sergeantwoods - Tumblr blog

[sergeantwoods]

reblog if you think soap and ghost meow at each other and completely understand the context of the meows and can have a conversation. it’s for science.

[sergeantwoods]

[sergeantwoods]

post roba, before the 141

ghost sat. he just sat there. a shard of glass in hand, in his room that price had assigned him. he felt hollow. like someone had cut open his head and scooped out his brain. and his heart. was there. just there, serving no real purpose. it ached, beating dully.

the sound of the door opening startled ghost slightly into looking at whoever was entering. he swore he had locked the door - hadnt he learned his lesson by now? when he realized it was price, he slowly looked away and back at the glass in his hand.

price was silent for a moment before asking softly, "whats wrong?"

simon stayed quiet, then whispered hoarsely, "my hand hurts."

price snorted, gesturing to the piece of glass in his hand. "yeah, because you're holding a shard of glass."

"i know."

"so why dont you let it go?"

simons eyes strayed from the piece of glass to prices face, before turning to stare blankly in front of himself. "i dont know. ive had it for a long time."

price walked closer to ghost, yet still kept his distance. simon appreciated that. "why do you even have a shard of glass?" price mused.

simon hesitated. "...it used to something else before it broke," he paused, before adding quietly. "but now i dont know what to do, and im afraid of letting it go."

"the only way you'll feel better is if you let it go," price remarked softly. simon could feel the holes the man was staring into his head.

"i dont remember a time in my life where i didnt have it, and the pain of having it might be better than the pain of losing it," ghost responded, dipping his head to observe the glass. it had already cut into his hand, tiny drops of blood finding themselves leaving simons skin.

"if the shard of glass doesnt serve you and only causes you pain, its not worth holding onto, and the only way you can heal is if you let go." price said carefully, slowly coming to stand next to ghost.

"okay," ghost mumbled, dropping the shard. it clattered to the ground, the edges painted in red. the glass splintered at the sides.

"how do you feel?" price asked, raising a brow at the piece of glass on the floor before directing his attention back to ghost.

"weird," he grouched, then added, "and bad. and my hand is still bleeding."

price chuckled. "healing takes time. one day, you won't even remember you had a cut on your hand."

"what should i do with the glass?"

"leave it, its not your responsibility anymore."

simon paused, contemplating. "i know, but i feel bad about littering."

price smiled. "you're right, ill put it in the trash." he reached down to grab the glass, startling when simon interupted again.

"no, i'll do it." he said, as he picked the glass up again.

-

i hope u understood the hidden meaning to that

i also got this from something i saw but i wrote it in a ghost/price father/son relationship thing

the link for the original video where i found it is here !! (ignore that its a yt short, i get bored and scroll sometimes ,,, )

raaaaahjshsjdfs im going to go play dmz now !!!

[sergeantwoods]

HELLO???

[sergeantwoods]

[sergeantwoods]

[sergeantwoods]

soap needed some time - some time to rewind. after missions, depending on how they were, he'd feel... overwhelmed. mind reeling, going over everything that had happened. he needed his journal to write down what he felt, how he felt, what had happened, so that he wouldn't have to remember it after. it was nice.

and he'd draw too, if he was feeling the urge to sketch something down.

and it was fucking gorgeous right now. they were in al mazrah, some in and out mission to gather intel. it was just the four of them, just soap, ghost, price and gaz. he (personally) liked those missions the most.

laswell set up this safehouse for them, just for the night, because tomorrow morning, exfil would come and pick them up. they each had their own rooms, small with a twin sized bed that was probably too small for any of them - but that was fine, soap probably wasn't going to sleep in a while. he'd go back to his room when he felt like it.

his gazed swept over the desert, the sun slowly sinking over the belt of amber sand in the distance. everything was lit in an ethereal orange glow, his already tan skin practically glowing. (he wasn't saying that to make himself feel pretty, no sir.)

he had his journal in one hand, pen twirling idly in his fingers of the other as he watched the sunset. he had written down everything in his journal about the mission, and now, with this view - he wanted to draw.

but - he felt as though he couldn't capture it. the otherworldly beauty couldn't be caught on paper. he had two pens - one thick, one thin - but that didn't matter really. the colors, the colors are what he wanted to draw.

fuckin' hell, he'd die for some pencils or markers even watercolor, but he isn't bringing any of that to a mission. that's bordering childish. it's nice to be childlike every once in a while, no?

he leaned back onto the roof, shutting his eyes and letting out a small breath. it's nice. pretty, and the weather is perfect. he'd stay here for the rest of his life, if he could.

the almost silent padding of feet approaching him made him open one eye to glance scornfully at the intruder. he immediately softened, though, seeing ghost.

leaning forward, soap patted the spot next to him, uncrossing his legs and letting them swing off the edge of the building. ghost came to stand beside soap, slowly crouching down to sit next to him.

they just sit there. quiet, excluding the shuffles of ghost shifting his weight around and soap sketching on paper.

soap pulls away from his paper, turning to stare at ghost.

the man was bathed in a tawny light, white mask basking in beige-ish cream sunlight. he turned to look at soap, tilting his head slightly as if asking, what's on your mind?

"did you know, after death the human brain lives on for seven minutes?" soap asked, quietly. his gaze slid away from ghosts, settling on focusing again on his paper before adding with a shrug, "to replay it's best memories,"

he felt ghost press closer to soap slightly, then murmured back, "yeah? that's cool to think about."

"aye."

it's quiet for a few seconds before soap continues.

"you'd be my seven minutes."

-

i saw something about this and i had to write it but ghoap

but yay, yippee, zoinks ,,,!!! the writings bad because i didnt care!!!

take some fucking ghoap you loser /j

[sergeantwoods]

@smollestduck-sketches

REVERSE TROPE WRITING PROMPTS

Too many beds

Accidentally kidnapping a mafia boss

Really nice guy who hates only you

Academic rivals except it’s two teachers who compete to have the best class

Divorce of convenience

Too much communication

True hate’s kiss (only kissing your enemy can break a curse)

Dating your enemy’s sibling

Lovers to enemies

Hate at first sight

Love triangle where the two love interests get together instead

Fake amnesia

Soulmates who are fated to kill each other

Strangers to enemies

Instead of fake dating, everyone is convinced that you aren’t actually dating

Too hot to cuddle

Love interest CEO is a himbo/bimbo who runs their company into the ground

Nursing home au

[sergeantwoods]

chapter 2 is out !! already !!

thank you ducki for this amazing chap 😁😁

[sergeantwoods]

@smollestduck-sketches IK I SAID WAS GOIBG TO BED BUT I SCROLL FOR A BIT BEFORE THAT AND LOOOOOOOK !!!!

JOHN SOAP MACTAVISH???

[sergeantwoods]

stand-up comedian ghost and die-hard fan soap please

coughs

please?

[sergeantwoods]

[sergeantwoods]

[sergeantwoods]

[sergeantwoods]

ARCTIC MONKEYS !!! RAAAAAH !!!

I’m SUCH a sucker for drunk calls/texts confessing their love PLS and y’all know I gotta project it onto ghoap (buckle up guys its a long one I had to break it into two parts SORRY)

Soap’s blood is pumping. He can feel it heat up in his cheeks in the form of a blush, giggles bubbling up in his throat and his mind loose enough to just sew together a semblance of a bad idea.

Deployment had been boring at first. Stuck at home with unending nervous energy, fingers twitching and aching for the solid feel of a gun, the rough texture of his vest, the adrenaline clapping him on the shoulder before shooting through his veins like a drug. It was so unendingly dull. It’s not like he had anyone waiting for him at his apartment in Glasgow, and their break time was too short to visit his Ma.

So why not invite a few buddies out to drink? No harm, no foul.

Well, that’s what he initially thought. A couple hours later of wheezing and pounding of the table, shoes sticking to the ground and the smell of booze wafting though the air, Soap could confidently say that he was wasted. He’s leaning heavily on his buddy, chum, pal, that he for the life of him cannot remember right now. He’s swaying from side to side, feeling unusually breathless as he mumbles what could be the song that’s playing right now. He’s not sure. He combs his fingers through his hair, scratching a bit anxiously at the nape of his neck. Soap’s not sure if he wants to cry or laugh or vomit right about now. Pretty sure that’s a sign to fuck off, pass out on his bed and deal with the rest tomorrow.

Soap pushes off his… friend? Wait, did he even come with him? And heads towards the general direction where the toilet is. Might as well not look like a homeless person before heading home, wouldn’t wanna scare anyone. His head is spinning, pounding, loud, loud, loud, and nowhere near done with its madness. Soap slams his hand on the wall beside the toilet door, squinting and hoping the door he’s reaching for is the actual door, not it’s double. He does, in fact, get the right door (small miracles), and pushes it open.

He fumbles with his zipper and exhales heavily as he relieves himself. The man beside him in the toilet exits with a sniffle and stumbles out, the music getting louder for a second before the door closes again. Soap leans heavily against the sink counter and washes his hands, placing his fingers together and splashing water onto his face. Soap drags his hands down before greyish-blue eyes look back at him with a piercing stare. He blinks, and re-evaluates again. His hair is flopping to one side, weighed down by sweat. His face is flushed and his skin glows slightly with a thin sheen of sweat, his freckles just shy of being seen under his rosy cheeks, eyebags evident through the haze. He looks down and- oh. It appears his attempt at splashing his face with water wasn’t as successful as he’d hoped, half of his shirt drenched in water. Soap tugs loosely at the corner of his sleeves, releasing the bundled up fabric at his pits. He frowns in discomfort as the sticky heat of his arms lay back down against his skin. He sighs once more, not really feeling like his lungs are filling with oxygen, turning around and laying his hip against the counter lazily before pulling out his phone. 0237. He swipes down on his home screen and pouts at the “no new notifications” tab. He unlocks his phone and swipes through his contacts, unsure of who to drunk text at this hour. Gaz is probably asleep by now, if anyone has a spotless sleeping schedule, it’d be him. Price would have his head on a platter if he texted him about anything non-military business. Laswell, no. Ghost?

Huh.

Ghost…could be someone he could text. Soap isn’t quite sure if he would be awake right now. Do ghosts even need sleep? He huffs at his little comment, tapping on their chat together. Do they have the kind of relationship where soap can dramatically drunk text Ghost at 2am right now? Soap lets out a little bemused huff when he sees that he reached a dead end to their chat after one swipe of his thumb. Of course. Right bastard doesn’t text anyone. He tilts his head up to meet the flickering white light of the bathroom ceiling, watching water damage and mold streak across the concrete. Ghost… how is he during deployment? Does he still wear that mask around the relative safety of his own apartment? Does he have any hobbies? Does he go to the gym as well? Does he long to be back on base? Does he long to be back in the chaos of the war zone, alongside soap? Does he think of soap? Does he ever think to- before Soap knows what he’s even doing, his fingers clumsily type out a greeting.

Hwlli

That’s not quite right.

Gellp

Nope.

Hellu

Oh my god.

Hello

There we go! Soap smiles giddily at his screen, bringing it closer to his face before very carefully writing a much more sophisticated and brilliant follow up.

U up?

He’s the smartest person in the entire world. He supposes a part of himself preens at the thought of even just being able to text someone like Ghost. Big, bad, Ghost. He decidedly does not giggle like a schoolgirl. Just as his mind starts to wander back to the world outside the sickly bathroom, his phone vibrates, and looks down in confusion.

Drunk?

Soap frowns.

Who

You.

Wanna try anf gues, Lt?

You are drunk.

He says it like it’s a fact, like he knows everything. It annoys Soap, much more than it should. He supposes that it could maybe be something to do with the massive amounts of alcohol thrumming through his bloodstream at the moment, but he knows for a fact that it slices through his brain, presses against his throat and contracts his chest.

Yiu think so?

I know so.

Soap thinks Ghost is being a real dick right now.

Ittle know iy all

You’re drunk, Johnny. What do you want me to do about it?

Johnny. Johnny. Johnny. His head spins. If he closes his eyes and imagines hard enough, he can hear the raspy gravel of Ghost’s solid, thick British accent murmuring commanders into his ear. Speaking of noises, his brain starts to register more of the music from outside, the start of a song that Soap can vaguely remember, but he can’t quite put his finger on it right now. The electric guitar, drums and bass all purr in his subconciousness, his lips parting over the words, moving silently as he tries to pinpoint exactly where in the song he is right now. There’s this tune… think of you.. repeat, until I fall asleep, spilling drinks on my settee…do I wanna know? Soap whispers, his mind curling and his ribs creaking. He feels like he’s truly, deeply losing it now, fingers slowly loosening over his phone. His head feels too big and his cheeks are burning, his shirt too tight against his chest and arms and his toes too restricted under his shoes. Everything was funny and everything was too bright and shiny and yearning and blurring and he wishes Ghost was here and he wishes everything was different and he wishes life could just be a little bit easier and-

His phone is vibrating.

[sergeantwoods]

He is inside your house, got it?