#implied soapghost

[gomzdrawfr]

Rocking the green outfits

[Patreon]

[snootlestheangel]

I'm just constantly thinking about a Ghost who, post Roba and post losing everything, finds a bunch of different ways to cope.

His biggest struggle was suicide ideation and self harm.

His therapist always encouraging him to "create, not destroy. To make not break, to be productive not destructive."

Its how he picked up baking, why he got so good at it. Same with cooking

He does pottery every now and then. Many of his dishes and stuff at home are things he made during his recovery years.

He never quite picked up painting but he loves spending time at local art galleries and museums. He can spend hours at those places, just letting his head clear.

We all know he has at least some basic sewing skills (cause of the mask) but I feel like it's even deeper than that. He's out there making quilts and shit.

He likes to knit, and dabbles in crochet when he's feeling particularly restless.

I just feel like he's actually so much better at coping than people give him credit for. I like to think he's fully prepared to completely kiss the military goodbye and be left to his own devices as a civilian. I feel like because he's lost so much he's desperately clinging to that little bit of humanity left in him

He's got the quilt his mum tried to make for Tommy and Beth as their wedding gift. He made throw pillows with Joseph's baby blankets. His decor is all stuff his mum would have liked. He likes having handmade things, it's a testament to his abilities and to his determination to keep surviving.

His house is a home, and its such a safe space. It has soft, warm lighting. The rugs are all handmade by Ghost, and they're soft, cozy. It always smells good, like pastries or a lovely pasta dish.

Its so jarring and unexpected for Soap the first time he ever goes home with Ghost on leave.

But there's something about it that is just so humbling. To see this man in a state of domestic bliss, surrounded by years of hard work to not give in, to keep living another day.

And if that doesn't make Soap want to wife Ghost up right then and there, then I don't know what will

[morimementa]

Soap: *Offhandedly mentions he's been feeling queasy.*

Price:

[noahdrawsalot]

“THE PINK FROSTING JOHNNY, PINK!”

“I’m TRYING SI-!”

“ARE YOU COLOUR BLIND SERGEANT?”

“HAUD YER WHEESHT-!”

Cue some homoerotic cake making

[shadow0-1]

Rest easy

[amikoroyaiart]

Just let me go or take me with you

[dustontape]

Og Soap // Reboot Soap!!! Drawing this silly after like a while...

[snootlestheangel]

Gaz, who also has the gene, eating something with cilantro in it: Mate, why does this taste like soap? Ghost: How do you know what Soap tastes like? Gaz: *stares for a second* Are you talking about like our friend Soap?? Ghost: Yeah, of course, what are you talking about? Gaz: You know what Soap tastes like?????? Ghost: I never said that, I just asked how you knew what he tastes like. Gaz, after a long pause: I actually cannot tell if you're fucking with me or not Ghost: :)

Soap actually got his callsign because he has the soap gene where cilantro tastes like soap...

[dovabunny]

Angsty Ghostsoap Idea of the day: 'Johnny, I'm on my way'

Soap calls Ghost at 2am during their leave after days of silence, a sobbing mess. Soap loved his family to bits, they were all very close and affectionate.

Then he came out to them.

Ghost can hear his broken heart as he drunkenly tells him through the tears how they reacted. What they called him. How his father's fist felt. How his mother's sweet eyes looked full of fury and betrayal. What the priest sounded like trying to cast the demon out of him. How the rain tasted when he left at their demand. How suffocating the cheap motel room felt, his phone still pining with texts from his brother calling him a selfish disgrace. A disappointment. Filthy.

A beat of silence, Soap is about to apologize for bothering his Lt at 2am for a drunken selfish call, making himself a burden to others once again. Then Soap heard the rushed shuffle of clothes and the clink of keys on the line.

"Stay where you are, Johnny. I'm on my way."

[ghostlysoaps]

What comes a'knocking in the night

[part 1]

Ghost sleeps in rare moments. It had never come easy to him when the act of it invites vulnerability, leaves him open to being taken advantage of, and rarely offers the relief it should. But the safehouse outside of Las Almas is… fine. The core of the one-four-one is there. Mostly familiar faces outside of them. Structures mapped out and vetted. He could, without a shadow of a doubt, disappear in the rafters should the situation call for it.

And still he wakes in lung-crushing terror.

In his disoriented state he thinks, with choked-back laughter bordering on hysterics, that he might have come to awareness with a rusted hook between the ribs again. The pain is acute, sharp, all-consuming; rooted to his heart the way the scent of sunbaked dust clings to his stowed gear. He flings the covers off himself, scrambling to his feet with a wild look around the spartan room.

He’s alone. Safe. Alive against all odds.

Ghost feels over the concrete until its chill bleeds into his palms and the rough texture scrapes his skin in pink swaths.

There’s no blood on them.

There’s too much blood to wash out and it partially belongs to his team.

To Johnny.

His next breath punches out of him and he keens. Desperate to rid himself off the image of porous sand swallowing blood like a gaping maw, of laughing eyes dulled, lips stilled, a body unmoving and yet dogging his every step, he pivots from the closed curtains to the entrance of his minuscule quarters – determined to exchange one set of discomfort for another.

The judgement he’ll find reflected in the mirror, the accusatory anger and disgust, means a scalding shower is out of the question. Running isn't in the cards given the situation they’re in. Venting his frustrations out in the small corner dedicated to exercise – until there’s a valid reason for his breaths to come in ragged gasps, mask clinging to his lips with perspiration – now that’s something he can do. Push himself to the edge and beyond in an attempt to regain some sense of equilibrium. It’s not punishment, he reasons, if it’ll help him sleep through the night. Not when he’ll need every ounce of energy in the morning.

Destination in mind, Ghost flees the remnants of memories and glides down the halls the way his namesake suggests.

The door he finds himself at swings open under the loving attention of thin metal. He hesitates for less than a second before he steps inside. It’s a familiar sight. A tiny, concrete box containing a bolted shelf for unused gear and a single bed. The tangled sheets rise and fall with the motion of breaths and Ghost creeps forward to crouch by the headboard, eyes roving over the body within it.

Safe and sound. Mouth lax, drooling into the pillow he’s jammed half his face into, generating heat like a damn furnace. If Ghost had possessed less sense than he does, he’d reach out and brush the over-long strands of hair from his forehead, feel his sleep-warm skin to truly hammer home that Johnny, despite his tendency for recklessness, is alive and well.

Having him close settles the last vestige of panic hammering behind his ribcage.

He doesn’t know how long he’s there before Johnny stirs. All scrunched nose and flicking ears and fluttering lashes as he drowsily blinks his eyes open. A moment of incomprehension passes before he jerks upward. Ghost makes the split-second decision to slap a hand over his mouth, stifling his yell into a muffled thing. Claws bite into his forearm and under his palm Soap’s lips part in a rumbling growl, the bones of his face beginning to shift.

“Settle down.”

Johnny goes rigid at the sound of his voice, eyes narrow, and he spitefully digs his claws in deeper when he wrenches Ghost’s hand off his face.

“Settle doon?!” he hisses through too-large teeth. “Damn near gave me a heart attack ‘n ye want me t’ simmer. Un-fuckin’-believable, sir.”

“Your spacial awareness is shite.”

“I was sleeping!” Soap snaps his teeth in irritation, jerking forward to do so an inch from Ghost's face. But despite the rude awakening, the way he looks as if taking a pound of flesh is still in the cards, he relaxes. The show of trust, subconscious as it is, sinks in Ghost's stomach like lead. There's no time to beat himself up over it because Soap tenses again and casts a weary eye towards the exits. “Are we–?”

“No.”

“Why're ye ‘ear then?”

“Couldn't sleep.”

“So ye decided I coudnae either?”

Ghost shrugs.

Soap groans, long and low, flopping down on his back. He scrubs both hands down his face, leaves them there for a moment, then lowers them to blink tiredly at the ceiling. It’s… not great. Guilt threatens to choke him when he realises just how exhausted Soap looks. The dark circles beneath his eyes, the lines slowly etching themselves onto his face, the stark bandaging around his bicep hiding a wound Ghost knows for sure isn’t all the way healed. Stupid of him, to think his needs above that of his sergeant’s.

“Ye cannae keep doing this, Lt.”

“Breaking into your room?”

Soap’s face scrunches together in a rather unattractive manner. His jaw twitches, no doubt chewing on whether or not to ask if he’s done so before, but what he ultimately ends up with is: “This hot ‘n cold act you’ve got goin’. It needs to stop. I cannae–” he breaks off with a huff. “I need to know where I stand wit’ ye before I do something stupid like deciding yer pack.” He turns to look at Ghost again, lips twisted into a bitter smile. “What do you want from me?”

“I don’t know.” It’s all strings, tangled together into an unravelable mess, the emotions he can’t put a name to nestled amongst the ones he knows more intimately than the violence his hands are capable of. “I want to carve open your ribcage.”

Perhaps he leaves out the part of wishing to curl up in there, wrap himself around Johnny’s spine and stay until he couldn’t remember what hurting felt like. He wasn’t made for this. To want. Not unless it came alongside gallons of blood and the bite of steel into flesh. Whatever this budding thing between them is, it’s not all thorns, and that scares him to death.

“A’right,” Johnny says, drawing the word out long, sounding a lot less perturbed at the prospect than any sane man should. “What’s stopped you?”

Ghost shrugs again. “I’ve needed you up until now.”

“Nah.” Soap stretches lazily, like he hasn't a care in the world, and tucks himself right into Ghost’s personal space. “Could’ve left me in Las Almas, no questions asked. Instead ye compromised yerself to get me out o’ there in… mostly one piece.”

“Maybe I want to be the one to do it.”

“Again,” Johnny drawls, “what’s stopping ye?”

Ghost says nothing.

“See, this is what I mean.” Soap punctuates his statement with a snort, an insufferable smirk dawning in the wake of it. “You threaten to kill me, but you like me alive. Leave me to fend for myself, though no one fights alone. Shoots my look-alike without a moment's hesitation but sneaks into my room the very same night.” He taps a clawed fingertip to the hardshell of Ghost's mask after every sentence, thawing a tad when the last one causes him to flinch. “Would it be so bad, trusting someone?”

“Yes.”

“Do it anyway.”

No, would be the correct response, contrarian and truthful. Ghost swipes a thumb over Soap’s cheekbone, stares at his hopelessly earnest expression while mulling words and experiences over. Knows he's too far gone already. Tries to make himself believe that Johnny isn't, and if they're lucky, that'll be enough to save him.

“I’ll try,” he murmurs and the grin he’s awarded with nearly makes the terror worth it.

[gomzdrawfr]

iykyk

[snootlestheangel]

Was so close to making a vent post but I'm going to continue to do that thing where I keep it to myself and instead I'm gonna project onto a fictional character

Ghost is the worst at dealing with burn out.

They all get burnt out at some point, it's inevitable in their career of choice.

But the others are able to handle it pretty well.

Price knows how to step back and delegate a few little things to others, to take a step back and let other people deal with certain problems. He knows when to pick a battle and when to let something slide. He knows when to take some time off and when to find quiet time for himself on base.

Soap knows how to slow down. He knows how to ease himself out of doing as much as he does so he doesn't run out of what little energy he has left. He knows how to admit he can't do something right now, and he's not ashamed to admit it.

Gaz knows his limits, and he knows how to respect them. He knows that when he's burnt out he can't even consider pushing himself. He knows that once he hits his limit, he needs to stop. And he knows how to start small and build his way back up.

They all know that burn out is inevitable and that's okay, and they all need a little help sometimes.

And Ghost technically knows this too.

But he's been Ghost for so long, he's almost forgotten that the rules of humanity still apply to him.

He's been burnt out for so long he doesn't even remember what normal functioning is supposed to look like.

He's forgotten that something like eating or showering shouldn't be a chore, but he's grown so accustomed to fighting himself to get these little tasks done.

He's forgotten what it feels like to be rested and not tired.

For him, it always feels like it's just one thing after another. Never a time to fully heal, never a time to fully rest. He's always wounded, always tired, always struggling to just make it through another day.

He's grown so numb so why does everything still hurt? Is he really that broken, so broken that he's beyond hope for repair?

Was it Roba?

Or his father?

Because surely if there was a creator, they wouldn't be so cruel as to make him this way by design.

It's gotten to the point that even loving Soap feels hard. Not in the sense of it feels like a chore, but in the sense of he feels so ill-equipped to maintain a relationship. He knows it takes communication, time, and effort for any relationship, but he feels he just doesn't have it. He wants to just sometimes sit and simply stop existing for a bit, to let his mind and body process everything over the years of his life, to give him a chance to know what the hell is going on.

But he doesn't get it.

And he doesn't understand why he keeps getting out of bed.

Why should he care so much? Why does he care so much? When did he care so much?

He doesn't understand why or how he's crawling out of bed and into clean clothes for the day. He doesn't understand how he's still functioning well enough to have conversation with the team, to make little jokes here and there, to make plans.

He doesn't understand how he's still able to do everything he does without simply collapsing.

He feels so empty, like a husk, a shell of what he's supposed to be.

A performative skeleton dancing around, biding its time until it collapses.

But most of all, he doesn't understand how no one seems to see it. How no one has noticed the way his body seems to droop as if simply holding himself up is a challenge.

Doesn't understand how Johnny can look him in the eye and smile at him like he's hung the bloody stars and not see the despair weighing him down.

And maybe an unmarked grave is all he needs. A place where he'll be left undisturbed, unburdened, and laid to rest.

He's just tired.

[noahdrawsalot]

Not me disappearing for half a month-

[shadow0-1]

Stars

[queermentaldisaster]

Simon's ma was Catholic. Not a good one either. Kept letting her husband harm Simon in hopes it would 'turn him back to normal'. Their fights were explosive and horrible.

She taught Simon to never have sex outside of marriage, she instilled those harmful beliefs upon her son.

The first night after Simon's rape at the hands of Roba, his sobs could be heard throughout the building, and those neighboring his cell listened to those repeated prayers of ‘Oh Lord please forgive me’ again and again.

He still thinks that way and can still be found praying for forgiveness every so often. Soap brings him back to reality. Promises that the God(s) up there made Simon the way he was and that they are not blaming him for what has happened to him.

[forestshadow-wolf]

Y'all imagine soap and ghost wrestling and soap suplexes ghost

Everyone is just stunned. Nobody knew he could do that

Ghost is even more in love (maybe a little hard thinks about asking johnny to do it again)

Whils soap isn't a small man by any means, Ghost is just a large man... he's never met anyone who could just do that to him. Maybe that one german Austrian dude from, what's it called? Kortac?, he heard that guy's pretty tall.

But that's different. That's a big dude taking out a big dude.

This is soap taking out a man who out classes him in height and weight, like it was nothing. And fuck if that doesn't do something to him.

Soap laughs at the dumbfounded faces and says he used to be on the wrestling team from 7th to 11th grade. Says he's surprised nobody knew. Says his coaches always had to move him up a weight class because he obliterated his own weight class. Says that he wanted to see if he could still do it. Says he's always wanted to do it to Ghost.