Reader Meets Ghost For The First Time:

skanies 🐍

i’m loving these new marker brushes so much they are so fun to use

Alive / Part VIII

Word count: 666

Ghost was used to not being able to sleep at night, nightmares and night terrors keeping him awake. But tonight was different. He and Soap settled down on the bed next to each other, laying in comfortable silence. He could feel the heat radiating off Soaps body. Every fiber in him wanted to scoot closer to him, curl up in his side, which he of course didn’t do. Soap was his sergeant, after all, and he didn’t want to give himself the embarrassment of making a move only for Soap not to feel the same. (Ghost is an oblivious idiot).

Ghost hated the feeling of fabric on his skin at night, at base he usually slept only in boxers, today opting for joggers, but no shirt. He wiggled on the bed, trying to get comfortable. „No disrespect, lt, but stop squirming around like a worm“, Soap grumbled, already half asleep. Ghost didn’t say anything, laying down on the side facing Soap, who was facing towards the window.

It took while for him to fall asleep, but for the first time in a long while he slept through the night, no nightmares violently ripping him out of sleep. He woke up to the sound of birds chirping, slowly opening his eyes to see Soaps side empty. He was still sleepy, taking a few sips of water form the nightstand before rolling onto his back with his arms under his head, staring at the ceiling.

The door opened, and Soap stepped back into the room, dressed in boxer shorts and an oversized shirt. He sat down on the bed next to Ghost. „Morning, lt“. Ghost closed his eyes. „Morning, Johnny“. A few moments of silence passed, before he felt a warm hand on his side. His breath hitched and he opened his eyes. Soaps gaze was focused on the skin beneath his fingers, fingertips slightly grazing over a big scar, caressing the raised, silver skin. It burned, but oh God, did it burn good.

„How’d you get this?“, Soap asked, genuine curiosity on his face. Memories flashed in front of Ghosts eyes and he gulped. „Uh, I got captured. Cartel. They hung me up on a hook“, he mumbled. „Must’ve hurt a bitch“ Soap gently rubbed his thumb over the scar. Ghost nodded, closing his eyes again, the memory painful. He didn’t want to admit it, but Soaps touch on his scars felt holy.

„Do they hurt?“, Soap asked. Ghost shrugged. „Sometimes. Not all of them. They feel weird when it‘s cold though. And they’re really sensitive“ Soap grinned, continuing to gently caress the scar.

It stopped for a second, before Soaps fingers grazed the skin right above his waistband. Shivers ran over his body as Soap caressed a faint but long scar that went from his side over his v lin down to his crotch.

„And here?“, he asked, his voice low. Ghost took a moment to answer, his thoughts in a haze. „Torture…. They wanted intel“, he smiled weakly. „They didn’t get it“. Soaps gaze was sad. „I‘m so sorry, Si“, he whispered. Before he could say anything, Soap bent down, pressing his lips on the scar. Ghosts mind went blank.

Soaps lips lingered on the scar, before he slowly, very slowly began to tug the waistband down, revealing a small happy trail. He kissed lower and lower, stopping every few seconds to check in with Ghost, who was looking at him with wide eyes, but the bulge in his pants said enough.

Soap grinned before pulling down his joggers completely, his plans obvious. Ghost stared at him, his mind racing. Was this really happening? He felt like he was on fire. Soap liked him too. This was wrong, so wrong. But fuck did it feel good. It had been ages since someone last touched him like this, at least with consent. He had to hold back a whimper when his fingers grazed over the bulge.

A loud voice suddenly boomed through the house. „Boys! Breakfast!“

The image of Ghost sitting in a corner and chewing on that thing like a lil gremlin got me cackling

ghost is a smoker. soap knows this.

how could he not? he’s heard ghost excuse himself plenty of times for a smoke break, has seen that the man always has a light on him, has even witnessed ghost standing off on his own with a cigarette balanced between his lips.

except… come to think of it, soap has never actually seen him take drags of those same cigarettes. and every time anyone has asked to bum a cig off ghost, he always comes back with some retort like get your own or i don’t share.

but obviously he’s a smoker, right? because what else could it be?

well, soap discovers exactly what when he sneaks out for some fresh air one evening, and manages to spot ghost before ghost spots him. using that advantage, he sidles up to the lieutenant, giving ghost barely any time to snuff out his cigarette and all evidence of his smoking before soap’s appearance beside him.

but then soap hears a crunch and is absolutely horrified when ghost takes the cigarette into his mouth and fucking chews.

“ghost?”

“hm?”

“what the fuck?”

as it would turn out, ghost is not a smoker—at least, not anymore. he just always has a pack of candy cigarettes on him that have helped him curb the real habit.

the discovery makes for a good laugh later, but the relief of learning that ghost was not, in fact, eating a real cigarette is the only thing soap is willing to concern himself with for the time being.

tw: simon's mean and a sexist.

Simon who doesn't like you. He respects Laswell, who's intel is vital to their missions. Price as the leader of the Task Force. Gaz because he's proved his mettle time and time again, and Soap whose stubborn self has burrowed under Simon's thick, knotted flesh.

Not you, though.

You've yet to do anything substantial.

As a sniper, your job is to aim and kill; provide overwatch. Why Johnny insists on giving you praise for doing what is required of you is beyond him.

You aren't taken to below-zero temperatures as emotional support. Why you're taken at all is also another mystery.

Without your gun, you're utterly useless. And Simon proves it, time and time again during training spars at base.

He comes at you as if you're the enemy, with dangerous precision and quick movements. Simon gets enjoyment out of seeing your eyes widen when he moves, like an injured gazelle who's just spotted a ravenous lion.

His grip is bruising— the force that he slams you to the ground with devastating.

Simon can hear the air punched out of your lungs once your back hits the mat, and the time it takes for your vision to sharpen, he's already pinning you down viciously with a knee to the sternum.

Useless. Women don't belong in combat. He's seen that big brute from KorTac. He'd crush your pathetic little head under his palm, he'd kick your ribs hard enough to crack and the splintered ends pierce your lungs.

He'd kill you without a hint of effort.

And Simon intends to remind you that there is no place for weak, bitty things like you in the front lines. Unless you're to be used as a distraction by flashing your tits at the bad guys.

Out of place.

Every time you go up against him, he uses his size and strength against you, just like every other person will. He launches you across the floor with a single arm, only to watch you struggle to get up and continue this sham of a fight.

Confidence born of ignorance.

As if sheer will would ever beat physical prowess.

If your feet won't touch the ground, then the rest of your body will. Through spilled blood and bruised flesh, may you learn.

He whistles at Johnny, gesturing at him to take his place, only for the end result to be the same, albeit much more gently.

Simon watches you through half-lidded eyes as he leans up against the wall. You fight against inevitability.

Pathetic.

And then one day, you come at him with a snarl on your lips. Blunt teeth that have never had to sink into someone's neck and rip a throat out, out of utter desperation. An unblemished face that's never felt the sting of a sharp blade as it's sliced open contorted into 'rage.' Frothing at the mouth like a lap dog with rabies, barking out words that are as empty as your future.

A forceful wave of his hand abruptly halts you mid-sentence, causing you to involuntarily flinch in response. Good.

"If ya have a complaint, take it to Price. I am not obligated to humor your stupidity."

He spins on the balls of his feet, leaving you to sputter indignantly.

Then on a mission, you get shot. Simon grabs the handgun that's holstered on his chest, and places it in your bloodied hands. "Keep them off of us, or we're both dead!"

His fingers are curled around the thick strap of your tac vest as he drags you toward the LZ; his pace never faltering even while getting clipped by stray bullets. But you?

He'd think you got your legs cut off. Wailing like a cat in heat over a wound above your hip. A clean in and out, nothing vital hit.

Simon has seen Gaz fall out of a helicopter, dangle from a rope, and still use his gun. He's seen Johnny cross a town full of Graves' Shadows bleeding from his shoulder, armed with nothing but the makeshift weapons he crafted on the way to the church. Price inhaled toxic gas and made it out just fine. Even Laswell was taken hostage and didn't crack under the pressure, going as far as killing her captor with her bare hands.

And you're decomposing in front of his very eyes over a superficial wound.

Landing at base, he walks out without a glance back and heads straight for Price's office. He didn't join the 141 to babysit anyone, least of all someone who belongs in either intelligence or a kitchen.

since i'm rambling about self inserts? (is that it?) now you're miserably turning over on the bed, pulling the comforter over your head because you wasted a whole whopping 70$ for MW3 only to get an unfinished game and a piss-poor half-assed shock value main character death.

You fall asleep thinking about what you'd do differently- how johnny wouldn't die so needlessly, maybe even convince Captain Price to let Johnny put a bullet in Makarov's head in that helo.

And when you wake, your surroundings are different. The bed is too small when yours is a king, the innerspring mattress creaks when you sit up, even though you explicitly bought a memory foam.

The walls are spartan instead of the personalized decor you had. Looking over the edge of the bed, the floor isn't carpet. It's an ugly, white vinyl tile.

Where the fuck are you?

Your hands are callused but the only time you even got one was when you tried your hand at gardening, only to eventually realize you could kill a cactus with your brown thumb.

Hopping out of bed, you beeline to your bathroom and look at yourself in the mirror. Almost everything is the same. Eyes, hair, body, height.

Only difference is your flesh. It's littered with scars- both old and new. A thick, pink jagged line across your clavicle (a blade?), a puckered star shaped keloid above your hip bone (A gunshot wound?)

Stepping back out into the room, you carefully survey the space around you. A tac vest you swear you've seen before hangs on the back rest of your small chair.

Two black glock-19's sit on the desk. How do you know that? You don't know lick about weapons.

There's a large sheathed blade by your nightstand table. Didn't Rambo have one of those?

Suddenly, it hits you like a ton of bricks. You're dreaming. Jesus. Maybe you should start reading some smut fanfiction before bed to get Simon in your-

A knock at your door pulls you out of your degenerate thoughts.

oooookay.

Padding quietly to the door, the metal of the handle feels shockingly cold. How wildly vivid.

"Ye- what the fuck?"

What the actual fuck?

"Language."

...

Your mouth gapes in utter disbelief. "Simon?"

His dark eyes narrow behind his skull mask. "Chummy, are we?" He steps forward, forcing your neck back at an uncomfortable angle to keep your eyes fixed on his. "You and I, Sergeant, ain't friends. It's Ghost to you. Clear?" he snarls.

You swallow thickly. "C-Crystal, sir."

He tips his chin forward. "Get decent, I'm to take ya to the debriefin' room."

what?

"Now."

Spinning on the balls of your feet, you hastily dress, and grab the vest on the chair. UK flag on it. Tactical. Heavy as hell.

Your hands move on their own, and fingers smartly clip buckles, pull up zippers and close the pockets- as if you've been doing this your whole life.

What is happening?

When you get to wherever it was you were going, you're met with more recognizable faces.

Captain Price stands in front of Laswell, bulky arms crossed as he speaks to her in a hushed tone.

Gaz sits on a chair with his head hanging back as he blankly stares at the ceiling, trademark cap in place.

And then there's- "Bonnie!"

Johnny.

"Good to see Simon dinnae eat ye on the way here."

Simon Ghost doesn't react to the jibe at all.

Why are you sitting in the middle of the 141 listening to Laswell debrief about Hassan? Why aren't you waking up yet? You're lucid. The sharp sting of your nails digging into the palms of your clenched hands isn't dulled.

"Good hunting."

This can't be happening.

This isn't real. The heavy helmet strapped to your head. The weight of the bulky tac vest full of equipment. The painfully tight straps around your thighs. The way the rifle feels in your hands, solid and dense.

Not real.

Until you're offloading with Bravo Team in Al-Mazrah on the search for Major Hassan. The tall grass grazing your pants, the NVG's over your eyes to help you see in the dark. The harsh recoil of a weapon you've only ever used in a video game. The gurgling sounds of the enemies as they choke on their blood by your feet. The bullet whizzing past you, clipping your cheekbone. The burning sting of it, white-hot pain.

Real.

It feels fucking real.

Op, whatever you took, I need it

BLAME MY MUTUALS FOR ENCOURAGING ME TO POST THIS CRACK! IT IS AWFUL PLEASE FORGIVE ME. (I love you guys thank you for feeding my demons) anyway, It’s about cum. Read at your own risk.

-

Ghosts mind is bleary, it didn’t matter what else was happening all he knew was Soap. His body his flesh. With one last breathy noise Soap cums, spilling over his hand, and collapsing back into the covers.

Ghost smiles softly and then is in the bathroom running water over his hands, washing off the cum still spread between his fingers.

Ghost puts his hands together to scrub it off with the water.

Soap’s cum becomes sudsy. It froths up and starts to smell like clean grapefruit and sanitation.

What. The. Fuck.

This entire time! His boyfriend wasn’t the human, Ghost thought. No! No… Soaps cum was SOAP!

Ghost shoots out of his dream with a yell and a cold sweat.

He definitely gets smacked when he describes the dream to Soap later and asks him if he’s actually a soap dispenser disguised as a Sargent.

-

This was in my drafts as

“Ghost makes soap cum. Ghost washes hands. Soap’s cum turn into soap and Ghost wakes up in a cold sweat”

It’s awful I love it.

Alive / Part II

Word count: 377

The air was filled with the clean, biting smell of antiseptic, the gentle, warm sunlight flooding the room through big windows a stark contrast against the stench.

Despite his tall figure and broad shoulders, he looked ridiculously small and lost next to the hospital bed. It had been two weeks since Soap got shot in the head, and somehow survived. He’d been unconscious since then, hooked up to an array of different machines.

It took Price and Gaz a lot of convincing to get him to at least go back to his room to change out of his blood stained clothes. He didn’t want to leave Soap alone. He’d already lost him once, and he’d fight God bare handed if anyone tried to take him away again.

Watching the now in bandages wrapped Soap was a monotonous task, but there was nowhere he’d rather be. The doctors said he’d wake up any time now, and Simon would be damned if he wasn’t there when he did.

His head lied on the bed, gaze fixed onto Soaps still face. He slowly started to drift off, eyelids heavy. Suddenly, the muscles of Soaps thigh flexed under his head. Simon was wide awake in a split second. His eyes searched for a sign of consciousness in his face, finding his brows slightly furrowed and eyes carefully blinking.

„W-what- happened?“, his voice was hoarse and croaky, glancing through the room without focus. „You, uh, got shot. In the head“, he said, a sudden nervousness overcoming him. A shocked expression flashed across Soaps face. „Oh“. Simon fumbled with the string of his hoodie. „Do you need something?“ Soap nodded, and pointed to a water bottle on the nightstand. Simon grabbed the bottle, opening it and handing it to him. Soaps hands were weak and shaky, struggling to grasp the bottle. “Wait, I’ll help ya“, Simon mumbled, tilting the bottle so he could drink. He wiped the water around his mouth off with a napkin, eyes fixed on the pink slightly parted lips.

The door opened, a nurse stepped into the room, making his way towards Soap. The urge to flee, to run away overcame him. „I‘ll, uh, leave ya to it, then“, he stuttered, leaving the room before Soap could say anything.

Help me I was just at a job fair and went to the army and there was this guy in full combat gear and mask from the special forces and I talked to him about his job and he had these deep brown eyes and was so nice I swear I was trying to listen. But. We were talking about how much his gear weighed and he chuckled, took my hand and put it on his vest so I could lift it and see for myself. Then he told me he could just pick me up and carry me.

Help

So intimate

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