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mythicalmisery · 7 months

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"They Don't Care About You"

Characters: Ghost, Soap, Price (mentioned)

CW: infection, bullet wound, PTSD, emotional angst, hallucinations

Ghost grit his teeth as Soap propped him up on the dirty mattress stuffed in the corner of some dingy, nondescript, safe house. Some abandoned cabin, that was probably only used for hunting, that reeked of stale cigarette smoke and desperation. It was about a 5-mile hike from their original location and nowhere near a functioning society. The mission was a shit show from start to finish and had left him with a bullet-sized hole in his left thigh as a reward. The wound had been triaged to the best of his and Soap’s ability while in the field, but infection was starting to set in. It was only a matter of time before Ghost's body would shut down on him completely if they didn’t get exfil.

Ghost could barely keep his eyes open anymore as he watched Soap’s blurry outline pace anxiously around the room. The sergeant would occasionally pause to pick at the peeling paint on the walls before him as he let out his frustrations in a mix of mumbled curses and Scottish gibberish. He had been trying to maintain contact with Price over the comms since their evacuation, but the signal was weak, and he could barely make out the man’s voice through the static.

“Bravo 6, this is Bravo 7-1. We need immediate extraction. Our location is... I don’t even know…" Soap's voice wavered, frustration and fear creeping into his words as he glanced back at Ghost who had now fallen over onto the mattress. The man was too weak and exhausted to hold himself up, even against the wall. “We’re in a nearby safe house, some fucking cabin near our last coordinates. Ghost is hurt bad, we need immediate help,” Soap shouted as he ran over to Ghost's side, getting him as flat as he could be on the mattress.

Ghost's eyes fluttered open at the movement. His gaze briefly darted around the dimly lit room, but the pain and fever made everything around him a hazy blur. Sweat trickled down his pale face, and his breaths came in short, erratic gasps. He could hear Soap's voice in the background, but it seemed distant like he was underwater.

"They don't care about you," a chilling voice echoed in Ghost's mind causing him to flinch. It sounded as if the voice was right next to him, a voice he had tried so hard to forget. One that even the brink of death couldn’t erase from his memories. It was the voice of Roba, the man who had buried him alive and torn his life apart. The man who was the reason he didn’t have a family anymore. He could barely make out the dark shadow looming over Soap’s shoulder, leering at Ghost. His arm unconsciously tried to reach out, warn Soap, but he could barely lift it more than a few inches before it fell back to his side.

“They don't care about you," Roba hissed again, his accented voice laced with cruelty. Ghost's brow furrowed in confusion and pain. He strained to make sense of what was happening. He killed Roba. The man was dead. He couldn’t be here.. "No… That's not true," he slurred, his voice barely above a whisper. His knuckles had turned white as he gripped the mattress underneath his body. The words were seemingly addressed to no one in particular, but they sent shivers down Soap's spine. His heart sank at the incoherent rambling of his teammate and friend.

Soap continued to plead for extraction over the comms, doing his best to give Price their approximate location. But every passing second brought Ghost's torment closer to the surface. The memories of Roba's sadistic games and the weight of his cruel words were clawing their way into Ghost's fractured psyche.

"They don't care about you," Roba's voice persisted, growing louder and more insistent. Ghost's breathing quickened, and his hands trembled. “They'll leave you behind, just like they did before.”

Ghost's fingers twitched, and he moaned in pain. "No, stop," he whispered, his voice trembling. Soap, feeling helpless, lightly smacked the man’s cheek in a poor attempt to get him to refocus. “Come on Lt,” he grunted out. “Stay with me. It’s just us here. Just us….”

But Ghost's gaze was locked onto an unseen horror, eyes looking straight through his sergeant like he was glass. The hallucination of Roba taunting him and drawing closer. "Soap's lying to you, Ghost. He doesn’t care. None of them do. You’re expendable.”

“S-stop it,” Ghost weakly demanded. Soap’s heart ached as he watched Ghost's torment. He leaned in closer, brushing a damp strand of hair from Ghost's forehead. He had removed the man’s balaclava about halfway through their trek in the foreign wilderness. God forbid the man suffocate himself with his own bloody mask. He tried to make sense of the incoherent broken mumbles caused by the delirium but he was at a loss. ”Ghost, come on mate. Listen to my voice. I’m right here.”

Soap squeezed his lieutenant's clammy hand within his own. He could feel that familiar pressure behind his eyes that heated his whole face. He wasn’t sure why his eyes had started to water. Frustration? Exhaustion? Guilt at seeing his friend in such pain and not being able to fucking help him? His mom always said he was too empathetic for his own good. But some part of Soap deep down knew exactly why his cheeks had suddenly become wet. He knew Ghost was more than a damn friend to him. He just wasn’t brave enough to speak it into existence.

Soap was torn out of his thoughts when Price’s voice cracked through the comms once again. He couldn't help but glance down at Ghost, his breathing had grown shallower and the jerks that occasionally wracked his body had subsided. “Exfil is two hours out, Lt.,” he stated, knowing that Ghost wasn’t even paying attention. The soldier had finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

Soap sat there waiting, brushing his hands through Ghost’s hair, paying no mind to how damp it was from the cold sweat. Whispering repeatedly like a broken record how he was going to be fine. More so trying to convince himself than Ghost at this point.

“Yer a damn bastard scaring me like this Lt.. You’re the bloody Ghost. You aren’t supposed to get hurt for fucks sake,” he growled out. He knew it was childish, but anger was much easier to deal with right now than acknowledging his true feelings.

“You don’t just get to leave like this….leave me…”

His face scrunching in angered pain before he dropped his head to rest on Ghost’s chest. Unintendedly matching his breaths with the weak but steady rhythm of the beating heart beneath him. After a few minutes, Soap managed to pull himself together and wiped the tears and snot away with the the back of his hand. “Bloody hell, look at the state you got me in ya wanker,” he scoffed out. He just knew the Brit wouldn’t let him live it down if he saw how Soap was reacting.

He leaned back in his chair, choosing to spend the rest of the time staring at Ghost’s face. Taking in every freckle, scar, and feature while he had the chance. As soon as they got back, it would be back to the mask like usual. A barrier between the man and the world. A painful reminder that Soap was apart of that world too.

Finally, the sound of helicopter blades cut through the silence of the night, and the safe house was bathed in the eerie glow of searchlights. As the rescue team burst into the room, they found Soap sitting beside a masked Ghost, his hand still firmly clasped around the unconscious mans. Soap made sure to let the medical personnel know that Ghost's fever had broken, and his breathing had stabilized about thirty minutes prior to their arrival. Ghost's eyes flickered open and he locked eyes with Soap as he was moved to the gurney. Pain and some other emotion he couldn’t quite name reflected back at him. “You’re gonna be fine Lt,” Soap said, his voice filled with relief and certainty.

Ghost believed him.

#call of duty #modern warfare #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #captain john price #whump #whump story #whump fic #fic

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mythicalmisery · 7 months

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"How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up?"

Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd

CW: alcohol (abuse), emotional angst, minor injuries

The moon hung low in the night sky, casting a silvery glow over the Haley's Circus grounds. The tents and booths stood tall, their vibrant colors faded by years on the road. Old paint chipping away on battered wood that was disassembled one too many times. It still felt like home to Dick even after all these years as he walked through the aisles. He came to a stop as they reached the big top, the heart of Haley’s circus and where his life changed forever.

The circus settled in Gotham for about a two-week-long residency every year since he was a child. Even so, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to visit for quite some time. That fact probably wouldn’t have changed for years to come but this visit to Gotham happened to line up perfectly with the anniversary of his parent’s death. However bittersweet it was, he knew he wanted to be here. The last place he ever saw them. Felt his mother's arms wrap him in a tight hug. Felt his father's laugh shake his whole body when he would sit on his lap. He flinched when he felt Jason clap him on his shoulder, shaking him out of his reverie.

“You good, Goldie?” The younger man asked before taking a swig from the whiskey bottle in his hand. Face scrunching briefly as the burn made its way down his throat. The crumpled, cliche, brown paper bag over it crinkled in his grip. The whiskey wasn’t considered high shelf in any way, but it got the job done.

“Yeah, Jay. I just…” He didn’t finish the sentence, wasn’t entirely sure how.

“I know, let's go inside before the security guard makes his way back though. I’m not saving your ass if we get caught.”

They slipped through the tarp doors, instantly getting hit with the overwhelming smell of sawdust and stale popcorn. Dick reveled in the memories it brought with it. They made their way to one of the sections of wooden bleachers facing the center of the ring. Dick laid down on one of the benches, facing the ceiling, while Jason sat down beside him. He leaned back with his arms sprawled out at his sides and his legs kicked up in front of him. He handed the bottle to Dick after one last swig while subtly trying to get a read on the older man.

He had just gotten out of the shower and was going to turn in for the night when he got a notification. He was pretty surprised to see it was a text asking if he wanted to grab a few drinks with Dick. It was rare these days for Jason to hang out with Dick outside of vigilante business, even more so for the man to voluntarily request to get wasted. He quickly ran through the list of possible birthdays and holidays in case he forgot an important date before he realized the significance. A small part of him selfishly beamed at the fact that Dick had come to him instead of Wally or Babs.

They sat there on the bleachers for most of the night, passing the bottle back and forth. Jason didn’t say much, letting Dick reminisce about his circus days and first family. Offering an occasional laugh or acknowledgment here and there, never enough to interrupt. He could tell the whiskey was getting to Dick as his words became more and more slurred, the boy wonder was typically a beer man and it was showing. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling it himself. After one particular story about the first time his parents let him try the tightrope, his smile faltered and that look appeared again. That haunted look he noticed outside when Dick saw the tent for the first time again. He glanced over when Dick started to move, brows furrowed with a sense of determination? anger? he wasn’t really sure. He quickly stood up, wobbly and lacking his usual grace from the alcohol. He steadied himself as best he could before climbing down the wooden bleachers.

“Dick, what are you doing?” Jason asked, concern lacing his voice and probably his face as well.

“I want t-to do it, Jay,” Dick slurred. He was halfway across the tent now, walking - more like stumbling - towards one of the two giant metal beams at the side of the ring. “I want to walk the tightrope again.”

Jason knew it was a horrible idea. Dick was fucking plastered, and as talented as the man was, attempting such a feat in his current state was reckless at best and suicidal at worst. “Dick, come on, this isn’t the time.”

But Dick was already climbing the ladder by the time Jason got to his feet. His leg slipped once, twice, and Jason cursed under his breath. The golden boy was going to get himself killed, and then in turn Bruce was going to kill him. He really wanted the second time around to last a bit longer than this.

Dick finally reached the top of the ladder, pulling himself up onto the small platform while ignoring Jason’s shouts from below. He closed his eyes as the memories flooded back, and for a moment, he felt like a child again, as if the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders. He could hear the imaginary applause of the crowd, the cheers of his parents as they encouraged him. He could feel the warmth of the spotlight again as it followed him. He slowly opened his eyes back open, reality crashing back in as he was met with darkness. The only spotlight there was the pale, cold, light of the moon shining through the cracks of the tent. His eyes steeled as determination set in. With a roll of his shoulders, he took his first step onto the tightrope. He balanced precariously, his arms outstretched as if seeking the approval of an audience that existed only in his memories.

Jason watched in silent terror as Dick made his way across the tightrope, his heart in his throat with every wobble. His shouts clearly hadn’t gotten through to the man and climbing up after him wouldn’t solve anything. Even if he was fast enough to climb up there in time, he didn’t feel like wrestling with a drunk Dick Grayson on the small platform twenty feet in the air. The acrobats were the last act of the night, so the safety net was folded up and tucked into the corner of the tent. If Dick fell, it would be a long and painful drop to the ground.

Dick gets about halfway across the rope before the emotions and alcohol finally take over. His muscle memory can only help so much when his brain is soaked in 90 proof. His balance falters as he teeters on the edge of disaster. He can hear Jason yell out from below as he finally gives in and leans to one side. His stomach twists with that familiar feeling that free fall always brings him as his foot loses contact at last. He expects the crash to happen in a few seconds, arms braced around his body. Some self-preservation fighting through the seemingly dead embers of his brain.

He gets the wind knocked out of him as something slams into his side, sending him rolling against the dirt-covered floor of the circus tent. It takes a few moments to realize that the object was in fact a body that had tackled him in mid-air. He looks over to his side with wide eyes as he takes in Jason’s body next to his, gasping and groaning in pain from their impact. His own body is slightly numb from the alcohol and adrenaline, but not enough to ignore the protests his back and shoulder scream at him as he tries to move. He goes to speak but he’s met with a coughing fit instead, threatening to turn into him vomiting all over himself. He can just barely hear Jason yelling over the ringing in his ears. He’s able to make out a “You fucking idiot!” and a well-deserved “What the hell were you thinking!?”

Jason looks down at Dick as he’s finally able to get a handle on his coughing fit that wracks his body. There’s really no point when Jason is two seconds away from strangling the life out of the man himself. He’s furious. He’s about to rip Dick a new one until the golden boy finally makes eye contact with him. Tears are welling up in those blue eyes, not from the physical pain, but from all that emotional turmoil that had driven him to even complete the reckless act. Dick was hurting, and the last thing he needed was to be scorned right now. Jason was the last person who could judge Dick for acting out and being reckless when he was hurting in this way. Hell, Jason was practically the poster boy for emotionally unstable and unhealthy coping mechanisms.

The tension in Jason’s body softens and he surrenders with a sigh. “How many fingers am I holding up?” He asks, partially teasing. The other half actually worried.

Dick blinks through the tears, trying to focus on Jason’s hand. “Two,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jason can’t help but smile at Dick’s response. “Close enough, Dickface.”

They laid there on the circus floor, side by side, for a few minutes as their breath gradually returned to normal. A comfortable silence as Dick put himself back together and Jason kept him company. Dick eventually broke the silence. “We should probably go home, Jay”

Jason nodded, helping Dick to his feet. He could hold in the groan he wanted to let out but not so much the pained wince of his face. Dick noticed and instantly had that oh-so-very Dick Grayson guilty look he liked to sport, forever the martyr. “I’m fine Dick, really. Let’s just get home so we can sleep it off. Gonna be a hell of a hangover,” Jason interrupts before he can start word-vomiting his predictable apologies. Dick just gave in and weakly nodded, clearly not looking for a fight at the moment. Jason put his arm around his shoulders when he noticed the slight limp to Dick’s gate as he tried taking a few steps.

“Thanks, Jason” Dick weakly stated.

“Sure thing”

“I don’t mean for this”

“I know Dickie, I know…”

#dc comics #batfamily #batfam #fic #dick grayson #jason todd #emotional whump #whump #whump story #whump fic #nightwing #red hood #batboys

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mythicalmisery · 7 months

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“Oh yeah, Babs and Tim are the computer geniuses,” any one of the other Batkids say as they hack into the Pentagon for the third time that week.

“Oh yeah, Dick’s the nice, happy one,” one of the other Batkids say while Nightwing walks off whistling from where he left fourteen assassins unconscious and bleeding in an alley.

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mythicalmisery · 7 months

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The Sharpest Weapon

✧ Chapter 1 : 🥖

✧ Chapter 2 : 👋🏼

✧ Chapter 3 : 🍺

✧ Chapter 4 : ⛓

✧ Chapter 5 : 🥘

#the sharpest weapon #whump story #my writing

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mythicalmisery · 7 months

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Webtoon Jason Todd is something so precious to me💞😭

Let's enjoy him smiling 🥹

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mythicalmisery · 7 months

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little bird

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mythicalmisery · 7 months

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Fighter/Artist AU : GhostxSoap

Soap quickly made his way from his last lecture to his motorcycle sitting in the parking lot. Knocking over anyone who stood in his way, earning him a few choice words as he practically sprinted down the halls. He had three midterms that week and was fucking exhausted. One would think that being an art major would be less stressful, but that was wishful thinking.

He slid his helmet over his slightly grown-out mohawk, lifting the kickstand and setting off on that familiar drive to the other side of town he took every week. Soap had a particular affinity for sketching real-world objects and people. He believed that capturing the human form, with all its complexities and intricacies, was one of the most challenging and rewarding aspects of his craft. To hone his skills, he sought out places where he could observe people in their most natural states and one of his favorite places for this purpose was Price's MMA boxing gym.

Price's MMA gym held a special place in Soap's heart. It wasn't just a place for fighters to train and beat the shit out of each other. Soap had practically grown up within the confines of that gym, having spent his high school days cleaning it after hours in exchange for some pocket change. It was during that time that he earned the nickname "Soap" because of the way he scrubbed the floors and equipment spotless.

One of the main reasons Soap loved the gym was the owner, an old family friend, retired military captain John Price. Price had been a mentor to him, teaching him valuable life lessons and discipline. Soap considered him a father figure, especially after his own father had passed away when he was just a child.

Soap’s best friend, Gaz, was among the gym’s most dedicated fighters. Gaz had dreams of making it big in the world of UFC, and he trained tirelessly, leaving no room for distractions. Despite their different paths in life, Soap and Gaz remained close friends even as his career started to take off. Soap often joined in on his training sessions and sketched Gaz as he practiced his punches and kicks, capturing the intensity of the man's movements.

Every week, Soap would visit the gym, finding a comfortable spot in the corner, sketchbook in hand, and losing himself in the world around him. He sketched the fighters as they sparred and practiced. Each line and shadow made with his pencils captured their movements and forms on paper forever. The clanging of weights and the thudding of punches in the background became a form of comfort for Soap over the years. Easy to get lost in the symphony of noise.

This particular day, he noticed something was off as soon as he stepped foot in the gym. It was uncharacteristically quiet. Everyone standing around was talking in hushed voices and whispers. As Soap sat down in his usual corner, he instantly noticed the subject of everyone's attention. A newcomer, and a striking one at that. Blond hair, tall, and with a physique that could only be described as imposing. Soap recognized him from one of the hundreds of fights he was forced to watch every week with Gaz. His name was Simon “The Ghost” Riley and he was quickly becoming a rising star in his weight division. Sports networks raved about him and were labeling him the next big thing in the world of mixed martial arts. He was talking with Price in the corner of the ring, Gaz also joining them off to the side. If he remembered correctly, the man was from Manchester. Price had mentioned wanting to bring in more talent, guess it finally happened.

For three whole weeks, Soap couldn't tear his eyes away from Simon Riley. There was something captivating about him, something that drew Soap in like a moth to a flame. Simon's powerful physique and the way he moved in the ring were a sight to behold. He quickly became Soap's favorite subject to draw, and he couldn't help but blush every time he caught himself focusing too hard on the details of Simon's impressive figure. Gaz certainly never let him forget it after casually flipping through his drawings one day and noticing a recurring theme. He had offered to introduce Soap to the man but he swiftly denied the invitation, painfully aware that the fighter was well out of his league.

It was during the fourth week of his new infatuation that shit hit the fan quickly. Soap had been lost in his sketches like normal when he felt a sudden tug on his sketchbook. It happened so suddenly he was powerless to stop it. Startled, he looked up to find the one and only Simon Riley holding his sketchbook with an unreadable expression on his face. Flipping through the multiple pages filled with sketches of himself.

"Seems like I have a stalker," Simon teased, his lips quirking up into a playful smile.

Soap's cheeks flushed crimson as he stammered, "I-I'm not a stalker. I just... I’m an art student, I come here to practice, I swear”

Simon chuckled, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement. "Well, you're quite talented,” he admitted, still studying the sketches. “These sketches are impressive.”

Soap was still furiously blushing as the man handed him back his sketchbook. Soap couldn’t believe he was having a conversation with Riley, he was even more intimidating up close.

“Thank you, and I’m sorry” he managed to say, his voice a tad shaky.

Simon’s teasing grin softened into a warm smile. “No need to apologize. I’m flattered, actually. Not every day I meet an artist who appreciates my…assets.” He winked, making the man's blush deepened even more. How cute. He mercifully decided to let Soap off the hook and started to back away.

“The name's Simon, Simon Riley, by the way.”

“I know who you are,” the man stated, causing that lopsided grin to reappear on his face.

“And does the artist have a name?”

“You can call me Soap.”

“Soap? What the hell kind of name is that?” Simon chuckled.

“It’s a nickname, you haven’t earned the real one quite just yet.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Soap,” the Brit said as he turned to head back to the training mats.

From that day forward, whenever Soap visited the gym, he couldn't help but steal glances at the fighter whenever he could. And it seemed that Simon was just as intrigued by Soap. He began to pay more attention to the artist in the corner, watching him sketch with a keen interest. He would often strike up a conversation with Soap between training sessions, asking about his art and life outside the gym. Soap found himself drawn not only to Simon's physical presence but also to his genuine interest in getting to know him. One day, after finishing his training session, Simon decided to take their interactions a step further.

He leaned up against the ropes of the ring, that stupid smile plastered on his face. “Hey, Soap,” he called out, beckoning him towards the mats with a toss of his head.

Soap blinked in surprise. “Me? In the ring?” He asked, his voice wavering slightly with a mix of excitement and nervousness.

Simon just grinned and nodded his head back at him. “Yeah, why not? Just some light sparring. It will be fun.”

Soap hesitated, but the prospect of getting into the ring with his crush was too enticing to resist. To be that up close and personal with the man. He slowly shook his head and made his way to the ring. Rolling under the ropes and hopping up to face Simon who had that beaming smile aimed at him. It took everything in him not to melt right through the mat.

“If I pin you, you tell me your real name. Deal?”

“Yeah cause that’s bloody fair coming from the professional fighter,” Soap scoffed back.

“Ah, don’t sell yourself short Soap, you seem like you know your way around the ring” Simon embellished with a wink. Cheeky bastard.

Soap watched countless sparring sessions, but had never imagined himself as one of the participants. To his surprise, he held his own quite well, showcasing a natural talent for the sport. Maybe spending years in the gym watching fighters had taught him more than he realized. Simon seemed impressed by his movements and techniques. His usual playful demeanor was giving way to genuine respect, even though he was going easy on the artist. They exchanged blows, both men sweating and grinning as they moved around the ring.

As they sparred, Soap couldn’t help but stare at the man's body before him. The taught muscles shifting under his tight black athletic wear. Yeah, this was a bad idea. He glanced up at Simon's face, noticing the mischievous glint in Simon’s eye. Fuck. He definitely had been caught ogling the man's body.

Suddenly, without warning, Simon hooked his left leg around Soap's ankle, sending him sprawling to the mat. Before he could even register what happened, Simon was on top of him and pushing down all his weight. He was trapped.

Soap struggled beneath Simon’s crushing bulk, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “You… you did that on purpose. I was distracted,” he accused, though he couldn’t hide the hint of a smile on his face.

Simon laughed above him, his eyes locking onto Soap’s with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine. “Maybe I did,” he admitted, leaning in closer until their faces were mere inches apart. “But I have to say, I like seeing you blush.”

Soap’s heart raced as he realized the proximity between them. Simon leaned in, his lips hovering just above Soap’s, leaving no room to wonder about his intentions. When Soap didn’t pull away, Simon closed the gap, capturing Soap's mouth in his. The kiss was electrifying, sending a rush of desire through Soap's body. It was a moment Soap had only ever dreamed of, and he responded eagerly, their lips moving in sync as the world around them faded away.

When they finally broke apart, Soap's face was flushed, and his breath was unsteady. Simon grinned down at him, his eyes filled with warmth and affection. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he admitted.

Soap’s voice quivered as he replied, “Me too.”

“I expect a real name to call you now since I won,” he cheekily stated.

“You bloody cheated ya wanker!” Soap shouted at the man.

“Don’t be a sore loser now mate,” Simon punctuated with a kiss to the man’s nose.

Soap huffed as he finally accepted defeat, the man was impossible. “John. John MacTavish”

Simon beamed at the man beneath him, hands holding Soap’s face like a prized possession as he leaned back in for another kiss.

“Nice to meet you, Johnny”

Epilogue

As weeks went by, Soap and Simon’s connection deepened. They spent more time together outside the gym, going for coffee and sharing meals. Soap found himself falling hard for the enigmatic fighter, and it seemed that Simon’s interest in him was just as strong.

One evening, after a particularly intense sparring session that had ended with a playful wrestling match on the gym floor, Soap finally mustered the courage to ask Simon a burning question. “Why do they call you ‘The Ghost’?”

Simon’s expression grew somber, and he sighed. “It’s a nickname I got during my early fighting days. They said I moved like a ghost in the ring, that I was elusive and hard to predict or some shit like that.”

Soap nodded, but he could sense there was more to the story. “Is there a reason you chose to become a fighter?”

Simon hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I had a tough upbringing, Johnny. Fighting was a way for me to escape the fucking shit in my everyday life. What started as a necessity for survival turned into my salvation. It gave me purpose and a sense of control over my life. God, that sounds pathetic doesn’t it,” he scoffed.

Soap could see the pain in Simon’s eyes. He reached out to place a hand on his arm and scooted towards the man where they were still sitting on the mats. “It’s not pathetic Si, I’m glad you found something that brought you solace,” he said softly. Eyes never leaving the others, making sure he knew he meant every word.

Simon smiled, his gaze softening. For once in his life, he truly believed Johnny had meant what he said. He was so used to people lying and using him, causing him to always stay distant and closed off. Something about the little artist in the corner had knocked all those barriers down the first time he laid eyes on him. “And I’m glad I found you,” he admitted, leaning in to capture Soap’s lips in a passionate kiss. The man had sketched his way into his heart forever.

#ghostsoap #ghostxsoap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty #fluff #call of duty modern warfare #artist au #fighter au #my writing

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mythicalmisery · 7 months

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Thinking of artist soap who visits the local boxing gym for his anatomy studies/sketches. One boxer catches his eye…. Excuse me ✍🏼

#ghostxsoap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #my writing

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mythicalmisery · 8 months

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Detective AU Pt. 2 : GhostxSoap

At those words, Ghost let out a sound that Soap could only compare to a growl. The taller man gripped the front of his shirt and practically dragged him through the precinct without a word. Soap wasn’t sure what he was doing until he was being roughly shoved into the empty interrogation room. Ghost dragged one of the metal chairs all the way to the wall, still silent as ever. He leaned back in the chair, appraising the man before him with a hard stare.

“Strip”

“What? H-here?” Soap stuttered out. All confidence from before was lost on him.

“I said strip Johnny. I won’t tell you again.”

He stood there for a few seconds, taking in the demand before finally submitting. He started with his shirt, hands slightly shaking as he undid each button. He unlaced and slipped off his boots, removing the socks next. He straightened back up and was met with that same heated stare, pinning him in place. His heart was still racing and he could feel a sheen of anxious sweat coating the palms that were resting by his side.

“Keep going, detective.”

Soap’s hands moved towards his waistband, hesitating on the buckle of his belt. He wasn’t typically self-conscious, he worked out every week and never had trouble when it came to dating. But there was something about the others suffocating gaze that had him slightly second-guessing his actions. Laying himself bare for the man who took up his thoughts more than he cared to admit.

He shook his head and the anxiety away with it, finally undoing the metal clasp and pulling the leather away. Hooking his thumbs in the loops, he pulled the jeans down his hips and each leg, leaving him in nothing but his dark blue boxers. He went for the waistband of those as well, lest he lose his nerve, but was met with a grunt that had him looking up at his partner.

Ghost simply shook his head at the other and reached behind his back to grab something before casually throwing it at Soap. He caught it midair before it could hit him in the face, looking down at the cold metal in his palms. He swallowed thickly. They were Ghost’s handcuffs.

“Go ahead and hook yourself to the table for me.”

Soap just blinked at Ghost, making sure he hadn’t misheard the man. When he was met with a look that left no room for argument, he turned around and faced the metal table. He wasn’t exactly sure what the best method for this was. Believe it or not, this was his first time handcuffing himself to a table. He finally decided laying on his back would be the most comfortable. He climbed up on all fours before twisting himself into a seated position with his knees folded. He couldn’t look at Ghost during all this, the bastard was surely fucking pleased at himself having Soap embarrass himself like this.

He laid down on the table, slightly flinching at the feel of cold metal on his bare skin. Lifting his arms, he closed one cuff around his left wrist and weaved the short chain through the metal loop on the table. He finally managed to close the other cuff around his right wrist, eyes straining from having to look straight up for so long. He nervously tugged on the cuffs. Yep. He was stuck.

Testing his restraints left him momentarily oblivious to his surroundings. He flinched as he felt the hand barely brushing over his stomach. He whipped his head down to look at his partner who was now hovering over him. His eyes holding a flurry of emotions he couldn’t bring himself to name at the moment. Soap's breath hitched as Ghost leaned down to lay a gentle kiss on his bare skin, sending a jolt of electricity throughout him. This went on for too long, Ghost feeling and kissing all over Soap’s body, making sure to never give him attention in the one place he needed it most.

Soap squirmed and rattled his cuffs at the other man's actions. “Come on, Ghost” he practically whined.

With one last kiss right beneath the jawline, Ghost lifted his head with a smirk plastered on his face. Bastard.

“What is it darling, hmm?” He asked while brushing a thumb over Soap’s bottom lip.

“I said I wanted you to fuck me Ghost, not kiss my body to bloody death,” Soap tried to sound assertive. Not really effective when one is tied to a table and practically naked.

“And who said you got to make demands here? I’ll leave you tied up here all night if I want, painfully hard and on the edge until you can’t even think properly. Leave you here drooling and tied up for the morning crew to find. Maybe Captain Price would find you first. You’d probably like that wouldn’t you, Johnny?” Ghost casually stated as if talking about the weather. Meanwhile, Soap was beet red from the man's words, ashamed at not entirely hating the idea.

“P-please I just need… more, I-I’ll be good I swear,” he pleaded.

“Alright Johnny,” Ghost said, seemingly taking pity on the man below him. He left a trail of burning kisses down the man’s stomach. Eyes flicking up and taking in the other's overwhelmed expression. He heard the sharp intake of breath from above as he brushed his lips over Soap’s half-hard dick, kissing him through the boxers. He continued to kiss down the inside of the tan thighs while his hands found the waistband of Soap’s boxers. His partner raised his hips off the table as he pulled them down, discarding them with the other clothes splayed out on the floor.

“Well, would you look at that, already wet for me detective?” Ghost teased as he looked at the pool of pre cum dripping onto Soap’s stomach.

Soap huffed out a sigh of frustration. “Please Gho-ach!” He choked on his words.

The other man suddenly licked a stripe from the base up to the tip of his dick. Slightly swirling his tongue before pushing his mouth all the way down, deep-throating Soap’s dick in one go. He could feel the man underneath subconsciously jerk his hips up, chasing more. He pulled away with a wet pop and that same smirk, continuing to idly pump the man's now fully erect dick with his hand.

“Fuckin hell” Soap whispered to no one in particular.

Ghost let out a gentle chuckle at the other's state. Soap’s skin was flushed with a pretty shade of pink from either embarrassment, arousal, or a mix of the two. Creeping all the way from his cheeks to his chest. They had barely even started and the man was already coming undone. He lifted his unoccupied hand and rested two fingers on Soap’s lips. Teary eyes met his, the ever-present fire still burning beneath.

“Open your mouth.”

Soap hesitated a second too long, Ghost squeezing his dick harshly as a warning. He jerked at the painful sensation, hissing through gritted teeth. His lips parted, eyeing Ghost warily. Ghost didn’t hesitate, unlike the man beneath him, slipping his index and middle fingers into Soap’s warm mouth. He pushed them further, twisting as he went, teasing the man’s gag reflex and earning himself a whine from below. Soap tried scooting back on the table in search of reprieve, his cuffs clanging against the metal once more.

“I don’t have any lube on me, so I suggest you start sucking Johnny” he mused. Soap keened at his words and started moving his tongue around the intruding appendages, smothering them with his hot saliva. Ghost was entranced at the debauched action, absentmindedly sliding his fingers back and forth in lieu of his dick. He finally relented, satisfied with the amount of makeshift lube, pulling his fingers out of Soap’s mouth. A string of spit connecting them before finally breaking away and landing on the man's chin.

Soap’s eyes squeezed shut as Ghost reached down to his exposed entrance, circling slowly and smearing his own spit around. Ghost chuckled as he whined and jerked his hips back up again, a pitiful attempt at relief. He was still casually pumping the man's dick with his other hand, not too fast but not too slow. Just the right amount of aggravating.

“You ready darling?” Ghost rasped out. Arousal evident in his voice.

Soap shook his head rapidly causing Ghost to smile at the eagerness. Alright, he teased the man long enough. Ghost’s own patience and ability to hold himself back was wearing thin as well.

Ghost leaned down and kissed him on the mouth, licking inside the cavern as he plunged his finger down to the third knuckle in one quick motion. He swallowed Soap’s gasp at the sudden intrusion. He twisted his finger on the slow drag out, just brushing the man's prostate which earned him a loud moan. Fuck, was that the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

He wasted no time, pumping in and out of Soap while offsetting the rhythm of his strokes. Never allowing Soap a second of reprieve. He quickly added a second finger right next to the first, pressing in farther and stretching the tight entrance. Soap moaned shamelessly as he kept purposely brushing past the man’s prostate. Okay, maybe he wasn’t done teasing his helpless partner.

“G-Ghost… I’m not gonna l-last much longer..” He panted out.

“Tsk, don’t tell me you’re a quitter Johnny”

“P-please, I’m sorry..”

“Shh..shh.. make it to three for me like the good boy I know you are” Ghost whispered.

All Soap could do was nod as he closed his eyes and rested his head back down on the table. Breathing in deeply as he felt Ghost’s middle finger try and wedge its way inside of him. Ghost removed his hand from Soap’s dick, reaching up and cupping the man’s cheek. Both ignored the slick he was absentmindedly wiping across Soap’s face.

“Relax for me love, you’re doing so well.” Soap just nodded at the man's words, basking in the praise. Ghost snickered as he felt Soap clench down on his fingers. “Oh, you like that huh?” He teased. With a few more pumps, Ghost deemed Soap ready for him. He honestly wasn’t sure how he managed to last this long himself. He slowly pulled his fingers out of Soap’s entrance, a sick squelching noise ringing throughout the room.

He worked his belt and pants free, pulling them down just far enough to release his own hard member. He made unflinching eye contact with his partner as he licked up his palm, coating it in saliva. The same hand that had just been in Soap’s very own ass. Soap just let out a low groan at the obscenity before him. He stroked himself a few times, soaking in the anticipation and pure desire painted on Soap’s face below him.

Gripping the underside of Soap’s knees, he yanked the man down to the edge of the table. He lined himself up, rubbing his head across Soap’s entrance a few times before pressing in just enough to get caught on the rim. He groaned at the sensation of the man clamping down on him. He kept going, not giving Soap a second to get used to the stretch or catch his breath. He waited long enough. One long thrust later and he was fully seated in the man's ass, hands falling to grip the other's hips. Soap hissed at the unwavering grip, he’ll probably have bruises tomorrow.

He ground his hips into the man's ass, pushing out another lewd moan. Soap managed to relax himself, releasing his death grip on the man's dick for a brief moment. Ghost took the opportunity without a second thought, pulling back almost entirely before ramming back into Soap harshly.

“Oh fuck!” Soap cried out, pulling on his cuffs and arching his back off the table.

Ghost just kept going, leaning back down and kissing all over Soap’s chest and neck as he ruthlessly pounded into the man. He leaned down to nip at Soap’s ear, whispering nothing but filth. “Look at you, all it takes is another man's cock and you’re a fucking slut” he emphasized each of the last words with a hard thrust. Earning him nothing but broken moans and whimpers in return. He moved his hand up onto Soap’s throat, gripping it tightly but not enough to restrict airflow.

“Mine detective. You only get to whore yourself out to me. Do you got that Johnny?” He growled out, eyes burning into Soap’s.

“Yours. I-I’m yours Simon…” he let out with a cry. Too far gone to realize what he even said.

Ghost’s thrusts stuttered at that. Simon. He had called him Simon. He had never heard his name on the other’s tongue before. He surged forward, crashing Soap’s lips onto his. Biting down hard on his bottom lip, the familiar metallic taste drowning his senses, drawing a muffled cry from the other at the pain. His hips picked back up their brutal pace from before, snapping harder and harder. Hitting his prostate each time now with maddening accuracy. The metal table underneath screeched against the cement floor with each urgent thrust.

Soap suddenly clenched down on Ghost's length, crying out into his mouth. His hips jerked up into the air for the last time, searching for friction. Ghost slightly slowed as he registered what just occurred. Soap had cum. Untouched.

Fuckin hell.

He pounded into the man, causing the other to whimper at the overstimulation. He leaned over resting his head on Soap’s chest as he chased his own climax. The pleasure built in his stomach, growing tighter at each flutter of Soap’s entrance before he finally snapped. It only took about three more thrusts before his hips were stuttering and he was falling over the edge. His vision almost blacked out as it hit him like a brick wall. He could barely catch his breath. His hips jerked slightly at each pulse, emptying himself deep inside. He groaned as shudders racked his body, now covered in a glistening sheen of sweat.

After briefly pulling himself back together, he slipped free from Soap and watched as his own cum leaked out of the limp man spread across the table. He tucked himself back into his own boxers and redid his belt.

“You still with me detective?”

“Yeah, Simon” he hummed out.

With one hand on the man’s cheek, he placed a barely there kiss in the middle of his forehead. “Alright Johnny, let's get you home and in bed love,” Ghost whispered to the practically unconscious man below him. Receiving only a tired grunt as a response. He smiled to himself as he unlocked the cuffs and rubbed the stiffness away. He placed a kiss on each of Soap’s wrists, right above the pulse points. Both men were in their own world, the aftermath of what had just occurred was a thought for tomorrow.

Both were unaware of the mortified gaze staring at them through the one-way mirror of the interrogation room. It truly was a shame that of all the days for Officer Kyle Garrick to leave his phone behind in the observation room, it had to be that one.

#this was literally my first time writing smut #sorry if it is bad #ghostsoap #ghostxsoap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #detective au #hidden feelings #my writing

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mythicalmisery · 8 months

Text

Detective AU Pt. 1 : GhostxSoap

Soap wanted to scream. Three hours into overtime and they still hadn’t come up with anything damning. Precinct 141 was assigned The Gravedigger case only a month ago but the constant berating from the press had the higher-ups putting immense pressure on them to crack the case. The bastard just had to choose their district as his dumping grounds. Ten bodies in three months. The killer was precise, intelligent, and damn near aggravating.

For weeks, he and his partner, Ghost, had been tirelessly working past hours, pouring over evidence, following leads, and interviewing witnesses. But every piece of information seemed to lead them down a dead end. The two detectives found themselves once again alone in the dimly lit precinct late at night, surrounded by a sea of files and evidence boards. Exhaustion had etched lines on their faces. Soap’s diet had steadily consisted of just coffee and energy drinks the past few days.

Soap ran a hand through his unruly and grown-out mohawk, frustration evident in the way his fingers clenched. "We're missing something, Ghost," he muttered, his voice edged with ire. "There has to be a connection we're not seeing.”

Ghost nodded in agreement, his brown eyes fixed on the evidence board. His unreadable expression a stark contrast to Soap's visible weariness. “Aye, it's like the bastard is always one step ahead of us,” he grunted out.

Soap huffed as he took in his partner's words. He ran his hands down his face, scratching along his grown-out 5 o’clock shadow. God, he needed a shower and a shave. He just wanted to solve the case and get some fucking rest for once. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a shag or went out with friends. All his free time was spent in this god-forsaken building.

Soap decided to go over the surveillance videos for the tenth time, trying to find something he might have missed before. His frustration quickly transformed into a false sense of determination. He caught himself glancing over at his partner every few minutes. The man's brows were furrowed in concentration as he looked over some forensic papers. He had his pen resting between his lips, slightly chewing on the cap. Soap couldn’t tear his eyes away from the other's mouth. His tongue darted out every once in a while to push the cap back into place.

The action had heat crawling up his neck and dusting his cheeks a nice pink as he thought of that tongue wrapped ar— NO. Snap out of it Soap, he scolded himself. He felt like a bloody teenager again with his out of control hormones. God, had it really been that long since he got laid?

There was something about Ghost that had always captivated him – his intensity, his unwavering focus, the way he carried himself. The vast plains of pure muscle that made up the man may have also played a factor. Soap had kept his feelings in check, buried beneath layers of professionalism and camaraderie. But as the warring feelings of frustration and exhaustion settled in, his resolve began to crack. He desperately needed a release.

Ghost glanced up, catching Soap's intense gaze. "You okay, Soap?”

Fuck. Soap’s heart skipped a beat, and he nodded, his voice slightly unsteady. "Yeah, just… tired.”

Ghost offered a small, understanding smile. "We'll figure this out and catch the son of a bitch, we always do… I’m gonna grab another coffee, I’d offer you some but I think you need cut off mate,” he quipped as he stood up from his desk.

“Yer probably right about that” Soap muttered back, focusing entirely on the other man's ass as it walked away from him. The way his black pants sinfully hugged his thighs should be illegal. What the hell am I doing? He shook his head and rolled his shoulders, scolding himself for looking at his partner like a piece of meat.

“You need some bloody help mate” he mumbled to himself with a heavy sigh.

“What was that?” Ghost questioned as he sat down in his chair with the fresh cup of coffee in hand.

Shit.

“Nothing mate, just mumbling to myself. Guess the sleep deprivation is finally catching up to me,” he huffed out in a poor attempt to try and save his ass.

Ghost simply nodded and took a sip of his coffee, a drop running down his pale chin. He absentmindedly took his thumb and slid it across the area to catch the drop, sliding the appendage into his mouth and sucking off the liquid. Soap's brain short-circuited. The only sign he was still alive was the blood rushing into his lower region and the twitch in his pants. Fuck it. He was gonna see how far he could push Ghost, worst-case scenario he gets knocked out. Maybe then he could catch up on some much needed sleep.

"Hey, Ghost," Soap said, his words coming out in a rush.

Ghost looked up, his brow furrowing slightly. “Yeah?"

Soap hesitated for a moment, his heart racing. “You seeing anybody at the moment?”

Ghost raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Now why would that interest you, Johnny?”

Soap tried his best to suppress the shiver that wracked his body at the way his name sounded in that gravelly, low voice. His lips quirked into a mischievous grin. “Just curious is all, you never mentioned having to get back to anyone all these late nights,” Soap gradually pointed out as he rounded the corner of their conjoined desks. Now standing in front of the evidence board with his arms crossed and back to his partner.

“Yeah, I guess not. Maybe that makes you the closest thing to me seeing anyone at the moment,” he teased.

He couldn’t see the ever-returning blush now encompassing his partner's face at the joke. “Aye, if only you were to be so lucky ya bastard,” Soap managed to get out, feigning offense.

“I truly would be lucky, wouldn’t I?” Ghost said.

Soap turned around at that, not quite sure he heard the man correctly. “W-What?”

Ghost stood up from his seat slowly, crowding the other man as he leaned into his space. His eyes never leaving his. “That’s what you want to hear right? Why else the sudden curiosity if I was seeing anyone?” The man responded without an ounce of that teasing tone from before.

“I - I…” Soap spluttered. His mind not able to function in the moment.

“Don’t get coy on me now detective. Tell me why it would matter if I was single or not. Go on, be a good lad,” the man rasped out. Soap hadn’t realized that during this whole interaction, he had been subconsciously inching closer to the wall. He was trapped.

Soap cleared his throat, his voice a little husky. "Ghost, I…” his gaze flicked up to the man standing before him. Oh yeah, he was about to die.

He took a deep breath, his heart pounding against his ribcage. "I... I like you, Ghost. More than just a partner. More than just a friend." Soap's voice trembled slightly, but he held Ghost's gaze, his heart laid bare.

Ghost's response was a silence that stretched on for what felt like an eternity. Soap's heart sank, his confession hanging in the air like a fragile thread. His eyes closed, bracing for the inevitable punch he was sure to receive.

Then, without warning, Ghost moved. In an instant, Soap found himself pressed against the wall, Ghost's lips crashing down on his own. The kiss was fierce and messy, a collision of pent-up emotions that had been building between them. Soap's heart raced as his hands found their way to Ghost's broad shoulders, fingers gripping onto the fabric of his shirt.

For the sake of oxygen, they finally pulled away. Ghost's eyes were blazing, his expression a mixture of heat and pure hunger. Soap felt like he was about to collapse, but he held Ghost's gaze, his apprehension tempered by desperate need. Did that actually just happen?

"I've been waiting for you to say that," Ghost admitted, his voice rough and slightly winded after the lack of air. He leaned his head down into Soap's neck, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Now, what do you want me to do about that?” he whispered.

Soap's breath hitched as his mind went blank at the statement. Only one thing pushing through the dying embers of conscious thought.

“I want you to fuck me, Ghost.”

Pt. 2

#part 2 coming soon #ghostsoap #ghostxsoap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #detective au #hidden feelings #my writing

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mythicalmisery · 8 months

Text

Breathe now

"Oh, darling, hush now, it’s okay. Come on, relax. Breathe. Here, follow my lead." Whumper knelt down in front of the cornered, hyperventilating Whumpee and sought out their eyes. "Breathe in..." He slowly inhaled and held eye contact until Whumpee copied his movement. "And out, that's it."

Whumpee took shuddering breaths, but kept going along.

"In... out..." Whumper continued, voice soft.

And with each breath, Whumpee felt themself relax. Their heartbeat calmed and they could take deep breaths, filling their lungs with precious oxygen.

"In..."

Following the set rhythm, Whumpee automatically breathed out, preparing for the next breath, about to close their eyes as they finally calmed down.

But instead of the next crooning word, they heard a soft growl in Whumper's throat. He quickly covered with a sweet voice that fooled no one.

"Oh, love." Whumper sighed, shook his head and lowered his voice. The hand on Whumpee's shoulder slithered away and instead rested against their throat, keeping a soft pressure on their windpipe.

"Did I say 'out'?"

Whumpee's breath hitched in their lungs at the lethal tone. Their shallow breaths picked up again and their words stuttered along.

"No... no, I'm... I'm sorry, I--"

The hand on their throat tightened, just enough so Whumpee could still breathe in, but the lingering threat wrapped around their neck and still caught their words.

"Now, let's try again. In."

Tag list: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @whumpifi

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mythicalmisery · 8 months

Text

"It's amazing..." Whumper murmured. "You never were able to hide your tears from me. You'd try of course," he chuckled a humourless laugh, "Oh, you'd try so hard."

Whumpee didn't respond, to the taunts or the light touches. They just stared straight past him.

"But," he continued, "your lip would start to tremble. Your face would scrunch up. Your tears wouldn't be controlled and just streamed over your cheeks." He slid a finger over unmoving lips, brushed up over the now completely dry cheeks. "Your emotions were always too strong for you. Bursting out, wild, uncontrolled, unwilling to be held back."

He hummed softly, almost in approval, and whispered in their ear:

"How strong you've become."

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mythicalmisery · 8 months

Text

A Whumper with fire powers branding their Whumpee not just with their name or initials, but their handprints.

Two palms scarred against either side of Whumpee’s neck, fingers wrapping around their throat in a collar that can never be removed. Hands on their sides, just below their broken ribs, a touch that will never relent. Fingers wrapped around their wrists in shackles that won’t be unlocked. A handprint against their face, cupping their cheek that had already suffered so many punches. The small of their back. A single hand just between their shoulder blades. Dragging down their thighs.

Just. Branded handprints.

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mythicalmisery · 8 months

Text

Pirate AU: GhostxSoap

The salty sea air whipped through Captain Simon Riley's golden-blond hair as he stood at the helm of his ship, The Ghost. A notorious pirate in the treacherous waters of the Caribbean, Captain Riley was a man of both fierce reputation and unparalleled cunning. His ship, sleek and black as the night, with its tattered sails was as elusive and enigmatic as its captain. Simon's name was whispered in both fear and admiration throughout the maritime world, for he was a man who navigated the treacherous waters with uncanny precision and ruthlessness. His eyes were as sharp as the cutlass at his side, always scanning the horizon for his next victims.

For years, Captain Riley had eluded capture by the Royal Navy, leading his crew to countless victories time and time again. His voice carried the weight of authority and his command was unwavering, his crew entrusting him with their life and vice versa. But every legend has its foil, and for Captain Riley, that came in the form of a single man - Lieutenant John MacTavish.

MacTavish, a young and dashing officer of the Royal Navy, was as stubborn as he was brave. The dedicated Scot had become a thorn in Captain Riley's side, relentlessly pursuing him across the high seas. With his strong jaw and piercing blue eyes, MacTavish was a symbol of authority and discipline, the antithesis of everything Captain Riley stood for. Their rivalry had become the stuff of legend, whispered in taverns and sung about in shanties.

It was on that night, as storm clouds gathered on the horizon, fate intervened. The skies raged with thunder and lightning and waves the size of mountains crashed against the hulls of ships. Amid the chaos and shouts from the crew, the barrelman spotted a distant shipwreck, its masts splintered and sails torn to shreds. A cruel smile played on Captain Riley's lips as he recognized the insignia of the Royal Navy on the broken vessel— the ship was Lieutenant MacTavish’s.

The storm had done its work well, Captain Riley and his second-in-command, Roach, carefully boarded the stricken ship. Their eyes scanned the debris-strewn deck, and there, amidst the splintered wood and broken rigging, they found a solitary figure clinging to a piece of driftwood. It was a man, barely conscious and clad in tattered British naval attire, with a wild mop of brown hair plastered to his forehead that he had viewed through an eyeglass countless times.

Simon's lips curled into a wry smile as he kneeled next to the stranded man. "Well, well, what do we have here?" he purred, his voice a low timbre that caused the officer to shiver.

The man's weak gaze met Simon’s taking in the black silhouette before him, a mixture of exhaustion and defiance in his eyes. “Fawken hell" he mumbled before laying his head back down.

Simon huffed in amusement as he brushed a strand of hair from the man's forehead with his knuckle. The slight flinch and whimper from the man pulled on something inside him which he decided would be best to ignore for now. “Ah, the poor Scot caught in a rather shite predicament. How fortunate for you that fate has brought us together."

John's eyes narrowed as he glanced back up at the man he loathed. Simon Riley, a man with eyes as cold as the ocean depths he roamed. The man he spent most of his naval career hunting down was a mere six inches away from him and he could barely lift his head. He glared at Simon, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Fawk you and yer bloody fate” he managed to grit out before darkness finally won, his vision blurring and eyelids fluttering shut. The last thing his gaze laid upon were those dark brown eyes peeking over a black bandana he had come to know even in his dreams. Haunting him.

Despite his petty thirst for revenge and desire to be rid of the nuisance that the Royal Navy had become, Captain Riley couldn't bring himself to leave his long-standing rival to die. He ordered his men to pull MacTavish from the wreckage and onto The Ghost. If his crew disagreed with his orders to bring the officer to his cabin straight away instead of a holding cell below deck, they had the sense not to comment on it.

Simon would watch as the officer slept, the only time he had ever seen the young man at peace. How his brow would slightly furrow as he twitched and shuffled around in the large bed. His bed. The pirate tended to his wounds personally on that first night, the candlelight had danced over the Scot's damp skin engulfing him in the flame's glow. Even with the shivers that wracked his body from the unforgiving storm, the man's skin was scorching to the touch. Simon cursed himself every time his hand lingered a second too long as he dabbed a wet cloth over the unconscious man's flesh. The mere brush of contact and the resulting sensation had become addicting when normally he would sooner flay his own skin at another’s touch.

As days turned into nights, MacTavish slowly regained consciousness. Captain Riley watched from the shadows with a mixture of curiosity and amusement as the Scot gathered his bearings. He was curious which instinct would take over first, fight or flight. When MacTavish's eyes finally flickered open he scanned the unknown space, eyes flicking back to the dark silhouette of the stranger sitting across from him. Only the moonlight bleeding through the windows behind him allowed him to notice the man.

"What... Where am I?" MacTavish's voice was weak and rough, his gaze still hazy from his ordeal.

Captain Riley leaned forward in his wooden chair that was situated in the corner of the room across from the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. His face was still hidden by the shadows of the room. "You're aboard The Ghost,” he replied."Seems the sea had a disagreement with your ship, ” his tone laced with a hint of amusement.

MacTavish's eyes widened in recognition and a spark of anger ignited within him. “You."

Captain Riley chuckled softly, his voice like a siren's song. "Yes, me. Surprised to see me, Lieutenant?”

MacTavish could practically hear the smirk plastered on the bastard's face. His glare was fierce, but his strength was not yet fully returned and he knew when a battle was pointless. "What do you want, Riley?” He pushed out through gritted teeth.

"Oh, nothing much," Captain Riley mused, leaning back against the chair. "Just to revel in the irony of fate, perhaps.”

“Oh, for fawks sake just kill me now” the officer huffed out as he fell back onto the bed defeated.

“Ah, Lieutenant, where's your sense of adventure? Your devotion to king and country has only landed you in the company of pirates, surely that’s not worse than death" Simon quipped, his eyes dancing with mischief.

John's fists clenched as he glared at the ceiling. "I'd sooner see you hang than entertain any such thoughts.”

“We shall see won’t we?” He stated with a smirk.

— — — —

Days turned into weeks as The Ghost continued its piratical pursuits, its crew navigating the unpredictable currents of the sea with practiced ease. The crew of The Ghost often eyed him warily while he walked the deck, ready to restrain him should he pose a threat. Although he wanted to do nothing more than sink a blade into their dreaded Captain, he wasn’t suicidal. He knew the only reason he was still breathing was because of whatever fascination Riley had for him. A cat toying with a mouse, nothing more.

During that time, John MacTavish found himself not only a prisoner but also an unwilling participant in Simon's games. An unexpected dynamic began to develop between the two enemies. Captain Riley found himself enjoying MacTavish's fiery spirit and quick wit. He teased him mercilessly, delighting in the way MacTavish's cheeks flushed with frustration. The lieutenant, in turn, responded with sharp retorts that surprised even himself. Always looking away nervously after snapping at the man, worried he crossed the line. How amusing.

Their banter gradually evolved into something more, something neither man could quite put a name to. Captain Riley found himself captivated by MacTavish's resilience and determination. He admired the way the lieutenant never gave in, even when faced with the direst of circumstances. MacTavish, on the other hand, discovered that there was more to Captain Riley than met the eye. Beneath the façade of the ruthless pirate lay a man of complexity and depth.

While looking over maps one morning MacTavish decided to test his luck. ”I won't be your captive forever, pirate.”

Simon's grin only widened, undeterred by the Scot's fiery disposition. "Oh, I do hope you're right, my dear lieutenant. A spirited prisoner is much more entertaining than a compliant one.”

Roach, observing the exchange from a distance, raised an eyebrow at his Captains rather flirtatious banter. He had seen his captain engage in numerous skirmishes and negotiations, but this was a unique dynamic. Simon's captives were usually subdued, if not outright fearful. Lieutenant MacTavish, on the other hand, seemed to be engaging in a battle of wits with Simon.

That same evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon in a blaze of fiery orange and pink, Captain Riley found himself alone with MacTavish on the deck. The rest of the crew finished up their chores for the day, leaving them relatively alone. The air was heavy with unspoken words, and the tension between them was palpable. John couldn’t stand the anxiousness creeping up his spine at the silence.

"Tell me, Lieutenant," Simon mused as he leaned on the ship's railing, the setting sun casting golden ribbons across the water's surface before them. "Have you ever truly lived, or have you always been bound by the rigid constraints of the Royal Navy?”

John's gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "I've lived honorably and served my country with distinction. That's more than I can say for a pirate like you.”

Simon's laughter danced on the wind. "Ah, but what a dull existence that must be. There's a world of adventure beyond those navy walls, Johnny. A world that embraces freedom, danger, and the thrill of the unknown. One where you don’t have to wipe another man’s ass because of a fuckin rank.” The officer turned his face away from the Captain, a poor attempt at hiding the creeping blush that dusted his face at the nickname.

“It’s not that simple ya bawbag, some people have a lick of sense and don’t dream of becoming a bloody pirate” he scoffed back.

Simon hummed as he took in his words. Straightening himself as he turned to walk away before leaning down and speaking right beside the Scot's ear, the breath that tickled his skin caused the other to shiver. “You sure about that? Cause I tend to recall you giving up on leaving pretty quickly Lieutenant.” He sauntered away leaving John to seep in his words.

As the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months, MacTavish's rigid stance softened, and he found himself engaging in the banter, the sharp exchanges between him and Riley becoming a strange form of entertainment. John found himself reluctantly drawn into Simon's orbit, intrigued by the pirate's commanding spirit and undeniable charisma. Simon, in turn, took delight in unraveling the layers of conditioned formality that encased the Scottish lieutenant, revealing the reckless man beneath. Both men watched while the other was distracted, longing looks expressing what they were too stubborn to acknowledge.

Roach, the ever-watchful confidant, observed the transformation with a knowing smile. He had seen Simon's antics before, but this was different. There was a genuine connection forming between the two men, something that transcended their roles as pirate and prisoner. Simon would just roll his eyes at the pointed looks he sent his captain's way, ever in denial.

One night, as they shared a bottle of rum under the starlit sky, John leaned back against the ship's mast. "You're a riddle, Simon Riley. A man who defies categorization."

Simon's eyes gleamed as he reclined beside John, their shoulders brushing. That same jolting spark from that first night returning.

“And you, John MacTavish, are a contradiction. A fierce officer who secretly relishes the thrill of the open sea.”

John's lips curved into a reluctant smile. "You may be onto something, Riley.”

“Ya know, it’s typical courtesy to refer to the head of the ship as Captain.”

“Over my dead body,” John scoffed as he snatched the bottle out of the other's hand.

"I must admit, Lieutenant, I find myself... enjoying our little exchanges," Captain Riley admitted, his voice unusually soft.

MacTavish's gaze met his, his expression a mixture of surprise and uncertainty. "Is that so?”

Captain Riley nodded, his eyes never leaving MacTavish's. “Aye Johnny, there's a fire in you, a determination that I can't help but admire.”

MacTavish's lips quirked up slightly as his cheeks and ears burned, his guard momentarily lowered. "You have a strange way of showing admiration, Captain.”

Simon leaned closer, the distance between them narrowing. "Perhaps. But there's more to us than meets the eye, Lieutenant. We're both prisoners of circumstance, driven by forces beyond our control… there’s a thin line between hate and desire.”

Their eyes locked, and in that moment, the walls that had long separated them began to crumble. The rivalry that had defined their interactions seemed suddenly insignificant, replaced by an unspoken understanding. Simon reached out, his fingers brushing against MacTavish's cheek in a surprisingly tender gesture.

John’s breath caught, his heart pounding in his chest. "What are you doing?”

Simon reached up and removed his bandana in a show of trust that the other man did not take likely. His smile was gentle, his gaze unwavering. "Something I never thought I'd do—finding common ground.”

Their lips met in a clash of desires that had simmered beneath the surface for far too long. The sea around them seemed to hold its breath as if even the waves dared not disrupt the moment. It was a kiss born of enmity and fueled by something deeper, something that neither man had anticipated.

As their lips parted, the realization of what had transpired hit them like a storm surge. Mactavish's gaze was a mixture of warring defiance and vulnerability, his breath ragged. Riley's expression mirrored the tumultuous sea, a blend of surprise and a hint of something softer, buried beneath layers of roughness. “I don’t suppose I can blame that on the rum cannae?” He nervously quipped.

“Not a fawken chance ya bastard,” John said as he grabbed the man's face and drew him back into another kiss, tasting the burning alcohol on the other's tongue.

The following days were marked by stolen glances and lingering touches. Their interactions growing increasingly intimate, their verbal sparring taking on a flirtatious edge that neither could deny. The crew watched in bewildered fascination as their fierce captain and the formidable naval officer navigated this uncharted territory, well aware that the once-hostile lieutenant had become an integral part of their lives. Roach, in particular, found himself in a state of perpetual disbelief, his gruff exterior barely concealing his amusement. Never one to turn down the chance to tell his Captain “I told you so”.

As they sailed into the horizon, the sun setting behind them, Captain Riley and MacTavish stood side by side at the helm of The Ghost. Their past grievances had been set aside, replaced by a newfound respect and a bond that transcended the lines of loyalty. In the vast expanse of the open sea, they were no longer just pirate and navy officer—they were two souls entwined by fate, sailing toward a future that held endless possibilities. And so, the legend of Simon Riley, the British pirate Captain, and John MacTavish, the Scottish naval officer grew, not as bitter rivals, but as kindred spirits who had discovered, in the midst of chaos, that even the deepest of divisions could be bridged by the unlikeliest of connections.

#ghostxsoap #ghostsoap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #pirate au #enemies to lovers #they are in love your honor #my writing

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