Age Gap F1 Yaoi

The sexuality of a police officer is cop.

The gender of a police officer is cop.

When you become the enforcer and protector of capital, you are making the deal to be slightly favored by the system over others like you, in exchange for being its servant. Your solidarity is with the system that you serve, even if it hates you.

He's puzzling out his own identity via trial and error. He's very, very observant and using every little thing as a clue. He thinks in miles, the tape measure is metric. He took the time to figure out stopwatch controls before an experiment, in the midst of an identity crisis. He knows how to improvise an experiment from really basic supplies.

cw: ghostgaz bloodied bleeding blood broken nose make up session turned smut (blow job) they like it rough. They're disgusting and need to be put in a jar and shaken up

Ghost watched Gaz go down.

The elbow came in fast and low and caught him across the bridge of the nose. The sound made the room wince and the fighter stood over him, eyes wide, looking like he'd just committed a war crime.

Ghost clocked the set up long before the elbow. Gaz had walked into it deliberately, pushing to see if the kid would commit, and the kid had committed beautifully.

Good.

Gaz got up slowly. Blood running freely, over his lip, down his chin, dripping onto his shirt. He pressed the back of his hand to it, looked at the blood with mild interest, and then looked at the fighter.

"Nice elbow," Gaz said.

The fighter blinked. "Sergeant?"

"Write it down. That's the one." He clapped the kid on the shoulder and turned.

He turned and headed directly toward Ghost, blood running down his chin and not bothering to stop it.

Heat settled low in Ghost's gut. Gaz was walking toward him like that, blood on his lip, on his shirt, chin up, easy and unhurried, performing for an audience of one and they both knew it.

Ghost balled his hands into fists, let out a low exhale.

Gaz stopped close. Looked up at him with dark eyes and a half-smirk.

"Like what you see, Lieutenant?"

Ghost looked down him. The broken nose swelling. Blood tracking down over his mouth, his jaw, dripping off his chin onto his collar.

"You walked into that," Ghost said.

"Mm." Gaz's eyes were warm. "Did I."

Ghost reached up and pulled his mask up over his nose.

Behind him Soap made a sharp little tease, and Ghost kissed him.

Gaz's mouth was warm and tasted like blood and he kissed back immediately, one hand finding Ghost's chest. Ghost felt the wet of it against his own lip, Gaz's blood transferring to his mouth, his jaw. He kissed him through it, unhurried, and someone behind them whistled long and low. Ghost stopped when he was ready, pulled back and held Gaz's chin between his thumb and forefinger.

Gaz looked pleased and wrecked. A fresh run of blood tracked down his chin.

Ghost's thumb moved across his jaw, came away red.

"Medical," Ghost said.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding on my shirt."

Gaz looked down at his own chest, feigned innocence. "Your shirt?"

"Kyle."

Gaz paused at the tone. It was Ghost's turn to smile.

"Yeah, alright."

They made it ten feet down the corridor before Ghost steered him sideways through a door.

A dark closet filled with cleaning supplies and old equipment.

Ghost pulled the door shut and pressed Gaz back against the shelving and kissed him again, properly this time, deep and slow, and tasted the iron the whole way through it.

Gaz moaned against his mouth and grabbed his jacket with both hands and pulled him in. Ghost's hands moved across his chest, his ribs, the warm skin at his waist where his shirt had ridden up.

Gaz's head dropped back against the shelf.

"Been waiting to do that?" Gaz teases, breathless.

"Mm."

"Fuck."

"I know." Ghost kissed his jaw, the side of his throat, felt Gaz's pulse under his mouth.

Kyle tilts his head back down "You're smug about it."

"You like it."

Gaz laughed low and Ghost kissed him again, hands sliding under his shirt. Gaz stopped laughing and stopped talking and pulled Ghost closer by the back of his neck.

Ghost pulled away. Watched to make sure Gaz could breathe.

"Simon—"

"I know."

Then he was back on him, lips as his neck. Hands wrestling with the belt.

Gaz breathed through is mouth, quiet, breathy pulls of air. Then a groan as Ghost finally got his hand on him.

Ghost watches Gaz's face as he lowers to his knees. The blood on his mouth, the crooked split in his nose. Those eyes blinking down at him through wet lashes.

Ghost licked a stripe over the Gaz's stomach and patch of fur lower, leaving a stripe of blood and saliva up his stomach. He strokes Gaz to hardness, the roughness of his glove making Gaz clamp a whine down between his teeth.

Ghost took the head of Gaz's cock into his mouth. Closing his eyes to savor the salt, iron, and headiness mixing on his tongue. Gaz's hand came down, squeezing hard on his shoulder.

Ghost took him all the way down to the base. Gaz's knees shook. Ghost was relentless, tongue swirling as he came away only to swallow him down again.

Ghost worked greedily, Gaz clamping down down moans between opened mouth panting. And Ghost was rewarded for his efforts. Gaz came with a groan, his salty spend hot over Ghost's tongue and down his throat.

Ghost pulled away slowly. Care in the place of his satiated hunger. He let Gaz stand still, did the careful work of packing him away and putting his pants on properly.

Ghost stood slowly, watching Gaz's face with every breath until his eyes opened.

"You're fuckin' filthy." Gaz smiled.

Ghost smirked, cupped the back of his head. Kissed him again, slower now, more mindful of his nose than before.

"Medical." He said when he pulled away.

And none of them like it.

Too creepy, too weird and the movement freaks people out, the way the tiniest of phalanges curls and twists. You train yourself to wind the fronds tight together, make a single or double limb, but inevitably you lose control and it all explodes out again.

You learn to stay in the back of the room, to hide when possible, and even the skills that brought you to the 141- the way you can type a code, write a message, and field strip a weapon all simultaneously- are better off in the shadows, where your new team can't get too...upset. Can't snap and sneer, wiping off their arms and hands if they accidentally touch you, shoving you away if your fronds start to reach for them or anything they're holding.

"The fuck're you doin' back here?"

You look up at your lieutenant. Ghost is glaring down at you, dark eyes scowling out of his balaclava. "Um...eating?" Your hand-frond curls around another French fry. Salt, oil, potato, a preservative in the potato. Greasy fingers that prepped it all onto the tray.

"Yeah, and why alone? Team eats together, that's the rule," he says, and jerks his thumb over to the table he and the sergeants are at. He grabs your tray, and you don't have a choice but to follow.

The other men welcome you warmly, and to your astonishment, they don't skitter away as your phalanges spread over the table, touching their trays, an instinct you can't fully reign in. Soap's drink slides across the table towards you, and you wince, fronds peeling away from it. Aluminum, paint, fresh water in the condensation, and your microscopic hooks leave little marks in the logo.

"Sorry! Sorry, I can...get you a new one..." You trail off, because he's shrugging and taking his drink back, touching it easily.

"Eh, if I was that worried about it, I'd get it myself. You're fine, love," he adds, and your throat is tight. Is this really all it takes? One tiny kindness?

Gaz grins. "Look, I know you're worried, but we really do not give a shit about all- this," he gestures to your wide, branching baskets of arms, "outside of what it means for our missions. Do you know how many weird bugs that one has brought home?"

He nods to your left, and you look over to Ghost, where he's examining the delicate phalanges that have spread over his arm with the care and focus of a master watchmaker. He strips off a glove, and your breath catches in your chest as he touches the very tip of a frond with his finger- a tiny burst of taste, salt-skin-oil-cotton, the base building blocks of the man called Ghost- and shakes it solemnly, like he's meeting you for the first time.

Soap pats your shoulder, and doesn't twitch when your arm splits in surprise. "Not that you're a bug! But, y'know, when you get two hours in a transport home being told all about the way this beetle works and lives, you start to see the beauty in the strange. And nothing's stranger than our LT!"