed into your apartment and made himself at home. Of course, you’d answered his ad and inadvertently invited him yourself–but that was beside the point! “I’m gonna need to know a lot more than just your, uh–” you glance at his ears–”your…breed. What was the ad really for?”
“Ad was what it said it was,” he answers simply, rolling his shoulders in a casual shrug. Like it was obvious. “Got bored.”
Oh, good, okay! That absolutely explained everything!
You bite back your snark, scrubbing a hand over your face instead.
“So, you seriously intend on staying here? Just…rooming with a total stranger you met under the guise of being a dog put up for adoption?”
“The dog part wasn’t a lie, luv.” That notched ear of his flicks forward, punctuating the dry chuckle of the words. “Got no problem bein’ a guard dog, either.”
The incredulous sound you make sticks in your throat and comes out as a dry chuckle. He says it like it’s the most mundane thing in the world, as if a man showing up and offering to pledge his services to you was what everyone did. As if it were an indisputable truth that it’s the only thing he could ever possibly be good for. Your average meet-cute, even. He catches the look on your face and nearly smiles.
“Can pay my way, too, if that’s what’s got you worried.”
That only confuses you further.
“I mean…if you really plan on staying here–”
“I do.”
“-Fine. Since you plan on staying here…you don’t even want it to be a free ride? You’re just…what? Hanging out and paying half the rent?”
He shrugs again.
“Told you as plain as it gets, luv. Got bored, found a way to liven things up. Now, we’re here. ‘M I missin’ anything?”
Well…you supposed that was as succinct as it got. He’s so calm about all of this, too, that you find yourself slowly taking in the idea.
“I don’t think so,” you reply, chewing at your lip as you roll around your new reality in your head, finding your footing. You’d already told him he could live with you, technically, and, really, how different was this to any other public call for a roommate? It might even be a stroke of luck, considering how ready and willing he appears to be to take on half of the expenses.
Beside you, Simon seems pleased with your apparent acceptance, waiting patiently for whatever else you may have to say about your shiny new cohabitation.
“Um…welcome home, I guess?”
He grins in response, lopsided, like he isn’t quite used to showing off an expression like that. Genuine as it is, you can’t help but fixate on his canines glinting in the sunset orange streaking through your blinds.
He got it cold stone sober too. Probably has had it for years. Takes it out for work and wears it the rest of the time. Pushes you down and makes you think for a second that he wants you to suck him off only to make you lick and suck on the piercing until he’s ready for your mouth on his cock. Likely tries to peer pressure you into getting one yourself at some point because he’s weird and wants to know what it would be like to do the same to you.
He also has nipple rings, but he got them on a drunk dare from Gaz. He tells you they they feel so good bonnie, here, twist, see how I- and making the most pornographic sounds you’ve ever heard. He insists they weren’t that bad, that ye need a pretty pair too, cute little matching couple’s outfit, huh? He thinks about pinning you down and kissing you and hearing your piercings against his and all but comes in his pants
