#ghostgazweek2025

[karlachismylife]

Good boys

#GhostGazWeek

Day one: Good Boy/Down Boy

Guess who's already behind on the schedule? I'm still doing this. Even if what I do is gonna be shite.

CW: slightly suggestive in the end

It smells like dogs in here. It shouldn’t come as a surprise – and it doesn’t, not since these visits have become a routine for them. It was Kyle’s idea, and Simon trusted him when he said he always wanted to do something like this and it wasn’t just a plot to get Ghost into some kind of “animal therapy” to fix him. Gaz never tried to fix him. Gaz understood.

That’s probably why Simon had no apprehension coming to this facility. Spacious rooms with foam padding on the floor, like in kindergarten - soft for burly men with bad knees to sit on, easy to clean in case some of the dogs have an accident, squeaky toys and old chewy bones thrown around, and that constant dog smell – all of it became a comfort place. A place where retired human soldiers meet retired dog soldiers, shake their furry paws and dedicate their time to make sure these former colleagues don’t feel abandoned and lonely, like veterans often do.

Ghost knows how those dogs feel. He had been there once, temporarily suspended from service on account of his death – when he had nothing to do and no one to meet. His cheap flat looked grey and mirky, his tea tasted like piss, his scars ached every cold night. But now? There’s artwork on the walls. There’s well-seasoned food on the table. There are warm hands resting on his ribs while they sleep. There’s Kyle.

Simon knows how those dogs feel, when they jump onto Garrick’s chest and wag their broken tails despite years of discipline ingrained in their wolf-like skulls, because he feels the same way when Gaz comes home from the grocery store and gets ambushed by a Ghost creeping up on him during unpacking. There are titanium plates and bolts holding some of Kyle’s vertebrae together and Simon’s fingers don’t have same good grasp anymore, but Gaz still finds himself lifted off the ground and locked in a greedy embrace, just like that old German shepherd finds itself in a tight hug of Kyle’s strong arms when it stands up and puts its paws on his shoulders.

“Who’s a good boy? Missed me, did ya? Oh yeah, you’re a good boy, still shedding like a wooly mammoth, eh? Oof, careful with the kisses, mate, that’s my eye,” Simon looks over from where he’s standing, searching for a specific squeaky rubber star toy for the one dog that’s circling him with excited whining and headbutting him under his knees to make him hurry and come play. Gaz is on his knees, face scrunched and black eyeliner smudged around one eye as he tilts his head up and away to try and stop a huge excited shepherd from licking his face again. His smile is shining through even like that, bright and happy, as he laughs and scratches the dog’s sides, pulling clamps of warm soft fur stuck between his fingers. “Ya need a good brushing, mate, come on, get off me for a sec, I’ll go get a brush.”

Ghost watches as Kyle gets up, holding onto his lower back for a split second – and still finds grace in his every movement. His trusty bally hides that stupid lovestruck expression he has on his face – but even just his eyes betray how utterly smitten Simon is. He expected the feelings to dull down, get calmer once they’re off duty and swallowed by the domesticity and routine, but they didn’t. Seeing Kyle fighting off affectionate dogs or put his hair in silk for the night makes Ghost just as weak in the knees as seeing Gaz set records on the shooting range or rush into close combat did.

Everything around him slides into the background, blurring and dimming. Kyle’s soft laughter and murmurs fill Simon’s chipped ears, seep into his bloodstream, feeding the black and gold butterflies fluttering around in his stomach. Gaz is the centre of his attention – the centre of his whole world, so when Ghost hears a command, his body reacts before he can even register it.

“Come on, down, boy! Let me brush ya.”

Several pairs of eyes, human and dog, snap up to look at Simon when he falls to his knees. There are other veterans in the room, their reflexes still sharp and ready to react to anything unusual – and there are dogs tensed up like coils inside a gun, ready to drag a wounded soldier from under fire or finish an enemy. Simon feels blood rush in his veins when he realizes what just happened, and he meets Kyle’s eyes a few meters away.

Garrick has a wicked, devilish smirk hiding in his dark eyes.

“You olrigh’, mate? These bastarts know how to knock a fella down, watch them ‘round your knees,” comes to rescue a kind lad, so much younger than Ghost that he almost questions why that boy is already retired before he sees one of the lad’s eyes give off a glassy artificial glint.

“Yeah, ol’ mate ‘ere gaggin’ for his toy, said I’m takin’ too long. Impatient arse,” Simon happily shoves the blame onto the poor innocent dog that’s still nuzzling him and trying to steal the squeaky star from his hands. Letting the toy out of his palms, Ghost steals a glance at Kyle again and gets startled when Gaz turns out to be much closer, having come up quietly.

Closing his eyes, Simon braces himself and still flinches slightly when Kyle’s hand slides onto his shoulder with a reassuring rub.

“You sure you’re okay, luv?” murmurs Gaz in a wicked, sultry tone, leaning so close that Ghost can feel his hot breath seeping into the bally’s fabric. “Be a good boy and watch out for your knees, will ya?”

“I fockin’ hate you, Garrick,” growls Simon under his breath, and immediately straightens up, moving his shoulder blades together and sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth. Kyle’s fingers under his bally tug on the leather collar again, making sure it’s sitting tight enough, and Gaz smirks, brushing his thumb over the bright silver letters of his full name etched in the collar.

“I don’t think so, Riley. Ya can tell me all about it when we’re back home, though. Just try not to get a chubby on in front of everyone, eh?”

[karlachismylife]

A Knife

#GhostGazWeek

Day two: Quick Escape/Tied up

Almost gave up on this because it felt not great and someone else turned out to have kida a very similar idea for these prompts, but eh, fuck it, we ball. I promise I came up with it on my own...

CW: NSFW because it's a kink scene, but nothing too explicit, dom!Kyle/sub!Simon, bondage, subdrop, aftercare, knifeplay mentioned I guess.

“Red.”

Kyle stops in his tracks immediately, easing the pressure of his shiny boot off Simon’s thigh. His reaction time is immaculate, even though halfway reaching for the knife he almost second guesses the signal – Ghost’s voice sounds gruff and unimpressed as usual, almost too calm for someone pulling the emergency trigger. And yet, when Gaz pulls on the neat rows of rope tied in an intricate immobilizing web down Simon’s broad torso, he notices the painful tension in the muscles and cold sweat on pale skin.

“Stay with me, Si.” Kyle is efficient with the blade, cutting the ropes off with deadly precision – good knife in good hands. He lets Ghost untangle his arms and feel them moving freely first, before carefully touching him with a warning and pulling Ghost’s back against his warm chest. “Better, luv?”

Simon looks down, now free in his chair, at Kyle’s dark hands contrasting with his milky skin with pale constellations of freckles and pink indents where the ropes dug into flesh. It’s some purely artistic imagery, prime target for modern photographers and artists – but they don’t take pictures of their sessions, even though Gaz suggested once or twice to show Simon how beautiful he looks when he lets himself become art under Garrick’s skilled hands. Ghost prefers living that moment from the inside, giving up his autonomy to become something bigger, better, purer – seeing himself like this from the outside sounds threatening to the peace of mindlessnesss he gains by being an art form. Kyle doesn’t insist; to him Simon already is a masterpiece, with its ever-changing nature being the main point.

As if sensing all the thoughts tangled up in Ghost’s skull like the soft red ropes in a messy heap on the floor, Gaz rubs his thumb over the most prominent marks on his forearms and slowly slides his palms along the skin, up to the heavy shoulders and back down to cover the backs of Simon’s hands. Carefully, he locks their fingers together like this and guides Ghost’s arms to move open from his body, bend and stretch, to feel the full range of free, painless, healthy motion.

“Lookin’ beautiful, luv. Feel tha’? No restraints. Everythin’ in place. I gotcha.” His voice murmurs in Simon’s chipped ear like a peaceful forest creek, full of fresh water and damp mossy earthiness. Part of the impression comes from a scented candle burning away on a safe distance from where they were playing; they picked it up together, with Ghost hovering over Kyle’s shoulder like a grumpy mountain of black cotton and snorting dismissively at every flowery and spicy candle Gaz offered to his judgement.

Ghost calms down in Kyle’s arms, little tremors in his muscles subsiding and giving way to warm heaviness as he slumps forward and lets out all the breaths he was holding in. A gentle, soft, dry palm covers his forehead, allowing him to rest his heavy head against it like cats do to feel safer – Simon hums, and Gaz sees his mouth soften into a relieved shadow of a smile.

“Damn you’re pretty,” chuckles Kyle quietly, kissing Ghost’s neck where it slopes down into his burly shoulder, and nuzzles him with a happy, slightly sly twinkle in his crinkled eyes. “Want your snack?”

“No.” Simon’s voice sounds the same – still making Garrick wonder after all this time if he indeed knows how to read the fearsome Lieutenant. Ghost makes it easier, though; turning his head, he reaches behind him and pulls Gaz in for a heated, needy kiss with messy tongue and teeth – the more contact, the better. It floods them both with a shockwave of joy, sliding down their napes and pooling somewhere lower, even after a sudden drop. Kyle pulls away for a second to look at Simon from under his dark, long lashes and swallows, barely restraining his need to drown Ghost in affection. Even like this, breathing into his wet mangled lips, he can tell that Simon has something else to say.

“Somethin’ else wrong, Si?”

In response, Simon turns his whole body and slowly licks his lips.

“The knife,” he grumbles, watching Kyle’s fingers stop tracing the lines on his calloused palms. “Tha’ shit felt good.”

There’s a pause. Ghost can’t hold back a satisfied smirk anymore and grins, earning himself a meaningless slap on his open palms.

“You’re a big rotten freak, sir,” Kyle stands up, making Simon look up at him, and kisses his grin, pulling his head back by the dirty blonde strands. “Bastard, can’t even drop without getting horny.”

Ghost watches Gaz move away, chuckling gruffly, and rests his elbows on the chair’s backrest.

“Is that a “yes, we’ll try it next time”, Sergeant?”

A little protein brownie almost hits him in the face and he catches it from a second attempt, almost dropping at first, before ripping the packaging open with his teeth.

“It’s a “shut your pervert mouth and eat your treat, sir”, sir,” mocks him Kyle as he comes back with a cup of fresh tea. “Of course we’ll try it next time. Drink up, luv. Might as well tell me what exactly felt that good.”

[karlachismylife]

Angel face

#GhostGazWeek

Day four: Friendly Competition/Gender Fuck

Not as punny as I was hoping to make it but it'll go.

CW: slightly suggestive + crude language, makeup viewed as feminine, implied crossdressig later.

“Is tha’ a prick?”

Kyle’s hand stops mid-motion, his finger still connected to Ghost’s broad back, heated up with all the alcohol burning in the veins.

“The fuck? Yer a prick, Si, I’m tryin’ to write a word ‘ere.” He snorts, dropping his head to rest between Simon’s shoulder blades and chuckles drunkenly, holding onto his shoulders and rubbing freckled pale skin showing from under a tight-fitting shirt. “C’mon, guess proper.”

“Tha’s my guess. A hard, fat prick with spunk shootin’ straight up my spine. Ya hintin’ at sumthin?” Gaz doesn’t need to see Simon’s face to know he has a broad, smug grin on his disfigured lips, baring his crooked teeth, and a completely not subtle glint of devilish delight in his eyes – let a lad make a dick joke and he’s happy. As he lifts his big glass to his mouth to take a swig, Simon feels harsh pokes into the softness under both his ribs and jerks with a gruff chuckle, not spilling his booze only by some miracle.

“I’ll show ya a fuckin’ prick,” threatens Kyle, getting up off the bed and stumbling for a second before finding his balance again. It helps that his childhood bedroom is familiar and friendly, old football posters on the walls and a tall bookcase in the corner, with his whole life story stored in trinkets on the shelves – everything gives off a feeling that even if Kyle faceplants on the floor, nothing will happen to him. Ghost drinks this sense of safety even more greedily than beer, looking like a huge stray that got to know the comforts of a loving home and is desperate to soak in as much as possible before it goes back to the streets.

“Wot, already? I thought we’d at least wait till your parents go to bed,” Simon gets shoved in his face immediately and coughs out a few more chuckles, falling onto his elbow and watching Gaz leave the room. There’s muffled music playing from the kitchen, where Garrick’s parents are still sitting and chatting – Simon would be surprised what a long-married couple has to discuss anymore, but somehow there’s always something to talk about with Kyle, and now Ghost knows where it comes from.

He finishes his beer and puts the glass aside, further from the bed to avoid knocking it over, then falls back onto the soft blanket, spreading his arms. Kyle’s bed is soft, softer than Ghost expected, blanket and pillows are thick and inviting to drown in them – tipsy and sleep-deprived for a lifetime, Simon starts dozing off immediately, sinking into the dark blue tender cotton with yellow stars.

He jolts awake when the mattress dips under new weight and sees Kyle leaning over him with a twinkling smile and an eyeliner pen in his hand, pointed directly at Simon’s forehead – bastard must’ve raided his sister’s room for it.

“Shh, lay still, I’m gonna draw a prick on your forehead,” coos Gaz, barely holding back his snickers – they fight over the pen like two cats batting their paws at each other, until Simon locks his huge palms around Kyle’s wrists and yanks him forward, catching him with his big, soft, well-padded chest – and a kiss right afterwards. It’s soft, tastes like beer and a bit of salt from the crackers they munched on – that’s how their game started, with Simon being an arse and wiping his greasy fingers on Kyle’s back and asking to guess what he wrote.

“Ya’re a wee bastart, Riley, playin’ dirty like that,”  murmurs Gaz, pulling away from the kiss. He stays close, ready to be drawn back into another one, but takes his time to look at Simon in the dim lighting. Licking his thumb, Kyle wipes a smidge of eyeliner that got onto Ghost’s cheek in the process, and picks up the pen again. “Let me? No pricks on yout forehead, promise. Jus’ close yer eyes.”

Ghost obliges almost too fast – too trusting, tell someone and they won’t believe it; but the worst that can happen to him in Garrick’s bedroom with the Sergeant himself sitting on top of him is falling asleep prematurely. To avoid that, Simon places his hands on Kyle’s hips, runs his calloused big palms along the perfectly shaped thighs, kneading and squeezing taut muscles, catching his thumbs under the shorts that showed off all the goods. His grip tightens for a moment when the spongy tip of the eyeliner pen touches his eyelid and relaxes again. It’s surprising how still Ghost manages to keep even his eyes while Gaz draws decent – for a drunk man – wings, keeping some resemblance of symmetry even, breathing loudly through his nose.

When Kyle tells Simon to open his eyes again, his breath stutters. There’s something angelic about those big brown eyes in a frosty, feathery frame of blonde eyelashes catching the sparse light of the nightstand land, softened with feminine, almost too curved up wings in their corners – yet there’s still that devilish, sarcastic glint deeper in the smoky quartz of Simon’s iris. He looks up at Kyle from under his heavy, sleepy eyelids, as if he knows what this view does to him – and enjoys it.

“Do I look like a pretty lass yet?” even his voice is quieter, hiding the ever-present teasing under some new layer of sultriness; Kyle’s brows twitch, deciding if they want to join in a frown, and instead shoot up pleadingly as Gaz goes for another kiss, grabbing Ghost’s jaw and exhaling loudly. Simon slides his palms over Kyle’s ass and shoves them under his T-shirt, pressing into his lower back to hold him closer. “Ye’re tha’ horny for fockin’ eyeliner?”

“Don’t fuckin’ mock me, Si,” Kyle’s response lacks bite – he’s breathless, sprawled on top of his Lieutenant and rendered weak in his knees just from seeing Ghost with a hint of makeup on. As if scared that he might expose himself even more if he looks, Gaz keeps his eyes closed and nuzzles Simon’s cheek blindly, brushing his parted lips over the edge of the scar. “Not my fault ye’re so pretty, Riley.”

Ghost rumbles underneath him, humming like a sleepy predator disturbed by its partner coming into the lair from a hunt, and digs his fingers into the smooth skin on Kyle’s back.

“You could paint my mug if tha’ does it for ya,” murmurs he into Garrick’s ear, kneading his firm, dense back muscles. “Bet there’s a whole treasure trunk in yer sister’s room. An old wig too, maybe, huh?”

Pulling back, Gaz sits up a bit and gives Simon a long, thoughtful look from under his lashes, before licking his lips with the faintest nod. No harm in trying at least once, after all.

And Simon Riley is indeed very, very pretty.

[karlachismylife]

The Hooded Man

#GhostGazWeek

Day three: Sharp Shooter/Chastity

I'm not happy with my execution, but I was very happy writing this one. Maybe I'll revisit later.

CW: Robin of Sherwood!AU (kind of) - yes, inspired by that exact 80s series; historical inaccuracies probably, although it was fun to learn that Manchester and Sherwood are not that far apart (I thought they were farther).

Sunbeams drip through the forest roof, dancing on the horse and human armour as the small train passes along the trail. Little golden specks bounce off polished metal plates and chains and glide across the bright wool of their clothes, hesitating to touch on the scary skull-shaped visor covering the face of the man in the middle, on a big white horse with black spots all over its soft form. The horsemen aren’t galloping, but they don’t slow down, ducking under low hanging branches and glancing over their shoulders. Lush, bright greenery weaves around them, obstructing the view – and it muffles the head knight’s sharp, rough commands hurrying everyone up.

A whistling arrow flies out from the woods and pierces the head knight’s eye with a dull, thick sound. Two feather-tailed sisters join the first one, throwing other men off their horses as they draw their swords; the rest spur their horses along the road – spooked animals rush forward and don’t stop when the weight of their riders gets taken off by several more arrows.

Bush comes to life, spawning a hoard of people in green and brown commoners’ clothes with longbows in their hands. They surround what’s left of the train, pulling horses with bags on their backs away from a single immobile figure still sitting in the saddle.

The silent knight in skull helmet stays in place, making no move to draw his sword or even lift his shield – as if every man that rode with him wasn’t slain right in front of his hidden eyes.

A hooded man comes forward from the forest people. He puts his bow away as a gesture of peace and slides his hood off, exposing long dark locks and big, curious eyes.

“My name is Kyle. Kyle of Sherwood,” he comes up closer, offering a calming pet on the nose to the big horse nodding its head anxiously, and looks up at the silent knight. “What’s your name?”

The man in the saddle moves finally. He raises his hand and slowly pulls his helmet off, letting blonde strands, darkened with sweat, hang over his doe eyes. Jagged scars on his face get immediately recognized with surprised gasps from the Sherwood men – he looks over them, noticing a few raised bows, ready to be drawn and shot, and then glances back at Kyle.

“I’m Lord Simon, of Manchester. Are your Merry Men goin’ to shoot me, Kyle?”

“You know they won’t, unless you try sumthin’. What’s Lord of Manchester doin’ ‘ere, ridin’ through the woods with a bunch of knights? You know me, you know my men, you know no noble comes through Sherwood without payin’ a toll. Why come ‘ere?”

Lord Simon watches as his loyal horse Riley accepts the stranger man’s caress as if they’re old friends, Kyle’s dark hand contrasting with the bright white of the soft hide as he pats Riley’s flank too close to Simon’s leg.

“We were in a hurry to get to the Rufford Abbey.”

“In a hurry? What, were you scared a sweet maiden will chase you down and force you to break chastity? I get it, I’m scared of that all the time,” Kyle’s eyes squint in a sly smirk and his Merry Men burst out laughing at the jab. Simon meets the Hooded Man’s eyes and quirks a light, barely visible brow – Kyle catches it and widens his eyes. “Holy shit, are you actually becomin’ a monk?”

It’s the first time he sees Simon lose a fraction of his heavy calmness – he shifts in his saddle and looks at the fascinated crowd, all just like folks described them. His glove squeaks when he tightens his grip on the reins, but he’s not a coward to run away.

“And what is it to you if I am?” Lord Simon finally asks. Kyle of Sherwood looks him up and down and glances back at his Merry Men.

“We let humble servants of the Lord through unscathed,” he says and turns back with a sly twinkle in his eye – Simon doesn’t realize how, but the reins slip from his grasp into Kyle’s palm. “You’re not one of them yet, though. Climb off the horse, Lord Simon. Whoever you’re tryin’ to hide from in the Abbey won’t find you in Sherwood.”

His hand is strong and steady as he offers it to Simon to help him climb off. The Merry Men come into movement again, stripping horses of the riches they never wanted to carry and roping dead men to the saddles to send them out of the woods to be peacefully buried – Lord Simon watches as Baron Roba’s knights that were ordered to oversee his journey and make sure he doesn’t flee disappear in the dense greenery of the forest. Riley is lead away by a broad Scottsman, looking back at Simon and waving its tail as if asking if they’re right to trust the people of the forest – Kyle’s warm calloused hand lands on Simon’s shoulder, radiating reassurance. In his locks, Lord Simon sees deer antler beads.

“Come, Simon,” Kyle smiles – like forest roof smiles with sunbeams – and nods his head to follow the Merry Men. “I heard you wield a bow just as well as your sword. Sherwood needs you.”

Simon comes with the Hooded Man – and as the forest lets him deeper and deeper into its sacred heart, he wonders if the warm hand squeezing his to help his clumsy broad form stay upright on uneven ground can stay holding him forever.