I write Call of Duty fanfiction, mostly TF 141 + König. In this house, Soap lives because fuck Activision and that bullshit death they gave him. Canon is a suggestion, and that was a bad one. This blog is MDNI. Not all of my work has explicit themes, but I do reblog posts with mature themes, so you’ve been warned. Don’t repost my work on other platforms, don’t steal my stuff, and don’t feed it into AI. All interactions are platonic; don’t make it weird.
Other Fandoms: The Pitt, Our Flag Means Death, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, Supernatural, Heated Rivalry (Game Changer Universe), The Long Walk. I reblog these. Call of Duty gets all the writing for now. I love doomed yaoi, so feel free to share other ships / fandoms.
Asks / Requests are Open. I am comfortable with NSFW requests. I do not touch anything with minors, age play (age gap is fine), scat, water sports, non-con (CNC is okay). I may kink side-eye, but I don’t kink shame. I don’t do RP. I am far too awkward for that. Trust me, it’s a public service.
— * — MASTERLIST — * —
CALL OF DUTY
Ghost x Soap
Call Sign: Good Boy (Series) | Rating: T - E | [Read on Tumblr | Read on AO3]
Just a Wee Worm | Rating: T | [Read on Tumblr | Read on AO3]
Ghost x gn!Reader
Don’t Close Your Eyes | Rating: G | Hurt no comfort, major character death | [Read on Tumblr | Read on AO3]
Soap x gn!Reader
Fulcrum, Bitch! | Rating: T | [Read on Tumblr | Read on AO3]
Ghost has a sticker chart for Johnny. Every time Johnny doesn't blow something up without permission (thus making more paperwork for Ghost), he gets a sticker. When he has ten stickers, he can exchange them for the nastiest, sloppiest, most diabolically mind-blowing head from his LT.
Simon knew what he did. He ruined you by asking to see other people. He thought it might have been okay now, it's been open for about a year, you'd seemed fine these last six months, maybe the winter was treating you harsh and you were a little sick but you didn't even need antibiotics.
He knew you asked for the divorce because he couldn't stick to you. He ruined everything asking to open things for Soap. And he felt sad and regretful of course, you were so perfect, but he knew he deserved this. He couldn't even find it in him to go hunt you down and just watch from afar. He didn't even bother checking your socials.
But he did confine in Soap. Johnny was such a great listener, he didn't even tell him about his problems of his own. How his other little bird just up and ran off, broke things off with him cold turkey and was gone.
Johnny just thought it had to do with that tan line on your ring finger, he was smart. You had to be when you majored in chemistry at 18. He figured he'd just been keeping you warm, even if he did have a little crush on you, he kept it at bay even though it stung when you were gone.
He figured you went back home and that was that. But he couldn't help but worry about his little crush that kept him frowny and pouty all week though out base. Ghost was too worried about you to notice Johnny's attitude.
You didn't know you'd been fucking his seargant at the same time he was. He'd asked to open it but you couldn't stay with that guilt. Cut to a few months later and you had a bouncing baby boy with big blue eyes and dark lashes and you knew it wasn't Simon's. You're fine, you could handle this alone. And you did, being a mom wasn't even as scary as it seems. After you made it through that first month you had it in the bag.
You swore the two months old could already smile even though he was still pink. The tan lines on your ring finger had long since faded and you were getting a long just fine in America. There was no reason for Simon to find you, Johnny either.
You'd picked a place in town the furthest possible spot away from any remotely close military base, never ever again. You could make it here, alone, with one blue eyes baby boy named Simon.
When you join the COD fandom, you swear a solemn oath to leech the military propaganda out of the source material like an isopod removing heavy metals from soil and then replace it with as many gay ships and autism headcanons as possible.
Call Sign: Good Boy, Part 3 | Rating: T | 2,819 Words
Roach brings a tarantula into the common room to show her off. Soap, decorated SAS Sergeant, discovers he is deeply, personally opposed to spiders. Ghost sees the incoming disaster and, predictably, does nothing to stop it. Nothing at all.
What follows is a full-grown man losing all remaining dignity, a spider named Brigitte who has done nothing wrong, and a Gaz who did not consent to hearing the phrase “the entire base” in that context. König just thinks its sweet. He’s rooting for them, honestly.
Roach just wanted everyone to meet his new pet. Soap, predictably, made it everyone’s problem. Ghost is having the time of his life.
[Read on AO3]
(Full fic below cut)
Roach was practically vibrating when he entered the common room. He was holding a small terrarium in his arms like he was protecting the Queen’s jewels as he walked to the small round table where Gaz was trying, and failing, to teach König how to play gin.
In Gaz’s defense, König was a quick study on nearly everything else: languages, weapons, systems, tactical planning. Card games, however, seemed to be where his intellect drew the line. They were on their fourth reshuffle in twenty minutes and Gaz was starting to suspect that he was doing it on purpose just to watch him suffer.
Gaz looked up at Roach. The younger man’s face beamed with pride as he sat the terrarium down on the table with both hands and popped the lid. Gaz and König leaned in as Roach reached in, his bottom lip caught in his teeth in excitement, as he reached into the container and produced a tarantula.
Gaz pulled back slightly and set his cards face down on the table. He wasn’t bothered by pets of the furless variety. He’d kept lizards when he was young and keeping lizards meant you also kept the bugs to feed them. He’d never seen a tarantula up close, though, and Roach’s obvious affection for his new friend piqued Gaz’s curiosity. “Mate,” he said, almost impressed, “That’s a proper one, innit?”
König’s eyes softened and he leaned in closer, “Holzkante. Pink Zebra Beauty, ja?” He glanced at Roach, “She is beautiful.”
Roach beamed like König had handed him a medal and lifted the spider out of its enclosure and turned her slightly to give them both a better look.
On the couch, Soap and Ghost were sitting half-watching whatever was on the telly. The movement at the table caught Soap’s attention and he knocked his knee against Ghost’s. “Oi, what’s goin’ on over there?”
Ghost flipped the channel to a football match. “Roach got a new pet,” he said, not looking back.
Soap was up and moving before Ghost finished his sentence. The Scot had a soft spot for animals, and “pet” was all the motivation he needed.
Ghost’s mouth curved under the mask, an almost smile. He got up to follow, already looking forward to Soap’s reaction.
A grin split Soap’s face as he approached the table and shouldered in between Gaz and König shamelessly. “Ach, let’s see the wee beastie, then. C’mon, don’t be shy.”
Roach beamed as he held the tarantula up proudly, cupped in both hands like a sacred offering. He turned to face Soap fully and raised his eyebrows expectantly - ta da! - like a proud father presenting his first
It was enormous. Not actually enormous. It was average sized, maybe five inches across, legs and all, but to a Scottish SAS operator with a fear of spiders who had been expecting a hamster or a gerbil, maybe even a small guinea pig? It was the size of a goddamn dinner plate. It was hairy. It was black with brown stripes. And it was moving, crawling forward on Roach’s hand slowly, exploring its new environment.
Soap’s body went rigid in front of the table, his eyes wide and locked on the tarantula. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. The spider continued its slow crawl across Roach’s hand, tapping his thumb gently with its two front legs, completely oblivious to the chaos it was about to cause.
It wiggled its little mandibles and Soap’s soul left his body.
The sound that came from Soap MacTavish was one that no one had ever heard him make.
It wasn’t the rage-filled roar he’d used when interrogating Makarov in Verdansk. It wasn’t the dull grunt he’d used when Ghost had dug the bullet out of his arm in Alejandro’s safe house in Las Almas. It wasn’t even the irritated “what the fuck” he’d shouted at Ghost when he dropped his arse straight into the mud during their last training exercise.
It was a shriek, high, shrill and completely unfiltered, that started in his chest and clawed its way up through his throat before bypassing every ounce of military training and erupted straight from his lizard brain. Soap’s ankle caught the leg of the chair, sending it scraping as he launched himself through the air and into Ghost’s arms.
Soap scrambled up his Lieutenant like a redwood, one hand fisted in the man’s hoodie, knee jammed in his hip, his other arm hooked around his neck as his boots scrabbled for purchase around Ghost’s thighs. It was graceless, frantic, and completely without dignity, leaving Soap wrapped around the man’s torso like a terrified koala.
Ghost caught him with a huff and took his full mass against his chest as he wrapped one thick arm under Soap’s arse, supporting his Sergeant like a sack of groceries. His other arm hung loosely at his side, just another casual Tuesday.
Roach staggered back, curling both hands around the spider pulling her against his chest like she was the one in danger. His face twisted in outrage, brow furrowed, mouth screwed up and eyes wide with indignation. How dare you.
Gaz broke first. One look at Roach curled protectively around his spider like a war orphan and Soap, a decorated Sergeant, trying to become one with Ghost’s collarbone, and he lost it immediately.
König wasn’t faring much better. His laugh was a quieter, low, rumbling thing, muffled by his fisted hand pressed hard against his
“Look at it,” Gaz wheezed, wiping his eyes, “It’s just sitting there, mate. It’s not even looking at you!”
König nodded, still chuckling, and stretched his large hand out in invitation as the spider crawled slowly onto his finger. He brought it to his massive chest and looked down with a smile.
“It is very calm. It would not hurt a fly.” He paused for a moment and cocked his head to one side in thought, “Well, maybe a fly. That is what it eats. But not you, Soap.” He took his finger and lightly traced it down the spider’s body. “Does it have a name?”
Roach signed, letter by letter, like he was presenting her for a christening, B - R - I - G - I - T - T - E.
König’s face softened as he looked down at Brigitte, “Ah, she is a girl. I should have known. Hallo, Brigitte. You are beautiful. Do not listen to the angry Scottish man.”
Gaz watched König cradle the tarantula with reverence like she was something precious, murmuring German terms of endearment to a creature who would not remember a single word of it, and thought, not for the first time, that this base ran almost entirely on men who deserved gentler lives than the ones they’d chosen.
Soap was still perched in Ghost’s arms, his arms wrapped around the larger man’s neck, using him as a human shield. He looked back at the tarantula. His heart was pounding against Ghost’s collarbone, and he did not care. Dignity had left the building. The spider - Brigitte - was still right there and it was clear no one intended to do a single thing about it.
“Roach. Roach! Roach, look at me.”
Roach looked at Soap, still attached to Ghost. He looked down at Brigitte, who was crawling across König’s broad palm. Then back at Soap with a flat, unimpressed face.
“Wh - Why is it in here?!” Soap’s voice cracked on the last word. “Tha’s - no, no, dinnea ..” He pointed at König’s hand as he shifted under Brigitte slightly as she climbed across his palm and then over his large, scarred knuckles. “Dinnea move it any closer, Ah swear to Christ..”
König held Brigitte up to his own face, pale blue eyes curious, with an amused expression.
Soap shrieked again and buried his face in Ghost’s neck.
“GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT, GET IT OUT, GET IT OUT!”
Gaz was wheezing, tears streaming down his face now, “Mate, it’s not ..”
Roach elbowed Gaz and gave him a pointed look.
“Sorry, sorry,” Gaz raised his hands in surrender, “she’s not even moving!”
“Ah don’t care! Ah don’t care if it’s not doing anything! It’s in me common room, Gaz! It’s in me home!”
König cradled Brigitte gently, moving slightly toward Soap, “She is very friendly, Soap. The Pink Zebra is very docile.” He traced his finger down her thorax. “She is very affectionate. For a spider.”
Soap’s head whipped toward König, eyes narrowed, “Ah will put you in a drawer, ye bawbag, dinnea think Ah won’t.”
König’s eyes widened. He looked down at Brigitte, then back at Soap, and took a step back. “I do not even know what that means,” he whispered to Brigitte. She raised a little leg and offered no counsel.
Roach turned to Soap, his face offended, and signed again, slow and deliberate, so Soap couldn’t miss a single word: She is more scared of you than you are of her.
“ROACH!” Soap exclaimed, clambering higher onto Ghost, “Are ye mad? She isnae scared! Look at her!” He pointed, leaning backward. Ghost sighed and adjusted his grip under Soap’s thighs to stabilize the Sergeant. “She’s looking at me! She’s looking at me, Roach! She’s planning somethin’”
Brigitte was, in fact, not looking at him. She was sitting motionless in König’s hands, doing absolutely nothing.
Gaz had given up on words entirely at this point and slapped his palm on the table, head down, shoulders shaking. König’s shoulders trembled in silent laughter as Brigitte sat silent, the dramatics clearly beneath her. He gently placed Brigitte back into her terrarium, “It was nice to meet you, beautiful girl,” he said as he refitted the lid and gently patted it twice.
The door to the common room opened and Price’s voice could be heard from the hallway, mid-conversation with someone. He walked in with a mug in one hand and a folder tucked under his arm, and stopped short when he took in the scene.
Roach had collected the container and retreated to the couch, holding it against his chest and stroking it gently as he glared in Soap’s direction. Gaz and König were still at the table, red-faced and gasping. And, in the middle of it all, Ghost stood perfectly still, holding Soap MacTavish, full-grown one-hundred-ninety-pound sergeant, up like he weighed nothing, Soap’s legs still wrapped around his waist and his arms wrapped around his neck.
Price’s mustache twitched as he raised his mug to drink. “Bit of muscle memory there, Lieutenant?”
Ghost tilted his head. “Occupational hazard, sir. He’s a handful.” He squeezed Soap’s thigh.
Soap, who had been slowly recovering his dignity, froze against Ghost’s chest, hands still fisted in his hoodie.
“Oi! None of that, ye bastard!” He swatted the back of Ghost’s head. “Ah was attacked. In me own common room, in me own home! That’s .. that’s .. that’s a breach of the Geneva Convention, that’s whit it is!”
“It’s a spider, Johnny,”
“It’s a war crime, Simon.”
Price took another sip of tea, glanced at Gaz, who was still recovering, his forehead on the table and his shoulders shaking with a wheezing laugh, said very calmly, “Carry on,” before walking out of the room.
The latch clicked behind Price. Soap’s fingers tightened in Ghost’s hoodie.
He lifted his head slowly, eyes narrowing to slits, “Ye couldnae see the table from the couch, Simon.” His jaw tightened and his lower lip thrust into a pout, “Ye knew. Ye knew and ye let me walk right intae it.” Soap’s brogue thickened, his voice climbing and growing louder, “Ye absolute bastard, ye sat there, all smug, watchin’ me get up and walk right intae … Ach, ye didnae even warn me, ye just let me …”
At the table, Gaz leaned toward König, “Oi, here we go,”
König nodded solemnly. “The Lieutenant is correct; the short one is very dramatic.”
Soap’s head spun toward them so fast Ghost had to adjust his grip, “SHORT?! Ah’m six foot ye absolute …”
Ghost huffed, his eyes wrinkling. “Travel size.”
Soap smacked Ghost’s chest, “Dinnea start that shite, Simon Riley, ye ken whit yer daein’!”
Ghost exhaled, his shoulders shaking silently, “Roach told me this morning.”
“Ach, ye arsehole, ye’re always daein the same shite! Puttin’ on a wee show, windin’ me up, just sittin’ back and watchin’ me … Ah climbed ye like a tree, Simon! And ye just let me! Ye just ..”
Soap tried to unwrap his legs from Ghost, but he only found Ghost strengthening his hold. He met Ghost’s dark eyes through his mask, “Simon. Put me down,” he said in a clipped tone.
“Nah,” Ghost said, his shoulders shaking again.
Soap’s eyes snapped to Ghost, “Whit d’ye mean ‘Nah’?”
”Means no.”
Soap barked a sharp laugh. “Ah ken whit it means, Simon!” He planted his arms against Ghost’s shoulders and pushed hard. Ghost adjusted his stance slightly. Soap shoved again, putting his entire weight into it. Ghost, much to Soap’s infuriation, absorbed it completely.
“Put. Me. Down.”
”No.”
”Simon.”
”Mm.”
Soap wrapped his legs tighter around Ghost’s waist as he tried to twist free. Ghost adjusted his grip without effort. Soap’s jaw clenched and he drove his heel into the back of Ghost’s thigh, rewarding himself with a grunt from Ghost.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Johnny,” Ghost spat, his Mancunian drawl thickening with the surprise strike to his thigh.
“Good!” Soap hissed, his jaw set in a hard pout, “Put me down or Ah’ll dae it again!”
Ghost’s hand slid from under Soap’s thigh and squeezed his arse.
Soap’s eyes went wide and his mouth snapped shut, “Simon…” His voice came out strangled.
Ghost’s hand didn’t move. His dark eyes moved slowly down Soap’s thick chest, his fingers tightening, “‘M enjoyin’ the view, Sergeant.”
A grin split Soap’s face and he leaned back in Ghost’s arms, looking him dead in the mask. “Oh, aye?” He cocked his head, letting his eyes drag down Ghost’s chest and back up, “Well, ye did catch me.” He shifted his weight, settling in. “And ye’re no’ exactly hard to look at from up here, LT.” His face burned under the fierceness of the blush. “Ah’m no’ complainin’.”
Ghost shifted his grip and moved to set him down. Soap’s legs tightened around his waist.
”Ah, ah, ah — dinnea stop now,” Soap said, his grin widening as he leaned in, “Ye started it, ye big bastard. Ye better finish it.”
Ghost’s eyes wrinkled at the corners, his hand squeezing Soap’s arse again. Soap’s teeth caught on his bottom lip.
Soap leaned in. His voice dropped to a level meant to be private, but Soap MacTavish had never lived his life below volume 11. “Ye like this view, LT?”
Ghost’s jaw tightened and he exhaled a thick huff.
Soap’s grin widened, “Aye. Ye do.” He shifted closer, fingers tightening in Ghost’s hoodie. “Get me tae yer room, Simon, and Ah’ll let the whole base hear exactly how good ye are tae me.”
Ghost’s hand ran along Soap’s thigh and a rough sound came from his chest. “Johnny.”
On the couch, Roach’s hand shot out and covered Brigitte’s terrarium, shielding her from the evolving love scene. His face twisted in disgusted solidarity as he scooped her up. A few days ago, he would have shot finger guns and dramatically approved of the two, if only to get Gaz’s goat. But he was a father now. He had responsibilities.
Gaz watched him go, then turned back to Soap and Ghost. His mouth kept moving trying to form a protest and failing. “Jesus … that’s … I didn’t need to …” His hand dragged down his face. He loved Johnny MacTavish. Genuinely. This was the man who’d driven four hours to bail him out of a Newcastle drunk tank without a word of judgement, who remembered his mum’s birthday every year without being told twice. Gaz would die for him without blinking.
He would also like, just once, to not watch him hump his Lieutenant in front of Queen and country.
Gaz grabbed König’s sleeve and started pulling him toward the door, still talking to no one, “Whole base, he said. The. Whole. Base. König.”
König followed, glancing back at Soap and Ghost, his pale eyes suspiciously soft, “I told them to use the armory,” he said with a shrug.
Gaz rounded on him, wild-eyed. “You weren’t there. You don’t know what they did in the armory. In front of the guns. The GUNS, König. I have to inventory those guns. Do you understand what that means? I have to touch them! With my hands! Knowing!”
König considered this for a moment. “Oh, they did!” His eyes brightened. “Good for them. You got front row tickets to the gun show, ja?”
Gaz stared at him. “Who taught you that joke? That is a terrible joke.”
”Ghost,” König said without hesitation.
Gaz suppressed a laugh, then turned to leave. “For fuck’s sake.” He opened the door and shoved König through it in front of him.
simon can see that johnny is struggling. demons feasting on the darkness in his mind. so simon invites johnny somewhere good (now johnny wants to fuck simon's pregnant wife)
ghoap x reader
warnings: johnny is depressed
prev
"where's the wife?" jonny asks as simon sits down beside him, passing him a cup of tea.
sipping his tea, simon crosses his feet at the ankles and sits back. "takin' the kids out," he answers. "y'know, before she gets too close to her due date."
johnny nods like he knows what simon is talking about. like he's been through this before, but he really hasn't. he thought he would have by now, a wife and kid of his own, instead of playing house with simon riley.
simon glances at him. "says you've been avoiding her, johnny," he says.
johnny swallows, like he's nervous. because yeah, he has been avoiding you. After the other night, he figured the best thing to do was stay away. stay away from you while living in your house.
all you did was touch him. he's been thinking about it for days.
"she likes you, johnny," simon says. it feels too early in the day for this conversation. "she'll be upset if you keep avoiding her."
simon stands up as the dog pads into the room, leaving his tea on the table. "want to help me take the dog for a walk?" he asks.
johnny breathes out. "sure," he says and stands as well.
walking the dog.it should be an ordinary, mundane activity. of course, with simon riley, mundane, ordinary things aren't ordinary or mundane.
he speaks so bluntly about you. about your 'fuckin' tits', as he so delicately puts it. "already so fuckin' pretty before I got her pregnant. and now? fuckin' hell," he seems to moan and sits on the bench. the dog sits on the bench, panting softly.
your dog, johnny has worked out. a creature as protective over you as your husband is. as he is now, too, he guesses. the dog is used to gentle walks with you that walks with simon seem like a workout.
"ive tried it before," simon says. honestly, it takes johnny a moment to work out what he's talking about. he pets the dog's ears and imagines your tits.
because he knows what they look like, now. he's been unable to stop imagining them since he saw them. its enough to make him flush whenever you walk into the room, his skin clammy and his hands suddenly desperate for something to do.
"better than a fuckin' cows milk, I'll tell ya."
and, suddenly, johnny is picturing that. simon with his lips wrapped around your nipple, cupping your tit and squeezing until you release into his mouth.
he swallows thickly and grabs his trousers, adjusting himself. "you-uh-"
and he doesn't know where to begin. he doesn't know how to respond any way that isn't a desperate plea.
he clears his throat and shakes his head, as if that'll dispel the image. "takin' food outta poor noah's mouth," he says.
simon grunts out a chuckle. "kid got plenty," he says and throws his arm over the back of the bench. his fingers touch Johnny's shoulder, brushing slightly with every movement. "fuckin' bottomless pit, that baby," he says. "still stayed tiny. but so did I."
suddenly, johnny's brain is working overtime, trying to picture tiny simon riley. but he can't do it. can't picture him without the facial scarring or the sleeves of tattoos.
"kids are lucky," johnny says, shoving his hands into his pockets. just to give him something to do, to hide the tent in his trousers. "you're a good dad, LT. better than my own."
simon's hand falls from the back of the bench. he lets it fall into the small space between him and johnny as the dog lays down. "wasn't always," he answers. "used to be a selfish prick when the wife was pregnant with trin. she almost left me."
johnny sucks in a breath.
"but you guys seem so in love," he replies.
simon lets himself smile. it's a crooked smile, filled with scars. "we are now. wife put up with a lot since she met me. i'd let 'er do anything."
suddenly, his hand finds johnny's thigh. "I'm being serious, mactavish. anything. and she likes you."
johnny's hand finds his. "what're you saying, LT?"
"i want you to fuck my wife."
***
the kids shriek and giggle as they run through the front door and into the house. you let them run, pulling the door shut behind you as the dog comes bounding towards you.
"hey, boy," you whisper, petting between his ears. "were you good for daddy and johnny?"
the latter of which leans against the door, watching you. he watches the way your hand rests on your bump, the way the dog sits at your feet, so sweet and obedient for you. that dog loves you, he can tell.
"you okay?" johnny asks, stepping towards you. he takes your bag from your shoulder and hangs it on the hook buy the door.
"i'm okay," you reply and reach for his hand.
johnny lets you take it. he leads you through to the living room and helps you to lower yourself onto the sofa. a gentle groan leaves your lips as you sit back and move your hand over your bump.
"did you and my husband have a chat?" you ask him, patting the cushion next to you.
like an obedient dog, johnny sits down and nods his head. "yeah," he answers, staring down at his socks. "he said a lot."
you let out a gentle laugh. just like your husband earlier, your hand falls onto his thigh. "simon likes to talk," you say and johnny hides his scoff behind a chuckle.
simon likes to talk. that's a secret that'll stay right here, in this house. something between the three of you.
you lay your head on his shoulder. "the kids are staying at their grandparent's house over the weekend," you tell him. he hesitates before placing his arm over your shoulders. "how'd you feel about that?"
he let's himself smile, the kind of smile he hasn't been able to muster in so damn long. "sounds fan-fucking-tastic, sweetheart." he kisses the top of your head, breathing in sharply when you squeeze his thigh.
the weekend. he just needs to wait for the weekend.
If You've Got Plans Tonight, Count Me In by kotallosseashell
"I believe you said something about ‘pushing me past my limits tonight,’ isn’t that right, Soap?”
“Aye, L.t., that I did,” the Scot grinned, hooking a finger into the silver chain hanging around the larger man’s neck, the tags clinking softly together at the action. “I was just thinking, ye always take such good care of me…jus’ wanted to really return the favor this time.”
Or
Soap realizes that Ghost never comes more than once and wants to change that.
To Drive a Man to Madness by Crypticchaotic
"Cannae do it myself. Humpin' the bed like a dog was the closest I got. If I could do it right I'd be off like a flashbang in minutes. Since yer here if ye could help me wrap my arm, I'm gonna take a cold shower."
"Thought you were gonna ask me to give ya a hand."
"Oh steamin' Jesus L.T. no, would never try to ask that from you."
"Would you take it if offered?"
"Depends on who's offering."
"I am."
"Yer aff yer heid, L.T."
or
Soap gets injured and goes on medical leave on base. Ghost takes care of him in more ways than a superior should.
own me, possess me, adore me by winterbuckyy
Soap, finally in a happy relationship with Ghost, has one desire that haunts his dreams - get fucked by his werewolf boyfriend's half-form. Monstrous and huge, with a cock to match, it's Soap's filthiest desire. He wants to be fucked and bred and owned.
There's only one problem - Ghost is very hesitant to fuck him in that form. But it's okay, because Soap is very good at breaking his Lieutenant down and getting what he wants
or soap gets absolutely railed and bred by his huge werewolf boyfriend and he's very happy (and a bit mindless) with it
A Little Bit More by DarkMoonMaiden
“Fuck, you feel so good, Johnny,” Ghost hissed. “Can’t wait to fuck you. Bet you’re nice and tight for me.”
His words had Johnny freezing.
Oh.
Right.
He’d…forgotten about that next step.
++
When things get heated with Ghost, Soap admits that he's a virgin. It drives Ghost mad as they work on getting the sergeant to lose it.
Maniac by Crypticchaotic
e cocked his hip to the side, resting his hand on it and smiling coquettishly. "Evening, L.T. The boys 'ere have all pitched in to get ye a little dance for yer birthday. But they could only afford me." The room erupted into laughter again and Ghost put every ounce of his effort into not reacting.
"What the fuck are you supposed to be?" Soap pranced towards him, heels clicking against the tile floor.
or
Soap planned a little surprise for Ghost's birthday. What was supposed to be a prank and a quick laugh turns into more than Ghost is prepared for.
Looks Like It'll be a Long Night by 4o4err0r
Do you want to end up on the floor, sergeant?” Ghost asks calmly.
“Is that a challenge, sir?”
And the second those words leave his lips, Ghost is bending down, pressing one shoulder into the crook of John’s knee, and forcing the smaller man to fall on his back. Ghost stays knelt down, satisfied with the takedown.
“I guess that was a promise,” Soap says sheepishly. One leg is still stuck up on Ghost’s shoulder, his other leg bent and pressed on the other side of the lieutenant.
Simon is trapped between Johnny’s legs.
Both men are still for a moment too long.
Or, the one where Soap takes challenging Ghost a bit too far, and the closeness of sparring awakens something between them.
Fix All Your Broken Things by queeniegalore
For a moment, Soap let the silence sink in. Let himself shift his gaze slightly to the side and rest on Ghost’s thick thigh, fat with the softness of his relaxed muscle, lightly dusted with fine blond hairs. He wanted to sweep the tips of his fingers delicately over those hairs, see if they were as downy as they looked. Wanted to see the way Ghost’s muscles would twitch at the sensation, wanted to see if he’d shy away or press into the touch. Wanted to know if he’d like it.
Would probably end up with a knife in his gut, but at this point, Soap thought it was probably worth it. For one touch, it might be worth it.
It's 3:30 in the morning, and Soap and Ghost can't sleep. How will they pass the time.
Familiar as a Bottle and a Glass by queeniegalore
He’d had Ghost’s voice pouring into his ear for hours, somehow rough and smooth and smoky all at once, like the kind of Scotch he couldn’t really afford. And that voice, combined with the fatigue, the bone deep weariness, was starting to have the same effect as good Scotch on his resolve, on his fucking impulse control
Soap makes bad choices, no one knows when banter crosses the line into flirting, and their comms definitely shouldn't be used like that. Somehow, despite themselves, they make it work.
This is mostly porn, with feelings added for a bit of spice.
Wanna play Boyfriend-Girlfriend? by iwanttodie_uwu
“What I’m saying, ya eejit, is we should play pretend so we can see what yer doing wrong! I play a hot Scottish lass at the bar and you play as yerself! Try to woo me into yer bed,” Soap said, batting his eyelashes at him, grinning in an extremely self-satisfied manner.
“Woo you into bed, Johnny? Are you also playing as a slag or do you actually put out on the first date?” Ghost tried to tease and hoped it would get Soap to continue to talk about his own love life instead of focusing on Ghost’s.
AKA Soap thinks Ghost isn't getting laid so he decides to help him out by trying to teach him his lady killer ways. Ghost plays along despite ladies not being the thing he's interested in.
Dripping Diamonds (Between My Thighs) by EmpressCirque
Mandatory leave has sent the 141 on their separate ways for a short time and yet, Soap can’t get his Lieutenant off his mind. In an effort to forget his growing feelings, he decides to have a drunken hook-up.
Three hundred kilometers away, Ghost gets a text.
Or
Soap sends Ghost a nude thanks to drunken courage. It goes better than he could have expected.
Call Sign: Good Boy, Part 2 | Rating: M | Words: 3, 249
Guns don't get Soap off, but threats of violence and C4 do. Ghost knows this. Now so do Price, Roach, Laswell, and Graves — because there is a fine line between a mission briefing and a hostage situation, and Ghost is using it to run a private show for an audience of one. Gaz would like to be shocked by this, but he's lost that luxury.
Soap is, predictably, making this everyone’s problem.
Gaz is having a terrible time. König is suprisingly cool about the whole thing. Too bad that’s gonna bite him in the ass later.
[Read on AO3]
(Full fic under cut)
Gaz had stopped taking notes the moment Graves started negotiating. There was a line between mission brief and hostage situation and Graves was dancing right across it on the oversized monitor, wearing that too-bright, too-practiced smile that made Gaz’s brain itch. The man could piss in a fire, call it rain, somehow expect you to thank him for the weather report.
Laswell’s carefully schooled expression filled the left side of the screen. Gaz respected the hell out of her for maintaining the poker face she did. He was struggling.
His thumb pressed into the pen cap until it clicked and set it beside his notepad. The first half of the page was neat enough: a name, a time window, a grid reference Laswell had to repeat because Graves talked over her the first time, and an abbreviation he already couldn’t place. Soap had been muttering something under his breath at the time, and whatever Gaz wrote down was now some unholy fusion of the two. He glanced at the page. GVRCK. That wasn’t a word. Not even close.
He left the gibberish to rot and looked up. Price was sitting at the head of the table, leaning back in his chair, limbs loose. One hand was wrapped around a chipped mug.
Price’s silences were an arsenal Gaz had spent years cataloging. He knew the heavy pause that offered a final heartbeat to unfuck yourself and the sharp, cold quiet that made his spine go rigid.
But this was different. Price watched Graves over his tea with a look of mild, predatory amusement. He’d already handed Graves the rope and was just settling in to watch it snap.
Beside Gaz, Soap made no attempt to hide his irritation. He was slouched in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest. His fingers bit into his biceps like a sulking teenager and his furiously tapping heel was counting down to something Gaz was sure was going to ruin the rest of his afternoon.
König’s massive frame sat on the other side of Soap, arms crossed and legs stretched out in front of him. His chair was pulled out slightly from the metal table and angled toward the screen. Gaz wondered how the giant managed to sit comfortably in these awful chairs at his size. His left leg was already going numb and they’d only been enduring this shit show for a half hour or so.
Roach sat quietly behind Price, his wiry frame settled back in his chair. Gaz couldn’t help a snort when he realized that Roach was looking down at a blank page full of randomness, not briefing notes. No surprise there. Behind him, Ghost leaned against the wall, a casual wraith.
Jesus, the man doesn’t possess the ability to not be intense for two seconds.
A slight movement brought Gaz’s attention back to Roach. The man had a shit-eating grin on his face. Gaz’s eyes narrowed. For fuck’s sake, what now? Roach’s eyes darted to Soap and then up to Ghost behind him. Gaz tilted his head and turned slightly to look at Soap. Oh. Oh. Oh, no.
Soap’s mouth had settled into that unmistakable pout. It was one that Gaz knew all too well, that suggested that someone had taken away his favorite toy and then had the nerve to suggest he behave like an adult about it.
Soap had a lot of favorite toys — most of them were explosives. The other was standing behind Price, eyes locked on Graves. No, not Graves. What was he — oh, come on. Gaz closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Ghost’s body was angled toward the monitor, but his eyes were locked on Soap.
Soap’s fidgeting got progressively worse as Graves droned on about some intelligence he had no business being within five feet of. Soap exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tapping out some rhythm against his bicep that Gaz couldn’t identify. Gaz didn’t even need to look; Soap was about to say something. He could feel it. It would be loud, impulsive and with a thick enough brogue that Gaz or Price would have to translate while those stupid wrinkles formed at the corners of Ghost’s eyes that meant the bastard was enjoying every second.
Graves leaned into the camera, his face filling the right side of the split screen with that practiced look of wounded sincerity. “You act like I’m being unreasonable here, Price” he said, dropping into that smooth, honeyed register that made Gaz’s stomach churn. “My shadows are putting their lives on the line for this intel. You don’t think Shadow Company deserves a little peek at whatever’s so special on that drive?”
Price didn’t look up from his tea, “Your men aren’t my responsibility. And they won’t buy you a seat at this table.”
The only sound that could be heard was the faint thump-thump-thump of Soap’s heel on the linoleum. Graves’ smile stretched and his eyes tightened. He leaned back in his chair, his head dipping. A sharp exhale cut through the speakers. Graves spread his hands, palms up, fingers loose, and then locked them across his chest.
“Now, help me solve this little problem, Captain,” Graves drawled. “Full debrief after the op. I’d consider it a personal favor.”
“It’s not a favor when you’re getting paid, Graves,” Price countered, sipping his tea.
Graves’ mouth flattened, “You boys could do with learning a little Southern hospitality, John. You know how Shepherd gets when you won’t share your toys.”
A smile slowly spread under Price’s moustache, “General Shepherd can take it up with Her Majesty.”
Graves’s jaw tightened. He wet his bottom lip, his mouth resting in a snide smile. On the screen, Laswell’s expression remained carefully neutral, but her pen stopped writing.
“Alright, Price,” Graves said, his tone flat, “Alright, We’ll do it your way.” He smoothed his shirt, “But when this op goes tits up because you refuse to compromise, I want it on the record that —“
“Is that a threat?” Price’s shoulders tensed and he sat forward in his chair, “Because the only way this goes ‘tits up,’ Graves, is if your men don’t do their job.”
“My Shadows —“
“I could break his jaw.”
Gaz’s eyes locked on Ghost as he unfolded his arms from his chest and pushed his large frame from the concrete wall. The low baritone of his voice stole the air from the room. Even after serving multiple missions together, Gaz still found himself feeling off-center when Ghost proposed war crimes in the same tone that most normal people would use to discuss the weather.
On the screen, Graves paused. He blinked and cut his eyes to Laswell, then back to Ghost. “Excuse me?”
“Mm. Efficiency,” Ghost drawled and tilted his head toward the camera. His brown eyes were dark and flat against the black oil paint behind his balaclava and mask, “One hit. Front or side. Either dislocates the jaw, stops the negotiation, secures the intel.”
Graves’ face turned red, “Laswell, if this is the kind of —“
“Could go slower.” Ghost paused. His gloved fingers tapped against his bicep. “Make it last. Knees first, maybe. Then elbows. The jaw. ” Graves opened his mouth, but Ghost cut him off. “About four minutes if I’m thorough.”
Across the table, Roach’s smile spread. Gaz raised an eyebrow in question as the man lifted his chin in Gaz’s direction. Gaz looked to his left.
König’s head tilted slightly. Gaz turned and met the man’s pale blue eyes as they flicked to Ghost from beneath his hood, then away. Soap, Gaz realized, had gone quiet.
Gaz leaned forward slightly, his eyes cutting to Soap’s face. He knew that quiet. It usually preceded Soap doing something spectacularly stupid, like the time he’d tried to rappel off the roof of the barracks with a bedsheet because Ghost had told him it was impossible and then stood by with an amused smirk.
“Captain,” Ghost started, his head angled toward Price, “Am I authorized to be thorough?”
Price’s moustache disappeared behind his mug as he took a very long sip of tea. His shoulders shook once.
Graves leaned forward again, his face filling the screen, “Now, Ghost, that is not nice —“
“Could use a baton,” Ghost said. He tilted his head toward Graves and rolled his shoulders. His voice dropped, quieter, “Knees. Elbows. Jaw. The baton adds weight. More force. Less effort.”
Price raised his hand, motioning a warning, “Ghost.” A clear order. Stand. Down.
Gaz’s eyes met Roach’s across the table. The man wagged his eyebrows as he mapped Ghost’s eyeline. Directly to Soap.
“Efficient,” Ghost said with finality.
Soap’s breath caught. He sat up slowly, arms uncrossing. His fingers gripped the fabric of his pants, causing the chair to scrape against the floor. Ghost hadn’t even addressed him, but it didn’t matter. Soap was already leaning forward, waiting for the next threat to drop.
König leaned forward toward Soap and Gaz, “I think Ghost may need therapy…” he said in a low voice, his words coated in his German accent.
Gaz crossed his arms and huffed, “Mate, we’re all going to need therapy after this,” he muttered.
Soap went rigid, his shoulders squaring as he leaned just an inch forward. Gaz recognized the posture immediately, deeply regretted that he did, and went right back to staring at his notebook.
“Could use a knife,” Ghost continued. His voice dropped into a register that Gaz had never heard outside of a firefight. It was calm. Precise. “Shallow cuts. Cartilage. The jaw comes apart easy if you know where to press.” The fabric of his mask shifted, wrinkles forming at the edge of his eyes, “I know where to press.”
König leaned in again, “What is happening —“
Soap shot König a look like he was interrupting a private conversation and batted his hand at the Colonel as his eyes locked back on Ghost. König’s eyes widened and he pulled back slightly.
Gaz sighed and shook his head, “Eyes forward, big man,” he said low enough for just the three of them.
On the screen, Graves was apoplectic, “Price, I am trying real hard to be reasonable here – get your lieutenant in line.”
“Could use C4.”
The room froze. Soap’s head turned slowly, like a man in a dream. Gaz had seen a lot of looks on Soap’s face. Fury. Exasperation. Desperation. Manic glee when he got the rare opportunity to stand back and watch his handiwork fell entire structures. But this — this was something else entirely.
Gaz stared down at his notepad. He pressed his thumb into the pen cap until it clicked, then clicked it again. The small, rhythmic gesture was the only thing keeping him from reaching over and smothering Soap with his own jacket.
Soap went rigid. He did a weird, miserable little arch of his back before snapping himself straight again. The back of his neck turned a blotchy red that bled right into his mohawk. He made a small, restless shift that scraped the metal chair and made Gaz want to leave the room.
König made a strangled noise that turned into his throat clearing. Gaz looked up and saw Roach nod, clearly entertained. He looked up at the ceiling, then willed himself to look at König, whose wide eyes were locked on Soap’s lap.
Soap's fingers dug into his own thigh, his whole upper body tilting toward Ghost at a genuinely concerning angle. Gaz watched the slow-motion lean and couldn't help a snort, torn between grabbing Soap's collar to keep him from tipping out of his chair and seeing how long it took until his center of gravity gave out entirely and dumped him onto the floor.
Soap swallowed.
“Christ, Simon…” he said, breathless, “Aye, that’d dae it.” A crooked smile broke across Soap’s face as he and Ghost made eye contact. Ghost’s mask shifted as he huffed.
Gaz’s head shot toward Soap, his eyebrows nearly hidden under his cap. His best friend was apparently so deeply, pathetically gone for his LT that the mention of his favorite explosive was being treated like a marriage proposal.
Fucking. Assholes. Both of you. C4 is not a goddamn love language.
He huffed, ready to tell Soap to get it together, when he saw it. Soap’s hand reached up and embedded his fingers in his mohawk against his scalp. With a low, soft grunt, his fingers curled in on themselves.
Gaz’s eyes went wide. He leaned into Soap, “Are you fucking kidding me?” He hissed, “Here? Now?”
Soap’s hand left his hair in a hurry, but his eyes didn’t leave Ghost, “Ach, mind yer business, Garrick.”
“Mate, you are making this everyone’s business,” Gaz retorted, his voice low and staccato.
Soap looked at him this time, his pupils wide against his bright blue eyes, “Ah’m no’ doin’ anythin’!” Soap’s hand hovered from the table, his palm open, shoulders up in confusion.
Next to him, König leaned forward, “I am right here, and I can see you —“
Soap snapped his head to the larger man, “Oh, aye! Ye can see, can ye? An’ why are ye lookin’?”
König’s eyes went wide at the accusation, “I am not — I wasn’t — you —“
”Ah whit, big man? Ah’m whit?” Soap leaned in toward König, his nostrils flared.
Gaz pinched the bridge of his nose again, “Let it go, König,”
Konig sat back, his eyes rolling to the ceiling, “Warum bin ich hier?” He muttered.
“Bless ye,” Soap replied, eyes still on Ghost.
“Ah … uh … danke,” König replied. He leaned back in his chair, the metal creaking under him. He tilted his head, taking a mental inventory. Soap and Ghost were partners. They were always together. Like partners. Like partners. König’s eyes widened. “Ah. Ja. The closet. It makes sense now.”
Gaz’s head shot to König. His eyebrows furrowed, “… what closet?”
Konig leaned forward, “Soap and Ghost were displeased that I was completing inventory in the medical closet when they opened the door. I was very confused. Now I understand. They were looking for a … ah ... private place.”
Soap’s head snapped to König, “Aye, and we had one, but ye were there, weren’t ye?” he spat.
Konig’s head tilted, “It was not a good location for such things. Too small. A larger space would be more suitable to your extracurriculars. The armory is good.”
Soap snorted a laugh at that. “Aye, extracurriculars. Thank ye for the recommendation, mate.”
Gaz leaned back in his chair, his eyes rolling to the ceiling, “Try the armory, he says,” he grumbled. He sighed and tried to turn his attention back to the briefing, but instead found Roach with a wide grin and tiny finger guns at his chest. König gave Roach a pleased nod, clearly happy to have been of help. Gaz’s head went to his hands.
“Everything alright over there, boys?” Graves’ drawl dragged the room back to the present. His eyes locked on Soap, “You’re looking a little distracted there, Soap.”
Soap’s jaw set and a crooked smirk spread across his face. “Aye, ah’m distracted. It’s hard tae focus when ye’ve been listenin’ to a man beg for the last hour. Some of us find it uncomfortable tae watch.”
Graves sat back in his chair, studying Soap. A smile spread slowly across his face as he turned his attention to Ghost, “That was quite the performance, lieutenant. I’m just not sure that I was the intended audience. Laswell, we’ll be in touch.” The screen went black as the call disconnected.
Price turned to Laswell, “He’s not getting that intel, Kate.”
Laswell chuckled, “I know, John,” her head shaking slightly, “I’m not sure Graves agrees. He’ll be going to Shepherd next.”
Price nodded, “Aye, I’m sure he will.”
“We’ll talk soon, John. Boys.” She nodded at the room, the monitor going black as she ended the call.
Price braced his hands on the table, pushing himself up. His lower back was whinging from sitting in the unforgiving metal chair for so long. He silently closed his notebook and lifted his mug to drain the last of the tea. He could hear the restlessness of his men behind him, waiting for their Captain’s dismissal.
Ghost had returned to his post against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Most men wouldn’t have seen anything past the mask. Price had served with Ghost long enough to know better. He nodded once. Ghost dipped his head slightly in return.
“Right,” Price said, collecting his notebook, “Dismissed,” he said, walking out of the room.
König stretched his arms and legs and rose from the chair, pushing it back under the table with a loud scrape. He laid a massive hand on Soap’s shoulder as he passed, “Armory,” he said as he passed behind Gaz and walked out of the room behind Roach.
Gaz closed his notebook and stood. “You coming,” he asked Soap as he pushed his chair in.
Soap looked at Gaz and then cut his eyes down to his own lap, “Aye, in a minute.”
Gaz looked at Ghost, who was still leaning against the wall, and then back to Soap. He snorted and shook his head, “C4. You are unwell, mate.” He clapped Soap on the shoulder and walked out the door, leaving the two men alone.
The latch clicked softly as the door engaged. Soap leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly.
Ghost pushed off the wall and slowly rounded the table to Soap. He leaned against the table, facing the door, arms crossed again over his chest. “You’re in a right state, Sergeant.”
Soap rolled his eyes, “Aye, and whose fault is that, ye bastard…”
Ghost huffed, his shoulders shaking.
Soap snorted, “Aye, laugh it up, ye weapon. Ye’re the one who put on a wee show for our friend.”
Ghost shrugged, “Entertainment.”
“Right. Entertainment,” Soap said with a chuckle as he shook his head. He looked up at Ghost, “Ye remembered,” he said softly.
“Dunno what you’re on about, Johnny.” Ghost’s low voice rumbled through the mask. He uncrossed his arms and leaned back, his hands bracing against the table, one hand right beside Soap.
“Ach, Simon, dinnea make me sae it, ye numpty.” Soap looked up at him, his blue eyes narrowed. Ghost huffed, his shoulders shaking. Soap’s hand shot up, “Ye know what ye’re doing ye bloody arse!”
Ghost dipped his head to look down at Soap.
Soap shook his head, snorting a laugh, “Aye, ye’ve got a way wi’ words, LT. Ye really dae,” he said, his brogue snaking through his words.
Ghost tilted his head, offering only a contemplative “Mm” in response.
Soap’s smile twitched, “Ye’re no’ gonna say it, are ye?”
“Go on then. Say what?”
Soap’s shoulders dropped and his eyes drifted to Ghost, “Simon.”
Ghost shifted, moving his hand closer to Soap.
“Ye remembered,” Soap said again, quieter this time.
Ghost tilted his head, watching him. A pleased rumble settled in his chest. Soap went still as Ghost leaned down. He traced his thumbs along the edge of Ghost’s balaclava. His fingers lingered, giving Ghost a chance to swat his hand away. When no rejection came, Soap pushed the fabric up, just under Ghost’s nose.
Ghost leaned in and pressed his lips to Soap’s forehead. Soap closed his eyes. His shoulders dropped and he sunk back into his chair.
Ghost straightened and pulled his mask back down. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, but didn’t pull out of Soap’s space. “C4,” he said.
After a near-fatal injury, John MacTavish finds himself back in his hometown in Scotland. Fresh off an untimely discharge, he's forced to cope with disability, his dysfunctional family, and the lingering knowledge that there are some things he's just not ready to leave behind...
This is like a fandom classic, a must read.
Fixer-Upper by PeterChristensen
After a mission gone wrong leaves Simon “Ghost” Riley deaf in one ear and Johnny “Soap” MacTavish with a permanent leg injury, both men are forced into early retirement. Soap uses his pension to buy a crumbling house on the edge of a quiet town, determined to make something of it, even if the place looks like it should’ve come with a tetanus shot.
Ghost shows up with a duffel bag and his usual scowl, moving into the guest room to help with renovations. Between faulty wiring, leaking pipes, and a fridge that seems to growl at two a.m., the two of them fall into a new rhythm of grocery runs, hardware store trips, and late-night fixes. The banter is sharp, the silences softer than either expected, and somewhere between the broken walls and peeling paint, they begin to rebuild more than just the house.
It’s a story about finding purpose when the battlefield is gone, about healing old wounds in the comfort of shared domestic chaos, and about realizing that sometimes “home” isn’t a place, it’s each other.
Recovery by Nuria123
his eyes trained on Simon’s face.
The freckled skin, the wrinkles around his eyes and eyebrows, the expressiveness of his features. The scars and the small indents that when John really thought about it could look like the shape of that skull mask, but he wasn’t really sure. It was there, when Simon needed a short break on a bench, laughing at a comment John made, that it hit John. A warm feeling spreading in his chest like dye in water. He didn’t feel lonely.
Because Simon had filled that void with his jokes, his stories and warm timbre voice. Living in John’s mind even when he was at home watching TV or making dinner for one. It was a slow realisation, warm and sappy slithering through his veins and arteries. Smiling wider despite the conversation not really catering for it.
OR
Au where they meet after being medically discharged, and Soap volunteer at the rehabilitation facility Ghost are recovering in - and they fall in love.
Bathe in Sunlight, Take Deep Breaths by coderaven
Ghost gets honorably discharged after taking a bullet to his shoulder that completely obliterates his rotator cuff and leaves him with nerve damage.
He joins a gym to help with his recovery.
He meets Soap, ray of sunshine personified, a trainer at the gym.
He falls pathetically in love.
Homebound by Eszter990
It’s been fifteen months since Makarov broke his arm into two distinct parts, right before shooting him in the shoulder, always the damn shoulder.
Fifteen months since the Russian bastard shot him in the head, too, for good measure, leaving him to bleed out on the concrete floor of the Tunnel, his only saving grace was his team’s quick actions and Laswell’s even quicker response to call in medevac.
Fifteen months since the incident.
Just over a year since Soap lost a life, only for Simon to step in and offer him a new one. This time, together.
or
John and Simon navigate a life in and out of the army, waiting, always waiting for the perfect time to take another step.
Call Sign: Good Boy, Part 1 | Rating: M | Words: 4,712
Gaz goes to the armory to track down a missing gun tag.
What he finds instead is his best friend on his knees in front of Ghost, Roach having the time of his life, and an escalating argument about shame, guns, and workplace conduct.
He just wanted to work. They just wanted to fuck. Nobody gets what they want.
Edited for errors because Google Docs is a little shit with its “Find and Replace” function and König was making random appearances in the fic, guest starring as random men’s chests. [cue face palm]
[Read on AO3]
(Full fic under the cut)
Soap was in a mood. He'd been in a mood since noon. The new rookies were absolute gobshite with zero ability to handle weapons. Laswell was on Price's arse about paperwork, which meant Price was on Soap's arse about it. And for whatever stupid reason Soap was sure he'd been briefed on, but couldn't be bothered to retain, Shepherd was peacocking around base, which meant that Soap had to behave. He was definitely in a mood.
Normally, he and Ghost could find a few stolen moments to blow off steam. They'd sneak off to a supply closet somewhere, manhandle each other for thirty minutes, and then go about their day. It wasn't ideal, but no situation was when you're fraternizing with your LT. So, at the beginning of all of this, Soap had decided he would take what he could get and be happy with it.
Except that, today, the universe was laughing at him. The showers would have been fine. They'd used them before. Water against tile was amazing for masking acoustics, and the steam could introduce just enough doubt to explain away any compromising positions. That had been Plan A. And then, when Soap had all but dragged Ghost into the communal showers, there was an entire group of joint op soldiers just back from a mission; it was going to be a while.
Fine, he'd thought. Plan B.
But when he'd opened the door to the supply closet off the medical bay, König was in there. All 6'10" of him crammed into the supply closet with a clipboard and what appeared to be very serious opinions about the organization of the medical inventory. He'd looked up when the door opened, completely unbothered and said "Oh, hallo." As if Soap hadn't been blue balled all day. Soap had stared at him for one long second. König stared back. Soap's eye twitched as he closed the door. König's "Okay, goodbye," could be heard from the other side of the door. Soap wanted to throttle him.
That was how they'd ended up here in the armory. There was roughly thirty minutes between the end of training and when inventory would start. He'd even set a time for 29:30. This was happening, dammit.
The too-bright fluorescent lights hummed overhead. His knee was pressed into the undoubtedly not clean tile floor and a metal shelf bit into his lower spine. The space between the shelves was cramped anyway, but kneeling here with Ghost leaned over him, one glove supporting himself against a shelf above Soap's head, it was damn near claustrophobic.
Soap was able to forgive all that, though, the second he was eye-level with the fly of Ghost's pants. His pulse quickened at the sight of his LT's arousal through his tac pants. The whole day had been shite, but now he was practically salivating.
He made quick work of Ghost's button and fly and was quickly presented with his reward. Normally, the desperate sound at the back of his throat would have left him blushing, but he was too focused on the matter at hand to care.
"Christ," Soap sighed, "Ah'm never gonna get sick of that sight. Nae wonder yer so smug."
Ghost exhaled through the balaclava, a rough "hmm" in the back of his throat. He'd gotten good at reading Ghost's small tells, and the small change in the fabric of his mask and the faint lines forming at the corner of his eyes told him he was smiling like a bastard. Soap rolled his eyes, but there was no heat in it, "Nae, dinnea get ahead of yerself."
Soap's foot shifted beneath him, causing him to lean his weight against the shelf. The armory was filled with the sound of clanking metal and rustling cardboard. He cursed under his breath as his hand reached to Ghost's hip to steady himself. He groaned as his fingers sunk into the side of Ghost's arse.
"Ye bastard, ye walk around built like tha' and Ah'm supposed tae just behave meself? That's no' fair."
Ghost let out a pleased hum, "Focus, Johnny." His low voice rumbled deep in his chest with a Mancunian accent that sent a wave of heat down Soap's spine.
"Ah am!" Soap sputtered, exasperated, his fingers flexing into Ghost's arse once more, "Ah'm focused on this arse!"
Soap's breath hitched as Ghost's other hand carded through his mohawk and found a tight grip. He let out a tight whine that brought another low rumble from Ghost's chest as he tilted Soap's head back, making eye contact. That smirk. That fucking smirk. Even through the fabric, it made Soap melt.
Ghost exhaled, "Good boy."
The door opened with a quiet metal click as Gaz walked into the armory. He was also in a mood and utterly unprepared for the information he was about to be assaulted with.
"I'm not signing off on anything unless that tag is in here. These bloody FNGs need to learn to take care of their weapons," he sighed in exasperation. Roach, hot on his heels, nodded in agreement. Gaz looked down at the serial number scrawled on the paper in his hand when the sound of clanking metal and the squeak of tile caught his attention.
Unfortunately for Gaz in that moment, his professional training clocked the sounds that, while not inherently alarming, definitely didn't belong in an empty armory.
Gaz stopped cold, mid-sentence as he located the source of the noise. Roach, unaware of the scene before them, bumped into Gaz. He looked down at Gaz, his brow furrowed, then leaned around him and looked to his left. Roach's eyes widened, a smile quickly cut across his face.
Gaz took a mental inventory of the moment. He'd been sent in here for a missing gun tag, instead he'd found his best friend, Soap, kneeling in front of his superior officer, Ghost. Gaz's nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed.
Soap turned, making eye contact with Gaz, which somehow just made it all worse, just in time to see Gaz's soul physically leave his body.
Gaz closed his eyes, opened them, and then exhaled, "Mate…"
Roach craned around Gaz further, taking in the entire scene. He straightened just a little as his eyes softened on his best friend, Ghost. He released a silent, almost disbelieving exhale and nodded once, certain. Finally.
The softness immediately fractured into something bright and wicked when his eyes flicked to Soap. Both his fists shot up to his mouth and his shoulders started to shake, silent laughter building fast.
His eyes shot to Ghost again and his eyebrows jumped in a quick, pointed lift as he nodded his approval. His hands clapped sharply against his face, his eyes darting back and forth between them.
Ghost exhaled. An annoyed hum rumbled through his chest. His gloved hand slowly released its grip on Soap's mohawk. The sudden lack of tension elicited a pout and a small whine from Soap.
Ghost turned to Gaz, "Sergeant," he drawled, his low rumbling voice filling the armory.
Gaz's eye twitched, then went wide in disbelief. He shook his head vehemently. "No, absolutely not. You do not get to pull rank on me while," he made a general gesture toward Ghost and Soap, who had not even had the decency to untangle themselves, "THAT is happening."
Ghost turned toward Gaz. His body shifted slightly, his hand still balanced on the shelf above Soap's head, giving Gaz a full-frontal view.
Gaz's eyes widened as they processed the new onslaught of information. Ghost's cock. Fully exposed and still erect. Gaz's face rapidly changed between layers of horror and disgust, "Ahh! NO!" His hand shot up to cover Roach's eyes in an attempt to gain some control over the situation. Roach was already ducking to get a better view, and Gaz's hand met with his forehead.
"Jesus Christ, mate," Gaz squawked, "put it away!"
Ghost didn't move at first. He just stared at Gaz. His brows pulled together, slowly, like he was trying to process something that fundamentally did not make sense. He looked down and began repositioning himself with a slow, exasperated huff.
Ghost's eyebrow lifted under the mask as he maintained the searing eye contact that had become his signature. Gaz held his stare and looked him up and down, unimpressed. He could play that game, too.
Roach's hands dropped as he snaked past Gaz without a sound. His shoulder grazed Gaz's, but Gaz was too wrapped up in his silent admonition of Ghost and Soap to notice. Roach crossed the room, his steps light and purposeful, and settled himself across from Ghost and Soap and leaned against a rack of M4s.
His shoulder rested against the metal of the rack of rifles, and he crossed one foot in front of the other. Roach tilted his head slightly; his unabashed grin still stretched across his face. Oh, this was going to be good.
Gaz looked at Ghost, fully put away and as decent as it was going to get at this point, and exhaled, satisfied. He turned immediately, his gaze dropping to Soap, who was still kneeling before Ghost, his back pressed against the metal shelf. Gaz tilted his head back slightly and exhaled. His shoulders tightened and then settled. God, this was going to be irritating.
He looked at Soap, his glare devoid of any patience he might have had left. One brow arched and he flicked his gaze upward. Once. Soap followed his eye line, and his entire face shifted. His brows pulled together and his mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He exhaled sharply through his nose. Soap tilted his head back in defiance, as if resisting the incredibly tempting urge to say something out loud. Instead, his lips pursed into a pout, emphasized by his slight underbite.
Soap pushed himself to his feet slowly, with effort. His back was stiff from the metal rack's abuse and his right leg was slowly starting to fall asleep from kneeling on the hard tile floor. He felt himself start to shift forward, and his hand shot out to steady himself on Ghost's hip. His fingers sank into the side of Ghost's arse again. Soap closed his eyes and exhaled. His pout deepened at the reminder of another plan foiled. He was convinced he was never getting laid again.
Gaz’s eyes widened as he tracked the movement of Soap’s hand as his fingers sank into the side of Ghost’s arse. He took in Soap’s closed eyes, the exasperated sigh. Gaz exhaled sharply, his shoulders squaring. The absolute audacity of this man.
His head titled to the side and his eyes narrowed as he eyed Soap.
"Jesus Christ, mate, I AM STILL HERE."
Soap's pout just deepened, and Gaz shook his head when Soap didn't even have the decency to look sorry about it. Gaz stared at him for another moment.
Soap scoffed, his hands coming out to his side, palms up in a shrug, "I dinnea ken what ye expect me tae dae about it, Gaz. Have ye seen it??" he asked as he motioned to Ghost's backside.
Ghost huffed a pleased sound and his shoulders lifted and fell slightly, the closest thing to a chuckle he ever got. Soap's posture straightened slightly at that, his eyes cutting toward Ghost and a small smirk lifted at the side of his mouth, his pout momentarily gone.
Gaz stared at him, flat and unblinking, and waited for the moment his brain would process Soap's profoundly unhelpful response and make it make sense. His eyes, the traitorous bastards, flicked to Ghost's backside and then snapped right back. He pressed his lips into a thin line. No, he was not enduring this alone.
His head turned sharply toward Roach, begging him to see the same chaos unfolding in his armory. Roach, the bastard, immediately betrayed his last attempt to maintain some sort of professional control. He leaned against the gun rack, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. Roach tilted his head to one side and his eyes flicked to Ghost and Soap. How inconsiderate of you, Gaz.
Gaz exhaled slowly and tipped his head back, closing his eyes. His head dropped forward again and his eyes landed on the paper scrap with the scrawled serial number in his hand. He didn't know what he had been expecting from the bastard.
"Unbelievable."
Movement out of the corner of his eye caught Gaz's attention. Roach was still draped against the gun rack like he'd paid for the seat. Comfortable. Too comfortable.
And grinning. Oh, that grin. Slow. Wide. Criminal. Nothing good ever came from that grin.
Gaz barely had time to register it before Roach lifted his hands. Oh, you have got to be kidding me…
Gaz moved fast, closing the distance between them in two strides, his boots heavy against the tile floor. He smacked Roach's hands down with a sharp, irritated swat, "STOP THA-" His voice dropped. tight and hissing through his teeth, "Stop that."
Roach, unsurprisingly, didn't even flinch. His shoulders shook once with silent mirth and his grin split even wider as leaned back against the gun rack as if he hadn't just been physically corrected. Behind Gaz, Soap snorted and then laughed, his raucous voice filling the armory. Roach's grin grew. Gaz exhaled.
Soap shrugged loosely. "Ah mean," he gestured vaguely, one hand flicking out like the answer should have been obvious, "ye couldae let me finish."
Gaz's eyes sharpened as he held Soap's stare.
Soap shifted his weight. His back was still aching from the metal shelf. All that, and he hadn't even really gotten started. Ghost huffed an exhale through his mask and looked down at Soap, crossing his thick arms over his chest. The tattoos on this forearm rippled across the muscle as he tensed slightly.
"Ach, dinnea ye start," Soap scoffed, "Ye know Ah've been at this all day."
Gaz quickly reassessed a situation he realized he hadn't fully understood until now. He looked at Soap and just … stared. He held his breath a moment too long as he tried desperately to choose between violence and restraint. Restraint won, barely. He dragged a hand down his face and tried to anchor his eyes anywhere but Soap.
"All da-" he started, and then bit the sentence back. He exhaled again and shook his head. No. He was not going to engage in that argument.
His hand left his face and he crossed his arms over his chest, “I beg you,” he said, tipping his head forward, eyes narrowed, “Discover shame.”
Soap blinked at him. Once. Twice. Like the words didn't process the first time he'd heard them. His smirk dropped slowly and his mouth pulled tight. Soap's eyebrows dipped and his eyes narrowed.
"Aw, here we go," He shifted his weight and one hand came up in a loose, dismissive flick of his fingers. Gaz's eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"Ahm no' the one burstin' in makin' it weird, mate."
Gaz's jaw dropped.
"Ye couldae jist left," Soap added sharply. He adjusted his weight slightly, leaning into Ghost.
"Jesus Christ," Gaz bit through gritted teeth, "I came in here to work." His voice filled the armory as he held up the scrap of paper with serial number in his hand. His eye caught the smudged ink and he grunted in frustration.
Soap's eyes narrowed. He looked over at Ghost, disbelief and irritation on his face, then back at Gaz. He let out a slow, sarcastic chuckle and shook his head slowly as he crossed his arms over his broad König. He adjusted his stance wider before taking a step toward Gaz.
"Aye," he said sharply, "Sae did I." His body hinged forward at the hips slightly, invading Gaz's space.
Roach's breathy "ha" could be heard from the gun rack. A smug grin settled on Soap's face as he cut his eyes to Roach.
Gaz shot a scolding glare at Roach before dragging his attention back to Soap. He exhaled sharply as whatever fight he'd been carrying bled out of his shoulders as fatigue set in.
One hand settled at his hip, his thumb hooked in his belt loop, fingers splayed. The other tightened around the scrap of paper. The edge crinkled faintly under the pressure as his gaze dropped to it for a beat. His tongue dragged across his lower lip, buying himself a moment before he spoke.
His hand came up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing briefly as his head dipped forward, his posture folding in on itself for a moment.
"Soap," he started with a tired exhale. His hand dropped from his face, slower this time, lingering. When he looked back at Soap, his eyes were void of their previous bite, filled instead with a plea, "I need you to tell me," he said, "that you know that it isn't."
The question hung unanswered in the air between them. Gaz held Soap's glare, searching his face for something, anything. A denial. A correction. An ounce of shame. Nothing. Just Soap in front of him and his arms crossed, shoulders squared like Gaz was in the wrong for walking into the armory today.
Behind him, Roach shifted against the gun rack and caused the rifles to shift slightly. The metal on metal made a clanking sound. Gaz's eyes shifted toward the sound and lingered on the gun rack, just for a second. His eyes widened slightly and one twitched. Another moment passed.
Gaz's focus drifted as he took in the space in a way he hadn't when he and Roach first walked in. Soap had been on his knee in front of Ghost. Ghost had been leaning against the metal rack. The same metal rack that sat directly across from the gun racks where Roach was currently leaning. His gaze sharpened and his nostrils flared.
"…Oh my God…" he exhaled, his face twisting, "You're in the armory."
Soap's brows furrowed slightly. He glanced over to Ghost, then back at Gaz. "Aye, we covered that, Gaz," he said, his head turning slightly toward Ghost, arms still crossed.
A distressed "hnng" escaped Gaz's throat as he took a step back, looking around again, "Soap," he pressed, "You. Are in. The. Armory."
He threw his hands in the air, exasperated, "THE ARMORY, SOAP. THE. ARMORY."
Soap's arms dropped and his brow furrowed in concern. He took a step toward Gaz, extending his hand.
"Are ye okay, mate?"
Gaz's eyes found Soap's again. His friend looked genuinely concerned. Another strangled whine escaped his throat as he took another step back.
"It's a gun thing!" Gaz hissed, his lips curling around the words in horror.
Soap stopped his advance. His brows furrowed further and his expression twisted as he tried to make sense of what Gaz had just said. He looked back at Ghost, then at Gaz again. His face contorted, "Whit?"
Soap's eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the room again. The metal shelves. The gun racks. The long worktable in the back of the armory. His eyes landed back on Roach, still leaning against the gun rack acting like he had a first row seat to his favorite show.
Roach raised one hand to Soap and wiggled his fingers in a wave. Soap's eyebrow twitched upward. Roach's smile turned into a fully, toothy grin as he wagged his eyebrows. He pumped his arms slowly as he did a small hip thrust away from the gun rack.
"I have to inventory those," Gaz whined, his tone high and squeaky.
Soap's face contorted further into confusion. He turned his head slightly from Roach, looking at Gaz's horrified expression, then to Ghost. The fabric of the balaclava lifted slightly as Ghost's eyes crinkled at the corners. His shoulders lifted slightly as he exhaled a single huff through the material.
Ghost was laughing. Why was he - oh. OH.
Soap's eyes went wide as he slowly turned back to Roach, who only nodded in exasperation, like he was annoyed that it had taken Soap that long to piece it all together. Soap's face contorted, his mouth open as his attention snapped back to Gaz.
Soap dragged in a deep breath as flush rose quickly up his neck, "AH'M A DEMOLITIONS EXPERT, KYLE!" His hands flew out wide, fingers splayed. He dragged one hand through his hair, still mussed from Ghost's earlier grip. He paced in a tight half-circle, the outrage vibrating through him.
"D'ye really think," he spat, jabbing a finger toward the racks, then back toward his own chest, "if ah had a thing for weapons, it would be for your standard side arm??"
Soap looked down at the floor, hands on his hips, as he barked out a disbelieving laugh and turned away. He needed a moment of separation from the clear stupidity that had taken root in the room, but immediately whirled back around, his boots hitting hard against the floor.
"D'ye no think ah would be sittin' on top of a crate ae C4 somewhere?" Soap mimed a crouch, like he was about to perch on something. His hands gestured downward emphatically before snapping back up, "wanking it with a stick of dynamite?"
His arms came out again, wide, like the answer should be obvious and this was the most ridiculous conversation he'd ever had the misfortune of being forced into.
"Guns?" he growled, and pointed at Gaz again, sharper this time, and accusatory, "Ye think it's the GUNS?!"
Soap stopped, his chest heaving slightly. His hands hovered, daring Gaz or Roach to so much as breath wrong. His eyes darted back and forth between Gaz and Roach. Roach seized the opportunity to mime another, smaller thrust.
Soap's eyes widened, his nostrils flaring. His lips curled into a snarl as he pointed at Roach, "Dinnea ye start!" Soap took a long stride toward Roach, and was halfway to him when heard it. Ghost's low, Mancunian drawl pierced Soap's fury with three simple words, "I like guns."
Soap stopped, mid-stride. He straightened and paused for a moment, then turned back toward Ghost slowly. The anger drained from him as his shoulders slowly sagged. His eyes were wide, "…Simon."
Ghost's shoulders lifted twice with a sharp exhale. Soap could hear the smile in it. The almost chuckle. His eye twitched. Bastard.
Soap's eyes narrowed, an exasperated growl building from his throat, "Dinnea," he said, pointing a finger at Ghost. The corners of Ghost's eyes creased under the mask.
Soap shook his head and turned abruptly back to Gaz, "It wis private!" he growled.
Gaz's eyebrows shot up as Soap's glare swung back to him. Gaz raised his hand, palms splayed in exasperation, "No! It's not! People come through here all day!"
Soap snorted and crossed his arms again, widening his stance, "It wis until ye barged in!"
Gaz stared at him. His brows lifted higher. He paused for a moment, hoping that maybe, maybe, if he gave him a moment, Soap would hear himself. A beat passed. Soap's eyes widened and head tilted toward Gaz expectantly. Of course.
Gaz looked away for a second, unable to keep eye contact with whatever this was. His hands raised, hovered, then dropped. He dragged one hand over his face, his shoulders sagging a fraction.
Gaz turned his eyes back to Soap, who was still looking at him like he had maliciously derailed his entire day. His eyes darted to Ghost. He pressed his lips thin and his head dipped slightly, "How am I still the problem here?" he muttered under his breath in disbelief.
His eyes darted back to Roach, begging for help. Roach leaned back against the gun rack again, arms crossed. He exhaled slowly and gave Gaz a disappointed shake of his head. You're definitely the problem here. How dare you?
Gaz's head fell back as a strangled whine escaped. He exhaled and dropped his head back down, bringing one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the headache building from the nonsense of the past fifteen minutes. "The door doesn't even - " he said weakly, his voice trailing off.
He released a long-suffering sigh and glanced down at the scrap of paper now completely crumpled in his hand. He flexed his fingers and saw the ink smudged across the paper and his palm, the serial number now illegible. He scoffed and shook his head. Figures.
Gaz looked up to the line of M4s along the wall. They stood clean, orderly, predictable, and completely unaware of what had been forced upon them today. He was honestly jealous.
His eyes darted back down to the smudged paper in his hand, running his thumb over the serial number as if he could coax it back into legibility.
Inventory. An incorrect gun tag. That's why he had walked in here today. Not a front-row seat to his best friend's sex life. He sighed.
Gaz rolled his shoulders slowly and straightened his posture as he drew in a steadier breath. He dug down for his last scraps of patience and professionalism and slotted them back into place.
He looked back up at Soap, who was still standing with his arms crossed, waiting for Gaz to confess the multitude of sins that had led him barging in on his and Ghost's private moment in the armory. Gaz snorted at the absurdity of it all.
"Just clean the guns when you're done," he said, and turned around to leave.
Soap's arms flew out to his sides in exasperation, his eyes wide,"Is no' about the guns!"
Gaz lifted one hand dismissively as he opened the armory door, "Nope, don't care!" he called as the door closed behind him. The sound of his boots faded down the hallway.
Soap's mouth settled into a pout as he looked at Ghost.
Roach peeled himself off the gun rack and crossed to where Gaz had been standing just moments before. His lanky frame carried him to the threshold where he paused and turned at the waist. The pause caught Soap and Ghost's attention, the two men turning to look at Roach.
Smiling, Roach's hands came up to his chest in the form of finger guns as he mimed shooting. Bang, bang!
Then, without breaking the motion, they tipped upward into a thumbs up, like this was the final verdict. He winked once, quick and satisfied, and disappeared through the doorway.
The fluorescent lights of the armory hummed in the silence. Soap dragged a hand through his mohawk, disappointed. He was already missing the feel of Ghost’s gloved hand against his scalp. The building ache in his lower belly had fizzled out somewhere between Gaz’s absurd accusations and Roach’s stupid finger guns. He wanted to be furious with his friend, but all he could do was sigh heavily and look at Ghost with a deepening pout. Ghost, of course, contributed nothing.
Soap turned to face Ghost fully, looking up at him with impossibly blue eyes. This was more than just a thirty minute fuck. Yes, he’d been wound tight all day long and yes, the idea of Ghost’s hands on him did things to him that he had no business thinking about under the too-bright lights.
"It's no' about the guns," Soap muttered with a defeated exhale.
Ghost's head tilted slightly as he took in Soap's face. That smirk, again, as faint wrinkles formed at the corners of his eyes. Soap couldn’t help but smile as a gloved hand grasped his chin firmly and tilted his face up to meet Ghost’s.
Ghost's other hand lifted the edge of his balaclava just above his nose. The map of scars over his lower face was one Soap had explored many times since they'd first crossed that line on a rainy night after an op in Las Almas.
Soap's breath hitched as Ghost moved into his space, their noses close enough to touch.
"Simon…" Soap breathed.
Ghost smiled into the kiss as his lips grazed Soap’s, "I like guns, Johnny," he drawled. The vibrations of Ghost’s voice against his chest made Soap’s cock twitch.
He raised his hand and looked at his watch. 13:45. He looked back at Ghost and dragged his tongue between his lips, "I like guns, too, LT."
Ghost and Soap, TF141, and the collective psychological damage of everyone forced to witness two men who have never once considered discretion a virtue.
They haven’t “declared it.” Nobody needed them to. The whole base knows. The whole base has, unfortunately, also seen things.
This is a collection of loosely connected one-shots chronicling the ongoing disaster that is Soap and Ghost’s situationship, and the various people (mostly Gaz) paying the emotional toll for it. They can be read independently, but there are some little call backs through out that make more sense if you’ve read it in order.
Starting to post this series here. It’s already up on AO3 if you want to binge ahead. Update schedule is vibes-based. I have a full-time job and various bullshit autoimmune issues, so sometimes you’ll get multiple fics back to back, and sometimes I disappear and bed rot for a month. It’s a balance. Bear with me.
Read the series on AO3: Call Sign Good Boy
The Armory Incident - Gaz goes looking for a missing gun tag. He finds considerably more than that (Read on Tumblr | Read on AO3)
A Grave Encounter - Ghost edges Soap through an entire briefing call with Graves. Gaz will never be the same (Read on Tumblr | Read on AO3)
Operational Hazard - Roach brings a tarantula to the common room. Soap discovers that he has feelings about that. (Read on Tumblr | Read on AO3)
The second Captain John Price receives credible intelligence regarding his missing lieutenant, accompanied by photographic evidence of said lieutenant’s current condition, he pinches the bridge of his nose and holds it there for a long moment.
Then he releases a sigh so deep and profoundly exhausted that the paperwork on his desk flutters.
There are moments in a man’s life when he reflects upon the choices that brought him to his present circumstances. Price has had more of those moments than most, usually while being shot at, occasionally while filling out expense reports, and once while watching Soap attempt to determine whether a grenade could be used to open a particularly stubborn jar of pickles.
This, however, may be the first time he has seriously regretted not accepting that desk job his uncle offered him straight out of school.
Corporate office. Nine to five. Sensible shoes. Perhaps a retirement party where the greatest threat to his life would’ve been Sandra from Accounts becoming emotional after two glasses of prosecco.
Instead, he is staring at a photograph of Lieutenant Simon Riley tied to a chair in what appears to be a dungeon.
Bare concrete walls, chains hanging from hooks, one exposed bulb casting ominous shadows. There is even what appears to be a table containing several neatly arranged implements of torture, although Price suspects at least two of them are novelty kitchen utensils.
Simon sits in the middle of it all wearing his skull mask, trousers, and an expression that cannot be seen but can nevertheless be felt radiating through the photograph.
Price studies the ropes binding his lieutenant’s wrists.
He blinks.
He studies them again.
The rope is looped around Simon’s arms perhaps twice, secured with what looks suspiciously like a shoelace knot, and hanging loose enough that a moderately determined toddler could escape it.
“Are we certain this is current?” Price asks.
The intelligence officer standing opposite his desk shifts his weight. “Timestamp puts it at fourteen hundred yesterday, sir.”
“And we’re certain it’s Riley?”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks back at the photograph.
Simon’s boots are planted comfortably apart. His shoulders are relaxed. There are no visible injuries. Someone has placed a folded blanket beneath him so the metal chair won’t be uncomfortable.
There is also, Price notices with mounting despair, a bottle of water positioned beside his right foot with the water level already half gone.
“Right,” Price says.
The investigation continues and it should be difficult to determine how one of the world’s most highly trained special operations soldiers was abducted from his own home. Simon Riley is six foot something of professionally cultivated paranoia. He checks exits without thinking, sleeps lightly, and once identified a surveillance team because the same pigeon appeared outside three different cafes.
You, by comparison, possess all the operational subtlety of a marching band falling down a staircase.
Price discovers you have been following Simon for six weeks.
Not discreetly, no. You’ve followed him to the store, the gym, the shooting range, and several coffee shops. You’ve taken photographs from behind newspapers held upside down, worn a black trench coat during a heatwave, an once crouched behind a decorative hedge that did not make you as invisible as you probably led yourself to believe you were.
Security footage shows Simon looking directly into the camera on several occasions while you scurry behind him between hiding places.
Price sees all of this and lowers his face into his hands.
The next report arrives shortly before lunch.
“A syringe was recovered from Lieutenant Riley’s residence,” an officer tells him.
Price straightens slightly. Finally. Something resembling an actual crime.
“Forensics?”
“Lorazepam, sir.”
“What dosage?”
The officer consults the report. “Zero point five milligrams.”
Price stares at him.
The officer clears his throat. “Ativan.”
“I know what lorazepam is.”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks at the report again, perhaps hoping an additional zero will materialize through force of will.
It doesn’t.
“Zero point five.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That dose wouldn’t knock out a pensioner after Sunday lunch.”
“No, sir.”
“Riley weighs nearly two forty.”
“Yes, sir.”
They stand in silence and Price’s eye begins to twitch.
The final piece of evidence is recovered from a traffic camera positioned across from Simon’s flat where Pricd can see you dragging Simon beneath the arms towards the back door.
Dragging is perhaps generous. You are straining, red faced and panting, moving him approximately three inches at a time while Simon allows his boots to scrape uselessly across the floor. His head lolls against his shoulder with theatrical unconsciousness.
In the process, his boot catches the base of a standing lamp, which begins to fall.
Simon, still allegedly unconscious, reaches out one hand, catches it, carefully rights it, and places it back beside the doorway.
“Unbelievable,” Price mutters.
You turn around at the sound and he drops his arm and resumes being unconscious before you see him.
You stare suspiciously and Simon remains perfectly still.
After several seconds, you shrug and return to your kidnapping.
Price pauses the footage, sits back, and runs both hands slowly down his face, dragging his palms over his beard until he resembles a man trying to physically remove himself from existence.
Behind him, one of the task force operators shifts impatiently. “Captain?”
Price says nothing.
“Do you want us to assemble a team?”
“No.”
There is a pause.
“No, sir?”
“No.”
“But Lieutenant Riley has been taken hostage.”
“Has he?”
The operator looks at the frozen image on the screen. Simon’s enormous, supposedly unconscious body is halfway inside a compact hatchback while you attempt to fold one of his legs through the door.
“He’s tied to a chair, sir.”
“He could break those ropes by sneezing.” He says while he picks up Simon’s personnel file.
He opens it, turns to the appropriate page, and begins filling out a leave request.
The operator watches him. “Sir?”
Price writes Simon Riley beneath the section marked PERSONNEL NAME.
“Captain, what are you doing?”
“Administrative work.”
“Shouldn’t we at least contact him?”
Price checks the box beside personal leave.
“He’s been missing for two days.”
Price writes seven beneath REQUESTED NUMBER OF DAYS, considers it, crosses it out, and replaces it with fourteen.
“Sir.”
Price signs the bottom of the form with a flourish made violent by fatigue.
The operator makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.
Price places the completed document neatly on top of the photograph showing his lieutenant sitting comfortably in a dungeon with a blanket beneath his ass, a half finished bottle of water by his foot, and enough slack in his restraints to knit a second rope.
“No deployment,” Price says. “No rescue attempt. No one contacts him unless there’s an actual emergency.”
I love reading fanfics where one character is tagged as jealous, but their partner is unlovable to anyone but them. Like.. calm down, sweetheart, no one wants your man. We're still trying to figure out why you want your man.
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