PHANTASM

Bravo 0-7

[nullseven]

CONSEQUENCES | Mutuals-only. Private, independent, and highly selective. No minors. Simon 'Ghost' Riley from Call of Duty: Modern Warfare. Depicted by Crow (they/them, 21+), dissecting the law of cause and effect, and of gravitational pulls.

To every action, there will always be a reaction in opposition and of equal magnitude.

NOTE: THIS BLOG IS ARCHIVED AND INACTIVE!

carrd - prompts - verses - headcanons

[nullseven]

ooc / hi, not sure if people will see this because it's been over a month and this blog is (i'm pretty sure) still shadowbanned so i'll effectively be archiving it. i'm also not much interested in writing ghost publicly anymore, or have the mental and emotional capacity to interact with others in a meaningful way.

so! i'm withdrawing myself from most spaces. if we talk, we talk, if we don't, no hard feelings. thanks for those who reached out and wrote with me these last few months. <3

[nullseven]

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY / Chronic Pain

Since returning from the Zaragoza incident, he's never quite been without pain. There's a baseline of aching in his body that he's gotten used to and operates around (especially within the area of his chest and abdomen, surrounding the two keloid scars are situated on both sides of his ribs).

Pain flares up on occasion, although they're never officially recorded and he's never received treatment for them on any legal paper.

[nullseven]

ANNOUNCEMENT / This blog is currently shadowbanned (cannot send asks, reply to posts, and my reblogs don't appear in other people's activity bar), so it's effectively on a semi-hiatus until I'm out of jail.

This also means: I won't be replying or answering asks as frequently, if at all. When my queue runs out, I'll let this blog sit for a while. Thank you for your patience!

[nullseven]

THREE WEEKS AGO, GHOST DISAPPEARED. The line of communication between him and the rest of the team was abruptly cut. All traces of his presence vanished with it, true to his name, as if he's not ever there to begin with.

Five days ago, an encrypted file would have been received by the task force's handler at 0100 sharp. It was, no doubt, Simon Riley's face depicted on a picture, pale and cut, his unresponsive body rolling beneath a man's boots in a different footage.

They wanted to declare him KIA.

The decision was met with expected resistance, answered only by the absolute lack of support from chain of command in regards to the idea of his rescue. It's one man, they reasoned, dead for all intents and purposes. And for how many lives in exchange?

(Nobody needed his body. A funeral is negligible. Simon Riley has no family remaining to speak of in contact, and in turn, easily abandoned.)

Today, four days after the fact, @pseudodead would receive a single text at 0244 from an unknown number that simply reads: 'Johnny.'

[pseudowar-archived]

Roach laughs - this wheezing huff of a thing - and shakes his head wildly. The mohawk had been a joke, one that had gone right over Ghost's head, not that he could entirely blame him for it. Soap and him were as thick as thieves, the idea of him wanting to go full mohawk just to be as much of a visual menace to the rules as the other Sergeant? Not entirely unreasonable, especially considering how Roach liked to menace the recruits and trainees.

So, he doesn't mock the other for believing him, only shakes his head and beams up at him. Scarred features crinkling somewhat. 'Soap would give me a mullet.' There's little doubt in his mind that he would - and that's a hairstyle he knew for a fact he couldn't wear confidently. 'It's okay. I was only joking, I don't think I'd look nearly as good with a mohawk with the curls. I'll take a trim.'

He doesn't ask if Ghost is actually offering, he knows the answer to that. Knows that if the Lieutenant didn't really want to touch his hair, he'd tell him to go back to tormenting the kids. So, instead of looking for reassurance, he rolls on his feet back and forth, hands brushing back the mess of overgrown hair once more before continuing. 'Your room or mine?'

[nullseven]

PART OF HIM FEELS LIKE HE'S fallen for some kind of benign prank, even if that's not what it is, and Ghost's grunting this half-hearted noise at Roach's explanation. (While he doesn't think mohawks would look half bad on the guy, those two would be even more like peas in a pod, beyond the way they already bounce off one another.)

He's starting to walk off by the time Roach finishes his question, momentarily quiet to contemplate his answer and fully expecting him to follow. Ghost turns his head over to Roach's direction, eyes flickering past him, watching the distant bustle of rowdy soldiers grow farther apart.

His eyes eventually find Sanderson's. "Unless you've got a shaver, then mine." Ghost rolls his shoulders, purposefully easing his typical hasty gait so Roach can sign at leisure. "I get anythin' for playing barber?"

[nullseven]

[ neck ] — sender bites and licks along receiver’s neck (Graves, @architaciturn)

GRAVES IS A BAD FUCKING HABIT. They're the exact opposite of good for each other. Four years, and three of them were spent singing the same tune, pushing and pulling, taking and giving what the other demands.

The issue with bad habits is that they're often addicting, like nicotine in the bloodstream, hard to quit and rebounding viciously when you try to.

As terrible as the withdrawals are, the crashing course is equally violent.

They're alone. Of course they are. By design, isolated, on purpose. Always somewhere impersonal. Their routine.

The edge of Graves' desk digs into where Ghost is half-sat, half-stood, head craned back to accommodate the intruding presence in his space. He's pushing his thighs apart by wedging himself between Ghost's legs, like a broken puzzle piece that shouldn't belong together.

He's all teeth and body pressed up against him, tongue on the column of his neck, greedy hands tugging Ghost's belt loose—palming the print of his cock through the fatigues—this goading thing telling him c'mon when he squeezes.

Ghost draws a sharp inhale, hips rolling forward to the contact, arms moving reflexively to find purchase on Graves' body.

It's a collage of tangled limbs; Ghost's rough hands under his shirt, claw-like on Graves' waist. He's gaining down with his weight, pushing Graves back with a bruising kiss until his knees hit the seat and he's sat on his arse again.

Ghost cages him in like this with one hand on the armrest, bent eye-level, chasing after the path of their mouths. His belt comes off with a sharp snap, followed by a ragged breath and hoarse order:

"Open your mouth."

[noahsresources]

oddly specific sensual touches.

happy sinday y’all! feel free to change any descriptors, combine prompts, and play with context if desired. spicier prompts towards the bottom. add +↻ for the reverse! ♡

[ grope ] — sender feels up receiver’s ass [ spank ] — sender spanks receiver [ trace ] — sender traces up receiver’s stomach/chest [ kiss ] — sender trails kisses down receiver’s chest and stomach [ hickey ] — sender gives receiver a hickey [ grab ] — sender feels up along receiver’s hips [ squeeze ] — sender feels up along receiver’s thighs [ slim ] — sender feels up along receiver’s sides [ gentle ] — sender sensually presses and traces along receiver’s back [ neck ] — sender bites and licks along receiver’s neck [ nibble ] — sender bites and licks along receiver’s collarbone [ massage ] — sender gives receiver a sensual back massage [ nibble ] — sender nibbles and licks against receiver’s breasts/nipples [ rub ] — sender teases and pinches at receiver’s breasts/nipples [ lick ] — sender nibbles and licks along receiver’s ear [ mouth ] — sender kisses down the back of receiver’s neck and spine [ feel ] — sender massages against receiver’s ass and the backs of their legs [ grind ] — sender grinds against a part of receiver’s body (specify where) [ strip ] — sender teasingly pulls receiver’s pants and underwear off [ pull ] — sender teasingly pulls receiver’s panties/boxers out of the way [ naked ] — sender fully strips receiver naked [ tease ] — sender teases receiver’s ass open [ open ] — sender teases receiver’s legs open [ tremble ] — sender teasingly traces along receiver’s cock/pussy/genitals [ finger ] — sender fingers receiver [ tongue ] — sender licks along receiver’s cock/pussy/genitals [ ass ] — sender licks and bites along receiver’s ass [ slick ] — sender licks along receiver’s anus [ smooch ] — our muses french kiss while naked

[nullseven]

ooc / 3 am where i am, tumblr user deadwar and i are just torturing each other, good night...

[nullseven]

" you said i could ask you questions. " :T

GHOST BEGINS TO SHUFFLE THE stack of cards in his hands, brows lifting beneath his skull-print balaclava as he cuts the deck in half for a weave and faro. Soap is sat across of him in the rec room, clearly with something more to say, by the look in his face. Or judging by the sentence alone.

"I did," he entertains him. "Why? Have you got a burning curiosity, MacTavish?"

[2ndlantern]

" oh uh. . .y'know, " the blond gestured with his hand, rolling his wrist and rotating his hand as if it'd cause his brain to churn out a believable excuse. " working. " came his reply, which wasn't entirely false.

blue eyes covered by a gold tinted visor scanned the scene around them, causing a frown to form on his face as booster realized that his visor, though intact, was offline probably from the consequences of his 'fall'. so he removed them, blinked to allow his eyes to adjust then brought them back to the other man.

" i'm probably lost, " an easy conclusion to come too. " you didn't happen to see a, uh.. ah, nevermind. it's got like a million safety protocols so you probably didn't. " he rambled, shaking his head slightly. " you wouldn't happen to have a screwdriver, mister skull man? "

[nullseven]

THERE ARE A LOT OF THINGS THAT don't make sense. Between the stranger's outfit in relation to location and the nonchalant behavior (also working, he said, whatever that answer is supposed to mean), Ghost might not believe this is actually real.

Except it is, of course, he'd held the man to keep him from falling flat on his arse and he's very much present. Real, not an apparition. How the fuck did he get lost?

Protocols mandate Ghost to apprehend trespassers. And that's exactly what he does, brushing aside the request for a screw driver.

"...This is a restricted militarised zone," he answers flatly. "I need you to come with me and tell me how you got in."

[nullseven]

you told me you'd tell me the truth. i'm still waiting. (from Soap)

TRUST IS A HARD EXERCISE AND A HARDER LESSON TO LEARN. Ghost has never claimed to be good with it. To begin with, being sparing of who he hands that trust to is what's kept him alive all these years. Surviving, running, hiding—striking back when the time is right and he's this biting, biting teeth. All teeth, no bark.

He doesn't answer straight away as he pages in with Watcher for a quick sitrep. Bravo Seven to Watcher, we're RTB, he'd murmur into the radio. Copy that, out here.

"Patience's a virtue, Johnny." Ghost's eyes trace a path over to Soap, slow and unhurried before they return to the road. The car smells like gunmetal, sweat, dirt, and blood. But it's en route to safety, and that's all that matters. "Wait a bit longer."

[nullseven]

ooc / i appear to be in tumblr jail on this account BWSKNSKSHD

[juramentum]

juramentum (oath)   -   for god is my witness   (©)      characters collaged & portrayed by crow (they/them, 21+)              independent, selective & mutually exclusive multi-muse

[nullseven]

🎲

KISS ROULETTE (15. A kiss along the hips)

WHAT STARTED AS CURIOSITY RAPIDLY evolves into something else. A possessive coiling. A python and its prey, whose birthright is to eat something whole. A biting, biting jaw, hungry for something he didn't know existed.

He's made of titanium and stainless steel frame beneath the fake human flesh that neither bleed red nor bruise purple.

Heavier. Colder. Less alive.

Molded in the image of him, like man in the image of god. And if man had a stake in the martyring of their deity, why can't he claim a piece of his, too?

He is a thinking machine. Flawed, and only borrowing a name. Less Ghost and more an apparition when his eyes reverently find the ones that mirror his own looking down. Something within hums a droning noise, an artificial heartbeat always so unnervingly steady.

When he asked him do you love me, he hadn't wanted Simon Riley's love. It brought into question if he had the capacity to love himself. The answer he received was vague, but he is now on his knees and he's asking again, wordlessly, with his lips along the bone of Simon's hips, fingers burrowing into the meat of his thighs, lashes soothing the path they travel on his skin.

Can you love this?

Can you forgive this?

And when his teeth mark the give of flesh violently (pain, he figures, is a universal language, even if they translate differently between a human and its replica), it seems to say:

Can you bear to lose yourself again?

[serratedpens]

Eden Robinson, “Writing Prompts for the Broken-hearted”

[weltenwellen]

BEE LB, from "friction polish"