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Twist	By : LisbetAdair Category: +A through F > Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Views: 3304 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Note: This story underwent major redrafting on 21st June 2014.
Simon “Ghost” Riley was, by nature, a secretive man. Aligned perpendicular to the acceptable and sanctioned desires of a soldier, secrets were a necessity for his survival. After a decade in the army, his attempts to deny attraction to his comrades had blossomed into a rigid self-discipline that he had never broken, until now.

Gary "Roach" Sanderson and Simon "Ghost" Riley pairing, which is rated Adult+ for explicit consensual male/male sexual activity, and swearing.The time is set somewhere before the events of MW2, but after MW1 and does not accept the Ghost comic series as canon.

Fuming with himself, Ghost stalked angrily into the showers and turned the water to the coldest setting. Gritting his teeth under the freezing deluge, he tried to concentrate on something, anything but Gary “Roach” Sanderson.

The problem had started a fortnight ago. Aware of the plans to recruit a new man into the 141 team, but with no say in the final decision, Ghost had neglected to pay attention to the finer points of the process, which is why he walked into MacTavish’s office and abruptly came face-to-face with the most beautiful man that he had ever seen.
The rain had speckled his thick, black hair with a dewy sheen, the damp strands curling across his forehead and around his ears. Hiding beneath his shaved-smooth olive skin, the rough shadow of his beard speckled his jaw, framing his plump lips. Just shy of Ghost's six feet in height, he could lock his gaze with him on the same level. Framed with long, feathery lashes that leant an effeminate tone to his undeniably masculine features, his wide, dark-brown eyes held Ghost in a magnetic trance.
Ghost couldn't hold his stare but looking down at his body didn't help the flush rising to his face. Broader than himself across the shoulders, his thick chest sheared away into his narrow waist. Not even the baggy fatigues could hide his obviously sculpted physique. When they shook hands, Ghost could feel the strength and the power in his taunt forearms.
The first night, he watched Roach from a distance as he insinuated himself with the group, laughing and joking as if he had known them all his life. Ghost pretended to be engrossed in his magazine, but his eyes flicked up occasionally when Roach’s attention was elsewhere. His presence burned him, both with envy at his effortless social grace, and with the nebulous beginnings of a dark, brooding lust.

Over the next few days, it got worse: their schedules colliding again and again. A constant distraction, Roach's presence always drew Ghost's eyes. In the gym, this was a particularly cruel torture. Surreptitiously, Ghost followed the rise and swell of his muscles, swollen and hard with effort, up to his face, flushed and beaded with sweat that begged to be licked away. Roach worked hard, his shirt clinging to his body. When the sweat dripped into his eyes, he simply pulled it up to wipe his face with the already damp fabric, giving a tantalising glimpse of the thick torso hidden beneath.
So, Ghost kept his distance, found set of weights as far away as he possibly could from the others, and painstakingly went through the motions in the hope that it would keep the blood away from any parts of his body that might betray his inappropriate thoughts. Unfortunately, Roach seemed to have other ideas.
“Got a minute to spot me, mate?”
Ghost froze and tried to pretend he hadn’t heard.
“Oi! Ghost! I need a spotter.”
Ghost looked around to see if there was anyone else he could delegate to, but the rest of the men had already paired off. Shit, he thought.
“Sure.” he replied, trying to sound as frosty and uninterested as possible.
Roach lay down and gripped the bar firmly, waiting for Ghost to take position by his head.
He tried, but no matter how hard to tried to focus his attention on something else, each grimly determined thrusting exhalation sent another wave of blood rushing between his legs. Ghost shut his eyes, but he could still hear the guttural grunts of Roach's struggle, and removed from their true context, the effect was even amplified to unbearable levels.
Finally, after what seemed like an age, Roach stopped and dropped the bar down with a clatter that jerked Ghost back to reality.
“Thanks mate!” said Roach, as he sat up, seemingly oblivious to the terrible problems he was causing between Ghost’s legs. “Are you all right?”
“Just... just got some cramp!” Ghost bent down quickly, concealing the visible tenting, and pretended to massage his calf.
“Aw no!” Roach looked concerned. “You want any help?”
“No!” cried Ghost abruptly. “I’ll be fine! Just... need a minute!”
“Here.” Roach thrust a can of energy drink into Ghost’s face. “Get that down you!”
Sensing that Roach would not back down, he took it. “Thanks. I’ll maybe... just er... walk it off.” Quickly straightening he moved towards the running machines with what he hoped was a convincing limp.
Settling the treadmill to an easy jog, he cursed himself. It was easy to forget normal boundaries in the exclusive environment in which they worked, and in combination with the baseline of brotherly camaraderie, this lead to a degree of friendliness that might have been considered abnormal in the world outside. Roach seemed to be naturally affable and generous, and as the FNG, was going out of his way to try to make everyone comfortable with his presence. Had he been unattractive, Ghost would have just found this irritating, instead of completely unworkable. He hoped that the message would eventually get around that he preferred his own company wherever possible, and he hoped that it would happen soon.

By the middle of the next week, Ghost could barely stand it anymore. The stress of attempting to avoid Roach showed on his face: long shadows had appeared beneath his eyes from tossing and turning through the night. Thoughts of Roach consumed him. He couldn't eat, couldn't rest and couldn't keep away.
The rest of the men made tentative attempts to soothe him, but after several snarling rebuffs, and a spat that had rapidly turned physical, even the usually easy-going Australians started to give him a wide berth. By the time of the weekly review meeting, Ghost's increasingly waspish demeanour had become intolerable, poisoning the atmosphere around him.
“What exactly is your problem with him?” asked MacTavish, weary under the onslaught of Ghost's bristling aggression.
“I just don’t like him. It’s just a personal feeling. He’s great with everyone else, seems to have settled right in and he’s just as impressive as the report said. He just gets right on my tits, trying to be my new best friend.”
MacTavish gave him a withering look. “He is your new best friend.”
“In all seriousness, he’s just the person I want backing me up if it all goes tits up. I just don’t want to have him in my face all the time. Everyone else knows that, you know that. I need...” he gestured in the air “I need space.”
“Put up or fuck off.” snapped MacTavish. “Just sort it.”
That had been Wednesday, and Ghost had stormed out of their meeting, even more annoyed than he had been at the start. Unable to confide the truth in MacTavish, the pent-up frustration reached an intolerable peak, and Ghost had been unable to face returning to the rest of the men. Instead, he swam, diving deep into the cold silence of the water, shutting out the unbearable emotional noise. He pounded the water until his muscles ached, and his chest burned, but even the sleep of exhaustion brought no relief; Roach permeated his dreams, teasing him with his luscious lips until he woke, sticky and exhausted in damp sheets.
Finally, Friday dawned clear and bright with the prospect of blessed relief on the horizon. Some weeks previously, a plan to take everyone to the Hanover Beer Festival had been tabled, and everyone except Ghost had taken the opportunity to join up. The festival combined several things he happened to despise: gross marketing, crowds and obnoxious drunks. He had refused the cajoling and prodding the rest of the force and had initially planned to spend the weekend travelling up the capital on the excuse of “sightseeing”, a convenient ruse to cover his anonymous dalliances far away from his job. Instead, exhausted from the turmoil of the past fortnight he just wanted to be alone.
He returned to the quarters after the early winter darkness had drawn in, and fully expected the place to be empty and silent, but instead a light burned in the kitchen, and a tantalising smell filled the usually stale air. As he wandered along the corridor to investigate, a terrible sense of impending doom crept over him.

Roach was standing with his back to the door as it creaked open. He turned and nodded to acknowledge Ghost before returning to the chopping board.
“What are you doing here? Why... why aren’t you in Hanover?” stuttered Ghost.
Roach shrugged. “Too late. Couldn’t get tickets.”
He scooped up the meat he was chopping and dropped into the waiting pan with a flourish.
“What are you doing?” asked Ghost
“Cooking my dinner.” replied Roach.
“Is that... wine?”
“It’s a Mosel Reisling.”
“What? You a poof?”
Roach turned and gave Ghost a particularly withering look. “My brother’s a chef, twatface. Just ‘cause I’m in the army doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the finer things.” He prodded at the contents of the frying pan sullenly.
Ghost had no reply to this. Instead, he ignored Roach and emptied his bag onto the empty counter. He looked up to see Roach casting a scornful glance over the six-inch square of supermarket value lasagne and the half bottle of cheap vodka. Roach whistled, in mock awe.
“And?” snapped Ghost.
“Oh, I said nothing.” replied Roach.
“What have you got that’s so amazing then?”
“Pasta with chorizo and scallops.”
“What the fuck’s that.”
“It’s a type of Spanish salami and a scallop’s a shellfish.” replied Roach, his voice deliberately patronising.
Ghost had to admit, despite his homophobic bravado, that whatever was in the pan smelled incredible. He reached across with a fork and speared a piece of meat. Whatever it was called, it tasted just as good as it smelled. He was on his third slice before Roach told him to fuck off.

Ghost was starving, and although he didn’t want to be in the same room as Roach, he still had enough pride not to hide in his room eating uncooked lasagne just to avoid him, but Roach was still distracting, even if he was giving Ghost the cold shoulder.
Whilst his back was turned, and Ghost was taking a moment to appraise the curve of Roach’s backside, he had burnt himself and dropped the lasagne. This sorry display had melted Roach’s ICE enough that he split his own meal and poured him a glass of wine. Ghost had wanted to tell him to fuck off, but now he was bound to Roach by the generosity of a half- plate of pink spaghetti, and just tired. He should have told him to fuck off, but instead he sat down and for forty-five minutes there was blissful silence.
By the time the half-time whistle blew, Ghost was pleasantly tipsy, the wine lubricating his rusty social skills. He didn’t really give a shit which of the teams won but found himself enjoying hearing Roach talk aimlessly. If he’d had much sense of self-awareness left, he’d have been appalled to realise that he was actually enjoying talking to someone, and that having a conversation with Roach stirred something in his chest that he didn’t even known existed. He found himself laughing at one of Roach’s awful jokes, and then when Roach made some joking comment about Ghost’s usual grumpy demeanour Ghost picked up the cushion next to him and threw it, hitting Roach in the face.
There was a brief, vicious skirmish of cushion throwing ending with Roach springing from the couch, knocking Ghost from his perch on the armrest. They tumbled backwards as they wrestled to pin each other down. After about a minute, Ghost realised, with horror, that his arousal was obvious, but his desperation to throw Roach off had compromised his technique. In ten seconds, Roach had pinned him down sideways: Ghost’s left arm was trapped under Roach's right knee, whilst Roach’s thighs were wrapped around Ghost’s stomach, his stiffening cock pushed directly into Roach's skin. He waited for Roach to leap off, shocked.
Then, through the soft fog of the wine, Ghost felt something poke him. Roach had not leaped up, he had instead shifted his weight forward, leaning into the left hand that was grasping Ghost’s right wrist. As his groin moved across Ghost's thighs, he could feel the swelling erection concealed there.
Roach leant closer to him, the faint hint of a smile on his lips. He could feel his breath on his skin, the pressure building in his head as Roach stopped, his lips millimetres from Ghost’s own, and then he kissed him.
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