#big ask button

mans been working up the courage to give them to you because he didn’t want you to think it was silly or odd

hi mach 🤭🙇‍♀️

Lovely, brilliant, absolutely so cutesy and yesyesyes 😭🥺 The way I got so much cuteness aggression thinking about this. It reminds me of what my world travelling grandma does in a way, she loves shells and such, has shells from beaches all over.

I hope you like. :) Soft Boyfriend Simon Ghost Riley for you my liege:

He didn’t say much when he tugged your hand and led you upstairs. Just that low, quiet “C’mon,” and the look, something unreadable in his eyes that made your heart kick up a notch.

You thought you knew what was coming.

It felt like it. The soft step of his boots on the stairs, the way his fingers brushed yours and never quite let go, the barely-there nod toward his bedroom door before he pushed it open. You’d been building toward this for a while, slowly, carefully, like everything with Simon, and you figured… well, maybe tonight.

The bedroom’s dim, not romantic exactly, but quiet and private. The air carries that familiar mix of laundry detergent and his soap and something deeper. Him.

Your breath hitches. He closes the door.

But... He doesn’t kiss you... He doesn’t press you back onto the bed or touch your waist.

Instead, he places a kiss on your hand before he crosses to the closet and squats down.

You blink. “Simon?”

“I-” he mutters, voice rasped low, almost sheepish. “I wanna show you something.”

And then he pulls out a box.

He turns to the bed, kneeling now, that black mask that once hid most of his expression long gone, and you can see the tips of his ears are pink.

His fingers, usually so sure, so steady on a trigger, are just a little clumsy as he unwraps a small bundle of from the box.

“’s not much. Just… bits,” he mutters. “Things I picked up, y’know, when I had a minute.”

He places the next one down with care. A flattened piece of sea glass, dull until he brushes his thumb over it. He glances up like he’s checking your reaction for a second.

You nod, lips tucked in tight to hide the smile trying to creep out. Because this is Ghost. Simon fucking Riley. A man who, you know, at least, has killed people--kills people--terrifying to anyone not close enough to him, allies and does alike. A man who, just two months ago, didn’t even like you sitting too close for long. A man who, a month ago, woke up sweating from a nightmare he vehemently refused to share with you, just called you to hear your voice. Now he’s opening up a box of treasures, like a nervous boy showing his crush what he’s kept under his bed.

You. want. to. squeal.

You want to grab his face and kiss him stupid and coo over every pebble like they’re diamonds, because they are, in their own way, because they’re his, and he is sharing them with you.

Instead, you just scoot a little closer, pick up the sea glass between your fingers and hold it to the light.

“This one’s lovely,” you say softly, reverent. “Looks like it used to be red.”

“Was thinkin’ the same,” he mumbles. He clears his throat. “Looked like fire in the middle of the others, from the side of the road. Figured… you might like it.”

You nod again. You’re smiling now--can’t help it--but it’s gentle and careful.

Inside, your heart is doing cartwheels. Outside, you kneel down next to him and just lean a little into his shoulder and whisper, “Thank you.”

Simon relaxes just a bit, shoulders easing, his hand brushes yours, on purpose, maybe.

He pulls another cloth from the box. “Got some others, if ya like.”

You bite your lip to hold back your grin. You’re so gone for him...

He takes another, grabs the water bottle off his bed, pours just a drop into his hand to smooth over the rock. Those huge, calloused, rough hands working so delicately with the little pebble.

You don’t even realize you’ve been holding your breath until he lays the next one in your palm. A smooth, dark green stone with a pale stripe across the middle, like a horizon line.

“Tha' one’s from Finland,” he says after a pause. “Snow’d just melted. Nearly lost it in the mud. Had to double back.”

Your fingers curl around it, “You kept it all this time?”

Simon shifts a little, seated on the bed with you now, and he doesn’t meet your eyes. “Mm. Kept all of ‘em.”

You glance down at the small collection now spread across the blanket: shells, stones, a bent coin, a keychain with a tiny compass. None of it flashy. All of it worn and real.

Then it clicks, sinks in all the way, like warm tea through your chest.

He didn’t just pick these up.

He picked them up for you.

Your mouth opens, then closes, because you’re not sure what to say. He must see something change in your face, though, because he clears his throat and adds, a little rough, “Meant to give ‘em to you sooner. Just… didn’t know when. Or if it was weird. Or if--if you’d think I was daft.”

Your hand tightens on the green stone. “You’re not daft, Simon.”

His eyes flick to yours, watching and waiting.

You smile, soft and sure. “You’re thoughtful. And I love it.” Then, before you can stop yourself, you hold up the stone. “Would you be okay if I made this one into a necklace?”

He blinks. “You want to wear it?”

“Of course I do,” you say, like it’s obvious. “You brought it back for me. That makes it priceless.”

The tips of his ears are flushed again. You swear you see his jaw shift like he’s trying to suppress a grin.

He mutters, “Got a bit of cord in the drawer. Could show you how to tie it.”

You nod, trying very hard not to bounce on the mattress like a giddy teenager, because Simon Riley just offered to help you make jewelry out of the rock he picked up for you in the Finnish mud.

God, you’re so far gone.

And when he kneels beside the bed again, sorting through the drawer for the cord, he glances at you with the smallest smile in his voice.

“Knew you’d like that one. Told myself, if you ever stuck ‘round long enough… that’d be the first one I gave you.”

It rlly takes the “I’m a monster” wind out of ghost’s sails when soap is following him around asking to try and make soap punch himself to prove some sort of mental strength

ommgg this was lost in my drafts 😭 Its like finding cash in the couch omg. n e way. happy halloween? this uhhhhh this turned smutty ...

cw: smut! blow job. sorta cnc - Johnny wants Simon to order him around with the thrall.

Ghost had hoped the whole being-buried-alive fiasco would be the worst of it.

Clawing out of the dirt with lungs that didn’t need air anymore… realizing his heart hadn’t picked up its old rhythm… feeling that strange, cold clarity under his skin where warmth used to live. That alone should’ve been enough horror for one lifetime.

The thrall, though... that had been a whole new hell.

He rarely used it. Refused to.

But of course it happened on a mission gone bad. Too many enemies and too little cover. Soap high on adrenaline, and too out in the open.

He’d turned, saw Johnny’s wide frantic eyes, and didn't have a choice. At least, he felt he didn't.

A command ripped out of him with the force of hunger.

"Drop, Soap."

Soap dropped instantly. It was as if Ghost had reached inside him and rewired the man’s will with a flick of his fingers.

It should have terrified him.

It terrified Ghost.

Soap, however, was fucking delighted.

By the next morning, Ghost couldn’t take three steps without Johnny at his heels like an enthusiastic terrier with a death wish.

“You can’t tell me you’re not even a wee bit curious,” Soap insisted, jogging backwards in front of him. “C’mon, L.T. Just one more time. Make me do something stupid.”

“No.”

“What about something harmless? Tell me to blink funny. Or jump. Hell, tell me to do a wee spin!”

Ghost stopped abruptly, leaving Soap nearly tripping to stop. “I am not using dark magic to train you like a dog.”

Soap grinned. “Aye, but you could. That’s the point.”

“It’s not a toy.”

“Never said it was. Said it was cool.”

Ghost hated that the compliment warmed something in the cold quiet cavern where his heart used to beat.

“Johnny.”

“Try makin’ me punch myself. Bet I could fight it.”

“No.”

“Try makin’ me kiss you, then.” Soap waggled his brows. “If I’m losing autonomy, might as well make it interestin’—”

Price notices small things first, like how Ghost, a man of little direct eye contact, looks intently at someone professional talking about how space travel would look like in a feasible manner. or how Ghost would grunt out the names of constellations to an overeager Johnny, engaging in (while brief) small talk about them. Or how when a corny space movie is playing in mess Ghost grumbles something about it ‘not being accurate’ and stalks out of mess silently. or even correcting Price on referring to one of the space shuttles by the wrong name ‘that 1988 flight was Discovery, not Columbia.’

Price makes a subtle note to make a detour to some sort of space museum and pick up so many trinkets for Simon. also just?? the 141 all taking notice and trying in a clumsy but loving way to get Simon out of his shell?? i’m crying, even while being the most dangerous operative in the country, deep down he’s still a shy closed off kid at school

🪣

ashjxvedved wait this is so precious 🥺🥺🥺 how about dad takes his kids they all go on a little museum trip?

it took me a minute but I'm hooked on this idea now and I'm crying and there's a part two

Price clocks it before anyone else does. Of course he does.

But it’s never obvious things. Never Simon saying anything too loud. It’s the way his head tilts, just barely, when someone on the telly starts talking about orbital mechanics and historical launches.

The way his eyes, usually restless, scanning for exits, go still when a documentary narrator explains how long it takes light to travel from the sun or how otters hold hands to keep from floating away.

How he corrects Soap once, quietly, when Johnny calls a shuttle by the wrong name, like the fact has been sitting in him for years with nowhere to go.

So when they’re home with a rare, blessed weekday free, Price doesn’t say why they’re changing plans, just makes sure they all know. “Museum. 1100. Civies.”

Johnny agrees, so long as he gets to see the dinosaurs. Kyle offers to drive if they need it. And Simon simply doesn’t object.

Price picks a natural history museum. It’s quieter midweek. A few school groups, some retirees. Simon stays half a step behind Price at first, habit ingrained deep as bone, while Johnny and Kyle lead the way. They pass through the dinosaurs. Let Johnny and Kyle take "very important" photos. But as they reach the space wing, something in him… loosens.

There’s a suspended model of the solar system, planets hung in careful scale, lights dimmed and the ceiling covered in specks of little light of distant stars.

Simon stops dead, and they all make their way around him. Price notices, and halts the group with a casual hand.

“Take your time,” he says gently.

Simon slowly steps closer, head tilted up at the planets strung above him.

A curator approaches, young, enthusiastic, and clearly thrilled to have someone actually listening. Simon nods when the young man starts explaining light and scale, space travel and the math behind gravity assists, how astronauts compensate for bone density loss. Simon Riley stands there, six-foot-something of one of the deadliest men in the world, arms loose at his sides, and listens with absolute, devastating attention.

He asks one question. Just one, clarifying bit.

The curator lights up.

Johnny and Kyle exchange a glance, smiling and shaking their heads with affection.

They drift next into an exhibit on deep-sea life. There are jellyfish suspended in glowing tanks, slow and ethereal, pulsing in the light like living stars. Simon lingers again. The movements are hypnotic. No sharp edges. No sudden noise. Just float and drift and light.

Price watches him the way you watch a skittish animal finally stop bracing to bolt.

Later, there’s a section on erosion, water carving stone over centuries. Kyle reads placards aloud in a quiet voice. Johnny makes one joke, to which Simon huffs and rolls his eyes.

By the time they circle back to the space wing, Price has quietly bought a few things from the gift shop. A small mission patch replica. A keychain shaped like a lunar module. (Johnny helped pick that one.) And a book dense, technical, unapologetically nerdy.

He hands the bag to Simon outside.

“Figured you might like it.”

Simon freezes. Just for a second. “…Yeah. Thanks.”

He tucks the bag under his arm.

And for a fleeting moment, so brief Price almost thinks he imagined it, Simon looks less like the most dangerous operative in the country, and more like a quiet kid who finally got to linger at an exhibit without being told to hurry up.

Price doesn’t say a word.

He just makes a mental note to find a planetarium next time.

(reffed post) Okay hold on hold on look look:

So they hit the showers after a training time right? After one of the times Ghost doesn't give them Snickers. And all these guys, newbies and old members, especially the ones who don't interact with him as much, are so scared they've pissed Ghost off.

All because he's gone two days in a row without even hinting at the Snickers.

So one of these newbies stops Soap after a training time, knowing Soap is close to Ghost:

"Excuse me, Sergeant?"

"Aye?"

"Some of the guys and I, we were wondering... 'ave we done somethin' to piss off the lieutenant?"

Soap blinks. once. twice. "Why in the world would you think that?"

"He uh-" the newbie glances back at the crowd of soldiers behind him.

Gaz laughs just a bit, clapping a hand on Soap's shoulder. "Ghost hasn't handed out a single Snickers today, mate. And I think a couple of them did some deserving things today."

Soap blinks again, gear clicking into place before "Ah yer off yer heid, he's not mad. Probably just ran out of the things. The bag was half empty days ago."

Still, when he looks at the group in front of him, even he's not convinced.

So he and Gaz go out and buy bags of the sweet treats. They bring them back in a box, enough to last at least two months.

It's a team effort to get them to Ghost. Soap stakes the place out before they go, he knows when Ghost is asleep, and knows when the base is quietest. And Gaz delivers, quick and sneaky.

And if Ghost's really not mad maybe he'll use them again. (And yes, he uses them again, obviously.)

Ghost and the others NEVER know it's them, maybe Ghost has his suspicions, but.

Still, no one necessarily suspects them either. In fact, most of the 141 thinks Ghost just... went and bought more.

But Gaz and Soap know. And they keep a sharp eye on the amount of Snickers Ghosts hands out and what the bags lookin' like.

They take it deathly seriously, keeping track like it's their own personal mission.

And like clock work, they deliver the night after Ghost runs out each time.

They've gotta take care of their people right?

Problem being, he has no natural instincts surrounding his wings, no idea how to move or clean them, etc etc it’s unnatural. Ghost is the only one with wings on the team. The idea of this ask being Ghost having to break down his tough guy façade because soap is in a genuine desperate need of help and support even though the help Soap needs rn borders on intimate due to wing culture.

Actually Anon imma need you to get the fuck out of my writing docs right the fuck now. /j. jfc the jump scare this gave me (read notes at end). N e way. Yeah, let's torture the soapy little guy. Forced avian thoughts came. This hit me like a fever and I wrote two parts and am working on the third.

Part: Two. Three. Four

cw: Angst. See the first half of the ask. Johnny's fresh off getting fucked over and in a lot of pain and disoriented.

...

They’d cut the restraints, but the metal cuffs still burned against his wrists. Every nerve screamed. His arms. His back. Something else that shouldn't be there. But no. No, it was there. Heavy and wrong.

Wings.

He felt them before he could see them, muscle lines tugging at his spine, twitching without permission. Every movement was wrong, he tried to stand and the new weight threw him sideways into the wall. White sparks burst behind his eyes.

Big, steady hands caught him before he could swing.

“Johnny—”

“Don’t—touch me—” His voice cracked around the words, half-snarl, half-choke. His fists were weak and stupid, barely connecting against Ghost’s vest.

Ghost held tight.

“They did something to me,” Soap hissed, breath shuddering. He could feel every tremor in those alien appendages, every raw patch where feathers and muscle met still-raw stitched skin. The muscles kept firing on their own, spasms like lightning down his back.

“I know,” Ghost said. His voice was close, too close. “I've got you now. You're safe.”

Safe.

The word rang hollow. Nothing about this was safe, his blood still hummed with whatever Makarov had pumped into him, the room spun, and his shoulder blades felt split in half.

other ram! price stuff: this and this (i didn't know if I should change reader much or anything, so I left this one ambiguous, but idk could still be the same reader) anyway. Watch my make up fake sciencey words

🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ Yes. I agree.

Because Ram Hybrid! Price who lost his horns after all that trauma and who’s carried that loss quietly for years has resigned himself to it, built armor over the grief, moved on in the way soldiers do: by burying it.

And then he meets you.

You, who are brilliant and stubborn and kind in the precise way that makes him damn near uncomfortable. You're a hybrid too, maybe not a ram, maybe not even prey-aligned, but you understand. You're an engineer, in the simplest terms. You build things. Keep shit running. Best of all, you see damage not as something to mourn, but as a blueprint for what comes next.

And one day, after knowing him long enough to earn his trust, after seeing the way he flinches when Gaz offers his horn polish tin, after watching him pretend he doesn't care when others on base stare too long at the bare stubs on his head,

you do something no one else has ever tried.

You make him horns.

He only agrees to come because you asked.

He doesn’t like surprises, but he likes you, in that gruff, stubborn way of a man who’s spent too long trying not to.

So when you lead him into your small workshop, he only grumbles a little.

“What’s this, then?”

You don’t answer right away. Just gesture toward the padded workbench. Something waits there, wrapped in soft cloth. The shape of it is unmistakable.

He goes still.

“…You—"

You shrug, but your fingers a twitching, nervous. “I did. Took some time. Some research. A few casts. Nikolai sent me an old picture— I— I know I didn’t ask, but I figured if you hated them, you’d just headbutt me.”

“That a request?”

“Not unless you think I need it, Sir.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

You step forward and unwrap the cloth.

They gleam in the light, dark, ridged, and strong. Not exact replicas, these curl a little differently, sleeker, shaped to balance with his posture that's gone so long without them.

They're nothing like the weight replacements they sell in stores. Rams loosing their horns is rare, even in battle, especially since World War 2. So you took your damn time and made them perfect.

They're lightweight carbon and flexible alloy. A custom base he can slide over the old scars. Pressure-mounted and magnetic-secured. They can be removed, adjusted, and reinforced. And polished. You made sure of that.

“I don’t need—” he starts, voice low.

“I know,” you cut in gently. “They’re not for need. They’re for you. For when you just need to... feel it.”

He doesn’t move.

You lift one of the horns and turn it over in your hand. Then offer it out.

“Let me show you?”

His jaw ticks. Then he nods.

You step close, closer than you ever have. His head dips naturally, letting you near the vulnerable scarred spots above his temples. You slowly slide the mount into place.

The horn clicks in. Then the other. Perfectly balanced.

And then he just stands there, breathing like the air’s too thick. Like the world’s gone sideways.

“They’re not… quite the same,” you murmur. “But they’re yours if you want them.”

He lifts a hand. His fingers trace the curve of the horn, slow and careful. He taps it lightly with his knuckles.

They make a solid sound.

He swallows, hand lingering near the curve. Like he can't decide whether to touch them again or hit them harder.

You wait and finally, Price exhales. And when he looks at you, eyes warm, wet, brimming with something raw, you see it. That recognition of self, belonging. Of the boy he was. Of the ram he still is.

He steps forward slowly and presses his forehead to yours.

His voice is soft on the words. "Thank you."

hi mach 🥺

Yes this exactly 😭😭 and his hands and the way he smells, that all encompassing gruff musk, and the little grunt once he's settled-

There's no escape once you're caged in by those arms, by the press of his chest to your spine, by the way his thigh slots between yours. His beard scratches softly at the curve of your neck, and you feel the brush of his nose, still a little cold from the air.

Technically, you could get the blankets. You could reach for a pillow.

But nope. He's already tucked you in with the sheer force of his body. Big and warm and safe. And when you shift, even just a littl? His grip tightens. His voice, low and half-asleep: "oi. Where d'you think you're going?"

Soap being retrieved from a stint where he was captured by Makaroy for far too long. Ghost barely gets away with Soap in tow and they settle at a safe house before the more organized escape comes early morning.

he’ll live, with some ugly scar yes but he’ll live. Ghost patches Soap up the best he can, but Soap is filthy. He’s covered in dried blood, dirt, etc etc. he looks awful. All this to say, Ghost understands that he needs to get Soap somewhat clean, considering that Soap would hate to be seen like this by the greater 141 team. But there’s also the issue of Soap being so out of it Ghost doesn’t trust him not to fall or drown in the bath.

Ghost must now navigate something toeing the line to an intimacy he has never experienced for the first time as he warms up the water in the rickety tub and accepts his fate. There’s also a pressing dynamic of Ghost not wanting to push any boundaries but Soap, who is concussed, is also not making this super easy lol. Ghost also gets to see up close and personal what Makarov rlly did to Soap

🪣

🪣 Anon I love you. ooundicneigfinskfjrn wait sobbing okay take this little blurb of that bathroom moment plz plz. whump caretaking

cw: Ghoap. Implied/referenced torture. Early in their relationship.

The safehouse bathroom is barely a bathroom at all. A claw-foot tub with rust biting through the enamel, a single exposed bulb that hums.

Ghost tests the water with the back of his hand, jaw tight as he adjusts the tap. It's too hot, then too cold, then finally something tolerable.

Behind him, Soap sits slumped on the closed toilet lid, boots still on, head tipped forward. He’s breathing. That’s the important part. Shallow but steady.

There’s dried blood matted into his hair, down his neck, caked at his collar, over his arms. Dirt's ground into every seam of his clothes like he’d been buried and dug back up wrong.

“Johnny,” Ghost says quietly.

Soap hums in response, unfocused, his eyes don’t quite land when he looks up.

Concussion, shock, and God knows what else. He tries—leaning weight onto his feet—to stand on his own and nearly eats the floor for his trouble.

Ghost catches him, arms firm around his ribs, hauling him back upright. Soap’s forehead bumps his shoulder, warm and solid, and for a second Ghost freezes, because Soap doesn’t pull away. He sags there.

“Easy,” Ghost murmurs. “Got you.”

He hates this part. Hates that Soap would hate being seen like this, filthy, weak, and barely holding himself together. Hates that there’s no world where he can leave him like this for Price and the others to see. And he hates most of all that the bath is necessary.

Ghost strips his own gloves off first. Then Soap’s jacket. It peels away with a sticky, wet sound where blood has glued fabric to skin, and Ghost has to pause when he sees it properly. He had been so worried about the Soap's leg and the fucked knee, he hasn't done more than glance at the rest. Bruises have set in deep, ugly blooms, livid fingerprints, small cuts that weren’t meant to kill, just hurt.

Ghost swallows hard and forces his hands steady.

“Alright,” he mutters, more to himself than Soap. “Just gonna get you clean.”

Soap laughs faintly at that. “'Least take me tae dinner first, LT,” he slurs. It's tired and weak and hardly a joke, sounds more instinctive than anything.

Ghost just hums, checking Soap's eyes again. At least he's talking.

He keeps one hand firm at Soap’s back as he eases him into the tub, lowers him inch by careful inch until he’s sitting, water lapping at his hips. Soap’s head tips back against the porcelain, eyes fluttering shut.

“Don’t sleep,” Ghost says, sharper now.

Soap opens one eye. “Bossy,” he mumbles.

Ghost exhales through his nose and reaches for the washcloth. Dips it into the water. Wring. The first swipe across Soap’s shoulder turns the white cloth pink instantly.

And here he is another line he never thought he’d cross, washing another man’s blood off him. Seeing every mark up close. Feeling how Soap leans into his touch without meaning to.

Ghost keeps his grip careful. One arm braced behind Soap’s neck whenever his head dips too far. No chances. He will not let him drown in six inches of water after everything else.

Soap goes quiet after a while, breathing evening out, fingers twitching weakly against Ghost’s wrist like he’s checking that he’s still there.

“I’m here,” Ghost says before Soap can ask.

Soap nods, eyes closed, trusting him completely.

Ghost scrubs gently, cataloguing every bruise, every cut, every place Makarov put his hands, burning them into memory.

If he can get Johnny through this, morning will come, the team will take over. Medics will take him the rest of the way.