just trying my okayest but i dont tag anything and its to late to start and im crying send help 🏳️⚧️he/him 2004 baby Actively Killling All Doves +18 only yall
and like why is there even still gender segregated tennis in the first place. it's hitting shit with a racket. anyone can do that against anyone. like I feel like we've had pretty significant proof that women can and do whup any man's ass at tennis for uuuuuuh however long the Williams sisters have been doing it. what on earth is the point of "sex testing" the players. let them all just hit the fucking balls at whoever they want who gives a fuck.
hey guysss so unfortunately the rumors are true and im leaving the narrative. Buttt the good news is my absence will create such a gaping hole in your lives that it will become a sort of presence itself, and so in a way it will kind of be like i never left! But i am. Leaving just to be clear.
Gaz has personal beef with delivery man because, for some unknown reason, they always give him your packages.
You, his neighbor, who's two houses down with a clearly marked mailbox.
Or...he used to have beef with the mailman, until he knocked on your door one day instead of leaving the mail on your porch. The prettiest damn thing he's ever seen. Warm in your pajamas, clearly only having woke up a bit ago.
You blinked so sweet at him before asking "uhm? Can I help you, sir?"
Gaz spent...far too long fantasizing about you. About that lovely smile, how soft and gentle you are in every movement. Sometimes he'll spot you watering your garden and somehow you make those grass stained overalls look adorable.
The next time he incorrectly receives your mail, his entire face burns hotter than fire.
He opts to leave it on the porch this time.
Meanwhile, you have the mortifying experience of opening your door wondering where that handsome neighbor is only to find your bad dragon order was not shipped with discreet packaging.
The next time gaz sees you, he can hardly get a word out. Mind conjuring up images of that giant, knotted monster toy and trying to compare it to the sweet thing that moves worms off the pavement.
No thoughts just ghost desperately jerking off, thinking of you, right?
The soldier in the barracks next to his, nothing but a thin wall separating you two.
He knows you as the lieutenant for some other team. The one who always makes him fight for q Victory when you two spar in the gym. That's where his little...fascination...began.
Few people are willing to spar with the guy who looks like he's been through hell, even less are able to take him down consistently. The first time you took him down, holding his arms behind his back with an iron grip and a knee firmly at the base of his skull, ghost swears he heard god in your laugh.
Almost every time he'd fantasize at night, it'd be to the memory of your hands on him. Of the pain blooming under his skin. Or, on rare occasions, his own calloused palms holding you down.
He's learned to be quiet about it, no need to creep you out with how often he's jerking off to you. Guiltily, he tries to keep his entire room silent, listening for you on the other side of the wall.
"Fuck! Mmghhg, yes–!" Tonight is not one of those nights.
"Please, christ please–" ghost rocks his cock into his palm, slick and desperate. You're out tonight, he made sure of that. Meaning ghost has been moaning openly, really getting into it like he hasn't allowed himself before.
He adjusts his grip, squeezes tighter at the base, pulls all the stops and–
And nothing. Everytime ghost feels so damn close to the edge, it's like he meets a wall. Constantly on that peak of pleasure but unable to push over. He whines, high and needy "no! No, no, c'mon! Please!"
A thump on the wall so loud ghost flails, falls half off the bed. Followed by your shouting "fuckin' hell, riley! Keep it down!"
His cock pulses once, twice. Thick ropes spilling over his stomach. Deathly quiet, refusing to breathe, he jerks himself until it hurts. Distantly, he registers you moving around the room, your nightly routine.
Hi rommy, I was just wondering if you use mobility aids yourself since you represent them so often in your writing?
Nope! I just think it's pretty realistic for the guys to use them considering the INSANE SHIT they live through (glances at gaz literally hanging from a rope out of a heli)
Ngl I'm kinda shocked how little disabled!141 the fandom has especially with retirement fics. I always think of gaz to have a cane, and soap when he's alive either uses a walker/cane/wheelchair bc of the TBI. Ghost is so the kinda guy to be nonchalant about his aids, he's kicking your legs in regardless of how he does it. Price, like gaz, probably has some pride issues surrounding his knee braces but christ does he need them.
Sorry, got a little rambly, I just think the fandom needs more mobility aids! :3
Ghost is ugly, it's a fact he's learned to live with. It'd never truly been an insecurity...until now.
You find ghost stood in the bathroom of your apartment, the one that you practically share at this point, staring at the mirror. He's got that subtle scrunch to his nose that would be a pinched expression on anyone else.
"Si, what're you doing, baby?" You ask, wrapping your arm around his side, leaning into his space. Your eyes drift down to his hand, holding various pamphlets. "What's this?"
Simon holds the pamphlets up for you, and a quick glance has you frowning. Reconstructive surgery. Worn at the edges, as if stored in a bag for a long time, something he got years ago. Still, he asks "would you...would you prefer if I got my face...fixed?"
"Simon..." you whisper, shocked. Ghost trails a hand over his face, fingertips dipping into the grooves of scars and catching over bits that never healed right. They pause over the gash that tore a hole straight through his cheek.
"I can't eat right, and I see the way people...People look at us." He whispers to you. You should have seen this coming after last night.
Your anniversary dinner, two whole years. It was a fancy restaurant, and you wanted to strangle the waiter for how he looked at your simon just trying to enjoy the meal. A cloth placed under his mouth, hunched over the plate to avoid making a mess. He's always been messy, unable to eat cleanly with all the injuries to his face.
The other patrons stared, and you ended up calling the night short in pure rage. Now, simon thinks it's his fault.
"I would never forgive you if you did," you finally whisper, grab his jaw and pull his face away from the mirror. Simon looks shocked by your answer, so you thumb over the divot in his lip, smiling "you are as beautiful as the day i met you. I love how you look, and I'm sorry that I made you doubt it."
"I don't look normal..." ghost tries to counter, but he melts into the palm of your hand like a stray dog finally feeling kindness.
"I don't want normal, I want you, si. I always want you," finally, you pull him into a kiss. Slow, deep, reverent. There in the same bathroom you cut his hair in, the same one he helped you shower in. The grout surely still has flecks of his blood in them from bad nights, but you don't fear the rot.
You toss the pamphlets out, wish you could burn them where they sat.
Instead, you pull ghost into bed and promise to show him you feel no amount of disgust or shame for any part of him.
If there's one person you want to go with to amusement parks, it's ghost.
Price is good for maybe two coasters before he's grumbling about an aching back and complaining about the food. Soap may like coasters, but he's a total snob and extremely prone to food poisoning from theme parks only. Gaz will outright laugh at you and tell you—for the 30th time—about the time he flew hanging from the rope of a helo.
But ghost? Oh man, he's perfect.
"We have to get there early, beat the lines, kid." A total fucking masochist, he wants every ride they have. He wants to feel his blood rush to his feet when he's turned upside down, wants to stumble off that ride happy to be alive.
"C'mon, that one almost killed someone two years ago." He tells you, pointing to the most extreme ride as a 'warm up' and when you mumble about saving it for last, he just laughs at the assumption you'll only ride it once.
If you get sick, he laughs like a proud brother and takes a photo of you instead of buying one off the gift shop.
He never really uses the money price gives him anyways, so he'll buy you a plushie from the giftshop to celebrate your big achievement.
Contrary to popular belief, ghost is the parent who insists on taking photos of his baby all the time.
Little chubby thing with the reddest face anyone's seen, ghost lovingly calls baby his little ladybug. He genuinely doesn't understand the men he would overhear on base, talking about their babies and wives at home as if they were some parallel lines running next to eachother.
He laughed the first time a supposed father proudly proclaimed he'd never changed a diaper, because "yer no father at that point, jones. Just the poor excuse for the kids other half."
No, ghost is obsessed with being in his babies life.
He wants to be there with you when baby is crying all night and the only thing that makes her sleep is the sound of the vacuum. He wants to have her photos plastered around the house, more than that he wants to be in the photos.
Before you, before the baby, the only photos of ghost existed in a classified folder documenting the injuries of one simon riley. Ghost hated appearing in photos, had no interest in documenting the disgusting thing that he inhabited.
Now? Now, ghost is forcing himself to be in nearly every photo with baby. One with her Curled up on his bare chest, bumblebee onesie almost too big for her. One with ghost hunched over in the couch while he feeds baby because she only drinks when she can see both you and ghost.
Eventually, he fills a baby book. Countless photos, all evidence of his love.
He doesn't think about his own father, how the only photos they had together were on his 6th birthday after the cops talked to mum and da for hours. He grew up wondering what a dad does, what if feels like to be loved like in the movies.
Ghost never wants his daughter to wonder if she was loved. Even if he doesn't come back from the field, he wants pages of evidence to quell any insecurity she has.
"This might be the stupidest thing you've dragged me to yet," Ghost pulls into an empty space at the back of the parking lot. A strip mall lays out in front of them. A brewery and a nail salon bookend their destination.
"Aw, come on," Soap grins, "Gaz swears they've got great tea and-"
"I don't fancy my tea full of cat hair." Ghost shoots back before putting the truck in park.
Soap hops out like a kid going to a candy store, while Simon pockets the keys in his jacket and looks to the passenger seat. "Phone."
Soap looks back at the seat, seeing his cracked phone sitting on the seat where it had fallen out of his jeans. He rolls his eyes, annoyed by his own forgetfulness, tucking it into his back pocket. "I dinnae what I'd do without ye, LT."
"You'd miss a lot more phone calls, that's for sure." Ghost mutters, trailing a few steps behind Soap and scanning the parking lot. Ghost can already see the furry beasts behind the glass, tails swishing and soft meows can be heard from outside.
A chiming bell signals their entry to The Smitten Kitten Cat Cafe, Ghost was expecting to be assaulted with the smells of stale cat piss and old fur- but it's the smell of coffee that catches his attention instead. Good coffee. As soon as they enter, a tuxedo cat stands from its perch on a window sill and stretches before curling back up in a new spot.
A lanky young man stands at the hostess podium, looking up from his work with a smile.
"Hello! Table for two?"
Soap nods, doing his best not to swivel his head around and start cooing at all the cats. "Aye, somewhere by the windows if ye got it."
The host smiles and nods, taking two menus from under the stand and directing them towards a corner table by the window. The corner promises sunlight later in the day, but is pleasantly warm and situated near a large boxed off area with several cats snoozing. The felines don't look up as the pair sit, used to humans being around. The cafe is relatively quiet today, not many visitors on a Tuesday afternoon. Most people would be at work, but Soap was determined to take Ghost out on the few days of reprieve they get after a mission.
"I'll be your waiter today, we're a little short staffed. Can I get you some waters to start?"
"Coffee. Black." Ghost cuts in, ignoring the pointed look from Soap. So called civilian skills were not Ghost's expertise, but he begrudgingly adds, "And waters. Thanks."
"Aye, and bring us two of those blueberry muffins I spied on the way in as well." Soap adds with a prize winning grin.
Ghost's eyes flicker towards a chirping orange cat on a tall cat tree. The large fiery cat swats downward off the edge of its perch to hit the black cat who is curled up in a hanging basket. The black cat, clearly annoyed after several pats, quietly hisses at the orange one before jumping off the cat tree and moving towards a covered pillow bed shaped like a shark.
"Is s'posed to be fun, Si." Ghost shoots Johnny a look promising much worse than cat scratches if the Scot uses his birth name in public again, but he allows the man to take his hand until the waiter brings back the coffees. Soap points out the kitten curled up under its mother in the corner of the box, another tuxedo cat zooming across the wooden track along the top of the wall, but Ghost's eyes keep finding the orange and black cats.
The black cat, having been harassed again by the orange cat, has retreated to the top ledge of a cat tree made to look like a series of cardboard boxes. The orange cat has accepted he cannot reach the black cat and instead bumps his head under the ledge, the black cat grumbling every time he's shifted slightly by a particularly hard thump.
When Ghost's eyes turn back to his coffee, Soap has his chin on his hand, brows raised in a smug victory. "Careful, LT. Almost saw a smile."
Ghost huffs, taking a swig of the surprisingly good brew, "Not a smile. Wondering if we're about to witness a cat fight."
Soap looks over, seeing the black cat has now stood up and leaned its head down to the orange cat, eyes closing every time the orange cat bops it on its forehead. Despite the swipes aimed at its face, the orange cat is unperturbed and continues to play fight with the black cat.
Before Soap can assure Ghost that's how cats play and it's fine, the black cat jumps down and bites a swiping paw, only letting go when the orange cat yowls and scurries off. The black cat then settles back on the top perch, eyes watching the room. Ghost could swear those yellow eyes connect with his for a beat longer than an animal should allow.
"Sorry about that, those two are always getting into it." The waiter laughs, refilling their coffee and taking Soap's empty plate.
"Shouldn't ye seperate them? So they dannae get hurt?" Soap asks, eyes narrowing at the black cat.
The waiter shakes his head, "Trust me, we tried. They're a bonded pair."
Ghost looks up at the waiter, mulling this information over. "How? The black one clearly hates the orange one."
The waiter glances over to the black cat snoozing while the orange cat sits in a box, licking his bitten paw. "They were found together as strays, must've spent some time on the streets together. Oh, here, take a look-"
A calico female walks over to the orange one, sniffing at the slight tang of blood in the air as the orange cat pauses with its rough tongue halfway down its paw. In less than a heartbeat, the black cat jumps nearly ten feet down to land beside the orange cat with a growl at the calico. The orange cat continues treating its wound while the black cat stalks back and forth, warding off the calico with a hiss.
"Oh," Soap looks back to the waiter, "Frenemies then?"
The waiter nods, "Something like that."
Ghost can't tear his eyes away from the orange cat makes room for the black cat in the box who curls around him protectively. "They got names?"
"Black one is Specter, orange one is named Suds- he hates a bath. Mostly because it means being seperated from Specter for the duration."
Ghost's eyes squeeze shut as he scratches at his forehead, already seeing where this was going. He can feel Soap's wide eyes boring through his mask, the Scot speaking through a toothy smile, "Aye? Why Specter then?"
"Because he only makes noise when he's around Suds. We thought he might have a vocal chord issue at first, but really he only trusts Suds to hear what he's got to say."
The two men leave a few hours later with two cats, several recommendations for boarding, and a large bag of supplies.
Suds' new collar is black with skulls. Specter's is a bright blue.
gaz and soap hooking up and gaz crying out "john" and soap knows it's not for him but ofc they keep going because when soap lets the occasional "si—" slip, gaz pretends not to have heard it.
Your shout comes from two rooms away and Simon swears he's never seen his captain or his sergeant move faster at any point in their lives.
Kyle laughs as they both leap to their feet. Hackles raised as they listen for clarification.
"NOW. JOHN."
Your voice rattles their bones and they both decide better to go together than risk sacrificing the wrong man. They make their way, tails between their legs as Johnny mutters curses at Kyle.
Kyle takes the opportunity to rearrange, taking Johnny's place in Simon's arms. They lounge for a bit, but Kyle can't resist.
"think they're both in trouble, or simply it's been forgotten they're both here?"
Simon shrugs. "The latter."
Kyle looks up at Simon. His eyes are closed, but there's the faintest smirk across his face. "What?"
"Shhhh," Simon's voice is hardly audible now. "Johnny had laundry duty, but I did it for him. Mixed in a red sock with the lights."
"Oh you're toast, mate."
"Shhhhhhh... You stay right there."
Kyle laughs and obliges in Simon's plot to be found sleeping and content. You know Simon never gets the sleep you wish he would, and you'd never interrupt Kyle from his weighted blanket duties.
You'll have to seek retribution for your now bright pink work clothes some other time.
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