#GhostSoap

[stinglesswasp]

Destinations (part 2)

[notyoucat]

More animal ghoap doodles from twitter 🐻‍❄️🦝

Booping your boyfriends snoot 🦦🐺

[lanialania00]

[naconaco]

Commission

[shadow0-1]

reunite

[hai-nae]

a com for mermay, my first ever time contributing 🙊 see uncen here on twt detail/full zoom under cut, it's my fav johnny face now! 🥰

[atreiides]

Oooohhh, for the Soap prompts: A roadtrip!

Just him, some car, sunset and the road without end!!!

I agree! Although Soap's gonna be like this for the entire time

[heymurada]

First installment of my art for the COD Big Bang event!

Shout out and big thanks to @samuelroukin for his incredible story and for being an absolute writing machine.

Start reading it here (link)! Chapters + art will be updated weekly.

[karuu-na]

shouldnt be smoking so much Johnny

[cod-dump]

Soap: Babe, why's your passcode different on your tablet than your phone?

Ghost: Well, Kyle and John know my phone passcode and I don't want them finding my porn

Soap: Wha-

Price, loudly from the other room: YOUR FUCKING WHAT!?

Ghost: I-

Price: ON YOUR WORK PROVIDED TABLET!?!?

Ghost: IT'S A JOKE- A JOKE

Price: I SWEAR ON YOUR MOTHER'S FUCKING GRAVE-

Soap:

[lanialania00]

Ghost doesn't know how to be on the other side.

[tanked-up]

Soap: We’re so in love

Ghost: You know that I hate you right

Soap: We’re so in love

Gaz: Ye-

Ghost: YOU KNOW THAT HE’S MINE. Right

Gaz: SONOFABITCH HE’S MINE TOO

[fire-in-my-woods]

Ghost is the husband that waits outside while the missus (soap) smells every single candle in bath & body works

[bears-are-my-favourite-colour]

I would like everyone to know that when I think of Ghoap, this is what I imagine. Especially in anything that involves courting behaviours (omegaverse/merfolk/etc). It's just Soap and his big wife who he loves and is obsessed with.

[phantasm-ae]

cw: fluff, drabble

HEADCANON: Soap accidentally joins a cult, much to Ghost’s headache

PAIRING: Ghoap

they were supposed to be doing recon.

In. Out.

Quiet.

Minimal contact. No eyes. No chatter. No interference. Nothing out of the ordinary.

A sleepy village somewhere up in the Carpathians. Lovely land it was. Foggy in the mornings. Cold. A bit damp but green as hell in the afternoon. Quiet too. Silent and peaceful in the kind of way that made you wonder if sound should have ever existed there to begin with.

But like Laswell briefed. Some bloody shady bloke took advantage of the isolated land and marsh. Housing and smuggling in some illegal arms and explosives disguised as relief shipments.

So of course. Ghost and Soap got sent in to scope it out.

It was a simple recon.

Ghost didn't mind it. Not really.

To be fair. He thought this was the most peace and quiet he was going to get all quarter.

No gunfire. No close-quarter scraps in stairwells. No dodging fucking shrapnel or sprinting through burning compounds. Just trees. Wet and mossy soil. The occasional crow. Marshy terrain and birdsong. Simple stuff.

Ghost likes simple stuff.

Ghost liked watching. Recording. Mapping routes while he let Johnny mutter observations into the comms. Having tolerated it to the point that he didn't even scold him anymore for it. Christ, even his chatter was low today -- something about the fog making him "mysterious" or some shite. No matter though. They'd done the hard part already anyway. Mapped the village, tagged the supply route, confirmed that the relief trucks weren't carrying food indeed but enough military-grade plastique to level a city block. All they had left to do now was confirm the time of the next drop, pass it up the chain, and exfil.

Simple stuff.

Ghost liked simple stuff.

Except.

Soap had vanished.

And not even a full vanish. Not at fucking first, no.

He'd waved Ghost off with a "Just takin' a look doon tha' alley. Be two ticks". That was 47 minutes. Ghost wasn't counting, he lied

Which, in fairness, wasn’t new. The Scot had a habit of getting chatty with strangers like it was a pub crawl and not a classified mission. One smile and he’d have half the village offering him tea and stories of their dead uncle who once fought a bear.

Ghost let it slide the first time. Maybe even the second.

But when Soap didn’t check in at the designated mark time, and Ghost circled back to their last known, only to find bloody flower petals on the ground and Johnny’s comm unit hanging from a goat’s horn like a charm --

Yeah.

That’s when Ghost knew things had gone tits-up.

He radioed in twice. No response. Trying not to panic as he commed in the others that were on overwatch. Nothing. No chatter. No static. Just that eerie bloody silence he once found peaceful now absolutely making his skin crawl.

Christ alive, he muttered to himself, checking the signal booster on his belt. Still working. Which meant someone -- or something -- was jamming them.

Brilliant.

Ghost moved low through the underbrush, keeping to the tree line just east of the village. He could see the flickers of firelight now, smell the smoke and roasted meat wafting from the square. Bells and flutes. And singing. There was...singing?. High-pitched and melodic, like an old folk lullaby if it had been raised from the dead and set to a waltz.

Then came the faint sound of drumming. Bells. Laughter. Maybe a chant.

He followed it. Past a moss-eaten gate, under a canopy of gnarled trees and tangled ivy, until he stumbled onto the edge of the village square --

And froze.

Because there, at the center of a crowd of villagers dressed in wool and lace and something straight out of a pagan fever dream, was Soap.

Soap. Soap. Johnny.

Barefoot. Shirtless. And absolutely bedecked in garlands of lavender and whatever passed for sacred herbs around here. A sheer golf sash draped around his torso. Mohawked hair full of twigs and shiny bits of ribbon like a demented maypole. Someone had smeared.... pollen? across his cheeks in thick, ceremonial swipes.

He looked like a Druidic Eurovision contestant.

Ghost blinked. Slowly. Like maybe, maybe this was one of those near-death hallucinations soldiers got before bleeding out.

Nope. Still blinking. Still alive. Still watching his sergeant sway side-to-side while a pair of old women -- possibly priestesses, possibly just nosy -- danced around him chanting in Old Romanian. Or maybe Welsh. Ghost couldn’t tell. One of them was holding what looked like a chicken.

And the worst part? Johnny His Johnny was grinning.

Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, something warm unfurled. Dangerous. Worshipful. Like awe, if awe had teeth. Ancient. Sacred. Divine.

Beautiful.

“Oi, Ghost!” Soap beamed. Spotting the massive and tanking hulk within the treeline. Arms outstretched like a man greeting an old friend to his wedding. “They made me a god!”

At that Ghost blinked. Fever dream fading like some bloody smoke in the wind.

"They what?"

“Not a real god, obviously. Just the reincarnation o' one. Sorta. It’s a bit vague. They said I ‘carry the blood of thunder’ and somethin' about ‘the sacred thighs o' the mountain ram,’ but I might’ve misheard that bit—”

"Johnny. What did you do."

“I helped an auld woman carry some firewood and smiled a wee bit too much I ken?. Apparently, that was enough.”

Ghost’s gaze shifted to the villagers. All wide-eyed. Adoring. Bowing. One of them was cradling a goat dressed in ceremonial beads. Another was preparing a bowl of paint or possibly blood.

A high priestess approached, eyes glowing with zeal. “The Horned One’s bridegroom is with us! The prophecy is fulfilled!”

“…Bridegroom?” Ghost echoed, horrified.

Soap whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Right, aye, slight hiccup — turns out they think I’m meant tae marry their goat god. But here, look at this necklace they gave me!” He held up a hideous pendant shaped like a horned moon and something that might’ve been -- was that teeth?

“Johnny,” Ghost growled. “We are leaving.”

Soap looked genuinely torn. “I mean. I could rule this village for a bit. The wine's naw bad. And they're dead fond o' my arms”

“They’re trying to marry you off to livestock.”

“Tae be fair, the goat's just symbolic -- "

“Now, Johnny.”

Deep down. Deep deep down though. Simon wanted to keep him here. To watch him. Because -- God, it wasn’t just the adrenaline. It was the comfort of seeing Johnny so... happy. So untroubled.

So.... alive, that at that moment, Simon didn't care if it meant he'd join him in the middle of a bloody cult. Changing his mind. Just for a second, maybe two -- because honestly, who wouldn’t want to sit back and watch his Johnny at the center of it all? Grinning like a bloody sunbeam, spinning under those ridiculous garlands and chanting women, eyes sparkling like he'd found some secret purpose among the madness.

That thought immediately evaporated the moment Ghost overheard "ritual. blood letting. and sacrifice". Yeah fuck that. No longer was Johnny the blessed warrior -- they were ready to make him the bloody sacrifice.

And one look around the perimeter. Eyes narrowed. Brows furrowed and a palm reaching for his pistol. The villagers’ excitement turned from adoration to something darker, more sinister. The chants shifted. The smell of incense became cloying and oppressive.

Yeah fuck that. Let's fucking go.

So they fled. Cult hot on their trail. Waving candles. Aiming spears and throwing holy relics -- "holy hell was that me underwear" "shut the fuck up and run straight" -- half-carrying an inebriated Soap, who had gotten wine drunk on their ritual nectar. Slurring "Yer just jealous 'cause they liked me better than ye"

Ghost didn't respond.

Didn't stop running either. Having to haul Johnny in to a forced piggyback. His arms burned, but he didn’t care -- nothing was going to slow him down, not while that bloody cult was chasing them with torches and chants.

Johnny, still drunk out of his mind, draped himself over Ghost’s back like a dead weight, slurring out random bits of nonsense between giggles and hiccups.

Ghost didn’t say a word. Not even his usual irritated and annoyed muttering. No retort. No counter. No comeback. Just pure silence until they were finally back at the safehouse. Simon bolting the door behind them. Soap collapsed on the floor, still wrapped in ceremonial fabric and wearing a crown of herbs.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Soap, grinning to himself, murmured, “Wee bit romantic, is it no? Bein’ dragged aff the altar by a masked-up loon.”

Ghost finally turned to him, gaze burning through the skull of his balaclava.

“Next time,” he said flatly, “I let them marry you to the goat.”

Soap winked. “Thought ye already had me spoken for.”

Ghost only narrowed his eyes.

"Aye. might as well be. I’ve been stuck with you long enough to be your bloody husband.”

Soap choked.

masterlist