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“M’ not looking to publish, Price —”
“Send it, Simon,” Price insisted, that gleam turning into something entirely too serious. It was that unyielding type of faith Price had in him, the kind that made Simon think he could do impossible things. He’d spent years as a sniper, an assassin, a ghost on the field, but this — something so vulnerable and fragile, a peek at the childhood Simon had endured, was probably the most frightening of all.
And so, without having any idea of what he was doing, Simon sent it.
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“That’s not bourbon, is it?” John says with half a sneer, earning a small smile from the man in return, eyes full of mirth.
“Only the best,” the man easily responds, taking a sip just to prove a point.
“For a good ol’ boy,” John replies easily enough, watching the man's pink tongue dart out, licking a stray droplet.
“A good boy, hm,” the man echoes, his gaze traveling slowly down John’s frame, a maddening descent. “I don’t know about me,” he adds, a bit softer. “But you, on the other hand —” The man’s mouth curves, the sharp flash of teeth, like a predator lying in wait. “You look like a good boy, yeah?”
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Or, John MacTavish says he isn't gay. That is, until he meets a man named Simon at a gay nightclub and realizes, maybe he is. -
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Twitter threads all in one space.
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He sighs, glancing at his reflection a few more times. He knows he could easily grab them, knows he could just pop them in and nothing would look different. But, before heading on leave, he’d been on a grueling mission, one where he wore his contacts for 72-hours straight without changing them. John knows he’s not supposed to do that, but things had happened so quickly, and his eyes were still a bit irritated with him.
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“It’s good to see you, Johnny,” Simon murmurs against his brow, warm breath coasting across John’s ear, goosebumps leaving a shivering path in its wake.
“Yeah,” John says, allowing Simon to pull him closer, inhaling that familiar scent of spice and tea and Simon. Something he never wants to be without again, something that’s kept him awake for nights on end, because he’s missed him so fucking much. “It’s good to see you too, Lt.”
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“Don’t… touch me, Cap,” John wheezes, his fingers curling into claws as he tries to pull at his own vest. The friction of the Kevlar like sandpaper on raw nerves. “I’ll… burn ye.”
“Jesus,” Price murmurs under his breath, but there is no hesitation from Simon, the man stripping off his gloves, tendrils of frost curled around his fingertips.
“Simon,” John grits. “Don’t.”
“You can’t hurt me, Johnny,” Simon murmurs, hands moving to John’s vest, careful movements as helps him rip it off.
For COD Hybrid Week 2026!
- Mates (Day 1)
- Sex Pollen (Day 7) -
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It’s not until the next morning, while Soap is nursing a hangover does his phone buzz. He’d gotten back from the pub late, he and Gaz stumbling through the halls, both of them proper pished. He’d nearly forgotten about the texts he’d sent, until he opened his phone, his heart dropping into his fucking stomach when he saw Ghost had finally texted him back.
A single line of text that caused ice to build crawl slowly up the length of his spine.
My office, 1700.
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John tucks his nose into the crook of Simon’s neck, cold against the fabric of his mask, and Simon can only hold him tighter, letting his own scent wash away every trace of the other alpha.
“Johnny.”
The name comes unbidden to his lips, Simon able to feel the shiver that wracks Soap’s body, the goosebumps that prickle his skin. John’s fingers tighten in his shirt, warm breath against the cloth at Simon’s neck. He’s so close, the scent of him soothing over Simon’s own skin like a balm to the ache that lives buried deep inside of him.
He knows he should say something, do something, but he’s frozen, rooted to the spot.
Johnny is his best friend. His best fucking friend in the entire world and while he knows the man won’t speak on what happened tonight, Simon is offering whatever comfort he can.
But maybe it’s not his to offer. Maybe the reason Johnny went out tonight is because he’s looking for something.
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Simon Riley doesn’t believe in God, but when he looks into Johnny’s blue eyes, the color eddied away and fractured by pleasure, he knows he believes in something. Some divine intervention that brought this man to him.
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It was a dream, John flying out to London to meet with the team, Price explaining that he would get his in-house editors working on the project, that revisions and such usually took a few months. But everything was handled for him, the cover artist, the designs for the physical book itself, social media promotions. Everything.
And John didn’t even have words for how excited he was.
He glances at the name of the editor one more time, brows furrowed as he tries to remember who the fuck Ghost is. He met a ton of people at the office the other day, John Price welcoming him with open arms before introducing him to his team, a small group, and yet John knows he would remember the name of this person.
Seeing as it really wasn’t a name at all.
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And while Simon may not be SAS anymore, he certainly hasn’t forgotten a damn thing. He’s on his feet in moments, the sheets thrown haphazardly out of the way. He hears a yelp, and yet Simon doesn’t hesitate, fingers curling around the neck of the man who is in his room, before they both slam back into the wall with a jarring force.
Startled blue eyes meet his, a muscular body molded to Simon’s own as he keeps the man pinned securely in place, “Who the fuck are you?”
“Sir!”
Simon grits his teeth, yet a quick assessment of the stranger shows a name tag nearly crushed between their chests —MacTavish.
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LochAndLoaded — Read your profile and I think you might be exactly what I’m looking for. Never done this before, have no idea what I’m doing. I’m used to being in control, but I think I’d like to see what it’s like to give it up.
John’s stomach flips as he reads it over, fingers tightening around the phone, breath hitching tightly in his chest. He doesn’t regret what he said, because it’s true. He does want to know what it would be like. And yet, he can’t help how raw it makes him feel, how exposed. Like something has been peeled open inside of him, and John is helpless to stop it.
He doesn’t even know when these thoughts started, only that he’s been thinking them for a while. This wanting turning into a need, sharp and relentless, plaguing John’s every waking thoughts. He knows he could go to the bar, knows he could find a pretty lad or lass and settle the ache in his belly.
But that ache always comes back.
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And in that pulse of light John sees him.
A man wearing a dark hood stands at the end of the hallway, massive and hulking, larger than any human should be. His shoulders rise and fall, slow and steady and John knows whoever this man is — he’s no soldier. There’s an underlying motion to him, a twitch that has John reaching for the pistol that he doesn’t have, warning bells going off in his mind.
The light sputters once more, and the figure is shifting, the slightest incline of his head as if he’s just realized John was behind him. But something is — different, the light seeming to catch on more than one shape at once.
“Identify your —” but words fail him as the figure turns further, John able to get a peek of what lies beneath the hood, the harsh light catching on the edge of a white skull mask. Haunting and familiar and John feels his breath catch sharp in his chest.
“Simon.”
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Kyle looks downright edible in that outfit. His toned body only accentuated by the burgundy mesh, his ass perfectly filling out the trousers he's wearing, the taper of his waist down into the belt. John's distracted by the earrings Kyle's wearing. He knew he had his ears pierced but he didn't know he has so many. They're all gold, glittering from the bar in the top of his ear to the spiral that appears as if it weaves through several piercings along the shell of Gaz's ear, down to the impossibly thin gold chain that dangles from the lobe of his left ear.
John and Kyle have never been anything and, truthfully, he knows he doesn't have feelings for Kyle. . . but looking at him right now? With his warm hands roaming an increasing amount of John's bare thighs. . .
Fuck
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“I’m okay,” Ghost had murmured, a skeletal gloved hand coming out to cradle his jaw, thumb swiping away the blood, the sinew, the remainder of the carnage that Soap had caused in his desperation to get to Simon.
And despite the fact that Simon nearly died, the man had leaned forward, pulling John beneath his chin, the skull mask digging against his temple. But John didn’t care, the pain reminded him that this was real. That Simon was alive, that he was breathing.
And the man said nothing when John lifted a hand, when he pulled at the edge of the balaclava, slipping beneath the fabric, hand splayed flat against the column of Simon's throat, crying out when he felt his pulse, strong and steady beneath his fingertips.
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But Ghost didn’t seem to mind, quietly filling the kettle before setting it to boil, those dark eyes watching as John paced the kitchen, one arm flailing about in the air, the other locked tight around his half-melted pint of rocky road.
He told Ghost he was stressed. That the entire MacTavish clan was coming into town, which meant awkward hugs, judgmental stares, and nosy questions from people he hadn’t seen in years. John could handle all of that, he really could.
But what he couldn’t handle was the questions. Why he hadn’t settled down yet, why he didn’t have a nice Scottish girl on his arm.
Why he wasn’t married with a child on the way, because Ethel and James weren’t getting younger, and John was already too old. For fuck’s sake.
“Maybe I don’t want to bring home a wee lass,” John had snapped, voice cracking as he dug his spoon in harder than necessary, a brown, congealed clump of freezer-burned rocky road flying onto the floor. “Maybe I don’t even like women, has anyone considered that?”
And there, in less than twenty words, John had completely outed himself.
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Freediver John “Soap” MacTavish has trained for years to break the world diving record—pushing his body beyond limits, mastering the silence of the deep. But as the record attempt nears, something begins to stir beneath the surface.
Something watching him.
Something waiting.It starts as a feeling, a presence just out of reach, one that fills him with unease... and a strange sense of longing. The deeper he dives, the more he feels it, a pull that’s not just in his mind, but in his bones.
Like he’s not alone down there. Like whatever is waiting for him in the dark has always been meant for him, and him alone. -
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Simon Riley is a renowned monster hunter, a lone expert forged by years in the wilds. He knows monsters, how they move, how they kill, and how they think.
But when the beasts begin behaving unnaturally, John Price, the leader of Simon's small guild, intervenes, assigning Simon a partner whether he likes it or not.
Enter John MacTavish, talented, sharp-eyed, and infuriatingly talkative. Simon can’t deny the man’s skill, but his cocky mouth and inability to stay quiet ignite tension that threatens to boil over.
Yet with the change these monsters are going through, a change happens between Simon and John, both of them having no choice but to work closely together, unveiling secrets about the other and the pasts that haunt them.Slowburn, enemies to lovers. <3 <3
Updates on Sundays and Thursdays! -
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John is all bare skin and brimming heat against him, pressed flush and unapologetic. His fingers curl back, gripping Simon’s thigh, nails digging in just enough to leave a mark against the soaked denim. A fucking mark, a claim that makes Simon's head spin. "The fuck are you doing, MacTavish?" Simon grits, voice rough, frayed at the seams.
The man hums, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that sends a sharp bolt of pleasure down the length of Simon's spine. His breath stutters, a jagged inhale at the pressure against his cock.
"The fuck does it look like, Lieutenant?"
"Brat," Simon hisses, fingers curling into the man's damp mohawk, a swift tug as he pulls John's head back toward his chest, those blue eyes clouded with a wicked intent.
"Yeah?" His voice is rough, teasing, Simon’s grip bruising tight on his waist. "And what the fuck are you going to do about it?"
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John knew there wasn’t any turning back. There hadn’t been for a while. Not when there was this growing, dangerous want simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over.
It went beyond the flirting over comms, the way Ghost and Soap had one another’s backs.
It went beyond the sparring sessions that left John pent up and frustrated, moaning Simon’s name the moment he was back in the safety of his room as he stroked his achingly hard cock to release.
“Because, you haven’t fucked me yet,” John told him. “Must be too afraid, huh?”