I Think Something A Lot Of People Don't Realize Is That Ghost Isn't Insecure. We Have That Famous Interaction

You haven't been having any sort of memory loss, have you?

imposter.

heyy

i see you

Run To You.

How would your boys react to you tapping them out after months of being apart from one another?

Characters Included - Task Force 141, Alejandro Vargas, Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra, König

Warnings - None.

Total Word Count - 2.6k

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count - 0.3k

The moment that your arms extend to wrap around him, he pulls you into a bone-crushing embrace, lifting you from your place on the ground and holding you against him. Your face buries into his shoulder, tears falling from your eyes as a light laugh tumbles from your parted lips. Your legs work to wrap over his waist, pulling yourself impossibly closer to him. 

You can feel Simon begin to shake against you the longer that he holds you in his arms, no doubt overwhelmed by the sheer amount of relief and comfort he felt in your presence. You had had that effect on him for as long as you had been part of his life, calming any raging storm with something as simple as a touch against his shoulder. 

And now, in a moment when he believed that he’d be standing until his legs gave out, there you were. He had noticed you almost immediately upon your arrival, heart swelling as your eyes darted through the rows of soldiers, eyebrows knit together in concentration as you searched for him. The minute that your eyes caught sight of him, your lips turned upward in a teary smile, feet carrying you to his direction at such a speed he was worried you might accidentally barrel into him. 

Simon doesn’t bother to contain his smile as you shift in his arms, pulling back just enough to make eye contact with him. You tearfully smile down at him, your hands cupping either side of his masked face, thumbs stroking against the familiar skull pattern as he gazes so lovingly up at you. 

“Hi,” you finally manage to whisper, your lips still turned upward in that smile that Simon adored. He returns it, the crinkle in his eyes being the indicator that he was smiling just as softly back at you. His arms squeeze around your waist, hand supporting you from below to keep you against him for however long he wanted. 

“Hi,” he returns, his eyes momentarily closing as your forehead presses against his. Your hands still gently hold the sides of his face, a content breath falling from your nose as you both enjoy the other’s presence. Simon can feel his chest warm as he feels your thumbs continue to stroke his face. In that moment, he’s home.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Word Count - 0.3k

He can’t help but choke up as your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him against you and letting out a teary laugh into his shoulder. Of course, he’s swift in returning your embrace, nearly knocking you over as he all but collapses into you. He truly doesn’t care who sees; he cries into you, tears dripping onto your hair as he presses his cheek against your head. All he cares about is the fact that you’re there.

Johnny pulls away from you after a minute of holding you, his hands lifting to tenderly hold the sides of your face. He steers your face towards his own, slotting his lips against your own. He doesn’t care about the taste of your tears against his lips, or how you try to hold back your sobs as he kisses you. 

He pulls away only when the need to breathe becomes too strong for the both of you, his hands still holding your face as you tearfully smile at him. “God, I missed you,” he breathes out, smiling at you as you lift your hands to mimic his actions, the both of you standing with your hands on the other’s face. 

You bite back the sobs as they rise in your throat, remembering the months that you’d spent practically wasting away in your apartment, simply waiting for Johnny to return home to you. But those months mean nothing to you now, not when he was standing in front of you.

“I missed you more,” you say finally, reaching out to wrap your arms around Johnny again, laughing to yourself as he grunts at the tight embrace. But the tightness of your hug only emulates the love that you hold for him. How no matter what, you would be there for him should he need it. Johnny would forever be thankful for you, and would forever be with you.

Even if forever came in the form of his rusted dog tags. 

Captain John Price

Word Count - 0.3k

The minute that his eyes land on you weaving your way through the crowd is when he can feel his tears burning the backs of his eyes, blurring his gaze. He tries his hardest to keep them at bay as you draw closer, but he’s unable to hold himself together for much longer when your arms wrap around him, squeezing at him as you cry lightly into his chest. 

“Hi lovie,” he whispers into your hair, lifting you from your place on the ground, his arms locked around your waist to support you. You don’t answer him immediately, opting instead to soak in the warmth from the embrace that you had been missing for the past six months. His lips against your head comfort you and soothe the thoughts that had been thinking the worst.

He squeezes you just before you pull away from his embrace, your arms still around his neck with his wrapped over your waist. “Hi,” you finally manage to whisper in response, sniffling as his one of his hands comes to cup the side of your face, his thumb catching the tears that fall from your eyes. 

Price gazes down at you in his arms, his heart swelling as you nuzzle into the palm of his hand, the warmth of his touch something that you had been craving for half a year. Your eyes flicker to meet his gaze again, and just like before, a teary smile works its way onto your face. 

“Thank God you’re home,” you mutter, lips trembling as you fight to hold back your sobs. Price smiles again, his own eyes tearing up at your words. He understands how hard it was to be away, for both himself and for you. He leans down, kissing your forehead tenderly. Price smiles to himself as he feels you relax at the affectionate gesture. 

“I’m not goin’ anywhere for a while, I promise you,” he says, tugging you back into his arms and squeezing at you as if you would disappear. You smile against his chest, relaxing in his arms, not caring as the rest of the world fades out, leaving only you and Price. 

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Word Count - 0.4k

As soon as your skin lightly grazes his, he crushes you to his chest, one hand holding the back of your head while the other holds your waist, gripping at you as if you would disappear should his grip falter. His lips tremble as he fights to hold back the rising sobs in his throat, eyes screwing shut as you squeeze just as tightly at him. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles into your hair, his voice wavering between words as you press your face into his chest. You know what he’s thanking you for, you know that he hadn’t expected you to come and find him, to seek him out. To say that he wasn’t used to being loved was an understatement, and with each passing day, you made sure that Kyle knew just how much he meant to you.

You had made it a point to sprint through the crowd in search for him, legs moving of their own accord as your eyes desperately searched the rows of soldiers being tapped out by their friends and family. Relief flooded your senses as you noticed Kyle, his arms folded behind his back and his face a mask of no emotion. But at the sight of you, you noticed the twinkle of tears in his eyes. 

“God, it’s so good to have you home.” Your words tug at his heartstrings, and he’s suddenly reminded of just how long it had been since he held you in his arms. Eight months. Eight months of video calls, of text messages, of only being able to communicate when it was safest for the both of you. Eight months made completely worth it by holding you as tightly as he wants to. 

You remain in his arms for however long he needs, however long it takes him to fully register that you’re standing in front of him and aren’t some figment of his imagination. When he does pull back from you, it’s to admire you, even if you have tears rolling down your cheeks. “It’s good to be home,” he agrees, smiling to both himself and you as you pull his face to yours, lips pressing firmly against his own. 

You kissing him reminds him that he’s loved, that his absence from home affects somebody, that there’s someone waiting for him to even return home. He doesn’t want you to pull away from him, even if that thought would result in the both of you passing out from lack of air. 

Kyle is just overjoyed that you’re here, that you came even when he didn’t call. “I love you,” he mumbles to you, so lovesick that it makes your chest warm. 

“I love you more.”

Alejandro Vargas

Word Count - 0.3k

In your arms, he immediately relaxes, his arms wrapping so gently around you so that he doesn’t accidentally hurt you. He kisses your temple, then leaning his cheek against the side of your head and swaying your bodies back and forth, holding back his own cries as you sniffle into his chest. 

“I’m here mi amor, it’s alright,” he coos into your ear, feeling your arms squeeze at him as he continues rocking his weight from one foot to the other, hoping that the rocking would comfort you. His chest tightens as he feels your tears staining his shirt, no doubt leaving behind a wet patch, but that doesn’t matter to him. 

You’re quiet as you stand in his arms, your nails biting into his back as relief floods your senses. The danger level of this particular mission was more than you were able to handle, but you were still able to find Alejandro amongst the crowd. You had sprinted to him, nearly tripping over your own two feet before you jumped at him, locking your arms around his neck and pressing your face into his shoulder. 

“Missed you,” you mumble into him, exhaling shakily as you shift in his embrace, remaining in his arms and gazing up at him through teary eyes. He smiles down at you, catching your tears with his thumb as he leans down to press a featherlight kiss against your cheek. 

“I missed you more,” he responds, chuckling breathily as you hold either side of his face, bringing him down into a kiss. He can taste your tears on his lips, but that’s the least of his concerns. What matters now is the familiar warmth that your kiss brings him, a telltale reminder that he had made it home, he had made it back to you. 

He pulls back from you, smiling as he notices your eyes still closed. His forehead leans affectionately against yours, the tip of your nose brushing with his as he momentarily forgets where he is. Even then, it doesn’t matter. He’s with you, that’s what matters. 

Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra

Word Count - 0.3k

He’s unable to hold back his tears as you cling to him, almost immediately crying into you as he lifts you off of the ground, curling you into him and pressing kisses against your hairline. He doesn’t care who sees him, he doesn’t care about the eyes that may wander. You were standing in front of him, and to him, that was the only thing that mattered in this moment. 

“I missed you so much. I love you,” he whispers into your hair, his voice barely able to be heard over the surrounding sounds. But you hear him, his voice as clear as day to you. You squeeze at him, your cheek smushed against his chest as he continues to hold you, worrying that if he let go, he would wake up back on base, miles away from you and the comfort of your embrace. 

You chuckle to yourself as he swiftly detaches himself from you, reaching out to take either side of your face into his hands, his eyes gazing into yours with a loving glint to them. You smile, tears rolling down your cheeks at the fact that you were finally reunited with him. “I love you too,” you declare, a squeak catching in your throat as Rudy quickly leans in to kiss you, his lips almost perfectly molding against yours. 

Your eyes flutter shut as the initial shock wears off, your arms lifting to secure themselves around his neck as he tugs you impossibly closer to him. You’re the one to pull away, with Rudy’s hands still attached to your face like velcro. You smile up at him, erupting into laughter again as he presses small kisses against any skin that he can reach; your eyelids, your cheeks, your nose, everywhere. 

You remain in his arms for God only knows how long, both of you simply basking in the others presence after having been away from it for so long. Even as the soldiers around you leave with their friends and families, you and Rudy stay rooted to where you stand. His thumbs stroke random patterns into your cheeks, his eyes admiring you. 

“Alright, come on, let’s go home, yeah?” you offer, smiling as Rudy’s hands squeeze your face. He nods in agreement, releasing you, but swiftly locking an arm around your waist. 

“Yeah.”

König

Word Count - 0.3k

He’s shaking as you pull him into your arms, cheek pressing against him as you let out a sigh of relief. König, as always, is so very gentle with you, lightly lifting you off of the ground and allowing you to wrap around him lika a koala. The feeling of your arms and legs around him brings with it a sense of comfort that he had been missing for seven months. 

“Liebling.” It’s all that he’s able to say in that moment, finding himself choked up at the thought that you were really here, really in his arms after all of that time spent apart. You nod, squeezing at him affectionately and burrowing yourself impossibly further into him. He can feel your tears against him, a telltale sign of the pure relief that you were feeling in that moment. 

“I’m so happy you’re home,” you whisper, smiling as you crane your neck just enough to make eye contact with König, heart swelling at the crinkle in the corners of his eyes. His mask prevented you from seeing the full extent of his smile, but you knew that it was there. 

“I missed you schatz. It was much too long,” König admits, smiling as you lean forward to kiss his covered forehead, then moving your hands to lightly lift the bottom of his sniper’s hood. He welcomes it, smiling widely as you lean forward to connect your lips with his, swallowing his breathy laugh and kissing him with such passion that he feels his knees weaken slightly. 

He almost doesn’t want you to pull away, but the need to breathe had become increasingly evident, and reluctantly, König allows you to pull back and catch your breath. You smile at him, moving his hood back to its original position before he places you down onto the ground. 

“I love you König,” you say softly, reaching out to lace your fingers into his own, squeezing them affectionately. His heart warms at your words, body bending to collect you into another embrace. He smiles at the feeling of you pressed against him, his arms wrapped firmly yet softly around you, careful not to injure you. 

“I love you more mein liebling,” he whispers into your ear, smiling as you squeeze at him. This was why he returned home, to see your bright smile, to feel your embrace, to be yours. 

Before I wrote my 1,300 page book I never had the attention span to write more than five pages. My book wouldn't have made it past 37,000 words if not for the fans it accumulated who gave me the push I needed to keep writing until I'd hit 340,000 words and finished the story four years later.

That story is now on it's way to 1 million reads on wattpad, and has 62,000 hits on Ao3.

What inspired me to write a 1,300 page book when I'd never had the attention span to finish more than 5 pages prior?

...

Gordon Ramsay 😂

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Hell's Smitten (Gordon Ramsay x Reader)

Accepted under the mentorship of your idol and the world's hottest chef Gordon Ramsay, you must prove your skill and de...

your heart isn't my only target!

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✦ 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐍 ✦

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader (delta) | smut, 18+ | 4.1k

summary: you, soap and gaz make a silly bet at ghost's expense for an invaluable prize.

cw: mw3 spoiler free. 141 ridiculousness, humour, attempts to remove the mask resulting in life threatening (not really) injury, mild exhibitionism if you squint, very talkative ghost, 'interrogation' wink wink, unprotected p in v sex, reference to f receiving oral.

ghost mlist | main mlist | taglist

"Y'know, I'm sure as shit that L.t's got brown hair," Soap pipes up in the middle of the silence that had settled inside the safe house. 

The members of Task Force 141 glance up one by one, querying eyes cast Soap's way as the guesstimated observation hangs in the air. It's louder than chopper blades, thudding against your skull and roaring in your ears as you attempt to recall the information you have on Ghost, what little physical attributes you can attribute to him. Each time, you hit a brick wall. The only image conjured in your minds-eye is the black voids of the mask's eyes and the piercing amber of his irises. 

The wind howls outside, battering the windows with Wyoming snow and creeping in through the cracks in the panes. It makes a yowling sound as it slips through the crevices, carrying your memories of Ghost's appearance with it. He truly was like an apparition, there one moment, then gone altogether. 

Gaz's brows crease in the middle, little crevices in the skin showing his mind working over the sentence. 

"He doesn't," he eventually retorts, eyebrow cocked while shaking his head, "He's blonde." 

"What makes you say that?" Price scoffs at his colleague's certainty, "You ever seen his face?"

The silence that follows makes the Captain chuckle. A wordless 'that's what I thought'. 

"You willin' to bet on that?" Soap pushes Gaz with a lopsided smirk. There it is, that ridiculous playfulness that the Scotsman continuously let slip over coms. Simon had once reprimanded him for how it would get him killed– you were almost certain if he continued down this path in particular, he'd be in a box by daylight.

"I am," Gaz counters thoughtlessly, a smug lilt to his tone as he leans the crown of his head back against the rotting wooden wall, "He's got blonde eyelashes. He's gonna have blonde hair."

"What're ya gettin' so close tae him for?" Soap grins wide, loading the new ammunition and hitting a bullseye on the first shot, "You been snoggin' him or somethin'?"

"Lads," Price warns. It's only one word, but it says a lot; 'he'll have your head.' All of you know Simon 'Ghost' Riley well enough to know it's not a joke. Seen enough of the mangled bodies he left behind to know it wouldn't be clean, either. More like he'd hack your skull from your neck, picking out the dullest blade that'd struggle to slot between vertebrae.  

"Bets on, then," Soap continues, white teeth gleaming in the low light, "First to confirm gets the honour of shootin' Hassan between the eyes." 

It's like throwing a match at a body doused in diesel. 

                           ✰

The parameters of this wager are as follows... First: the competition is between you, Soap and Gaz. Price was ruled automatically exempt the moment he admitted he had, indeed, seen Ghost's face. It was a revelation that caused quite a storm- and a promise from Gaz of £100 if he'd tell.

The Captain, quite frankly, told him where to stick it. 

Second: None of you could just ask Ghost himself. That was boring; no fun in that. 

Thirdly, there are no other rules. Acquire the information by any means necessary to claim victory. Perhaps this rule should have been revised- because to say that 141's tactics for getting Ghost to reveal his face were a little unorthodox is an understatement of the highest order. 

Despite his hulking frame, Ghost is like a cunning fox, cognizant of even the slightest changes in energy and hypervigilant of those approaching. The midnight void of his grease paint that frames his eyesockets contrasts the whites of his eyes as they dart back and forth between you all. He appears to have noted the devious scheming, practically hearing the cogs turning in your heads the moment he returned from his watch. Something is amiss, and you know Ghost knows it. 

He says nothing. 

Day One; the grumpy, black-clad special ops soldier sits back in his seat as he crosses his arms over his vast chest, cautiously observing the minute movements the three of you made. He'd bristled when Gaz stood from the sofa simply to enter another room, poised and ready to pounce at whatever fuckery the younger soldier would attempt. 

"Hey, L.t.," Soap's drawl cuts through the humorously tense atmosphere in the room, and you brace yourself for his master plan. "When was the last time ye got a haircut?"

Ghost hesitates. Waits a beat. The silence stretches almost uncomfortably until he answers, thick, bassy voice almost booming in the box room. "What're you playin' at, Johnny?"

Soap shrugs his shoulders, exuding complete nonchalance as he settles into the seat across the table from the hulking mass of man. "Just wondered if the mask ever came off. How do you cut your hair?"

Amusement ripples through you in the sound of a chuckle, both men glancing your way. Ghost peers at you, suspicion pooling thick in his pupils. 

"Shave it," Ghost rumbles bluntly, with an air of finality that leaves no room for argument or for Soap to encourage him to try something stupid like curtain bangs or, God forbid, a mohawk. 

You can't help but grin from ear to ear as you watch the Scotsman's shoulders slump in defeat, already waving a white flag upon seeing how unwilling Ghost is to play whatever stupid game you're all partaking in. Even you can't deny the anxiety that prickles across your nerve endings when you see the way Ghost's biceps flex beneath the camo fabric of his uniform, primed for action. 

When Ghost's aqua irises slide to you, your shoulders shrug comically, putting on the performance of your life to appear as though you had no idea what Johnny was up to. You see the way Ghost's blacked-out eyelids squint in suspicion. He doesn't believe you, but doesn't say as much. 

Day Three and the polite, roundabout tactics had been discarded in favour of the nuclear option. Gaz had tried ambushing Ghost in the shower, opening the door without knocking as if pretending he didn't know the Lieutenant was in there. The door slammed so quickly into his head that an egg had been steadily growing on his forehead for the past hour and a half, blood seeping from his almost certainly broken nose. 

"You'll stay out next time, Bravo 2-6, if you know what's good for you," Ghost had growled through the crack in the door before shutting it with a click of the lock. 

Holding his face and slinking away, mortally wounded, Gaz uttered a humiliated 'Yes, lieutenant'. 

Soap, clearly not having learnt from poor Gaz, decided that the next best option was a trip, so to speak. Executing a ludicrously overexaggerated stumble, Johnny reached out to grab Ghost's mask to 'steady himself' and ultimately drag it from his superior's head. 

Ghost had leapt from his seat with a roar, threatening to send Sergeant MacTavish back to Scotland in a box with the Saltire draped across the lid. The standoff only settled upon Captain Price's barked orders to stand down or hang up the uniform. 

By Day Six, Ghost had bruised your opponent's egos enough that neither Soap nor Gaz dared attempt to peek beneath the mask again. They look at you like you're absolutely bonkers when you finally announce it's your turn to try and tame the beast. 

"Yer fuckin' mad, hen," Johnny grumbled, watching you observe Ghost from across the room. He'd settled on a chair in the corner of the room, ensuring no one could sneak up on him. "You can't seriously be plannin' on-"

"I want Hassan," you shrug, a smile playing on your lips. Though, at this rate, you couldn't care less about the terrorist and the honour of dispatching him. No, Ghost had made this ridiculous game far more competitive than needed, and you planned to win.

"Have fun," Gaz scoffed bitterly, still icing the blotchy green and purple bruise that had welted on his forehead as a medal of dis-honour. You hadn't exactly helped the healing process, poking it harshly with the pad of your thumb as you laughed at his mortifying misfortune. 

You wait patiently for Ghost to move, like a stake out on a mission. Lying in plain sight in a ghillie suit, a sniper rifle pointed right between his eyes and your finger on a hairpin trigger. You wait for him to break, for exhaustion to creep in. Thankfully, you don't have to wait long. The Lieutenant rises from his chair, announcing to 141 that he's headed to bed. 

A quiet mumble of 'goodnight' from each member grants him leave, and Ghost walks out of the room without further word. You waste no time in hurrying to your feet. 

"Are you gonna...-" Soap winces when you stand, trailing off when you start after Ghost, not allowing either of your colleagues to talk you out of this suicide mission. 

Though, the moment you turn the corner, you wish you had. Ghost's broad frame practically fills the narrow hallway like someone had plucked Everest from Nepal and shoved its hulking mass into a matchbox. He's ginormous, his usually silent footsteps causing the aged, rotting wood beneath the soles of his boots to creak with the weight he applies when he turns to face you. 

The dark hallway obscures Ghost's skull-face mask, but a glittering reflection of the golden light bleeding from the bulb in the living room area flickers across the wet surface of his eyes as he observes you. You can't allow the weighty pressure of his stare to phase you if you're to push ahead with your plan- so you step forward, swallowing down the nerves that Ghost's attention inevitably dredges up. 

"Lieutenant, sir," you address him smoothly, voice low as you gaze up at him through your lashes. Ghost's eyebrow arches in response, noting your somewhat suggestive behaviour. "Permission to spea-"

"I'm hopin' you'll tell me what you're all up to," his eyes spear your nerve as he interrupts you, "They're not lettin' up, but I'll get it outta you one way or another." 

"What... Did you have in mind?" You chance, heart slamming up against your chest when you realise just how obvious you're being. It's dangerous- you hadn't planned to be so forward. The idea that he'd be able to read your flirting so soon set off mortars in your veins. 

There's a pause. It dizzies you, throwing your previously sturdy confidence off kilter when Ghost tilts his masked head slightly. He's turning it over in his mind, considering the past few days' events. Then, he turns everything on its side. 

"I know what you're doing," he speaks suddenly, the rich baritone of his voice ricocheting off the walls and ringing in your ears like he's just discharged a round of ammo with each syllable. You jerk upright, standing to attention. 

"I don't know what you m-"

"You want the mask off," he interrupts you again, cutting your pathetic excuse short as he steps forward. It's ridiculous, the sheer size of him as he looms over you. "You lot made a bet."

Another beat. Ghost waits for a response, an admission of guilt. It feels like he's cornered you; every answer that springs to mind is incriminating. You know he can see your rueful expression, wide-eyed and panicked by the ease with which he puts you on the ropes. 

"Was this your plan?" He murmurs, reaching to grasp your chin. His palm settles on the hollow of your jaw, fingers fanning out across the bone. "Get me into bed and see if I'll take it off?"

Trembling in his hold, you whimper as Ghost's thumb stretches across to trace the curve of your lip. It follows the delicate arc, lining the shape of your mouth and trailing the dip of your cupid's bow. 

"'M sorry," you mumble weakly, cheeks hot beneath his touch. Again, you fold beneath the intensity of those honeyed irises. It's a miracle your knees don't buckle when he pushes the pad of his thumb just past your lips, so that it brushes the edges of your teeth. 

"That was your plan. Y'can still give it a try, love. But..." he hums, his voice throaty and quiet and settling in the pit of your stomach. It's embarrassing, the ease with which he figures you out, but his words drip over you, easy and warm, and all you can focus on is the slip of his thumb as he presses the pad against the flat of your tongue. 

"The mask stays on." 

Ghost’s insistence makes you giggle sheepishly and your stomach flip in dread, like a child caught with its hand down a bear trap. Despite the lewdness of him pushing his thumb past your lips, you know that he’s being serious, deathly so. You nod clumsily in recognition of his executive order, and Ghost gently taps the skin of your cheek with his free hand, the soft slap of his palm against your flesh standing your hair on end.

“Go.”

The word hangs in the air for a moment, weighing heavily in the claustrophobic space of the small hallway. It takes a moment for your mind, rendered utterly useless by Ghost’s imposing presence, to understand exactly what he’s implying. Only when he removes his thumb from your mouth to shove you forward towards a bedroom door does his intention become clear.

Oh. Oh!

Scrambling to force your feet forward, they practically float across the threshold of the bedroom door. You can feel Ghost looming just behind you, can practically feel the heat radiating from his chest warming the expanse of your back. Fingers clasp over your shoulder, practically swallow the curved flesh, and shove you back against the bedroom wall.

The force of impact winds you, the air expelled from your lungs swallowed down by Ghost’s lips bearing heavily down upon your own. He’d ripped the mask upwards, the hem of the ski-mask balanced across the bridge of his nose. Simon’s tongue licks into your mouth– intrudes upon the space like he’s kicking down a door, like he’s swallowing the breath he’d expelled from you with his heavy hand. 

Once the dazed dizziness dissipates, you moan in relief at finally getting what you wanted. Ghost’s gigantic paw takes hold of your jaw in a firm grip to fit his mouth perfectly against your own, his swirling fingerprints indenting in the soft flesh there in a mottled bruise. The soft pine he coaxes from you bleeds past your open mouth despite your attempt to suppress the frankly pathetic noise. 

Fuck it, this was worth it– all of it was worth it. The fear of getting it wrong, the anxiety of being caught, the panic that Simon could turn you away… All of it seeps into the darkness in the corners of the room when your superior drags his tongue across your lower lip. It’s though he’s relishing in the taste of the aftershocks of the arousal he sparks between your legs, the dopamine that rushes through you.

“Was this your plan?” Ghost grunts, grasping ahold of the scruff of your neck. Gasping weakly, you’re almost certain your eyes roll back in your head when he uses his harsh grip to steer you towards the bed. “Get me out of my fuckin’ mind so I don’t notice you takin’ off the mask?”

“That’s–” you huff, rendered breathless by Ghost’s intruding tongue, “That’s not it–”

Your pitiful attempt to excuse yourself is made useless when Ghost practically launches you onto the mattress of his bed, the rusted metal frame screaming under the sudden weight of your body. 

“No?” he queries, the usual boom of authority in his voice replaced by something that sounds far more like goading amusement as he places the hefty weight of his palm against your sternum, holding you down and thwarting any attempt to escape. 

He needn’t worry. The last thing you wanted was to leave. 

“Tell you what,” he muses in that smug tone you always hear over the comms, his free hand quick to grasp at the leather of his belt. The buckle clinks in the quiet as he works his fingers over it, “We’ll run through this mission, yeh? See if you can complete your objective, Delta?”

Your retort, or lack thereof, dies in your throat when Ghost pushes his crotch into your own. If it weren’t for the yelp of bliss that the Lieutenant had to smother with his palm, you’d hear the way he’d practically purred when he dragged his cock against you. 

“C’mon then. Try it,” he urged. 

It’s pointless, his mock-support. You just desperately reach for the waistband of his khaki uniform trousers, cockdrunk from the tease of its shape against you. Even in the low light, you can see Ghost’s scarred lips, the way they stretch into a smirk at your desperation. 

“Abandoning mission, Sergeant?” He asks you, unzipping his trousers. “Price’ll be disappointed to know this is all it takes for Delta to go AWOL.”

“Shut up,” you moan into the cold air of the cabin. You can see your breath. “Shut up and fuck me.”

When Simon removed himself from his trousers, making some glib comment about you being demanding, you marvel at the size of him. Girthy, swollen, the ruddy tip leaks precum down the arch of his cock and traces the pulsing veins. He’s rock hard and throbbing, framed by a thatch of pubic hair. 

Fumbling with your own trousers, you awkwardly try to remove them given Simon’s weighty palm still pins you down by your sternum. He watches, a glint in his eye in the low light that would almost embarrass you if you weren’t so focused on the task at hand. 

“What was the prize?” 

“H-Huh?” you stall, mind fried by Ghost’s unexpected line of enquiry. He picks up where you left off, violently yanking your trousers down your thighs and pushing your panties aside to expose your glistening cunt to his prying eyes. 

“What. Was. The. Prize?”

You hesitate for a moment, feeling Ghost’s fingers press against the inside of your thighs as he probes this unexplored territory of you. His touch skirts the areas you want him most, teasing and goading you for more information. “H-Hassa-ahh!”

You barely manage the first syllable of your answer before Simon rests the arch of his cock against your slick pussy lips. His body jerks slightly at the heat of your swollen cunt, the ease with which he can slide himself through your drenched sex. 

“You got to kill Hassan?” he asked for confirmation, his voice unwavering. You wonder how he manages to stay so steady– you’re coming apart at the seams, trembling as the head of his cock bumps your clit clumsily. 

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes rolling back as he continues his laboured, steady torture. His free hand settles on your hip, arching your pelvis up slightly to meet his own. You grind your hips upward against his cock, and Simon expels a soft scoff from lungs, those piercing eyes settled on your contorting expression. 

“Mhmm,” he hums, rolling his hips again. This time it’s even slower, teasing. “A temptin’ reward–” 

Simon is interrupted by the moan that splits your lips when he drags the length of his cock heavily against your clit. It sparks arousal deep in your abdomen, clings to the inside of your thighs wetly. 

Perhaps the disturbance is one transgression too many tonight, because Simon grasps your hips so hard that you are forced to stop gliding over the length of his cock. You pine in protest, but you choke on the pitiful sound when Ghost suddenly plunges his cock inside of you. It spears you open, breaks you apart, and you find your back arching desperately against the mattress. 

The palm that had rooted itself to your sternum flies up to clasp against your mouth, smothering the shriek of bliss that threatened to expose your extracurricular activities to the rest of your squad. You sob through your teeth beneath his life line, tears welling in your eyes as you feel him stretch your walls open to make room for his intrusion. 

You can’t help yourself. You need something to grasp onto, and opt for his wrist above your face. Digging your nails into the inked flesh there, you watch as the pain sparks something dark and twisted in Simon’s pupils, his azure irises swallowed by the expanding blackness.

He likes it. You can tell. His cock arches up inside of you, pushing deep and rocking against something earth shattering inside of you. Damp with sweat already, the skin of his wrist ripples as he tightens his grip on your face, refusing to withdraw from your pussy walls and instead opting for sharp, shallow thrusts that push you up the mattress with each connection of your hips. 

“Fuck,” he spits, using his tight grasp to pull you back towards him. It’s obliterating you, ripping you apart and pushing all your pieces back together in a mangled, jumbled mess. You whimper as you suffer through his brutal pace, marvelling at how good it feels when he consistently spears your g-spot. 

“When would you have done it?” Simon asks you, a little breathless now as he chases the high that begins to build at the edges of your body, tingling and pulsing. 

“Shut up–” you beg him, the low rasp of his voice launching you towards that pleasure that threatens to consume you. Jerking your hips up to meet his, your body mindlessly reacts to the sound of his timbre. 

“Oh, no,” he chuckles, shaking his half masked face. There’s a silver laden scar that stretches across the base of his chin. It matches the one that splits his upper lip to the base of his nose, the ski mask hovering tantalisingly over the bridge. “When?” 

The seriousness of his tone makes your thighs quiver when paired with the sharp thrust he punctuates his question with. Years of training in maintaining a cover-story while a hostage are blown to bits as though Ghost has launched a mortar at your resolve, because suddenly all your state secrets are spilling out of you quicker than you can shove the incriminating words back into your traitor mouth. 

“I’d– Hagh… I’d do it j-just as you’re cummin–hhah!”

“And spoil my fun?” Ghost hums, that heavy timbre licking up your spine and sparking viscous embers at the base of your spine, “Anyone ever told you that you’re very fuckin’ selfish, Delta?” 

You’d offer a witty comment, but Ghost’s angled his hips just right, and your jaw is falling loose to let out a panicked whimper. 

“There it is, shit. Look at you, Sargeant. Fuckin’, you’re so tight–” 

You’re like a slip knot, tightening around him further with each knock of your g-spot with Simon’s ridiculously large cock-head. Prickling tears of bliss threaten to spill over the edge of your waterline, continuing to sting even when you shut your eyes. You’re shaking, trembling beneath his rocking hips as you mewl his name. 

“S-Simon! Fuck–”

Wild, wet squelches of Simon sinking into your soaked cunt echo in your skull as he ramps up his violent thrusts, the springs of his mattress screaming an unmistakable rhythm to anyone walking by. He doesn’t seem to care now though, his eyes zeroed in on your expression like he’s stalking a victim with his sniper scope. Aiming for complete obliteration. 

“C’mon Can feel you squeezin’ round me,” he murmurs, the steady tone he’d offered earlier shuddering slightly as you squeeze impossibly tight around him, coil threatening to snap, “You’re so close, Delta. C’mon, paint my cock an’ I’ll eat you out with my cum in you–” 

                           ✰

“He’s blonde.” 

Gawping jaws drop to the floor at your very simple observation, Soap’s eyes nearly rolling across the uneven, rotten floorboards after falling out of his skull. You can’t help the smug smile that threatens to tug at the edge of your lips, especially given the sensation of Ghost’s eyes boring holes into the back of your skull. 

The awe only worsens when Price gives a subtle nod of confirmation from the corner of the darkened room, crowning you the winner of this utterly ridiculous joust. 

“How do you know?” Gary is as shaken as Soap by the confidence with which you’d offered your final answer, in disbelief as to how you could have possibly obtained it without being maimed, given the egg on his forehead was still throbbing despite days of icing it with the snow from outside the safehouse.

“His pubes are. I assume the curtains match the drapes,” you shrug dismissively. 

The sheer incredulity that flashes across Johnny’s face is utterly hilarious. The smirk that had been threatening to break finally cracks across your lips at the confirmation of your victory. Ghost’s eyes appear to have lazered through your skull, singing brain matter with the ferocity of his scowl. Frankly, you couldn’t care less– you can see it in your mind's eye; the gorgeous contrast of a blood-red crosshair settling across Hassan’s forehead, the weight of the trigger beneath your finger as you pull it back.

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