Where Are You Lot Coming From.

where are you lot coming from.

Actually, like how are you finding my stuff. I'm just a dude with 1 follower.

(thanks for the attention tho but im still confused)

can confirm I was a greasy rat that was nearby

Johnny is a huge fan of drawing his clothes tight around the curves of your body and plucking at your nipples through the fabric, he actually told me so :/

idea:

GirlDad!Simon Riley who takes his daughter on daddy-daughter dates. They go out of the house and have fun whether that be going to a store, going to a movie, maybe a footie game.. but it always ends with a fast-food dinner, and a big smile from his little girl

you and me /\🎀✨ we’re on this GirlDad!Simon Riley journey together, anon

GirlDad!Simon Riley always picks up his daughter after school on Fridays whenever he’s at home (either back on leave from 141… or BlueCollar!Simon Riley). most days it’s whatever his daughter wants to do - a trip to the playground until dinner time, a movie, any seasonal activities. but, gold star dad that Simon is, sometimes he’ll surprise her with something he planned in advance

GirlDad!Simon Riley tries his hardest to keep up with what his daughter likes. some things never change, like how she’s grown up rooting for his favorite rugby team, or how she adores trips to the aquarium. so, tickets in his wallet, he’ll glance in the rearview mirror and grin, “Daddy’s got a surprise, angel.”. he can’t help but smile when she’s bouncing in her seat at the news - it’s not often they go to sports events or the aquarium, but that usually makes it more special

GirlDad!Simon Riley that has a hefty sum of gift shop money ready for his little girl to spend. his princess gets whatever she wants, be it stuffed animals or soft clothes. he’ll carry around whatever she wants until they get to the check out, and yes, Simon melts when his daughter asks to get matching hoodies, “Course, princess, hand ‘em over.”, he’ll pick one up for the missus too

GirlDad!Simon Riley that lets his daughter pick a fast food place for dinner. he always ends up picking at her food to make her complain and laugh, “Dad tax, sweetheart.”, he mumbles, popping a nugget into his mouth. they both get a milkshake, Simon taking a blurry selfie to send back to the missus - him sipping on a vanilla shake while his daughter holds up her strawberry one, ‘see you in 15, she might be up all night’

"Leon goes with whoever the wind takes him to"

"Aw really? Thats so sweet!"

"Yeah he's kinda light so its easy for a breeze to pick him up."

do you have any personal favorite leon ships? or do you just let him be and go where the wind taked him

Don't really wanna answer these on this blog but I wanted to reply to this anyway because that wind comment is so fucking funny to me somehow

Crowsune Miku.

different first meeting au

after Ghost escapes Roba, he runs and he doesn’t look back. a part of him doesn’t care enough to go back and kill him; the rest of him can’t stomach the thought. it’s cowardly, he knows, but he doesn’t care about that either. after eight months of being tortured, the last thing he wants to do is go back. but he also doesn’t want to go home.

he runs to Belize. there’s a safe house there, he knows; a well-stocked one. it’s deep in the jungle, far from civilization: just what he needs. it takes him a while, but he gets there, and the safe house is paradise in earth. hot and humid, with bugs the size of small dogs, but it’s the same forest that Chiapas was in, so he’s used to it, and this… is definitely not Chiapas.

Belize, he has to admit, is beautiful. the forest is a riot of color and sound, sunlight filtering through the dense foliage to glitter off of perpetually dew-coated leaves. the forest is thick enough that he never worries about running into anyone because no one in their right mind would be out here.

and the house… it was obviously built by someone with money burning a hole in their pockets. some rich drug lord, if Ghost had to guess; probably got arrested and their property confiscated by the British government before Belize gained independence. he doesn’t think too hard about it. the house itself is massive. two stories, nestled deep in the forest, with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the sunrise. if he squints a bit, he can almost see the Caribbean sea, or maybe it’s just isolation setting in. either way, he’s never been happier. the house even more well-stocked then he’d hoped; there are several month’s worth of food and supplies piled in the pantry and closets.

he originally only intended to stay for a few days, maybe a week. long enough to catch his breath, lick his wounds, and get back on his feet. but a week comes and goes and no one has found him. no one has shown up at the door threatening dishonorable discharge for going AWOL. technically, he thinks, he’s MIA. they probably think he’s dead. strangely, he doesn’t have any particular urge to disavow them of the idea.

as one week turns into two, he starts to relax. he keeps his semi-automatic by the door and his sidearm by his bed, just in case, but access to all the food he could want, no responsibilities, and nothing but calm surrounding him urges him to let his guard down. it’s a heady feeling after so long being on guard; his whole life, really.

he finds himself lying in bed at nights, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he ever has to go back. Roba is still alive, still a danger, and he should probably do something about that. he’s the only one alive to do so. but the alternative is even more alluring. he could simply… disappear. shed his skin like a snake and start over. take the opportunity for what it is and let Simon Riley die for good.

he’s been moving for so long that stopping feels foreign, and yet. good.

would it be so bad to stay? he could let it all go, all the pain and trauma and torment. the stress and rigidity and discipline. would it be so bad to lay it all down?

it’s a pervasive thought, and he tries to convince himself that it’s not fear. he doesn’t let him think about stagnation, about endless days stretching before him. he tries to enjoy every day, one day at a time, and resolutely shuts out the looming threat, bigger than even Roba: boredom.

he’s been moving for so long that stopping feels foreign.

at the four week mark, there’s a knock on the door, and every ounce of military training comes rushing back. he has his gun in his hands before he even registers the sound. no one should be here. no one should know this place exists. it’s completely off the map, known only to SAS who have used these lands for training. which can only mean…

they’ve found him. he tries to quell the panic that the thought sends arcing through his chest as he presses himself against a wall, breath held in his throat, gun clutched tightly. he’s not hiding, he’s not. he just wants them to go away.

the knock echoes again, heavy and insistent. yet still… polite. the fact that they haven’t busted the door down is shocking, if they know who he is, if they’re here for him. if they’re not…

he slowly approaches the door, weapon at the ready, and nearly shoots the man who falls through the entryway in the head before his reflexes kick in, just in time.

he studies the man for a moment, assessing. trying to figure out what the fuck to do, because it’s not every day that your safe house gets infiltrated by a passed out soldier bleeding heavily from his head and leg. finally, Ghost drags him further into the house so he can close the door, and grabs his first aid kit.

several hours later finds the man patched up as best as possible, given the limited resources, and propped up in one of the spare bedrooms. Ghost sits on the floor next to the bed and tells himself that it’s for security and not because the man is unfairly attractive. young, maybe a little too young for his tastes, with a stupid looking mohawk and a couple of inches missing, but what he lacks in height, he makes up for in bulk. his lips are caught in a perpetual pout, jawline and cheeks accented by a light brushing of stubble, grown out a bit from being stuck in the jungle for days, if not weeks.

he’s obviously SAS, and if Ghost had kept track of time, he wouldn’t have been so shocked; the SAS always sends a new batch of fresh-faced hopefuls to Belize this time of year. this one must’ve gotten separated from his squad. it happens with every new group; at least one wanders off into the jungle and usually is never heard from again. this one got lucky.

he wakes up a few hours later, and Ghost forces himself to pretend that the man’s piercing blue eyes aren’t the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. the first words out of the man’s mouth are, “I need to get back,” which is odd because the first words out of Ghost’s mouth are, “I’m not going back.”

stalemate.

the man, Soap, he learns, is an enigma. he’s grumpy about his leg and the fact that he won’t be able to walk for at least two weeks, which is fair. he’s cheerful, though, in a way that Ghost can’t fully wrap his head around. he thanks Ghost profusely for saving him, which Ghost shrugs off because what was he supposed to do, let the man bleed out in his foyer?

Ghost tries not to let on that he’s former (current?) SAS, which is a doomed attempt from the start; looking the way he does and acting the way he does, he could never be anything hut military, and Soap’s not an idiot. he sees the muscle mass and the facial scarring and the close-cropped hair and clocks him in an instant. Ghost finds that he doesn’t really mind. even worse, he finds that he’s kind of missed it. the discipline, the camaraderie, the purpose.

having Soap in the house is… something. infuriating, at times, because the man could talk a wall into crumbling if he set his mind to it, but it’s mostly relaxing in a way Ghost isn’t quite ready to explore yet. Soap’s presence, his constant chatter, highlights just how lonely Ghost had been. he finds himself gravitating towards the other man as often as possible, finding excuses to be in the same room no matter what they’re doing. he learns that Soap likes explosives and baking, that he has a big family back in Scotland, that he joined the army at 16 and he’s hoping to be the youngest candidate to pass SAS selection. Ghost doesn’t like the way his smile drops whenever he says that, reminded of his injury and the fact that he’s probably not even considered a candidate anymore.

as Soap heals, something in Ghost does, too. every passing day makes the restlessness under his skin itch more, makes his fingers ache for the pressure of a trigger. nightmares of Roba’s torture shift to dreams about Roba’s death, about bloody hands and slit throats, but not his own.

still, he’s not ready to give up the tranquility yet. the itch hasn’t gotten bad enough to don his fatigues once more, and Soap doesn’t seem to be in a rush either. even after his leg heals, he seems content to lay around the house, soaking up sun and sleep like a lazy teenager. which… he’s only eighteen, so Ghost supposes it’s not wholly inaccurate. not that Ghost is any better; his mid-20s body is more than willing to take full advantage of the rest he gives it, the rest he’s never been able to have before.

one month turns to two, and still they linger. they linger around each other, too. somewhere along the line, Soap started to let his gaze wander over the shape of Ghost’s body when he thinks he’s not looking, and Ghost would feel flattered if he weren’t the only human being in two hundred square miles, at least. Soap is a hot-blooded soldier stuck in the middle of the jungle; of course he’s making eyes at the only thing with a pulse in sight. but Ghost can’t deny his own growing attraction to the other soldier, built day by day, shitty joke by shitty joke. it’s their favorite pastime, even if they both profess to hate each other’s jokes, and one day, Soap makes a joke so bad that Ghost can’t help but to lean over and kiss him, just to shut him up.

it’s like a dam opening, and every surface in the house gets christened. every ounce of pent-up frustration and desire gets poured out in between them, soaked up into bare skin and open mouths. but even this is, ultimately, relaxing. there’s no rush, no sense of urgency, and something about it makes Ghost’s skin prickle. he can tell it’s getting to Soap, too.

three months after Soap’s arrival, Ghost tells him about Roba, tells him about his torture and his escape, tells him that Roba is still out there somewhere. tells him that you get six months of MIA before they consider you dead. it’s too late for Ghost, but it’s not too late for Soap. he could still go back.

together, they make the decision.

together, they set out, leaving the house behind. it feels weird, being in fatigues again, holding his weapon again, marching alongside someone again.

he’s been stopped for so long that moving feels foreign, and yet. good.

together, they kill Roba. it’s not easy and it’s not painless, but they work as well together as Ghost thought they would; they meld together seamlessly, following each other’s unspoken commands as if they were in each other’s heads, and the sparks of satisfaction that race along Ghost’s spine are only partially due to Roba’s rotting corpse that they leave behind.

when Ghost picks up the skull from the floor, the same one that Roba had used to torture him all those months ago, and carefully carves the front off, Soap doesn’t question it. and when Ghost pulls a black balaclava out of his pack and carefully affixes the skull plate to it, Soap stands by patiently, watching without a trace of judgment. and when Ghost pulls it on for the first time, settling the hard bone over his own face, gazing out through white eye sockets, he doesn’t miss the way Soap’s own eyes darken at the sight.

with an unspoken agreement, they head back to the UK. back home. getting out of Mexico is hard, especially once the US border control gets involved, but a flash of Soap’s rank opens doors. sergeant, Ghost thinks approvingly; he’s never thought to ask before, but it suits Soap.

when they get to the UK, all hell breaks loose. Price is, to put it mildly, livid, but Ghost can see the true concern and relief tucked under his ridiculous mustache and boonie hat. it’s been a year, almost to the day, since Ghost had gone missing, and four since Soap went AWOL. their return causes a stir around base, and the upper brass push for both of them to go through selection again, but Price pushes back just as hard, and within months, they’re both reinstated and under Price’s command in the 141.

they keep their relationship secret, or as secret as they can, because neither of them is nearly as subtle as they think they are, but Price doesn’t care. they’re essentially trauma bonded; do not separate. eventually, Ghost will tell Price what they did together, what they left in their wake at Chiapas, but he doesn’t need to know for now. it’s enough that both of them seem settled, seem happy. it’s enough that they’re both alive.

every single night, as Ghost settles into his uncomfortable barrack cot, the sounds of sleeping soldiers seeping through the walls, Soap curled up in his arms, he thanks whichever higher power is listening that he didn’t stay in that safe house.