#ghoap angst

[tuutifuruti]

(I'm going to talk a little bit about Johnny's death. Don't take what I'm about to say as official. I'm just sharing my own thoughts. There may be minor errors or wrong things. I'm writing this on a sleepless night. Please excuse me. Thank you.)

When we look at Mw3, we can understand that Simon's past is generally associated with the Simon in the og game. So I'll take the past in general and comment on it.

As someone who has experienced multiple severe traumas in the past, recovery is very difficult. Without the necessary help and support, it can be almost impossible. And Simon's past was difficult. Deaths, threats, oppression, torture. It's hard for a normal person to come out of these things sane. Even if a person has achieved this, it would still be natural for some things to remind them of the past or give flashbacks.

And since I bought both time periods together, logically Simon would still be alive. This means that since OG didn't die in the game (according to my current logic), he saw everyones death. Again, by my logic, Soap would still be alive. But he saw Roach, Ramirez, Yuri, and many others die.

And it's difficult for someone who's experienced such severe trauma to experience such things again. The recovery process slows down or returns to square one.

Again, according to my logic, Makarov also will be alive. (OG dies in the last game. I won't say how bc it would be a spoiler for those who don't know.)

It would be normal for Simon to probably have a breakdown after losing Roach.

When he was so close to catching Makarov, Simon lost the person closest to him: the special someone who saw the man behind the mask.

Johnny.

I think someone who's been through that much trauma would shut down. And Simon probably did that too. But, If he can do even simple things like crack jokes with someone, that person is special for him. This is also a step towards recovery.

However, if a person experiences another major trauma on top of everything else, they cannot stay sane anymore. They will crack eventually.

What I mean is, I don't think Simon could have remained sane much longer after Johnny's death. All those memories, all those traumas will begin to surface. Again.

Everyone reacts to death differently. Some people scream, some people break things, some people cry every day, and some people never cry. But they all feel in different ways. Even if they don't think so.

So my thought is that Simon won't be able to stand strong much longer. His experiences have worn him down. They have made him what he is today. He is a grown and strong soldier. But he is a human too.

A human who feels.

[emmster]

I still fall for you/ like suns do for skies/ cerulean/ pouring in from your eyes

[luxcuriousao3]

"why do you only torture johnny" "why don't you ever torture ghost"

fool. torturing the loud mouthed scot is torturing that sad british man in a halloween mask. it's torture thru osmosis

[rawme-price]

Simon who accidentally upsets johnny, maybe spills water on a sketchbook or something idk. And it just, it sets Johnny off. He's had a horrible week, drills and work and chronic pain and now this?

He can't help it when his fists clench and his jaw sets, refusing to look at simon. "Seriously? I just- fuck- I cant-" he doesnt want to say anything he'll regret, but he genuinely feels like crying right now.

Simon lowkey freaks out, desperate to fix his mistake bc seeing Johnny upset is worse than torture. "Im sorry! Im really really sorry- you can uhm-" he tries to think of anything he owns of equal value, something as important, but comes up short. "You can hit me! You can! It will make you feel better, im really sorry-"

Simon's a bit frantic now, stepping closer and kneeling down as if to actually be hit. He grabs johnnys hand when it doesnt move and only pauses in his rambling when said hand is wrenched from his grasp. He looks up to see johnnys horrified expression, tears at his lashes. "What...si, simon, hey." Johnny kneels down to gently hold Simon's face "you know id never hit you, not like that, right? You dont deserve that."

Simon purses his lips, looks away. "I know that..." it sounds weak even to his own ears "but- I would let you, if- if you needed to." He says it like a romantic promise, voice only quivering a bit in the back of his throat. Johnny feels sick.

There's nothing to be said, not really. Suddenly the sketchbook doesnt seem so important.

[julia4today]

cw: death

overlooking the coffin of your mate is an experience most military men share.

not johnny though, no. johnny was immortal. in simon’s mind, at least. reluctant to admit it, simon imagined growing old with johnny. maybe going back to johnny’s family farm and living off the land.

it’s so odd to see him in this state, livor mortis. lord knows johnnys family couldn’t afford the luxury costs of a good mortician so his skin maintains the lifeless, gray look he died with.

he’s still. quiet. very unlike him. it’s eerie. an uncomfortable feeling crawls up simon’s back. the sounds of johnnys mother weeping rings in his ears. a kind woman, she is. always was inviting when johnny suggested the two of them going up to the highlands on holiday. simon never accepted though… he wish he had.

members of johnnys expansive family intermingle with the somber military crowd. they all stay under a the tent. lush green grass spreads across the cemetery as light rain pitter patters above their head. some of johnnys favorite weather.

when johnny was younger his mother would have him go out in the rain. splashing in puddles, rolling around in mud, wrestling with the dogs…

everybody wears black, which is a typical choice for simon. ordinarily he’d silently commend everybody for their shared color. but now it feels wrong. like an insult.

anguish wasn’t a feeling johnny felt often and he certainly wouldn’t want his family and friends to be feeling in such a way. but johnny was a light. was. and now that light is gone.

simon takes a leave of absence from his station. the leave stretches days, which morphs into weeks, and eventually months. he becomes a brittle shell of his, already cracking, former self. he does not understand how the rest of his team could continue in this way.

simon’s behavior is unusual. when his family had died he took less than a day off. he refused to process. not even severe injuries could keep him away from work. so why now?

well, his johnny is gone. his mate, his best friend, his first and only love.

[subliminalghoest]

Safe house

Ghoap x f!reader

The safehouse was barebones—four walls, a door that didn’t close properly, and a single narrow bed shoved against the wall like an afterthought. One thin blanket. No heater. Concrete floors so cold they bit through your boots.

Soap stepped in first, glancing around with a sigh. “Right, well. Guess this place was built for one poor bastard, not three.”

Ghost dropped his gear by the wall with a grunt. “I’ll take the floor.”

“Hell no,” you said automatically, slinging your pack down. “You’ll freeze.”

“I’m used to it.”

Soap rolled his eyes and gave Ghost a flat look. “You’ve got enough screws loose without adding hypothermia to the list.”

“Then I’ll take the floor,” you offered, already tugging at your jacket zipper. “I’m small enough to crash on my pack.”

Both men gave you the same sharp look.

“No,” Ghost said, voice final.

“You’ll ache for a week,” Soap added. “We’re not doing that.”

You all stood there a moment, silent, stubborn. Then Soap looked at the bed again and shrugged.

“We’re all adults. One bed, three bodies. Head to toe if we have to.”

You arched a brow. “Ever tried sleeping with Ghost’s boots near your face?”

Ghost snorted, the faintest smirk in his voice. “I’m not sleeping in my boots, you know.”

Eventually, an agreement was made: all three of you in the bed, boys facing outward—Ghost on one side, Soap on the other, and you safe in the middle. They’d flank you, keep you warm, no funny business. Just sleep.

That had been the plan, anyway.

You weren’t sure what time it was when you woke up—just that the moonlight had shifted and the room was bathed in soft silver. You were too warm, wrapped in heat that had nothing to do with the thin blanket.

Soap’s arm was slung lazily over your waist, his hand resting just beneath the hem of your shirt, skin-to-skin and entirely unbothered. His breath tickled the curve of your neck, soft and steady. One of his legs had somehow worked its way between yours, your leg hitched over his.

Behind you, Ghost was molded to your back, chest pressed close, the slow rise and fall of his breath an anchor against your spine. One of his arms wrapped around your middle, the other tucked beneath the pillow you shared. Protective. Possessive. Present.

You shifted slightly, caught between warmth and awareness, and felt Soap's fingers twitch.Ghost’s hand tightened, just a fraction. Like they both felt it too.

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t anything overt. Nothing crude. You were surrounded, caged in heat and strength and quiet tension.

And God, it felt good.

You could’ve pulled back. Should’ve. But you didn’t. You leaned in—drifting your fingers along Ghost’s forearm, letting your leg press deeper against Soap’s. Neither man spoke, but Soap’s breath caught, quiet and sharp.

Ghost... Ghost exhaled against the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, his face pressing in closer.

You fell asleep again like that—wrapped in the kind of tension that lulled you rather than startled. Wanting to stay wrapped in this dream a little longer before having to face reality.

—————————————————————————

The second time you woke, it was slower—every inch of your body aware before your mind caught up.

Warmth. Weight. Pressure. Breath against your throat.

Soap had shifted in the night, his head now tucked beneath your chin, resting lightly on your bicep. Your arm had curled around him, cradling him. His hand had drifted lower, fingers curved gently around the dip of your thigh. Your hips pressed snugly to his. Innocent, but barely.

Behind you, Ghost had only pulled you closer—his hand now splayed along your ribs, thumb rhythmically stroking the soft skin just under your breast.

You stayed still. Testing the moment.

Then you moved—just a little. A shift, nothing more.

Soap stirred against you, his body pressing closer.

Ghost’s hand stilled… then resumed its slow stroke.

Deliberate. Intentional.

“You’re awake,” came Ghost’s voice—low, gravelly. Dangerous.

You swallowed. “Didn’t mean to move.”

“Didn’t say stop.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Soap chuckled, his voice still thick with sleep and something else. “Think she likes waking up between us.” He arched his neck up and you felt his nose run up your neck, running back down to your collar bone where he nuzzled into you.

Your breath hitched.

“You’re imagining things,” you mumbled, but your voice betrayed you. Soft. Breathless.

“You sure about that?” Ghost leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear through the mask. “Because from where I’m lying, you haven’t moved away.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. You were burning now—trapped between them and completely unwilling to escape.

Soap shifted again, his hand trailing down your thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your shorts. “We won’t do anything you don’t want, love,” he murmured.

“But if you want something…” Ghost said, voice dropping to a low, dark promise, “…just say it.”

The silence stretched.

And you wondered how you were going to convince yourself that this was a bad idea.

Part two Here

[fluetytooty]

ghoastsoap cute little love story

[lahnabelle]

leftover

[ch3rrybbie]

Get free

Ghoap x reader oneshot

Warnings: angst, death, smut allusions.

Summary: out of the black into the blue.

The jeep shook you as it sped down the dirt road.

A hot summers night, somewhere.

It didn’t matter where. What mattered was that this was where you were slipping.

The stench of dust and iron lay taught in the air as you were tossed between Soap and Ghost.

A rock and a hard place.

Your fingers were all you could focus on, ignoring Price and Gaz in the front checking on you every so often.

Ignoring that was all any of them could do.

Fingers numb and dulling, you felt barely able to feel the wound in your side.

You start to sag further in your seat, only to be dragged up by your tactical jacket.

Ghost.

“You’re fine, sit up straight” he commands fear tinging his bite.

You laugh delirious, he sure did pick his moments to show he cared.

He did’t show you he cared when he made you run 50 laps for laughing. He didn’t show he cared when he asked Price to bar you from a mission for carelessness. He didn’t show he cared all those times you were in the med bay. He didn’t show he cared when he slipped from your room under the crest of night. Leaving you sweat licked and teary.

It was your turn to leave him.

Soap licks your wounds, stroking your matted hair. At least there would be comfort in these last moments.

Soap always showed he cared.

It was like he couldn’t help it.

Always five paces behind. Hand always a caress apart. Always running beside you. Always shouting for you.

Lips pressed tight to you, swallowing doubts.

You were floating, light as air. Head swimming in delirium. Thick chuckles vibrate through you.

They all turn to stare each wearing an expression worse than the last.

A nymph amongst the dammed. A saint amongst sinners. The dead were always the holiest. You would be martyred.

Being the only woman in 141 had never given you any grace. Never meant differential treatment in the wounds shared. If it’d been anyone else in your seat the same glances would be shared.

But this meant you would be absolved of the awful things you all did.

Where would you go? What world awaited you?

Sleep nudged at your heavy soul.

You were a child again, sleeping softly against your mother. A drama playing on the TV, lulling you into the quiet.

What did Ghost care anyways, you tired of this back and forth. Of this life. Missions and gore and blood and running and killing.

For what?

You let your hand slip from you wound. Spite taking your hand and kissing it in praise.

Fuck Ghost.

You didn’t need to say anything, any goodbyes or I love yous could be imagined or there.

What did you care.

They knew you.

They knew you.

So you lean against Johnny, allowing yourself this small comfort. Hand, bloodied and limp falling against Simon’s thigh.

He grips it harshly and attempts to stem the wild blood flow running from you.

You can’t hear his barks anymore.

Eyes closed you tune into the soft strokes of Johnny’s hand. His soft touch calls you in the way he does, soft pats of ‘lassie’ and ‘Bonnie’ soothe false fears once again.

———

Johnny does what Simon never could, accept.

You can’t breathe life into a wilting flower as his mother would say. She would’ve loved you, he thinks.

He knows.

Johnny was selfless as always he would give comfort to you, no matter how much it hurt. He feels you soften and still, not daring to check,he looks to Simon’s frantic movements.

———

Simon was selfish in his wanting. Hands bloodied he attempts to animate you. Perhaps his pushing and pulling will respark your heart and put wind in your lungs. Perhaps not, and yet he persists. He wants you come come back and kill him, to drown him in your blood and drag him with you like some wrathful harpy.

Come back and hate me. Come back and kill me.

———

Ch3rrybbie says: sorry the ghoap x reader fixation made me write this will try get requests out asap, this got me out of the writing slump lol.

[i-give-u--art]

The bugs were not letting me rest

[eiraeths]

ghost who rejected soap years ago because there’s no way soap loved him. soap, years younger than him with so little experience, couldn’t’ve looked at him with anything more than puppy love. time continues on and things shift. they’re put on different teams and it’s ages before they reunite. they’re both older now, both different. ghost says to hell with it and they hook up. it’s messy, it’s almost everything ghost could’ve wanted. it’s too detached. ghost considers pressing a kiss to soap’s sweaty forehead, staring at the way the hair starts to curl at the root, devoid of gel. soap pulls away before he can. gone is the adoration in soap’s bright eyes, resignation haven taken root.

before soap leaves he stops and turns his head, looking at ghost who’s still on the bed. “I used to really love you, you know.”

and fuck doesn’t ghost know it.

[kitixie]

sorry i’m just still plagued over it

[luxcuriousao3]

Call of Duty Masterlist

I write for Simon "Ghost" Riley, John "Soap" MacTavish, Kyle Gaz Garrick, Captain John Price, and König.

I write the occasional Ghoap fic, but mostly either OC or fem!Reader fics. I don't cross tag or mislabel them. If it's a reader fic, there will be no names (or y/n) used, it will be either exclusively second person or a mix of second and third, it will only be tagged as Character x Reader, and any physical descriptions will be minimal (pretty much just a mentions of Reader having hair that's long enough to pull/pet lol). OC fics, on the other hand, will have a fleshed out, fully described FMC, only be tagged Character x OC, and always be exclusively in third person.

Requests are always open, but I will be honest that I don't answer them in "first come first served" manner. I just answer them when I get inspiration for whatever prompt you've sent in. Please don't let that stop you from sending them--I am always happy to receive asks, I promise that as long as they are nice, they are never annoying! I am also a staunch supporter of SALS and YKINMKATO mindsets, so you never have to fear judgement from me about any of your ideas. If it's not something I am interested in/comfortable writing, I will just not write it, but I'll never shame you for it.

I do ask you avoid sending me requests that include a) breathplay of any type (even "light" breathplay--if it at all restricts the ability to breathe even a little bit, I won't write it), b) degradation, or c) the boys or reader engaging in infidelity, as those triggers for me. The only reason I mention them specifically, and not any other triggers/squicks I have, is because I know it's very prevalent. Again, no judgement if that's your thing. Just keeping myself safe :)

I welcome and encourage feedback of any kind, including constructive criticism, on my full form fics! I also welcome and encourage you to add your own additions to my blurbs. I would be delighted to see them.

Edit: My stance on writing fics inspired by/based off of any of my writing :) (Includes a great GazSoap fic someone wrote due to one of my Gaz blurbs!)

Bold = fic No bold = blurb

Ghost

Dove (A Zombie!Ghost Story) Masterlist

Ghost/General's Daughter!Reader

Fevered Mistakes (Alpha!Ghost/Omega!Reader) | Less Angsty Ending

Mutt (Ghost) | Alternate Expanded Version

A Little Misunderstanding

Bumblebees

Rich Girl!Reader

Virgin!Simon Riley

Soap

Mutt (Soap)

Stalker Soap | Part Two

Price

Urges

Price takes care of you after you drink too much | Part Two | Part Three

Dom Price

Musician Price

Repressed Bi!Price/Transmac Reader

Kink Headcanon

Gaz

Modeling

Gaz/Ugly!Reader

Comfort

König

Mutter (König/OFC) | Part Two

König ABO

Mommy's Sweet Boy

Collared

Obsessed

Perv!König

More König Mommy Kink

Oh noooo how embarrassing

Rubber Ducky

A Bloody Feast

Lactation

Pathetic König just wants to be loved

Drunk Sex with König

Not-so-Creepy Landlord König | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

Mother's Day

König's First Time

TF 141 (Poly/Reader, Individual/Reader, and Gen)

TF 141 + Eyes

Rut Inducers (TF141)

Undercover

TF 141 + The Best They've Ever Had

This Means War

Stuffed Animals

Captured!Reader

Duck

Wolf Hybrid!Reader | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Soap Interlude | Part 5 | Part 6

Doubt: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Ghoap

Ugly

Selfish | Cruel

Mer!Soap/Human!Ghost

Ghoap gets set up by reader

Intimacy Headcanon

[asbeel]

In the tunnel, Ghost stayed next to Soap even though there was a bomb about to go off.

You think, maybe...

He didn't move or encourage price to diffuse the bomb

Because, in thst moment... he really wanted that bomb to detonate so he could join johnny

[rip-cod-brainrot]

Imagining a monster hunting AU where Soap unfortunately perishes on the job

Ghost carries on with a heavy heart

A little over a year later, he gets another call to go to around the same area where Soap died. Something about a particularly vicious, persistent ghost.

Imagining Ghost biting the bullet, facing the place where his lover died… only to look at the spirit and realize Soap may have died, but his soul never rested.

[phantasm-ae]

im still hung up on cod mw3 im sorry😭

cw: angst, slightly canon, events take place before cod mw3

HEADCANON: Soap drags Ghost to a fortune teller. They end up learning stuff that stirs something…

PAIRING: Ghoap

something something, Soap dragging his CO after a brief break in the recon into a grimly little tent somewhere in Romania.

The scot seeing the sign and thought it'd be a laugh. "Madam Kora --Truth. Past Lives. Marriage Prospects" on faded gold paint. A tiny plastic skull taped to the corner of the tarp for some added flair. Tent flaps marshing in the wind like it wanted to escape.

It looked curse. That was Ghost's first thought

Second thought: if this was how he died -- hexed in the middle of bloody rural Romania because Soap couldn't resist a gag -- then he deserved it. He enabled this. He didn't punch Soap in the mouth when he had the chance. Never actually wanting to. Never could. Okay fine. That was on him.

Third thought: if this woman cursed him into marrying John MacTavish, he'd never hear the end of it.

Soap had already pushed his way inside like it was a bloody legendary pub and not a shanty tent pulsing with incense and ancient curses. Ghost stood just outside the entrance, staring at the plastic skull swinging in the breeze like it was trying to warn him. It probably was.

"Git in, ya grumpy shite!" Soap’s voice called from within. “She’s got tea!”

That was not a selling point. Promise, Ghost lies.

Ghost ducked inside anyway, because he was tired and it was Johnny plus the wind was picking up, and Soap had that look in his eye -- the one that always meant trouble with a capital T. The gaze that usually ended with Ghost babysitting someone through either a hangover or a near-death experience. Ghost was never even sure anymore at this point.

The inside was dim and smelled like burnt rosemary and regret. Candles flickered on cracked saucers, casting dancing shadows across velvet drapes and bead curtains. A fan whirred softly in the corner, utterly failing to disperse the smoke. Ghost could barely make out the outline of a grimly woman. A tiny wiry thing sitting cross-legged behind a small, round table covered in what seem liked wax stains and... tarot? cards.

"You came seeking answers," she said immediately, not even looking up. Her voice was raspy and bored, like she'd already done five of these today and everyone asked the same damn questions.

“Naw, just here fer a laugh”, Soap said cheerfully, plonking himself into the nearest seat. "He came 'cause I gave him a wee guilt-trip"

Madam Kora slowly looked up at Ghost.

“You carry death in your eyes,” she said, squinting at him. “And trauma. And... a lot of repressed sexual energy.”

Soap choked on his tea.

Ghost froze.

“…Excuse me?”

“I said what I said.” She gestured to the empty seat across from her. “Sit. Let the cards speak.”

“This is bollocks,” Ghost muttered, but sat anyway. His knees cracked. He was too old for this.

Kora reached out, grabbed Soap’s hand first. She hummed. Flipped a card.

“Ah. The Fool.”

Soap beamed. “Ach, sounds braw.”

She pulled another card. “And The Lovers.”

Soap raised a brow. “Oh?”

“And Death.”

“…Aye, alright,” he said carefully. “A right mixed bag.”

Then she turned to Ghost.

And took his hand.

Pausing. Quiet. Distant...

The tent fell silent. Ghost swore he even heard the fan stopped spinning.

Her expression changed though -- no longer vaguely annoyed, but something deeper. Eyes wide. Breath hitching a bit and brows furrowed. Voice softening and... concealing.

“You two,” she whispered. “Have been married. Four times.”

Soap blinked.

Ghost’s entire body locked up like someone had yanked his power cord.

“Each life,” she continued, “you found each other. Through fire. Through war. Through pain. And love. Always, love.”

Ghost ripped his hand back so fast the table shook.

“Right,” he said, standing up almost immediately. “This was a mistake.”

Soap looked like he’d just been handed a lifetime subscription to his favorite joke. Grinning madly like an idiot. Cackling with toothy glee “Oi! Married? Four times?”

Madam Kora gave a solemn nod. “Bound souls. You’ll find each other again.”

“Get out of the tent,” Ghost growled, already stomping out. But he could hear the grin in Soap’s voice as he followed:

“Should I start writin' ma vows noo, or—?”

"I said out Johnny. Now."

Later that night -- miles away however, from the cold campfire smoke and the ache of unspoken things -- Madam Kora sat alone again in her now-silent tent.

Candles now burning low. Creased, indented, and stained cards were stacked neatly in her lap, though she hadn’t touched them in hours.

She rarely remembered faces after readings. They blurred, mostly. Tourists and drunkards and the curious. But not them. Not the man in the mask, and not the boy with the laugh in his mouth and war in his spine.

She remembered how the air shifted when she touched the masked one’s hand.

How heavy it became.

How still.

She had seen fire. Smoke. Love so raw it was bleeding. A man built like a fortress, crumbling, piece by piece, because the world never let him keep the things that softened him. Not for long.

She saw them together. Fingers laced. A joke shared across the kitchen table. A hand on a scarred back in the dark. A home that smelled like tea and gun oil and laughter forced through grief. Ghost smiling -- not much, but real.

But it was only for a moment.

Because then came the silence. The sound of a gunshot in a room she couldn't see. The ache that cracked through time.

She’d seen the moment Johnny MacTavish dies.

And worse -- she’d seen what it did to the man in the mask.

She didn’t tell him. She never did. What would be the point?

You don’t tell a man already carrying a hundred ghosts that he’s about to meet one more.

Still, she whispered a prayer to whatever gods still listened in that part of the world. For the soul that wandered. And the soul that stayed behind.

Even now, she hoped -- maybe this time, maybe this life -- they could outrun it.

Even if only for a little while.

masterlist