#ghoap edit

[scimitar-and-longsword]

From beginning... ...to end.

[heyitsropi]

it's not a lot but it's honest work

inspired by this @xsafronix-blog and this @discovampires because both of them had me in tears after mw3, your minds are amazing

Lana Del Rey x Arctic Monkeys | Summertime Sadness x Wanna Be Yours

[transwhitaker]

Was making a ghoap edit and decided to share some of the clips as gifs

[giotanner]

John "Soap" Mactavish - behind the Red Skull mask

(Hey cod fans please help me to be in your circle with a reblog)

Tiktok entire video

[vozart]

using comms 2 inches away from each other just so everyone else can hear the fucked up things you're saying

[deadunderorbit]

minor MWIII spoilers

They are not paying attention at all

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 2; ghoap x reader) masterlist

-

The hard part is admitting to himself that he doesn’t know how to function on leave without Ghost’s voice in his ear.

Johnny’s two days into his annual leave when that stray thought crosses his brain. Out with chums even, packed into the booth of an old pub in his hometown, the leather well-worn and a match on the telly that he half watches while one of his mates goes up to the bar to order another round for them. In between his third and fourth pint of lukewarm mild, he thinks something like, wonder what Simon’s up to.

The thought comes and then keeps coming. Keeps cropping up when he least expects. At the pub (wonder what Simon’s up to), in line at the grocery store (wonder how Ghost takes his steak), drowsily puttering around the kitchen while making breakfast (no way he wears the mask at home), listening to some guy in front of him hack up a lung at the dry cleaner (Lt’d do his fuckin’ head in if he was here), and even in the shower with his head tipped back, rinsing out the suds (wonder if he’s got a girl tucked away at home). 

Is it so unusual? Johnny can’t remember a time in his life when someone lived in his head night and day, but Ghost’s presence feels like an extension of his own these days. He’s cycled through girlfriends without a care in the world, without contemplating their existence for half as long, but they never cradled his life like a small bird in the palm of their hands and returned it safe and sound, did they?

Still, he feels it like a knot in his chest. Dreams about Ghost even; wakes up hot and hard, and scrubs his hand down the side of his face when he sits up in bed. Phantom memories of a body heavier than his weighing him down (just the duvet) and a thick hand curling around his dick (his own hand wrapped around his shaft, rubbing one out in his sleep). 

He shakes it off, but it follows him out into the real world. Looking at the door of a coffee shop and thinking absentmindedly, Ghost would have to duck under that. 

Johnny puts it out of his mind. As much as he’s able to, that is. Chalks it up to some kind of hero worship. He’s worked with superior officers before—plenty of times, hundreds of times—but there are few men of Ghost’s calibre, both in skillset and mystique. Not to mention the sheer size of the guy. And what is Johnny if not a moth to a flame?

Better not to ruminate. He casts the memory of seeing Ghost’s dick in the showers after their last mission (monstrous thing, uncut, pubes darker than the hair on his head, more than a mouthful—it’d give him lockjaw) out of his head. Doesn’t think about it. Laughs at a mate’s joke at the pub when he didn’t catch a word of it to mask the way he perked up at the sight of a wide-shoulder man until he turned around, giving Johnny a proper look at his face.

He’s not ready to think about it. Might never be able to really look at why he eats it up, why he struts around with his chin cocked just a bit higher than usual because he knows everyone else is watching him with equal parts envy and curiosity for being Ghost’s favourite. 

Then, one day, he meets a girl.

Johnny’s not winning an award any time soon for world’s best son, but he knows a thing or two. The first thing being chocolates and the second being flowers. His sisters handle the rest; they fuss about the party, get a gift certificate to the spa, send out the invites—all that fun stuff. He’s sent off for the bare essentials. Practically kicked out of the house by his oldest sister—nearly brains himself on the asphalt and tugs his windbreaker on when it’s thrown out the door after him a second later, grumbling about being the errand boy.

He picks up a box of chocolates from the corner shop (not fancy enough, his sisters will probably bitch, but that’s a problem for later) before heading down the road to the florist. There’s a bench out front stacked with tin flower vases, the only spot of colour on a dreary spring morning. He spends a couple minutes chatting with the cashier and flirting a bit halfheartedly (he thinks maybe it’ll be worth it if it gets him a discount, even five percent off) until the florist comes out from the back. 

“Jesus, who gave ye the right?” Johnny breathes, horse blinders on, vision narrowing on the object of desire coming out of the back in a linen apron and simple t-shirt underneath, scissors poking out of the front pocket. 

“The right?” she repeats back, blinking.

“To leave the house lookin’ so fuckin’ gorgeous. Glad I wasn’t driving when I passed you by—woulda been in a twenty car pile up.”

She’s not impressed in the slightest. It’s thrilling. By that point, the cashier is long forgotten. Probably not the best impression he’s ever made, but he’s made worse ones. It’s not every day he comes across an angel. Hard to be polite in front of a real life miracle. 

He wears her down over the week though, showing up each day for a new bouquet. His mam’s never liked him more, so at least there’s that. His sisters side-eye him whenever he ducks out of the house to head down the road to the florist’s, but even they know better than to bring it up and risk pissing off their mam. He interrogates her about flowers and her job, makes his presence unavoidable, a week long siege that ends with Johnny taking her out to dinner and then letting her take him to bed. 

He wakes up nestled in her cozy apartment above the flower shop, stretching out and making himself right at home. When she trades in her linen apron for a terry cloth robe and stands expectantly by the door, Johnny just grins. Shows all of his teeth. 

“Are ye just gonna use me and kick me out?” he pouts. Folds his hands behind his head and digs a foot into the sheets, trying to sink into the mattress. Little king in his castle. 

“You know, you don’t have to pussyfoot around with me. Weren’t you just trying to get laid?” she asks, brow arched. The disbelief thick in her voice makes it clear what she thinks of him. 

“No’ just some playboy, hen,” he scoffs. “I have feelings too.”

Her other eyebrow lifts. He’s tickled pink.

He plays the part well, he supposes. Lounges in bed and eats grapes all morning while she stares at him from the kitchen like he might dissipate at any moment. He’s used to leaving a false impression, like a lake that someone builds their house next to until years go by and someone says I think this was once a meteor. 

When she comes back to bed around mid morning, Johnny wastes no time pulling her up onto the bed until she plants her cunt over his mouth and sinks down onto his waiting tongue. 

Candy sweet pussy, he thinks blissfully, then says it out loud because he can never keep his mouth shut. It must tickle because she yelps and nearly pulls away from his face altogether, but he wrenches her back down, fingers digging into her ass cheeks a bit too forcefully. He’ll pay for that later. 

In the aftermath, when she collapses beside him in bed and rests her head on his chest while he plays with her hair, he itches in his skin to message Ghost. It perplexes him. They never text, he and Ghost; they don’t call, they don’t write, they don’t email. For all intents and purposes, their relationship ends at the perimeter around base, dissolves to nothing. It’s not Ghost’s fault he trickles into Johnny’s dreams sometimes. 

A week goes by. Calm the mind. He thinks of Ghost and his fingers tremble and the phone stays silent and he lets the thought go. Steady. Breathe in and out. His caryatid girl slips in and out of his sheets, hesitant always like he might leave. Johnny doesn’t know if she wants him to, wants to feel vindicated in her assumption, but of all her wants, that ranks the lowest in his mind. 

He spirals deeper into it, infatuated. She’s sweet but snippy, candy sweet with a sour kick—everything he’s ever wanted in a girl. Ever unimpressed, watching him with a small, hidden smile, amused despite herself. 

Johnny wonders if this is the universe waving its hand in front of his face. Yoohoo, missing something?

He looks pointedly away. 

It’s new, but maybe he’s like every other military man in the world, unable to go with the flow, dissatisfied with seeing where things go. He needs instant gratification, everything now-now-now, the certainty of commitment—he spills blood with everyone he knows, so why would his girl be any different?

Returning back to base is harder this time around. The last day of his leave is an exercise in restraint, tempered only by her smile when he sees her off at the door to her apartment, reluctant to leave. 

“C’mon, promise me you’ll call, hen,” Johnny mumbles into her mouth, catching her answer with a languid swipe of his tongue. His arms press her tight to his chest, digging his hands into her back pockets and giving a good squeeze, relishing in the way she squeaks. “How’m I gonna survive without ye, huh? They’re gonna have to jumpstart my heart after it gives out from missing ye so bad.”

“So dramatic. You have my number,” she says when he finally pulls back enough to let her speak.

“No, please, baby, please���promise me—”

“Oh my god, alright, fine—I’ll call. Now get going already.”

The drive back to base leaves him feeling bedraggled, lost. When he gets in, it’s straight to the barracks, an hour long nap before reporting to Price, dragging his feet the whole way over. Moping, for lack of a better word, until he rounds a corner and nearly collides with someone that stops him with a single hand on his shoulder. 

When he looks up to eyes rimmed in black paint, the world lightens. His shoulders lift. 

“Wipe that smirk off your face, Johnny.”

It takes Johnny awhile to bring her up with Ghost. Something keeps holding him back, choking him when he tries to say it outloud. He blames it on uncertainty (had to be sure she was the one, Lt, ye ken?) but he feels the truth at the core of him. When he does finally muster up the nerve to pass his phone to Ghost where her photo is front and centre, no mistaking his intentions, he waits on tenterhooks for a reaction. 

Only breathes out when Ghost asks to meet her. He can do that. 

“Aye, Lt. Just for you.”

[bone-trash]

[alchemyfreak321]

These goobers

[tojisun]

. . .

“but i can imagine no other peace—” (excerpt from correspondance between albert camus and maria casarés, 17 july 1949)

(images)

[magnanimousmuse]

Shoutout to Samuel Roukin AKA Simon Ghost Riley’s actor for answering a question about how he feels about all the ghost/soap stuff, in which he replied “Whatever floats your boat ☺️”

[giotanner]

Sgt. John "Soap" MacTavish. Another rough day, another mission

[please support me with a reblog, i really wanna be in the cod fandom circle ♥]

PRINT

[tiddygame]

used to, ghost would always sleep on his side facing the door with his back almost pressed to the wall. in a room where the bed isn't in the corner? he'd either move the bed or sleep on the floor in the corner.

it doesn't take long for soap to figure out his lieutenant's sleep pattern and does his best to quietly help. the first time they have to share a bed (obvi before they're together cause this is fanfic, how else would it go) neither is really sure what to do.

the bed is in the corner, but during the typical "who takes the bed, alright fine we both will" argument, they come to an impasse. neither will let the other take the floor nor do they know the best way for both to be on the bed. either ghost has someone in the way of him and the door, or has someone at his back that he can't see.

they do eventually land on (without discussion bc ghost is a prideful bastard) soap taking the wall side, but ghost is still nervous. he surprises himself by being much more comfortable than he thought he would, it feeling less like there's a stranger right behind him and more like soap is watching his back for him, even though he knows soap is asleep. ghost himself doesn't really sleep, but that is to be expected.

something something they get together and ghost realizes he's most comfortable knowing soap is there, not to protect him cause he's still to prideful for that, but to help watch his blind spot without having to push himself against the wall.

(also ghost likes being the little spoon. hmm? what? who said that...)

[hatsbuckets]

Horny asks or som'n som'n I saw earlier and just, my thoughts went sideways earlier.

So som'n som'n a) vampires when they yawn do it like snakes where their fangs come out and stuff

Som'n som'n b) vampires who need extra salt in the winter, cause good vamplings that don't hunt humans, can gorge on animals they find all they want and desperately need more salt intake. What better substitute then salt or cum. Their body would happily, and kinda really needs it anyways, absorb it from any possible source.

C) little fat gorged vamplings all too happy to be dicked/pussied down and suck off anyone the little bloody sluts.

D( no I don't know where I was going with this, just woke up from a nap but enjoy that idea. 🙂‍↕️

Reading this was like getting punched in a boxing match but in like a really good way. Like Wham. But also wham ! And it kept getting better. About to CoD and 141 ur idea hottie nonny 🙏 this was so fun to write up omg it just got longer and longer. I want more.

I wrote this for the entirety of the last basketball game. Quick and unedited.

18+ smut at the end.

Imagine like, a world where Vampires are integrated-ish, vampires make up about so about 3-5% of the pop. (250-300 million), more than enough that they become a regular part of society. (pretend all the legal/cultural stuff solves itself mostly womp womp)

In this world, attack dog vampires are favored. Vampires utilized for military, policing, PMCs, security. Vamps have other jobs in the world of course, the notable ones include being paid universal blood donors (this is an idea I've been obsessed with since I've discovered vampires as a kid but idk how to explain my reasoning. Like you only get turned vampy with bite and blood, but blood alone is good), sex workers who know their niche, dangerous/high risk jobs, and an all-vampire UFC type fighting ring where fights are crazy and so cool.

Important note, biting & the biting vampire's blood turns people. Not just a bite. It takes both.

Anyway, back to our boys. Price, who's as human as they come ("booooo Hat whyyy" shhhhhhh). He's been in long enough to have seen his fair share of Vamps. They get treated pretty rough in the military, blood lust can become an issue if they don't train 'em hard and keep 'em on a leash.

Vampire Ghost who got turned by Roba. (Roba didn't know what he created. Thought he killed Ghost, turns out he made a vampire. Something something Ghost as Roba's spawn eats at Ghost for years). Ghost comes out blood fuckin' thirsty and raging. Kills Roba and everyone. He gorges for days on the bodies in his wake before Price finds him. Price helps him fix it as best he can. But Ghost's days on fresh blood in his rage is near irreversible. He can live on animals, needs human blood to thrive. Price let's Ghost use what he needs. Ghost is near toxicly dependent on Price for emotional, physical, and sexual stability. It's a dangerous relationship. Price knows that. But no one's denying that Ghost, flaring his fangs like a damn demon, mask cut or modified so that when it happens it works, is a scary, terrifying fucking beast in the field.

Vampire Gaz who grew up a natural born vampire. His family is ancient. Well known family, renowned for their service and deeds to humanity, and vampires. He knows how to take care of himself. Knows what animals are his favorite. He's a balancing force on the 141. He has his moments, like any vamp, but Price knows that a good meal normally calms him down. Or a good fuck. Gaz'll take both. Flares his fangs when he's feeling threatened, but grew up with the vampire culture to know, when how, and what it means. (Unlike Ghost, who's just a scary, biting dog)

Human Soap (I'm sorry I couldn't help myself) who grew up around enough vamps to not be worried about it in the slightest. Joining the military only exposed him more. And as he understands it, it's only right to let your vampire brother in arms suck your cock to make sure he's okay in the winter. (*Cough* Whore.)

Then he gets the invitation from the Captain. And joining the 141, full of the most elite vampires in the world, is a crazy time. These bastards are fun. They snarl at the enemy when shit hits the fan. Gaz's lip twitches when Soap annoys him, exposing his left fang. They fight damn fuckin' good.

And at this point, Ghost has chilled tf out and leads his unit well. But Soap notices the tension after missions. Soap notices when Ghost disappears for a night or three with Price. Soap knows, eventually, what it means. (Price either hides the bites well, or Ghost isn't biting his neck. (thighbitesthighbitesthighbites).)

As time passes, the vamps do get protective of their humans on the 141. Gaz does not miss the opportunity to explain that it's an instinct: protect your humans because they're your source of life.

And Gaz is protective at worst. A little defensive, but he knows how to control it, what it is. Knows that when he exposes his fangs at Alejandro (and Ale does it back) there's no hard feelings, it's just posturing, just making sure Ale knows that Price and Soap are his.

Price lets it go. Soap adores and teases the affection from Gaz.

Ghost, on the other hand, doesn't know better, well logically he knows, but damn if logic isn't stronger than his blood instinct. Damn if it isn't Price who keeps him fucking alive so any threat to Price is a direct threat to himself. (But also hnnnggg ghostprice)

And then, eventually of course, Johnny happens. In this universe, after an event like Alone in Las Almas, Soap and Ghost are exhausted. Ghost hasn't seen Price in at least 2 weeks, maybe more, he's itching for blood, for something. Soap's bleeding wound doesn't help at all. Ghost can smell him the entire truck ride. Hear his heart hammering to keep up. Can see how much calmer and dazed Soap is and something in him screams prey.

He can't, he won't. But Soap knows, and Soap might not understand it but he'll be damned if his lieutenant is suffering and holding on by a thread. He lets Ghost patch up his arm. Lets him lead and lead and take back the Vaqueros (or something) (haha slowburn). And when it's over. When they get someplace truly safe. When Ghost begins to retreat but Price has shit to take care of and paperwork to do before they meet with Kate later...

So Soap follows, and pesters. He's rough on Ghost, scolding for not taking care of himself.

Ghost is quiet, half flaring fangs just to warn Soap to fuck off.

But Soap won't. Of course not. But Ghost isn't going to drink Soap's blood. He won't. Refuses.

That's how John "Soap (whore)" MacTavish ends up braced against a wall getting his cocked milked for all it's worth.

He's come three times already, just Ghost's mouth around him, wet and hot. He's shaking, crying, whining, begging Ghost just to fuck him. To fill him. To finish this.

Ghost's only reply is lick from the base of Soap's cock to swirl at the tip. He knows his fourth orgasm is on its way, one thigh lifted on Ghosts shoulder. And when he shatters, not an ounce left to give, balls sucked dry, Ghost lets him collapse into his arms.

Ghost carries him to his own quarters. Lays him in bed. And holds the quivering, shaking, crying Scotsman in his arms. He can't offer much warmth, doesn't know how, doesn't know that Soap wants to hear they're both okay. That he's better. That Soap is an angel and more than Ghost deserves. How could he?

...

Soap wakes to an empty bed. But the nightstand holds a note from Price, just a "thank you" scribbled quick, and his favorite alcohol, the expensive kind.

...

note: this absolutely takes some inspiration from @/bluegiragi 's Monster AU. If you haven't read it FUCKIN GO READ IT. >Tumblr link< It's my favorite fan comic rn ngl

[bobfloydpilled]

‼️SPOILERS FOR MW2 AND MW3‼️

this song is so utterly soapghost to me that i had to throw together a super quick edit....... i was going to actually do proper transitions but i was simply Too Lazy i apologise. anyway i miss them so much

[starlightvld]

Up in Smoke

(Also on AO3)

The first time Ghost rips the cigarette from Soap's mouth, drops it on the ground, and stomps on it as he passes by, Soap is too stunned to say anything for a full ten seconds. They've only been working together consistently for a couple of missions, and even as his superior officer, the audacity of the action floors him.

By the time his brain restarts, Ghost is long gone.

--

The second time Ghost steals Soap's cigarette, he bursts out in a string of Scottish curses and tackles Ghost from behind before the wanker can drop it on the ground. An impromptu sparring match ensues, fists and curses flying. 

Afterward, he doesn't feel much like a cigarette anymore — not with the split lip, anyway. Besides, the buzzing under his skin that usually drives him to smoke is just... gone.

Price catches wind of the incident, of course, and calls them into his office a few hours later. By that time Soap has calmed down enough to be... maybe not okay with it, but at least able to see the humor. 

"What's this about you muppets scuffling by the smoking area?"

"Just a little sparring to blow off steam," Soap says.

"Ghost?"

"Nothin' to worry about, Captain."

"No? I've got one soldier who looks like he just got back from a bar fight, and the other..." He squints at Ghost. "He get a hit in on you, too?"

"Yeah," Ghost replies in that deadpan tone of his. "Coupla black eyes."

It's a joke. 

Ghost is telling a joke. And it's objectively not funny. It's not. But Soap bursts into hysterical laughter all the same. 

The corners of Ghost's blacked-out eyes crinkle. 

Price rubs his temples before dropping his hand on his desk. Soap presses his lips together to contain his laughter.

"Sparring happens in the gym. I'm sure you know the place. It's where we have things like mats and gloves. I catch you two bare-knuckle fighting again, and you will regret it."

And it's enough to sober Soap up. He avoids Ghost as he ducks away to catch dinner.

--

The third time... well, no. He supposes that's really the fourth time. 

Because the actual third time, Soap had come back from a shit mission where everything went wrong. Intel was faulty, exfil was delayed, and people under his command died. It didn't happen as often in SAS as it had in the regulars — the soldiers here were well-trained and hard to kill — but that made it all the worse. 

When Ghost tried to pluck the cigarette from his mouth, Soap growled. 

"Back the fuck up, Lt. Or Price is gonna be disappointed in both of us."

Ghost paused, and their eyes met. Slowly, Ghost lowered his hand. 

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Fuck no."

"Thank God."

Soap didn't have it in him to even huff a laugh. He took a long drag and blew the smoke away from Ghost as a peace offering.

To his surprise, Ghost didn't leave. He spun around and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. They stood there together, utterly silent, as Soap let the heat and sting in his lungs soothe the beast inside that wanted to rip the world apart.

When he was done, though, he was surprised to find he didn't want another. Usually after shit missions, he'd stand there and smoke half a pack before his hands would stop shaking.

He finally met Ghost's eyes. The man quirked a barely visible brow.

"S'pose we should take it to the mats this time?"

Ghost pushed off the building and started walking. Soap followed like a lost child looking for a way home. 

--

The fourth time is in Chicago. His hands are shaking not from losing soldiers but from almost losing his own life. The cigarette trembles in his grip as he stands outside the bar, the biting wind turning his fingers and probably his lips blue. He lifts it to his mouth, inhaling deep—

And then it's gone.

The whine that bubbles up from his gut and bursts from his throat is nothing short of humiliating. But God. God. He needs it.

"Not now. Please, Ghost."

"Why?"

Ghost hasn't thrown the cigarette down. Yet. He cocks his head to the side and gives Soap a long look. Soap can only tremble from the cold and a need that goes deeper than a simple hit of nicotine.

"I just... I need it."

The cigarette drops to the ground, but Soap doesn't have time to lament the loss before that same hand is curling around Soap's neck and pulling him into a fucking massive chest. The other arm comes around Soap's shoulders and...

Ghost just stands there, holding him. And Soap can't help melting into the warmth and solidity of the man who saved his life just hours ago. He dares to curl in deeper. To raise his hands and clutch at Ghost's jacket. To let a few, silent tears escape his tight control.

Finally, his muscles relax. Ghost must feel it, because he turns and leads Soap back toward the bar.

"Why do ye even care?" Soap mumbles from his spot tucked into Ghost's side.

"Because those things'll kill ya."

Soap supposes the "I like you alive" is implied at this point.

--

Soap loses count after Chicago. He gets stretches of days when Ghost is on a solo op or out with one of the other operators when he can smoke in peace. So he does.

At first.

He's been hooked since he was a rebellious teen trying to make his mark on the world. He's tried to quit multiple times, but it never seems to stick. The first bad mission or adrenaline-filled near miss and he's back at whatever smoking spot he can find, puffing away.

He finds himself trying to cut back, though, even when Ghost is away.

Any time Ghost is on base, all bets are off. In addition to darting by and making a grab for it or sneaking up behind him and flicking it out of his hands, Ghost has gotten more creative. Sometimes Soap will pull out a cigarette only to find he's "lost" his lighter. Sometimes the cigarettes themselves go missing — he clutches his chest and mourns all that wasted money whenever a whole pack disappears. 

He supposes it's all just going up in smoke anyway, though.

He should be angry. But in truth, it's almost a relief to hand over the reins to Ghost. To let the man help him by annoying the shit out of him until he wants to give up on it entirely.

Which is definitely the point. Ghost has made that perfectly clear.

So, whenever he gets the urge to calm his racing thoughts or overactive mind with a cigarette, he finds Ghost and annoys him instead. They talk, or spar, or simply sit in silence together, doing their own thing. Ghost doesn't often touch him — their moment in Chicago is still the closest Soap's ever gotten to the elusive Ghost — but he also doesn't push Soap away when he slumps into Ghost's side after a hard day or leans over his back when he's sitting at the table in the 141's common area on base.

The urge doesn't go away, of course. And sometimes, when things get really bad, Ghost will just sit or stand with him like he did the third time. Still, he finds himself smoking less and hanging out with Ghost more.

--

The last time Ghost steals a cigarette from Soap, he simply stands beside Soap and holds out his hand. Soap immediately knows something has gone terribly wrong. Still, he's too invested in the game now to not hand the cigarette over.

He nearly keels over when Ghost pulls up his mask and takes a long, hard drag. Soap watches in fascination as his cheeks hollow, his neck muscles strain, his lips curve around the paper. It's erotic in a way he really shouldn't be thinking about in regards to his emotionally unavailable superior officer, but the knowledge hasn't stopped him yet. Since that day in Chicago — probably before if he's honest — he's only ever wanted to be closer.

Ghost coughs a little and hands the cigarette back.

"Fuck. Just as disgusting as I remember."

"Ye used to smoke, then?"

"Before I joined up, yeah. Hated it, though."

"The smell? Or—"

"Everything. The taste, the smell, the heat..." Ghost trails off, his hand rubbing over his bicep in a strangely specific way. He shakes his head and looks back at Soap. "Not your problem, Johnny. Forget about it."

Soap's hand is darting out, fingers curling into Ghost's jacket, before he's properly thought through the action. Ghost pauses before turning back. They stare in silence for a moment until—

Soap stubs out the half-burned cigarette and drops the butt in the trash. He licks his lips. Glances up at Ghost. The mask is still sitting on his nose, and Soap stares at his lips for longer than he should before pulling the pack out of his pocket and throwing it in the trash, too.

"Cannae have ye thinking I stink, can I?"

"Too late."

But Ghost's throat bobs with a hard swallow. Soap wets his lips, takes a step closer, and uncurls his fingers to slide his hand up Ghost's chest until his fingertips are resting on Ghost's shirt collar.

"I dinnae think it is."

Ghost turns and walks away. Soap closes his eyes and drops his hand, internally cursing his impulsive behavior. The scuffing of boots walking away from him is like nails on a chalk board.

Until they stop, and a gruff voice calls out, "You comin'?"

A slow smile slides across Soap's mouth. "No' yet."

A huff — exasperation? laughter? a bit of both? — before, "Better get movin' then."

And Soap has never been more glad to follow an order.