#post mwiii

[divine-draws]

cross posting a thread from twitter where I rambled about my ghoap family au: thinking of johnny bringing sammy on base for lunch with simon and when they show up simon is not in his office, he’s still out on the drill pad scaring the shit out of recruits. ghost notices the recruits’ attention goes to somewhere to his right and that’s about all the warning he has before sammy flings herself at his leg, clinging to the camo as she stares up with a wide toothy grin. it’s not the first time and wont be the last sammy sees of Ghost. she is far from scared of the mask. she happily babbles and reaches up, asking to be picked up. it’s also not the first time ghost had sammy out here with him, the last time she was strapped to his chest, and as such he scoops her up, resting her on his hip, before turning to bark more orders at the poor recruits. Sammy happily joins in giving orders, demanding one particular recruit sing the Incy Wincy Spider and do the dance. He hesitated and looked to Ghost for some direction who just glared down at him “You heard the lady,” he growled out. The recruit shrunk back some before complying.

[ghvst-ing]

The weak, yet steady beeping of the heart monitor fills your heart with hope, one dulled out over your time spent grieving.

You look like a right mess. Your hair’s disheveled, the whites of your eyes reddish. Dark eye-bags adorn your face, too, cheeks stained with trails of dried tears.

The sharp smell of antiseptic, and chlorine burns your nose. A migraine prods at the back of your brain, and you feel the pounding of your head behind your eyelids.

Light, rhythmic taps of your shoe against the tiles fill the hospital room, and your knee bounces in tandem, unable to keep still.

The body of your lover lays still on the cot. Motionless. Unmoving as you stare. The only sign of life is the gentle rise and fall of his chest, dry lips just barely parted underneath the oxygen mask.

Your clammy hands grasp one of his limp ones, not even the smallest twitch in his rough fingers.

The familiar, calloused skin of his palm reminds you that he is tough, resilient. That he could will survive this. That the bullet that pierced the side of his skull wouldn’t leave him in an indefinite coma — stuck within his own body like a captive, but not quite dead.

Your teary eyes settle on his face. A long-healed scar runs down his chin, almost covered by the light brown stubble that littered his jawline. His head, however, was wrapped in a pristine, white bandage, while his hair was cropped for better access to his wound.

“You better wake up, Johnny..” A bittersweet chuckle tumbled from your downturned lips, your quiet voice cracking at the end, the words escaping the tight knot that formed in your throat. “Don’t think I could live without you, y’know..?”

His job was dangerous, and you knew that.

Many times did he return bruised and battered, yet, luckily, never handed to you in a plain box of his belongings. There had been instances, scares, when you were called to the hospital due to injuries he suffered on the field, but during your entire relationship, it wasn’t ever this bad.

Your fingers trembled as you held his own in your grasp, his hand only lying there limply. Your sleek engagement band brushed against his warm skin as you swallowed thickly.

Your shoulders slumped in exhaustion, hunched forward in the uncomfortable chair beside his hospital bed, and your nose scrunched up with a sniffle.

Feeling your eyes burn with tears, you let them fall closed. You wondered if he could hear you, feel your presence beside him in this comatose state.

You were never religious before this, but you’d turn to any god just for him to wake up, even if just for a mere moment, a passing second, at least.

“Please..”

[oshikiri-toru]

What if Soap and Ghost decided to get married for military benefits?

They're a little drunk when they think of it, giggling about one of them wearing a wedding dress or carrying the other down the aisle, but the next day they actually think about it. It would let them be more flexible about housing, moving into an apartment or even a home together with nicer beds and appliances. They'd get some extra money for groceries and some more freedom. It sounded great, and with Price and Laswell capable of figuring out the fraternization logistics, it was a real possibility.

So, then ensues a 'fake' marriage, where two homies get legally married just for benefits. Everyone congratulates them on finding love, but they're just relaxing in their apartment, sleeping in two separate rooms, and living their own lives. Ghost keeps to himself while Soap goes out to meet new people.

But as time goes on, they start spending more and more time together, cooking meals together or falling asleep on the couch with a movie playing in the background. Soap eventually moves into Ghost's room, claiming he was cold (he was not, he was actually melting but Ghost didn't need to know). Their fake marriage starts to look a lot like a real marriage, real domestic: weekly dates, intertwined schedules, and arguments over bills and taxes.

Nearly two/three years in and it hits them that they actually like each other. They couldn't imagine divorcing once they're out of the military, couldn't imagine anyone else taking their place. When they hit the five year mark, they decide to have a real wedding, renewing their (previously copied from Google) vows in front of family and friends.

And I'm sure the benefits for a civilian spouse would help Johnny a lot when he's medically discharged from the military. Instead of following Ghost around as his teammate, he gets to follow Ghost around as his husband, always waiting for him to come home during those last few years in service.

[gothghostiie]

mmmm thinking about ghost just straight up putting you in a chokehold. I know this is such a basic thought but?? him just fuckinh you in lazy doggy, arm suddenly wrapping around your neck and squeezing you between his bizeps and forearms, making you gasp and grab his arm for support. "just like that, yea? thought you were falling alseep on me darlin'.."

[ohgeesoap]

scratches on Soap's forearms

@deadbranch

[temeyes]

here comes the boi hello boi welcomeeeeeeeeeee

[solivagantingrebel]

I'm never getting over how Soap keeps pointing out big things when he sees them in mw3, like. "big fuckin' boat" this "big fuckin' gun" that. You bet your ass his first thought when he saw Ghost was "big fuckin' brit".

[yumethefrostypanda]

Love the idea Nikolai didn't walk in front of Ghost (could've fit imo) out of respect and decency, so instead Nik walked behind him. Side note; these three men are massive.

[shadow0-1]

What would I be without you

[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.

[cod-fishing]

When the 141 finally gets some leave, or even just a few days at one base, Ghost can sometimes go a little…overboard…during sex.

He just so rarely gets the chance to truly be alone with Soap. So often it’s quick kisses exchanged before they drop into a mission, good luck wishes from his lover pressed against the seam of his mask, or spit-lubed jerk off sessions while waiting in a shitty bunker for exfil. It’s not even that Ghost dislikes their messy, incredibly unprofessionally little tristes - quite the opposite. But Soap’s tongue on his balls while he stays in perfect sniper position doesn’t exactly inspire relaxation.

And so when he can relax - truly relax, with miles between him and the enemy, a secure enough lock to take his mask off, and access to real lube - he sometimes looses control.

It always starts with Soap below him.

And isn’t that alone just ecstasy. Johnny MacTavish, all his. Splayed out underneath him, strung out on pleasure and sweat and spit, moaning like he’s being payed for it. Soap’s voice, god, he’s always had a mouth on him, and when they’ve got the luxury of a door he doesn’t hold back. Ghost drinks it up, lapping his gasps and hitched breath out of the air, licking them from between his lips. He keeps his hands busy, running across sensitive ribs and over nipples, or notched up to the joint in Soap’s delicious little hole.

And Ghost has so much patience. So god damn much, he doesn’t even know where it comes from, some endless well in his soul that only Johnny can tap. He keeps him like that for what feels like days, floating in a little pool of pleasure.

Until he just snaps.

Fingers are ripped free of his lover, murmurs of praise traded for wordless growls. Suddenly, Soap is gasping for a new reason as Ghost flips him over, pulling his ass up and planting a crushing hand on his spine to keep him in place. He barely had the forethought to slick his cock before he’s forcing his way into Johnny’s slick, gummy heat. Arms come up around his chest to hold him in place, teeth sink into his vulnerable neck, and he sets about thoroughly ruining Johnny on his cock.

It’s not that he means to be so harsh to his lover. Despite his reputation, he never wants to harm Johnny, could never imagine it. But in these moments…it’s like his patience implodes and he just needs him.

All of him. Needs to be in him, surrounded by him, needs Johnny in every cell. It's an itch under his skin, a thrum of incesant desire, a fucking addiction.

When he feels Johnny clench around his cock, he can't even hear him anymore. All he can do is chase it, mixing their bodies and soul, licking Soap into his mouth, crushing him to his chest. It doesn't take long until finally, finally he releases into his lover, and whatever insanity that takes him is broken.

As he drifts back into the present, Johnny panting against his chest, he's always terrified. Terrified that he has hurt his Johnny, his sunshine. Short of breath himself, he runs his hands over him, grimacing at scratches and softly blooming bruises, but every time, Johnny just catches his hand.

Shut that brain off, Johnny slurs, half-way to sleep already. I loved it, I always do. Now turn the light off.

And Ghost is brought right back out of his over-active thoughts. He has plenty of time to worry about Soap being hurt. He doens't need to do it now, in the little haven of their love.

[collinnmckinley]

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare III | gifs - 3/?

[verdantcreek]

he was the best of us. | lyrics from fin by mustard service

[toomanywordsnllines]

Some of the most gorgeous Soap's I've drawn... probably ever My homie is looking etheral 😔👊💥👊

[temeyes]

soap and coffee

[emptyapartments]

call of duty tumblr i dont want sex with these characters i just want them to be poetic about each other can you please stop showing me x readers please