I took a lot if inspiration from Ren's videos (and music) about his health jorney, but I didn't even try to be medically accurate with it. This is about feelings and a bit of wordplay, not facts.
CW: 1480 words, hurt/comfort, medical themes, trauma and brain damage
Click-clack of the round dispenser. Echoey pop of a child protection lid on a rattling pill bottle. Crinkles of aluminum foil breached like a chest of a parasite victim in an Alien movie. A big see-through red one shaped like a rugby ball. Two tiny flat circles, pale pink. Three elongated whites: two pills with a word pressed into them, one gelatine capsule with magic dust inside.
Filtered water, one swallow, two hollowed cheeks, three blinks, infinity of scars.
Simon holds back the usual wave of bile, hungry stomach disturbed by the chemical cocktail foaming in the acid and breaching thin walls of his vascular system. His reflection in the mirror blurs, sunken eyes disappearing in dark sockets of a pale skull for a split second, and then everything comes back to normal – insomnia painting his face better than any skeletal makeup could.
His jaw bone feels foreign, an ill fit, accidentally swapped with the one he dug himself out with.
Humming of an aquarium filter. Plastic cracking of a single use white cup. Gurgles of an abused water cooler boiling with fat bubbles in its blueish head. Psychiatrist’s lobby smells of coffee and cleaning products poorly masked with a chemical lemon air freshener.
Simon swallows another retching urge and stands up thirty seconds before a door with a fake wooden pattern swings open to let him into a cabinet with no straight angles.
“Is this all making sense, Simon?”
It isn’t. It isn’t making any sense why being a good boy and swallowing pills hasn’t fixed him still, hasn’t made him suitable for medical tests she won’t write off no matter what Simon tells her. Brain damage, she says with a matte lipstick smile, C-PTSD. He’s stuck in a sympathetic response, she says, and Simon feels maggots crawl on the underside of his jaw – he’s not stuck, he’s choosing it.
Being always alert is a necessity once you learn what happens if you get sloppy.
“Simon? Oi, Simon! Bloody hell, boy, snap out of it.”
Price’s figure enters the bathroom of a cold safe house, already crowded with Simon alone inside, and flicks the switch on before closing the door. Grey light washes off the skull blur off the mirror, leaving Simon to stare into his own eyes. There are some eyelashes missing from the already sparse lines.
Simon’s broad shoulders slump, muscles rippling and bulging underneath an ugly cross-stitching of scars across his back, he pushes himself off the sink and plops down heavily on the toilet lid, reaching into his sweats’ pocket for a tangled knot of wires.
“What’s tha’ for?” Simon’s eyes flick over to his cross-armed Captain, leaning on the locked door with his unshaven chin tucked into his chest – unmoving, studying, attentive. Curious.
“Humane shock therapy,” he swallows a curse as his aching fingers struggle to untangle the mess and nearly drop the whole device on flesh pink tiles. Finally managing to find loose ends, Simon clips both of them to his earlobes and takes a breath. “Hits my brain wi’ electricity t’ force it into “alpha state”. Means I’m relaxed. Apparently can’t do it on my own, need a bloody remote control t’ fix me.”
His thumb hurts from pressing on the upper arrow too hard. The dizziness creeps up too fast, another attempt to make him barf, and reluctantly pulls back with the single digit dialed down.
Four minutes into his half-hour brain frying session little device clutched in a fist with scarred knuckles dies.
“Fuckin’ hell!” Plastic case cracks in Simon’s palm. His jaw doesn’t fit, teeth grinding remains of six pills into white foam on a mangled scowl. Wide open eyes go blind with maggots swarming panicked pupils.
Price grips his wrist before he can smash a pricey stimulation device into pieces, steady and warm hold on his sweaty skin. John pries it out of his hand, carefully unclipping the clamps from his ears, rough fingertips rubbing cold flesh unconsciously to get blood running again.
“Shh, easy. Easy. Oughtta make ya relaxed, innit? Don’t need a machine for that. Ya have it in ya, Simon, I know.”
One hand leaves him to put useless device away, but the second one stays, sliding further behind and cupping the back of Simon’s head. With no hesitation, Price pulls him against his chest, forcing his face into a shockwave of warmth – there’s too much at once, slightly coarse chest hair rubbing against skin he’s suddenly extremely aware of instead of reserving all his senses for the bones underneath; rich scent of a recently awakened man flooding Simon’s nose and wiping pills’ bitterness from the roof of his mouth.
Simon swallows the urge to stick his tongue out and drag a filthy lick between his Captain’s tits and gets rewarded with a squeeze on his nape lighting up his brain in all those little spots they stuck electrodes for a scan in an 80-s sci-fi looking cap.
“Yer heart’s barely beatin’, sir. Need me t-”
“My heart’s perfectly normal. Yours is jus’ going at it like a bloody jackhammer.”
He knows now – finally feeling his blood flow where previously only worms slithered over naked bones, Simon tries counting beats and loses track too fast. It’s pricking in his forehead, pressed into a fine chest, pulsing in his fingertips suddenly squeezed in a desperate fist grip on Price’s hips.
“Tha’s it, good lad, breathe. How long ya sit with those clips usually?”
Big hand carefully covers one of Simon’s grasps and eases it into an open palm, still allowing it to stay on Price’s back, fingertips throbbing with suddenly warm blood pressing into the soft flesh needily.
“Thirty minutes, sir.”
He relaxes his second palm on his own, fingers splaying over the small of John’s back. Jittering knees bracketing Price slow down and stop, leaning slightly inward to let Simon’s thigh brush against his Captain’s leg.
“Your brain generates different signals every day, which means required settings of the stimulator will vary too. The easiest way to determine the level needed today is to raise it until you feel dizzy and then lower it by one. Is this all making sense, Simon?”
It is. It is making sense, he’s one step shy from dizzy, nausea finally dissolved deep down in his stomach. Eyes closed – not gouged out – and resting, he’s being a good lad and getting fixed. There’s a steady pressure on the back of his neck, thick fingertips massaging where maggots used to be.
Simon doesn’t notice how his jaw finds it way to fit perfectly into Price’s palm until John turns his head up and to the right, forcing Simon’s chipped ear against slightly quickened heartbeat and baring his face to the piercing gaze of two blue eyes.
There’s an astronomical map of freckles scattered on the universe of his boy – something no bone would be able to bear.
A thumb presses into the ugly cleft of his upper lip, sliding torn flesh further up – before Simon’s lashes can flutter open, Price shushes him, and Simon obeys. He keeps his eyes closed while his Captain measures his pulse through the wet thin skin of his scarred lips.
His mind doesn’t alert him, when John leans down and presses his own mouth down.
That same palm that fixed his jaw slides up his face reverently to cover Simon’s eyes, determined to keep them closed for the required thirty minutes, and Price deepens the kiss, licking into the pills-tasting mouth. Simon feels him, initial novelty and excitement of a hot tongue rolling over his teeth and soft facial hair brushing against his skin quickly get drowned out by a calm call of weighted peace pouring over him like caramel.
There must be something wrong with him for having no reaction to a sudden kiss from his Captain, but his psychiatrist would be proud of the steadiness of his alpha brainwaves today.
“What happens if ya keep it longer than thirty, eh?”
Price’s voice sounds hoarse right above his ear, big hands still holding his head close and blind. Simon doesn’t know what happens – maybe more brain damage, maybe an anxiety attack.
Maybe he becomes sloppy again and forgets how to be constantly alert.
“Runnin’ late to a briefing, sir.”
Simon’s hand slides lower, skims down the chiseled hip and tries wrapping around Price’s thick thigh, little finger pressing into the vulnerable hinge of his knee until John gives in and allows to pull himself into his Lieutenant’s lap.
“Good thing there’s no briefing today then. Ya feeling relaxed yet?”
Price feels thin blonde eyebrows move under his blinder palm into a momentarily pleading position and needs no other answer. You can’t expect same result as when using a proper device.
Tags: PricGhostweek2024, getting together, hand job, Ghost has dick piercings again hehe, 5+1 (5+2 really but shh)
This is for day 3 of PriceGhost week!! Tea and Blushing. My second attempt at smut, kind of different, i struggled so much more with this one so i hope its good 0_0 And of course, titles are what i was listening to while editing: "The Summoning" - Sleep Token
Ghost sat back in his chair, the mug still warm in his hand. The tea was awful—objectively terrible—but somehow, the sharp edge of Price’s smirk left a different kind of heat lingering in the pit of his stomach. He took another sip, the bitterness oddly grounding, though it wasn’t the tea he found himself thinking about.
It was Price. Always Price.
OR
Five times someone tries to make Ghost tea and gets it wrong and the two times Price gets it right. So right in fact that they fuck about it. Including a morning after scene!
Keep reading on here or on AO3 where again, there are chapters lol
The air was thick with the stale scent of brewed coffee and cheap tea, a familiar morning cocktail Ghost had long since learned to tolerate. The barracks were alive with muted voices, the shuffle of boots, and the occasional clink of mugs against metal tables. Ghost moved through the room with his usual quiet efficiency, the soft creak of his tactical gear the only sound he carried with him.
A rookie, barely out of basic judging by the nervous glance he shot Ghost’s way, stepped into his path. “Tea, sir?” the lad stammered, holding out a steaming mug.
Ghost gave a slight nod, taking the mug with a quick glance at the murky liquid inside. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble that seemed to startle the kid, who scurried away without waiting for a response.
Sliding into an empty seat at the far end of the room, Ghost cradled the mug in gloved hands. The steam wafted up, faintly masking the sharp tang of disinfectant that lingered in the air. As he raised the cup to his lips and took the first sip, his body stiffened involuntarily.
The bitterness hit like a gut punch, sharp and unrelenting, the taste bordering on burnt. He swallowed reflexively, fighting the instinct to spit it back into the mug. His gloved hand tightened slightly around the handle as he set the cup down, his expression as neutral as ever.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement—a subtle shift of weight against the wall. Price stood there, one boot crossed over the other, his arms folded casually across his chest. His mug, no doubt filled with a brew infinitely better than the swill Ghost had just endured, rested comfortably in one hand.
Price’s eyes flicked to the mug in Ghost’s hand, then back up to his face. One eyebrow quirked ever so slightly; a silent question framed by a flicker of amusement. Ghost didn’t move at first, the weight of that damnable tea still burning on his tongue. Finally, he gave a small shrug, lifting the mug as though to toast before taking another sip.
The bitter liquid slid down like nails on a chalkboard, but Ghost refused to give Price the satisfaction of a reaction. If the Captain wanted a show, he wasn’t getting one today.
Price’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk ghosting across his face. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his own drink, blue eyes crinkling slightly at the corners as though savouring the unspoken joke. For a man as disciplined as Price, there was a certain casualness to his demeanour that Ghost couldn’t help but find disarming—and, in moments like this, vaguely irritating.
Or maybe it wasn’t irritation. Maybe it was the way Price’s gaze lingered, cutting through the layers Ghost wrapped himself in, leaving him exposed in a way he couldn’t ignore. Price wasn’t just his Captain; he was a force—steady, commanding, utterly impossible to look away from. And lately, Ghost had found himself looking more than he should. Far more.
The murmur of voices began to fade as the briefing started, the room settling into a focused hush. Price straightened, stepping forward to command the team’s attention, but not before giving Ghost one last look—a fleeting, knowing glance that carried an air of private humour.
Ghost sat back in his chair, the mug still warm in his hand. The tea was awful—objectively terrible—but somehow, the sharp edge of Price’s smirk left a different kind of heat lingering in the pit of his stomach. He took another sip, the bitterness oddly grounding, though it wasn’t the tea he found himself thinking about.
It was Price. Always Price.
---
The night was cold and damp, the kind of chill that seeped through layers and settled deep in the bones. Ghost crouched low on the rooftop, his rifle balanced beside him as his eyes scanned the empty street below. The mission had been a long slog, and now they were in the final stretch—watching, waiting, listening for any sign of movement.
The soft sound of boots on concrete pulled his attention momentarily. One of the lads on rotation appeared, carrying a steaming mug. “Tea, Lieutenant?” the soldier offered, his voice low enough not to carry.
Ghost nodded once, accepting the cup with a gloved hand. “Cheers,” he muttered, though his focus had already returned to the streets below.
The mug was warm in his hands, a small comfort against the icy wind that whipped across the rooftop. Ghost raised it to his lips, taking a cautious sip. His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. It was watery—practically clear, with only the faintest hint of tea to justify its existence. He swallowed, the lukewarm liquid doing little to drive away the cold.
A low chuckle sounded behind him. “Not to your liking, then?” Price’s voice was quiet, carrying just enough amusement to set Ghost’s teeth on edge.
Ghost glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of the Captain leaning against a ventilation shaft a few metres away. His silhouette was dark against the overcast sky, the faint glow of the nearby town illuminating the sharp line of his jaw. He cradled his own mug in one hand, the other tucked into his coat pocket.
“It’s fine,” Ghost said gruffly, turning back to the horizon. The deadpan delivery was marred only by the slight twitch of his jaw as he took another sip.
Price stepped closer, his boots silent against the rooftop. He perched on the edge a short distance away, his attention shifting between Ghost and the street below. “Fine,” he repeated, his tone laced with mock disbelief. He took a sip of his own drink, hiding a smirk behind the rim of his mug.
Ghost didn’t respond immediately, focusing instead on the rhythmic sweep of his gaze across the street below. The tea might’ve been an insult to his senses, but Price’s presence was something else entirely—a weight Ghost felt keenly, warming the cold air between them in a way no mug ever could.
He didn’t just notice Price; he felt him, in the smallest shifts of sound, the brief brush of movement in his peripheral vision. Ghost wasn’t used to being so aware of someone, and it was beginning to feel less like a coincidence and more like a slow, insidious inevitability. He was drawn to the man—had been for a while now—but there were parts of that truth Ghost wasn’t quite ready to face.
Price turned his head, blue eyes catching Ghost’s profile. “That good, eh?” he teased, the amusement in his voice clear.
“It’s tea,” Ghost said flatly, though the subtle roll of his shoulders betrayed his irritation. His gaze didn’t waver from the horizon, but the tension coiling in his chest was harder to ignore.
Price chuckled softly, the sound rich and warm in the frigid air. “Patience, Lieutenant,” he murmured, his tone lighter now, almost affectionate. “You’ll get the good stuff eventually.”
Ghost’s gloved fingers tightened slightly around the mug, the bitterness of the tea a faint backdrop to the sharp awareness of Price beside him. The Captain was close enough that Ghost could feel the faint heat radiating from him, and something in Ghost ached for more of it—more of him. It was a thought he immediately shoved to the back of his mind, burying it under years of discipline and deflection.
He side-eyed Price briefly, the faintest twitch of his mouth betraying a reluctant humour. “That a promise, Captain?”
Price’s smile deepened, the teeth flashing briefly in the faint light. “Maybe,” he said, leaning back on his heels. His gaze flicked down to the cup in Ghost’s hand, then back up to his eyes. “Though I reckon you’ve built up a tolerance by now.”
Ghost huffed quietly, the closest he’d come to a laugh. He raised the mug in a mock toast before taking another sip. “You could say that” he muttered, his voice wry.
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the tension of the mission momentarily forgotten. Ghost sipped the last of his tea with grim determination, the bitterness of the first time replaced by an absence of flavour altogether. Still, he couldn’t help but notice the faint smile on Price’s face, the quiet amusement in his gaze every time their eyes met.
It shouldn’t have meant anything, Ghost thought. But somehow, it did.
And though he wouldn’t admit it, the tea somehow didn’t taste quite so bad when paired with that
---
The post-mission debrief room was always the same—dim lighting, uncomfortable chairs, and the faint, lingering smell of sweat and adrenaline. Ghost sat heavily in his chair, the weight of the mission clinging to him like the grime still streaked across his gear. The team filtered in slowly, murmurs of exhaustion and relief blending with the clink of mugs and the rustle of paperwork.
Someone placed a mug of tea in front of him, the gesture perfunctory but well-meaning. Ghost glanced at the dark liquid with a practised eye, immediately noting the absence of milk and the unopened sugar packet sitting accusingly beside the cup. He let out a slow, quiet breath, bracing himself as he picked it up.
The first sip was exactly as he’d expected: strong, bitter, and utterly unbalanced. He swallowed with a grimace hidden by his mask, setting the mug down with a soft clunk. It wasn’t the worst he’d had—no, that dubious honour belonged to the swill from the stakeout—but it was hardly drinkable.
As he reached for the sugar packet, a low, familiar voice broke through the quiet.
“What? Don’t like your tea black?” Price’s tone was casual, but Ghost could hear the teasing undercurrent. He looked up, finding the Captain leaning against the edge of the table, his arms folded loosely across his chest. There was a glint in his eye that Ghost had come to recognise—a mix of amusement and something sharper, more observant.
Ghost huffed quietly, tearing open the sugar packet with one hand. “Not exactly my preference,” he muttered, tipping the grains into the cup with deliberate care. He stirred it with the spoon that had been left haphazardly on the saucer, the metallic scrape faint but satisfying.
Price smirked, his gaze unwavering. “One day someone’ll get it right,” he said, his voice low and knowing.
Ghost paused, his gloved fingers resting on the spoon. His eyes flicked up to meet Price’s, and for a moment, the room seemed quieter, the distant murmur of voices fading into the background. “Doubt it,” he replied simply, his tone dry as ever, but the corner of his mouth twitched beneath the mask.
Price let out a soft chuckle, his lips curling into a smile that seemed almost too warm for the stark, clinical room. “Maybe you should start leaving instructions,” he quipped, straightening up and stepping back towards the centre of the room.
Ghost shook his head slightly, returning his attention to the tea. He took another sip, now faintly sweetened, and allowed himself a small hum of approval. It wasn’t perfect, but it was tolerable—and that was enough.
The debrief began, Price taking command with his usual steadiness, but Ghost found his gaze wandering more than once. It wasn’t deliberate—at least, that’s what he told himself—but something about the Captain’s presence drew his attention like a compass needle to true north.
Price had an uncanny ability to hold a room, his quiet authority a steadying force amidst the chaos of post-mission debriefs. But it wasn’t just his command that had Ghost’s focus—it was the subtle shifts in his expression, the way his voice softened when he addressed the team’s concerns, the faint quirk of his brow when someone muttered an excuse. It was the details, Ghost realised. The care. Price didn’t just see the team—he noticed them, in ways that made Ghost feel almost uncomfortably exposed whenever those blue eyes landed on him.
He shouldn’t have been thinking about it. The tea, the mission, the exhaustion—any of those should’ve been enough to occupy his mind. But as Price moved across the room, Ghost found himself tracking the easy confidence in his steps, the way his sleeves rolled up just enough to show the corded strength of his forearms. It wasn’t the first time Ghost had noticed things like that. It wasn’t even the tenth. But tonight, it felt harder to ignore, like the want was something physical, thrumming under his skin.
By the time the meeting wrapped up, the bitterness of the tea had faded, leaving only a faint sweetness—and the weight of Price’s smile—on his mind.
Price caught his eye as the room began to empty, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than necessary. Ghost nodded, a subtle gesture of acknowledgment, but his chest felt tighter for it, his heart beating just a fraction faster. It wasn’t much—just a look—but it felt like Price had seen right through him, had caught the thread of something Ghost wasn’t ready to admit even to himself.
The mug was empty by the time Ghost left the room, but the warmth it left behind—no, the warmth Price left behind—stayed with him.
---
The base was unusually quiet, the kind of rare lull that made Ghost feel almost out of place. The hum of generators was the only sound as he walked into the small kitchen tucked away near the barracks. It wasn’t much—a kettle, a few mismatched mugs, and a shelf half-stocked with odds and ends—but it was enough for what he needed.
The kettle had just finished boiling, its faint hiss dissipating into the still air. Ghost poured the water into his mug, watching the tea bag swirl lazily as the liquid darkened. He reached for the sugar, hesitating for a moment before tearing open a second packet and tipping it in. Stirring quickly, he raised the mug to his lips and took a sip.
It was… decent. Not perfect, but far closer to what he preferred. The extra sugar was a welcome indulgence after weeks of putting up with other people’s attempts to make his tea.
Ghost leaned against the counter, letting himself relax for just a moment. The warmth of the mug seeped through his gloves, grounding him in the otherwise empty room. He took another sip, savouring the sweetness, and allowed himself a faint hum of satisfaction.
“Couldn’t resist, could you?”
The voice startled him, soft and low but laced with amusement. Ghost turned sharply, his body instinctively tense, only to see Price leaning casually against the doorframe. Arms crossed, the Captain was watching him with an expression that hovered between smug and fond.
“Caught me,” Ghost muttered, his voice gruff as he set the mug down on the counter. He straightened slightly, as if the simple act of being caught enjoying something sweet required a more defensive posture.
Price stepped into the room, his boots barely making a sound on the scuffed floor. “Didn’t take you for a man with a sweet tooth,” he said, his tone teasing but not unkind.
Ghost shrugged, lifting the mug again as though to shield himself from further scrutiny. “Can’t help it if I like a bit of sweetness,” he said, his words muffled slightly by the rim of the cup.
Price’s smile widened, his blue eyes glinting with something unspoken. He leaned against the counter next to Ghost, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. “Noted,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet hum of the base filled the space between them, the shared silence comfortable in a way Ghost wasn’t used to. He found himself glancing at Price, catching the faint curve of his smile, the relaxed set of his shoulders.
It shouldn’t have been anything. Just two men sharing a quiet moment in an empty kitchen, nothing more. But Ghost felt it—the heat under his skin, the restless pull in his chest. It was the closeness, the way Price’s presence seemed to fill the room without effort. It was the way their shoulders nearly touched, a distance so small it felt deliberate.
“Bit late to be sneaking extra sugar, isn’t it?” Price said eventually, breaking the silence with a teasing lilt.
Ghost huffed, the sound more amused than annoyed. “Better than that piss-weak tea I’ve been getting,” he retorted, taking another sip for emphasis.
Price chuckled, a low, warm sound that seemed to linger in the small room. “Fair point,” he said, his voice steady and rich. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking to Ghost’s mug and then back to his eyes. “Maybe I’ll make you a proper cup one of these days.”
Ghost raised an eyebrow, though the expression was lost behind his mask. “I’ll believe it when I taste it,” he said dryly, his tone betraying just the faintest hint of humour.
Price smiled, pushing off the counter and heading for the door. “You’ll see,” he said over his shoulder, his voice carrying a promise that felt heavier than it should have.
Ghost watched him go, his gaze lingering longer than it should. The tea was warm on his tongue, but it wasn’t just the drink that had him feeling unsteady. It was Price—the way he looked at Ghost, the way he made simple words carry weight, the way he made Ghost want something he couldn’t put a name to.
He finished the mug in silence, his thoughts circling back to Price’s words.
“You’ll see.”
Ghost wasn’t sure what, exactly, Price meant. But he knew he wanted to find out
---
The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the rugged landscape. The mission had dragged on longer than planned, the team stuck in a tense waiting game as they monitored the area for enemy movement. The air was dry and still, the kind of oppressive quiet that made every sound—every rustle of fabric, every crunch of gravel—feel amplified.
Ghost knelt near a rocky outcrop, his rifle resting across his knees as his sharp eyes scanned the horizon. His body was a coiled spring, tension radiating from every fibre, though his posture remained outwardly calm.
Footsteps approached from behind, measured and steady. Ghost didn’t turn; there was only one person on the team who moved like that. Price appeared a moment later, stepping into his periphery. He carried two mugs, the steam curling lazily into the cool evening air.
“Was given this to deliver,” Price said, holding one out.
Ghost hesitated briefly before taking the mug, his gloved fingers brushing against Price’s hand in the exchange. The warmth of the mug seeped into his palms as he brought it to his lips, taking a cautious sip. He stiffened immediately, his throat protesting at the over-stewed bitterness. It wasn’t the worst he’d had, but it wasn’t far off.
Price crouched down beside him, balancing his own mug on one knee as he settled. “No good?” he asked, though there was no teasing in his tone this time. It was genuine, casual—like he’d caught Ghost mid-thought and was waiting for him to speak.
“It’s drinkable,” Ghost replied, voice low and even. He took another sip, more out of habit than desire, and set the mug down carefully beside him.
“Drinkable.” Price hummed, taking a long sip from his own mug. “Could be worse.”
“Been worse,” Ghost muttered, his focus snapping back to the horizon. But the bitterness of the tea wasn’t what had his jaw tight or his senses heightened. It was Price—too close and too steady, his quiet presence a weight Ghost didn’t know what to do with.
Price let out a soft breath, leaning back on his hands. “You always this agreeable when someone makes you a brew?” he asked, his voice carrying a warmth that made the cold air feel distant.
Ghost huffed, his mouth twitching faintly beneath the mask. “Reckon most wouldn’t bother trying again.”
“Hmm,” Price murmured, tilting his head as he looked at Ghost. “Well, maybe I need to try my hand at it, think I’ll get it right?”
The words weren’t loud, but they settled heavily between them, lingering like the last rays of sunlight stretching across the rocky landscape. Ghost felt the weight of Price’s gaze, the easy way he spoke like he wasn’t asking for anything but was offering something all the same. It wasn’t just about the tea, Ghost realised. It never was.
He picked up the mug again, taking another sip despite the lingering bitterness. “Reckon you’re stubborn enough to keep at it until you do,” he said quietly, his tone lighter than before.
Price smirked, the edge of his lips curling around his next sip of tea. “Stubborn’s one word for it,” he said, blue eyes flicking to Ghost’s before sliding back to the horizon.
Ghost let the silence stretch between them, the mission’s tension fading under the weight of their shared stillness. Price wasn’t looking at him anymore, but his presence filled every inch of space Ghost had tried to carve out for himself. And for once, Ghost didn’t want to push it away.
“I’ll remember this,” Ghost said suddenly, his voice low but steady. He gestured vaguely toward the mug. “Next time you’re cursing my name.”
Price glanced at him, his smirk softening into something almost unreadable. “You’re assuming I’d waste the breath,” he said, but there was no edge in his words. If anything, there was something warmer beneath them—something Ghost wasn’t sure he could touch without burning.
The light dimmed further as the sun dipped below the horizon. Ghost let the mug rest on his knee, the last sip untouched but still warm. He didn’t know what he was holding onto more—the tea, or the way Price stayed beside him like he belonged there.
When Price finally stood, brushing dust off his trousers, Ghost glanced up at him. The Captain looked down, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “Stay sharp,” Price said quietly, his voice low and grounding, before turning to leave.
Ghost watched him go, the warmth of the tea fading but something else settling in its place. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going away.
---
The base was quiet, save for the distant hum of a generator and the occasional creak of the building settling. Ghost leaned against the counter in the small kitchen, the faint light from the overhead bulb casting long shadows. The air felt heavier at this hour, like the weight of the day had finally caught up with the walls.
He didn’t often linger in places like this—too exposed, too empty—but tonight, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to go back to his quarters. Sleep wouldn’t come, and the quiet had a way of pulling at thoughts he’d rather leave buried.
The kettle on the counter hissed, steam rising in lazy curls as it came to a boil. Ghost reached for it, the motion automatic, and poured the hot water over a tea bag in his mug. He stirred in a packet of sugar, watching the grains dissolve before taking a cautious sip. It was decent—better than most—but still far from what he wanted. Or maybe it wasn’t the tea he wanted at all.
The sound of boots on tile made him glance up. Price stepped into the kitchen, his silhouette framed by the doorway. He looked as tired as Ghost felt, his sleeves rolled up and his hands tucked into his pockets.
“Bit late for tea, isn’t it?” Price said, his voice low but carrying the faintest edge of humour. He moved further into the room, leaning a hip against the counter a few feet away.
“Could say the same to you,” Ghost replied, his tone even but not unkind. He raised the mug to his lips, the heat of the tea doing little to warm the restless ache in his chest.
Price huffed a soft laugh, the sound grounding in the quiet. “Fair point.” He reached for one of the mismatched mugs on the shelf, his movements unhurried. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Something like that,” Ghost muttered. He watched as Price filled his own mug, his focus drifting to the way the man’s hands moved—steady, deliberate. It was a small thing, but it held Ghost’s attention in a way he didn’t quite understand. Or maybe he did, and that was the problem.
Price leaned back against the counter, his mug cradled in both hands. The light above them cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the lines at the corners of his eyes and the faint stubble on his jaw. Ghost looked away before his gaze could linger too long.
They stood in silence for a while, the space between them filled with the quiet hum of the base. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was charged in a way Ghost couldn’t ignore. He was too aware of Price—of his presence, the way his body seemed to fill the room without effort. It made the kitchen feel smaller, like there wasn’t enough air to go around.
“You’ve got that look again,” Price said suddenly, breaking the quiet.
Ghost turned his head slightly, meeting Price’s gaze. “What look?”
“The one that says you’re thinking too hard,” Price replied, his tone teasing but not unkind. He took a sip of his tea, watching Ghost over the rim of his mug. “Never a good sign.”
Ghost huffed softly, the sound more amused than annoyed. “You’re imagining things, Captain.”
“Maybe.” Price shrugged, his lips quirking in a faint smile. “Or maybe I’m right.”
The warmth in Price’s eyes was disarming, cutting through the walls Ghost kept so carefully in place. It wasn’t fair, Ghost thought, the way Price could do that—see through him without even trying, like he’d always known where to look.
“Even if you are,” Ghost said quietly, his voice low and rough, “I doubt you’d want to hear it.”
Price tilted his head, his gaze steady. “Try me.”
The words settled heavily between them, the weight of them making Ghost’s chest tighten. He looked down at his mug, the tea untouched and cooling in his hands. “You don’t let things go, do you?” he muttered.
“Not when it comes to you,” Price said simply, the honesty in his voice startling. There was no teasing now, no humour—just the quiet, steady care that always seemed to anchor him.
Ghost’s fingers tightened around the mug, his throat working as he swallowed. There were words on the tip of his tongue, things he wanted to say but couldn’t. Not here, not now. But Price’s gaze didn’t waver, and for a moment, Ghost thought he might break under it.
“Stubborn bastard,” Ghost said finally, his tone softer than intended.
Price smiled, the warmth in his expression cutting through the tension. “You’d know.”
They fell into silence again, but this time, it felt different. Lighter, somehow. Ghost took a sip of his tea, the bitterness almost comforting now. When he looked up, Price was still watching him, his blue eyes softer than Ghost had ever seen them.
“You’ll figure it out,” Price said quietly, his voice low but steady. “Whatever it is you’re thinking about.”
Ghost didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on the Captain’s face. “Maybe,” he said eventually, his voice barely above a murmur. “Or maybe I’ll just keep drinking bad tea until I do.”
Price chuckled softly, the sound rich and warm. “We’ll get you sorted,” he said, a promise in his tone. “One way or another.”
Ghost nodded, the weight in his chest easing slightly. He didn’t know what Price meant by that, but he knew enough to believe him. And for now, that was enough.
---
The base was still and quiet in the early morning, the kind of calm that settled just before the day’s chaos began. Ghost shuffled into the mess, his steps heavy and deliberate. He’d had barely an hour of sleep, and it showed in the slow drag of his movements and the way he dropped into the nearest chair without bothering to check his surroundings.
He leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, his gloved hands cradling his head. A dull ache thrummed behind his eyes, and he knew it would take more than the usual swill masquerading as tea to pull him out of the fog.
The sound of a mug being placed on the table in front of him drew his attention. Ghost blinked up, his eyes meeting Price’s as the Captain slid into the seat opposite him, a steaming cup in hand.
“Figured you could use this,” Price said, his tone casual but laced with something softer—something bordering on care.
Ghost grunted in response, his gaze dropping to the mug. He reached for it without much thought, lifting it to his lips for the first sip.
He froze.
The tea was perfect. Not just decent, not tolerable—perfect. Smooth, sweet, with just enough milk to soften the edges and the distinct, familiar notes of Earl Grey lingering on his tongue. It was the exact balance he’d given up expecting long ago.
Ghost blinked down at the mug as though it were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. His gaze flicked back to Price, whose lips were quirked in a faint, knowing smile.
“Something wrong?” Price asked, though the smug tilt of his tone suggested he knew exactly what was going through Ghost’s mind.
“Where’d you get this?” Ghost asked, his voice low but edged with genuine surprise. He took another sip, his gloved fingers tightening around the mug as though afraid it might vanish if he let go.
Price leaned back slightly, his hands wrapped around his own mug. “Made it myself,” he said simply, his eyes never leaving Ghost’s.
Ghost raised an eyebrow, though the gesture was hidden by his mask. “What, got tired of watching me suffer?”
Price’s laugh was soft, warm, and unhurried. “Something like that,” he admitted, his gaze steady. “Thought you deserved a proper cup for once.”
Ghost shook his head, taking another sip as he processed the Captain’s words. The tea was warm and grounding, but it was the thought behind it that left him momentarily unsteady.
“Careful, Captain,” Ghost murmured, his tone low and dry but laced with something softer. “Keep this up and I’ll think you’re trying to spoil me.”
Price chuckled again, his shoulders lifting in a slight shrug. “Maybe I am,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Someone’s got to make sure you’re taken care of.”
The words hung in the air, simple but weighted, the kind of statement that carried far more meaning than either of them was ready to acknowledge. Ghost studied him for a long moment, his own mask of composure slipping just enough for the warmth in Price’s eyes to reach him.
He leaned back in his chair, cradling the mug as though it were something fragile. “Got my tea,” he said softly, his voice quieter now. “Got you here. Think I’ve got everything I need.”
Price’s gaze softened, and a faint flush crept across his cheeks. He looked down, his smile widening before he took a deliberate sip of his own tea.
The silence between them was comfortable, filled with the kind of understanding that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. Ghost hid his own faint smile behind the rim of the mug, savouring both the tea and the moment.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, everything felt… right.
Ghost leaned back in his chair, his fingers wrapped around the warm mug, his gaze fixed on the steam curling lazily upward. Across the table, Price took another sip of his tea, his eyes lingering on Ghost a moment too long before he glanced down at his own drink.
The silence between them stretched, comfortable yet charged. Price’s earlier words—“Someone’s got to make sure you’re taken care of”—echoed in Ghost’s mind, the weight of them settling into a space he wasn’t sure he wanted to examine. But he couldn’t deny the warmth they brought, the unspoken care that had quietly crept into their dynamic.
Ghost’s voice broke the quiet. “You didn’t have to.”
Price looked up, his brow furrowing slightly. “Didn’t have to what?”
“Go through the trouble,” Ghost said, nodding toward the mug. His tone was low, but there was a rough edge of sincerity beneath it.
Price smiled, small but genuine. “Hardly trouble,” he said, his voice steady. “You deserve a decent cup for once.”
Ghost huffed softly, the sound more amused than dismissive. “Thought you’d be more of a ‘make-do’ type.”
Price chuckled, setting his mug down with a quiet clink. “Maybe I am. But you?” He shook his head slightly, his gaze steady. “No. You shouldn’t have to settle.”
Ghost’s grip on the mug tightened fractionally, the words hitting deeper than he expected. He leaned forward slightly, setting the cup down on the table. “Seems like you always know what people need, don’t you?”
Price tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “It’s my job,” he said simply, though the faint blush creeping up his neck betrayed something more.
Ghost’s gaze lingered on him, studying the faint colour rising in Price’s cheeks. His own realisation from earlier solidified—this wasn’t just about tea. It was about Price. About the way he always seemed to notice, always seemed to care in ways Ghost wasn’t used to.
“You keep this up, and I’ll start thinking you’re bribing me,” Ghost said, his tone lighter, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper. A pull he was trying desperately to ignore.
Price smirked, his gaze steady. “Who’s to say I’m not?”
Ghost huffed, his head dipping slightly as he shook it. The mug was warm in his hand, but it was nothing compared to the heat that lingered in Price’s gaze. He couldn’t act on it—not here, not now. Not when he wasn’t sure what Price really meant.
“Wouldn’t work anyway,” Ghost muttered, taking another sip. “I’m not that easy.”
Price didn’t answer immediately. His lips curled faintly, the warmth in his eyes deepening. “Good thing I’m patient.”
Ghost’s hand tightened slightly around the mug, the words lodging themselves somewhere deep in his chest. The moment stretched between them, the pull unmistakable, but he forced himself to look away.
If Price noticed the tension coiling under Ghost’s composure, he didn’t push it. Instead, he rose from the table, his movements unhurried but purposeful. “Finish that up,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost soft.
Ghost nodded, watching him go, the warmth Price left behind far stronger than the tea in his hands.
The day passed in a haze, the usual routine of drills and debriefs doing little to distract Ghost from the morning’s encounter. Price’s words echoed in his mind, looping in ways that made him want to shake them loose: “Someone’s got to make sure you’re taken care of.”
He replayed it more times than he’d admit. The way Price had said it—steady, genuine, with just the faintest hint of something Ghost couldn’t name—had stuck with him. Price’s face lingered, too, the soft flush on his cheeks as he’d smiled over his mug. Ghost didn’t know what to do with the memory, didn’t know how to unpack the way it made his chest feel tight and his stomach twist.
By the time midday rolled around, Ghost had given up pretending it wasn’t bothering him. The man had made him tea, for Christ’s sake. That shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have settled so heavily in his mind, shouldn’t have made him feel… wanted. Seen.
He shook the thought away, burying himself in the day, but even then, it was impossible not to think about Price. The man was everywhere—giving orders on the training field, reviewing intel in the conference room, laughing quietly at some joke Soap cracked over lunch. Ghost’s eyes found him more often than he liked, lingering on the curve of his smile, the easy strength in his posture.
It wasn’t just admiration or some small crush, Ghost realised. He wanted Price. Wanted the warmth of his presence, the weight of his gaze, the quiet steadiness he brought to every damn thing he touched. And that realisation was almost worse than ignoring it.
Ghost shoved the thought down hard, locking it away where it couldn’t touch him. But it was there, simmering beneath the surface as the hours crawled by. Every glance, every word from Price felt sharper, more significant, until Ghost was ready to crawl out of his own skin.
He knew it wouldn’t go away, not unless he found a way to address it. Or, at the very least, bury it better.
---
The knock at Ghost’s office door was unexpected but soft, more a suggestion than a demand. Ghost frowned, glancing at the clock on his desk. It was late—too late for anyone to bother him without reason.
He rose, his chair creaking faintly as he pushed it back. The day had been a slow burn of tension, hours of reports and drills leaving him restless and frayed. The memory of the morning lingered, Price’s voice and the weight of his gaze looping in his mind no matter how hard he tried to shove it aside.
When he opened the door, Price stood there, framed by the dim light of the hallway. His hat was gone, his sleeves rolled up, and his hair slightly tousled in a way that made Ghost’s chest tighten uncomfortably.
“Evening,” Price said, his voice low, warm. He held out a steaming mug, the scent of tea curling lazily into the space between them. “Thought you might want this.”
Ghost stared at him for a moment longer than he meant to, his gaze flicking from the mug to Price’s face. The man didn’t wait for an answer, stepping inside as though he belonged there. The soft click of the door closing behind them sent a flicker of heat through Ghost’s chest.
Price placed the mug on the desk, his movements deliberate, measured. “Evening tea,” he said simply, turning to lean against the desk. “Figured it’d help settle the day.”
Ghost stepped closer, drawn forward by the scent and by the man standing far too close to his papers. The mug felt warm in his hands, grounding, as he took the first sip.
The taste hit him like a wave—smooth, comforting, too perfect to be coincidence. He froze, his eyes narrowing as he stared down into the tea.
“How’d you know about this?” Ghost asked, his voice rough, quieter now.
Price shrugged, his arms crossing over his chest. The movement brought him closer, and Ghost had to tilt his head to meet his gaze. “Noticed you liked it. Figured it might do you some good.”
Ghost’s grip on the mug tightened. The warmth of the tea didn’t stop the sudden prick of vulnerability in his chest. “You’ve been paying attention to me?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Price blinked, his lips curling faintly. “You make it easy,” he said, the honesty in his tone disarming.
Ghost’s breath hitched, his chest tightening further. He set the mug down carefully on the desk, his hand lingering on the rim before he turned his full attention to Price. “You’re not making this easy, John,” he murmured, the name slipping out unbidden.
Price tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing as his arms uncrossed. “Making what easy?” His voice was steady, but there was an uncertainty to the way he shifted, his weight pressing into the desk behind him.
“Stopping myself,” Ghost said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The air between them stilled, growing thicker with each passing second. Price’s lips parted, a soft breath escaping as a faint blush rose to his cheeks. He looked down briefly, his hand brushing over the desk as though searching for something to anchor himself.
Ghost’s restraint faltered. It wasn’t the tea, or even the blush—it was the way Price’s eyes flicked back to him, wide and unguarded, as if waiting for something. It was the way his chest rose and fell, steady but deliberate, like he was preparing for whatever might come next.
Ghost reached out, his gloved hand curling into the front of Price’s shirt. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his breath catching as Price’s hand came up to brush against his arm.
That was it. The dam broke.
Ghost pulled him forward, their mouths meeting in a clash of heat and desperation. Price’s soft gasp was swallowed by the kiss, his hands flying up to grip Ghost’s shoulders as the tension between them finally snapped.
The kiss was frantic from the start, their mouths clashing with a heat that neither could control. Price’s hands instinctively grabbed at Ghost’s hips, his fingers curling into the material there like he needed to hold on to something. Ghost groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating between them as he pressed closer, his body crowding Price against the desk.
Price’s breath hitched sharply, his grip tightening. The blush on his face deepened, spreading to the tips of his ears, and Ghost couldn’t stop himself from leaning back just enough to take it in.
“You’ve no idea,” Ghost rasped, his voice rough and uneven, “how good you look right now.”
Price blinked up at him, his chest heaving as his lips parted slightly. The flicker of surprise in his eyes was enough to stoke the fire already roaring in Ghost’s chest. Price’s hand twitched against his vest, his flush growing impossibly darker under Ghost’s gaze.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” Ghost muttered, his tone edged with something raw, something that trembled with the weight of restraint finally breaking. He moved before he could think, his hand sliding up to cradle Price’s jaw, the rough material of his glove stark against the heat of Price’s skin.
Price exhaled shakily, his gaze flicking between Ghost’s eyes and his mouth. “Simon…” he started, but whatever he was going to say vanished into a sharp gasp as Ghost kissed him again, harder this time, the desk creaking faintly under their combined weight.
Ghost couldn’t think past the warmth of Price’s mouth, the way he tilted his head up to meet him, the quiet, desperate noises he made as their lips and tongues moved together. It was messy, unrestrained, but every second of it felt like an anchor, like gravity itself had been pulling them here all along.
Price’s hands slid higher, gripping the back of Ghost’s neck under his mask as if to pull him even closer. Ghost obliged, his body pressing against Price’s with a force that sent another faint creak through the desk.
The blush on Price’s face was still there, Ghost could feel it in the heat under his glove, could picture it spreading further down his neck. He wanted more—needed more—and the thought burned through him like a fuse finally meeting its flame.
Ghost pulled back for a second to take his mask off before making his way down Price’s jaw to his neck. He could feel the flush under his lips, skin warm to the touch. Ghost knew that from now on he’d never be able to settle for anyone else. Already addicted to the feeling of warm, flushed skin against his, to the sight of that pink skin dipping under Price’s shirt collar.
He started tugging at Price’s shirt, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. “Off, off, off, fuck,” Ghost gasped, his breath hitching as he finally yanked the fabric free and tossed it aside. The sight that greeted him knocked the air clean out of his chest.
The flush that had settled on Price’s cheeks wasn’t just contained there—it swept down his neck, spreading across his chest in uneven patches that made Ghost’s fingers twitch with the urge to touch. Every scar, every line of muscle, every imperfection painted a picture Ghost couldn’t stop staring at.
He didn’t just want Price. No, that wasn’t it.
He loved him.
The thought hit Ghost like a hammer to the chest, leaving him reeling. Every memory, every shared mission, every quiet moment where they’d sat side by side—it all clicked into place. The bloody tea was just the last crack in the dam. Price had always been more to him than he’d let himself admit.
And the way Price was looking at him now… did he feel the same?
Ghost’s hands froze against Price’s bare skin, his mind racing with everything he wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for. His hesitation didn’t go unnoticed.
“Simon?” Price’s voice was quieter now, tinged with uncertainty. The way Ghost’s gaze lingered on him, sharp and unyielding, made heat climb up Price’s neck again. He shifted under the weight of those analytical brown eyes, suddenly acutely aware of himself in a way he hadn’t been in years.
Price cleared his throat, forcing himself to break the silence. “You alright there?” he asked, trying to keep his tone even, though embarrassment threatened to creep in.
Ghost didn’t respond immediately, and the longer he stayed silent, the harder it was for Price to push back the growing doubt. He dropped his gaze, his hands twitching at his sides as he muttered, “Look, I know I’m not much of a looker anymore. Not like I used ti be at least. I get it if this isn’t what you thought it’d be.”
He shifted, the thought catching in his throat. “If you want to stop, it’s okay. I’ll leave, and we don’t have to talk about this again.”
Price started to pull away, but Ghost’s reaction was immediate, unrelenting.
“No!” Ghost’s voice cracked, startling them both with its sharpness. His hands gripped Price’s shoulders, holding him firmly in place. “That—it’s not—God, John.”
Price stilled, his wide eyes flicking up to meet Ghost’s.
“You’re…” Ghost exhaled, the words catching in his throat before he forced them out, “Fuck, you’re…you’re beautiful.”
The sincerity in his tone was palpable, cutting through the tension like a knife. Price’s lips parted slightly, his breath hitching as his flush deepened even further. For a moment, neither of them moved, the air between them charged and electric.
Then Ghost surged forward again, unable to hold back. His lips found Price’s with a desperate intensity, his hands sliding up to cradle Price’s jaw as he poured every ounce of feeling he couldn’t put into words into the kiss. Price responded in kind, his hands gripping Ghost’s waist as he pulled him closer, their bodies colliding with renewed fervour.
Whatever walls had been left standing between them crumbled entirely, and the air in the room burned hotter as they lost themselves in each other once again.
Price untucked Ghost’s shirt with deliberate care, his fingers brushing over warm skin as he eased the fabric up. He let his palms roam across the smooth expanse of Ghost’s back, his touch slow, reverent, as if mapping the lines of a territory he’d only dared to imagine. The ridges of scars, the subtle shifts of muscle, the heat beneath his fingertips—it all grounded him in the reality of what was finally his.
Sliding his hand higher, he gathered the crumpled shirt, pulling it over Ghost’s head and tossing it aside without a second thought. He let himself linger, his hands exploring the bare skin of Ghost’s shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sharp lines of his collarbones. For a moment, Price lost himself in the simple act of touching, of finally being allowed to do what he’d only dreamed about.
But it wasn’t enough.
His hands drifted upward, finding the one Ghost had cradling his jaw—gloved, a barrier Price couldn’t stand. He let his fingers curl around Ghost’s wrist, tugging lightly at the material. “Let me feel you properly,” he murmured, his voice low and rough against Ghost’s lips. “Please.”
Ghost stilled, his breath catching as Price tugged again, more insistent now. Slowly, Ghost let his hand fall, allowing Price to strip the glove away with steady, deliberate movements. The bare skin beneath was warm, roughened with calluses and scars, and Price’s thumb instinctively brushed over Ghost’s knuckles, as if testing the texture, memorising the feel of it.
The second glove followed, Price’s movements careful but firm. He didn’t break eye contact, didn’t let Ghost retreat, even as the intimacy of the gesture seemed to weigh heavy between them. When both gloves were gone, Price took Ghost’s hand in his, pressing their palms together, his fingers threading between Ghost’s in a slow, deliberate motion.
“Better,” Price murmured, his voice barely audible now, his gaze fixed on Ghost’s face. The heat in his eyes burned, unguarded and open, as his free hand slid Ghost’s back to his jaw, letting the taller man cradle it with bare fingers this time. “Much better.”
Ghost was slack jawed watching Price do this, who let a small smirk peak through before he moved forward and kissed Ghost with his desperation evident, Price bit Ghost’s bottom lip gently, pulling it away slightly and nibbling on it, He could feel Ghost’s cock twitch against his from where they were pressed together. He rolled his hips in a sinful grind against Ghost’s, feeling the teeth in their zippers catch making them both let out groans at the feeling.
Ghost decided enough was enough, he started unbuckling Price’s trousers yanking them and his pants down just enough to get his hand around Price, feeling him tense against his body and let out a muffled moan.
“Already driving me crazy, John,” He whispered into the space between them, gripping Price’s cock harder, he starts moving his fist up and down, uncaring for the dry tug as Price jerks his hips forward into Ghosts grip. “Don’t hold back, love. Take what you need.” He encourages.
Price decides that what he actually needs is to feel Ghost against him, to feel the man’s cock against his own. He slides his hands from where they rested around Ghosts neck to his chest, thumbing at his nipples for a moment, making note of the whine he heard for later, he was getting too worked up to linger there for long.
Continuing their path down, his hands trailed over the soft hair right above the waistband of Ghost’s trousers, fumbling with his belt before finally managing to unbuckle it and open up Ghosts trousers. Pulling his pants down, Price wrapped his fingers around Ghost’s cock and gasped in surprise. Ghost had piercings and Price was hit with the image of them inside of him, stretching him open, of them in his mouth, catching on his lips.
He thumbed at the frenulum piercing then brought his fingers down to the Jacob’s ladder, fingers catching on each one as he mentally counted to five, fuck.
“Can’ believe you’ve been hiding these from me,”
Ghost chuckled against Price, “Didn’t realise you wanted to know what my cock looks like so badly, Captain,” The reminder of Price’s rank sending a shiver down both of their spines, adding it to the growing list of things they’re going to have to explore later.
Price shut Ghost up with his lips, bringing his mouth down to Ghost’s neck, mouthing around the base of his throat before sucking a mark that could be barely hidden by the man’s balaclava. Trailing his tongue to the other side of Ghost’s neck to leave another dark mark, he started moving his hand against Ghost’s cock with more purpose.
They let out twin moans at the feeling and started to move their hips and hands with more urgency. Their kiss was just as desperate, if not more so now, Ghost started to kiss down Price’s jaw and neck until he reached his collarbones, biting and sucking at the skin there. Price was running his fingers through Ghost’s hair encouraging him and silently hoping that the mark would peak out from under his shirt collar.
Ghost’s hips started moving more erratically so he wrapped a hand around both of them, encasing Price’s hand as well as both of their cocks in his large palm, squeezing around them eliciting a gasp from Price.
The feeling of the metal barbells against his cock had Price leaking, the dry tug slowly becoming wetter and wetter.
“Fuck, John, you’re so wet. Shi-Ah!” He gasped out against Price’s neck, trailing his tongue up towards Price’s ear, tugging gently on his earlobe with his teeth, feeling Price twitch against him. It was addicting, Price was so responsive and with that gorgeous flush all over his body Ghost knew he wouldn’t last long at this rate.
“Feels so good, love,” Price gritted out. “I’m so close, please.”
“Me too,” Ghost panted out covered in a thin sheen of sweat “So close, don’t stop. Ah! Fuck! I’m gonna come!”
“Yeah? Gonna come all over me, Simon? Make a mess out of both of us?”
Ghost nodded fervently against Price’s neck, mouthing at it, trying not to leave a visible mark but wanting to feel that pink skin against his lips.
“Look at me, I want to see you fall apart,” Price whispered against Ghost’s ear, pulling him up by the grip he had on his hair, dragging him into a kiss, feeling the muffled whines and moans against his lips before deciding he’d much rather hear them and detaching his lips from Ghost’s.
“Come for me, Simon. Let me feel you, love,” The words weren’t what pushed Ghost over the edge, no, it was the way Price was looking at him, his eyes full of affection and awe, like Ghost was the only thing he’d ever wanted, and he finally got it.
That look has Ghost arching his back and twitching his hips into their fists squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head back as his breathing stuttered and he gasped out Price’s name.
Price was in awe of what he was witnessing, Ghost lost in his own pleasure, uncaring of anything else in the room was a sight he’d only been dreaming of, and now that it’s a reality he held off on his own orgasm, wanting to really look at Ghost.
The feeling of Ghost twitching against him made it really hard to do so, as Ghost’s pleasure was coming to an end Price tried to slow his hand down, but Ghost shook his head, whispering against Price’s lips “Don’t stop, please, need to feel you come, please sir, need to feel you,”
“Ah! Fuck! Simon, love, that’s-fu-Ah!” That was his undoing, hearing Ghost whining from the stimulation on his sensitive cock, feeling him twitch and softening in his hand yet still going for Price’s sake had him let out his own gasps, hips stilling at the intense feeling.
He came back to himself when it got too much, twitching away from their hands, Ghost was mostly soft against him by now breath hitching as he slowed his hand and unwrapped it from around their cocks.
Smirking, Price grabbed Ghost’s hand around the wrist and brought it to his mouth, licking a stripe from his palm to the tip of his index finger, wrapping his lips around the tip and bringing it into his mouth, the taste and smell of them together had him groaning around Ghost’s finger.
The mumbling of “Filthy fucking bastard, should’ve known” did nothing to deter Price, sucking and licking around the base of Ghost’s finger, “Fuck me, Price,”
Pulling off and making a show of licking his lips, Price just grins. “Maybe next time,”
“Next time, eh?”
“Yeah, Simon, next time,” He said as he brought them closer to each other, their kiss this time wasn’t laced with the heat of earlier, it was softer, sweeter. Intimate in a way neither of them thought possible for men like them.
Price could feel Ghost smiling against his lips and couldn’t help but let his own smile come through too. The kiss slowed down to a gentle press of lips, kissing just to be near each other now. As they stopped, Price brought their foreheads together, not wanting to pull away yet despite wanting to clean up desperately.
For a moment, they just stood there, the world outside the door forgotten. Ghost’s fingers trailed down to Price’s chest, brushing over the faint flush still lingering on his skin. “Still blushing,” he murmured, his voice laced with quiet amusement.
“Noticed, did you?” Price replied, his smirk returning as he caught Ghost’s hand in his own. “Reckon you’re the one to blame.”
Ghost huffed softly, the sound more amused than dismissive. “Good.”
Price rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. “Cocky bastard.” Price tilted his head back towards the desk, “Your tea’s gone cold.”
“Well, lucky for me, I seem to have my own personal tea maker now,” Ghost quipped, his voice low and laced with playful warmth. His eyes glinted with amusement as he added, “Doesn’t get much better than a Captain on brew duty.”
Price let out a short laugh, pulling back just enough to look Ghost in the eye. “Careful, Simon, or I’ll start charging you for the privilege.”
Ghost smirked, his clean hand brushing lightly over the back of Price’s neck. “Worth every penny,” he said smoothly. “You know I’ve got high standards.”
Price huffed, shaking his head as he kissed Ghost again, softer this time. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“Yeah,” Ghost murmured, his voice dropping as his fingers tightened slightly at Price’s nape. “I am.”
You've got my body, flesh and bone
The morning was quiet, sunlight filtering through the small kitchen window and pooling across the counter. Ghost stood by the shelf, his gloved hand brushing idly over the tins and packets until one caught his eye. He froze, his fingers curling around the worn edges of a familiar tin tucked into the corner.
It was his tea. The evening blend Price had somehow handed him the night before without explanation, the one Ghost hadn’t even realised was still stocked on base. He turned it over in his hands, the scuffed label soft under his thumb. The thought of Price hiding it, keeping it safe for him, struck something deep in his chest.
Ghost hadn’t been sure what to call what they were now—what last night meant—but this? This told him everything he needed to know.
“Didn’t peg you for an early riser.”
Ghost didn’t need to turn to recognise Price’s voice. He felt the shift in the air, the grounding weight of the man before the words even reached him. He glanced over his shoulder to find Price leaning in the doorway, his sleeves rolled up, his hair still mussed from sleep.
“Didn’t peg you for a hoarder,” Ghost said dryly, holding up the tin in quiet accusation.
Price chuckled as he stepped into the room, his boots soft against the tile. “Not hoarding,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Just…making sure it ended up in the right hands.”
“For me, then?” Ghost asked, his tone low, though his eyes stayed fixed on Price, measuring.
“For you,” Price confirmed, stopping just short of closing the distance between them. He tilted his head toward the tin, his smirk softening.
Ghost turned fully now, setting the tin on the counter with deliberate care. He studied Price for a moment, taking in the easy confidence in his posture, the faint flush creeping along his collar, the edges of the mark he left there last night barely visible. And then the words slipped out, quiet but certain.
“Hope you know that makes you mine.”
Price stilled, his smirk faltering for the briefest moment before something warmer overtook it. “Yours?” he repeated, his voice steady but edged with something deeper. He stepped closer, his hand brushing Ghost’s forearm before curling lightly around his elbow.
Ghost tilted his head, leaning just slightly into the touch. “What else would I call you?” he asked, his voice low, roughened by the admission. His free hand rose, brushing against Price’s arm as he added, “Not just anyone would keep track of my bloody tea.”
“Not just anyone would put up with you,” Price shot back, his tone teasing but his grip tightening slightly.
Ghost huffed a quiet laugh, his eyes crinkling faintly at the corners. “You saying you’re special, then?”
“Reckon I am.” Price grinned, that elusive flush creeping up his neck again as his hand slid from Ghost’s elbow to rest lightly against his waist. “Not that you’re making it easy for me.”
“Never said I would,” Ghost murmured, his voice softening as he let his hand settle against Price’s shoulder. His fingers curled slightly, the fabric of Price’s shirt warm under his gloves. “But you’re still here.”
“Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” Price said simply, the sincerity in his voice cutting through the teasing.
Ghost’s throat tightened, his hand slipping from Price’s shoulder to press lightly against the back of his neck. “You’re mine, John,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not just today. Not just last night.”
Price’s breath hitched slightly, his hand tightening at Ghost’s waist. “I’m yours, Simon,” he replied, his voice low but unwavering. “And you’re mine.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, wasn’t charged—it was steady, like the kind of quiet they’d spent years earning. Ghost exhaled slowly, his grip on Price softening as his forehead dipped briefly to rest against Price’s.
“I’ve got to admit,” Ghost said after a moment, his voice quiet but laced with warmth, “I’m grateful for a man who pays attention.”
Price chuckled softly, his other hand brushing against Ghost’s side before resting there. “Always.”
Merged the prompted for Day 2 and 3: Tea + Heart
It's pure fluff, enjoy! (crossposted to ao3)
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
“You know,” Gaz says, leaning against the small kitchenette table, “you could just talk to him.”
Ghost’s gaze snaps back to him, already scowling. Gaz snickers, covering it behind his mug. “Come on, we’re all getting sick of you two and your old man courting.”
Ghost sputters. His mask is pulled up over his nose, and Gaz is treated to the rare sight of his cheeks darkening in an endearing display of embarrassment.
“What are you- we are not- fuck off Garrick!” he snarls, now bright red, staring mutinously down into his own tea.
Gaz rolls his eyes, tries a different approach. “I mean it, Lt. it’d be good for you. Both of you.” He says, a bit more sincerity creeping into the words.
Ghost just sighs, shakes his head. His eyes wander back to where he’s been gazing longingly for the better part of the hour. Price is sitting on the other end of the lounge, leaned back in his claimed armchair, squinting down at the screen of his laptop.
As far as Gaz can tell, he’s been totally lost to the world since he sat down that morning, consumed by whatever paperwork he’s been working on.
Price’s, appropriately and ostentatiously, heart patterned mug has apparently been magically refilling itself every hour or so, not that he’s seemed to notice. Coincidentally, Ghost has been hovering around the lounge for the better part of the day– flitting about between his spot curled up on the couch across from Price, and where he now stands leaned back against the kitchenette countertop.
Gaz has been in and out every few hours, only coming to sit down a short while earlier with his book. He’s been easily distracted from his plans, however, by Ghost. Ghost and his admittedly quiet, yet sickeningly obvious, pining.
It’s been a problem since Gaz joined the team. Everyone was aware of it on some level.
Ghost and Price dance and twirl around each other in perfect harmony, always caught in a well choreographed duel. Swords clashing theatrically on stage, yet never actually touching. Two ballet dancers spinning in parallel, locked into each other's orbit.
Gaz is well and truly sick of it. And he intends to put a stop to it.
This was no easy feat, however, considering it meant convincing two of the most stubborn people he’s ever met to pull their heads out of their asses.
He huffs, exasperated. “Come on, sir, this is absurd.”
Ghost turns back to him again, looking every bit like a particularly disgruntled cat getting picked up from its favourite spot. “What do you want from me, Kyle?” he hisses, “what would satisfy your relentless desire to harass me?”
Gaz rolls his eyes harder. “Bloody talk to him. Christ, Simon, it’s not like you’re risking much.”
Ghost just shakes his head again, immovable, “It's not that easy-”
“It’s exactly that easy!”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“Don't you?” Gaz says, pointed, and Ghost huffs again.
He pushes himself up off the counter, pulls down his mask, dumps out the dredges of the cheap tea bag that had seemingly exploded in his mug, and strides off into the hall without a word.
Gaz fantasizes about grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. That or slamming his own head into the table. They both have their own appeal. Instead, he puts his own mug into the sink and wanders over to the couch.
His book is still where he left it, opened and face down on the cushion, and he settles in to hopefully finish the chapter before dinner.
He’s not halfway through when Price makes a noise of confusion from his chair, the first real sound he’d made since he sat down, aside from the occasional old man grumbling.
Gaz looks up to catch him staring down at his tea with a furrowed brow.
“Alright, cap?”
“Have I been drinking the same cup of tea all day?” He says, looking so perplexed, Gaz can't help but laugh at him.
“More like 15 refills of the same cup of tea” He snickers. Price only looks more confused at that, turning to squint at him suspiciously.
“What do you mean?”
“Ghost’s been refilling it for you on the hour” Gaz says, “You’d think he was your personal assistant with the way he waits on you.”
Price raises his eyebrows at him, then looks to Ghost’s abandoned spot on the couch, absentmindedly tracing the little hearts on his mug. Something softens in his expression, and a fond little smile twitches at the corner of his mouth as he stares wistfully into space.
It’s an expression Gaz and Soap have lovingly deemed ‘paranormal activity’, what with the way it always seems to follow a ghostly encounter. Gaz knows better than to call it that aloud around the captain, though, as it usually ends with him scrubbing the toilets.
They’re hopeless, really.
“You two sicken me, you know that?” The look vanishes and Price immediately fixes him with his equally well-known ‘you’re about to regret saying that’ look.
Think fast, sergeant. “I mean, all due respect, sir.” Good catch.
Price grumbles at him, a bear thoroughly poked, but he returns to his paperwork. Gaz decides to make a graceful exit while the captain’s apparent good mood lasts. Though, as he exits, he doesn't miss the melodramatic sigh that follows him into the hall.
He shakes his head, muttering, “Impossible old men.”
Here is the first chapter of fic I write for PriceGhostWeek2024
“Bravo-6, what's your status?” Price heard in the earpiece of his radio and closed his eyes for a second, leaning heavily against the wall. “Bravo-6, how copy? Do you copy?”
“Affirmative.” The captain exhaled hoarsely, covering the wound on his thigh with his palm. “All units, move out from the facility to the exfil point. Don't wait for me. That's an order. Copy that?”
For a few seconds, the only sound in the earpiece was the crackling of interference, and then the battle group commanders began to confirm receiving the new order in turn. Even through the interference, Price could hear the desperation and disagreement in their voices, but the task was completed, the bombs were planted, the timer was started, and soon the entire complex, which the terrorists had turned into a secret base and ammunition depot, would explode. In addition, the storm was getting worse by the minute, and if the soldiers didn't hurry, the helicopter might not be able to pick them up.
“Rog.” The absolutely emotionless voice of Lieutenant Riley was the last to sound, and Price slid heavily down the wall to the floor, as if the realization that it was all over for him had only come now, and not before, when he had lost his battle group, when he had been shot, and when he was in a dead end, surrounded by enemies.
“Good luck, lads.” He said. “Bravo-6 going dark.”
You can keep reading here or on the Ao3
There was silence. No, of course, voices could be heard from behind the barricaded door, some clatter and noise, but it all came to the captain as if from afar. He sat there, thinking that he needed to put a tourniquet on and bandage his wound, but he didn't move. What's the point if it's all over in twenty minutes? Maybe it would be even better if he lost consciousness before everything exploded.
Suddenly, something changed outside the door. The angry voices turned into panicked ones, and then there were shots and screams of people who were obviously ending their lives in very painful ways.
Price gathered his strength and forced himself to open his eyes, fighting off the deadly cold that had already begun to stiffen his body. He thought again about the tourniquet, but before he could do anything, an explosion occurred. At first, the captain involuntarily shrank back, but quickly realized that it was not over. The timer on his wrist continued to tick away the seconds, and the room was filled with acrid smoke, from which emerged the burly figure of a man whose face was hidden by a blood-covered skull mask.
“Ghost?” Price wheezed in disbelief.
“Affirmative.” The lieutenant replied calmly, hiding the knife covered with blood in the sheath on his chest.
“What the hell are you doing? I ordered you to go to the exfil!” The captain tried to frown, but unexpected relief gripped him so hard that he involuntarily shivered.
“Do you really want to discuss this now, sir?” Riley knelt down, opened the first aid kit, and began to quickly apply a tourniquet to Price's leg. “You can court-martial me. I don't care.”
Ghost took out an auto-injector, removed the cap, and injected the drug into the captain's thigh with a sharp movement. The pain and weakness receded, and he reached out and grabbed the lieutenant's shoulder.
“I will if these bloody bombs go off before we get out of here.” Price said with a crooked smile on his lips.
“Then we'd better hurry.” Ghost threw the captain's arm over his shoulder, jerked him to his feet, and they ran as fast as they could for the exit.
Price saw corpses. Lots of corpses. Twisted necks, broken spines, slit throats, faces turned into a mess; bone fragments and pools of blood; shell casings and throwing knives that Ghost had left in the bodies of his eliminated enemies in a hurry...
The captain read his classified file. He knew exactly what Lieutenant Riley had done in Mexico. But it was one thing to know and quite another to see how one man had methodically and cold-bloodedly killed everyone who stood in his way, regardless of the number of enemies or their weapons.
After another run, Price realized that they were close to being rescued but also that there was not much time left. He and Riley had to cross a huge two-level loading dock, and there were more than enough terrorists here. They seemed unable to determine the target of the enemy's infiltration of their base and found no bombs, but they decided to move their arsenal just in case and were now loading it onto trucks and ships.
Price and Riley looked at each other. They both knew that they couldn't let the terrorists carry out their plans, because that would mean the unit would have to go out again to eliminate them.
“We don't have much time.” Ghost said, looking at the timer. “But I can try to hold them off if you have my back, sir.”
The captain looked at his leg. The bandage was reddened with blood, but not as much as it could have been: the lieutenant had done a great job with first aid. Despite this, he could see how many enemies were down there, and at some point he wanted to say, ‘negative, let's just get out of here.’ If he had been alone, he might have done so, but now he had a lieutenant with him: the new guy in the unit, the one no one liked, the one who was the only one who had come back for him, his commanding officer, even though he had never given any reason for such affection.
“Go ahead, Ghost.” Price decided and held out his hand. “Give me your Remington and take my M4. I have two magazines left.”
“No need, sir.” The lieutenant placed his sniper rifle in the captain’s hands, and he was sure Riley smiled under his mask before rushing to the stairs leading down from the service bridges.
Ghost was a tall and burly man, but Price had lost sight of him by the time the lieutenant acted. When he saw the smoke bombs explode in three places, he pressed his cheek against Riley’s Remington butt and peered through the scope. The captain couldn't see what was happening through the smoke, so he concentrated on shooting the enemies that remained in sight. Riley probably had his thermal imager down and was using a knife or his Beretta M92 with a suppressor to stay invisible to the enemy until the smoke cleared. The captain was watching what was happening below so closely that he didn't hear the approach and jerked when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Now it's time for us to go.” Riley exhaled hoarsely, and Price noticed that he was now covered in even more blood; he could only hope that it belonged to his enemies.
Ghost helped the captain up again, and they ran for the exit. There was very little time left, so when something exploded behind them, Price involuntarily flinched, but from Riley's lack of reaction, he realized that it was his way of stopping the loading.
After leaving the base, the captain and lieutenant found themselves in the middle of a storm. With no more than seven minutes left on the timer, Ghost showed his feelings for the first time: he cursed and easily hoisted Price onto his shoulders, then ran to the exfil point as fast as he could. The captain realized that they were already too late, but he remained silent, focusing on staying conscious as the effects of the drug the lieutenant had injected him with were beginning to wear off.
Hour ‘X’ found the fugitives on the halfway. A bright flash cut through the thick veil of the storm, and Ghost managed to fall to the wet ground, covering the captain with his body, before an explosive wave of fierce power swept over them, scattering debris and branches of the few trees that grew in this place forgotten by God and the devil.
I'm so proud and happy to have joined in and added stuff for GhostPrice week, its all writing and stuff...
But now that the whole entire week is over and my collection is finished, I hope this series can find anyone in a sour mood. I mostly wrote fluff for everyday of the week, all expect for the 7th!
GhostPrice Week (bee's submission's) 2024 - Beecraft - Call of Duty, Call of Duty (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]
