storeecbrcod - Tumblr blog

storeecbrcod · 25 days

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Y/N and Ghost absolutely have matching skull shirts that are just those shitty 2000’s emo style tshirts that say something edgy on them.

I can imagine it now; a black shirt with a hyper-stylised skull, a part of it shattered open with a hammer, with the words “the darkness lives in my head” on it, Y/N wearing it tucked into slacks like a dress shirt and Ghost wearing it proudly under a jacket hahaha

Couples Shit with Simon Riley:

Having a giggle/chuckle fest almost every time you are intimate. It first happened at the beginning of your relationship when you would giggle every time you two kissed. It opened the floodgates, had let that nervous energy out, and Simon was right there chuckling with you. ("Heh—aw, fuck me.")

Swearing up and down that you're gonna fuck each other's brains out but as soon as you hit the bed, you and Simon are out like a light. The last time this happened, he was supposed to go down on you, but the next thing you know, you woke up to him fast asleep with his head on your stomach.

Kissing the bridge of his crooked nose and Simon turning into putty every time. Hell, kissing any and every dent, bruise, and scar, and making your man melt.

A nice round of horizontal tango turning into a cuddle session after you comforted Simon through a charley horse. Poor baby.

Initially making the telly watch you two make sex but turns out whatever you're watching was pretty decent after all so you guys are back to watching the telly again.

Getting hot and heavy one time but you were so intrigued with the mole you discovered on Simon's inner thigh that you spent the next half-hour or so trying to find other moles on his body.

Telling Simon that you "always wanted to do this" and when you get him hot, bothered, and hard, it turns out what you always wanted to do was measure him. His disappointment was immeasurable... even if he was interested to know the number.

Twinning in some way, shape, or fashion whenever you're out together.

Talking mad shit about his snoring but let him tell it, he doesn't say shit when you take up about 80% of the bed, covers, and sleep under him.

Speaking of talking shit, having disagreements like every couple does and when you go to bed, you're angrily cuddling each other. And yes, Simon still wants your kisses in the morning, even if you two are still mad at each other. Simon doesn't give a shit, you're still gonna love on him, dammit. And him on you.

Being mad with Simon when he arrived too late to get the creepy crawler that was harassing you. Harassing you by doing what it does best: be a creepy crawler. Simon tells you you'll have to conquer your fear one day. You tell him to conquer the couch tonight lmao.

Agreeing to disagree about the superior ice cream flavor in the house. It's too bad there's not any of his favorite ice cream in the freezer. There's some of yours, though. Why? You didn't get any because it was so superior that you wouldn't "dare sully it with your hands". Cue the judgemental stare and him eating YOUR ice cream afterward. Rude.

Scaring the ever-living shit out of Simon on the rare occasions he gets to sleep in. He woke up to you sitting up in bed with his mask and paint on. Oh, and he calls bullshit. He did not nearly fall out the bed. Nor did he jump. Okay, Simon.

Chilling and drinking with Simon. Finding out he gets hot and sweaty pretty easily and off comes his clothes. Waking up hungover the next morning and you're the big spoon to a naked and equally hungover Simon. Choosing to do fuck all but sleep it off that day.

Playfully calling or referring to him as the Missus, especially in front of your co-workers. When they finally meet Simon and ask him who he is, he replies in pure deadpan Ghost fashion: "The Missus".

#he’s so edgy and goofy #he’s emo your honour #call of duty #ghost x reader #reader x ghost

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storeecbrcod · 1 month

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Activision really expected us to look at these two, beautiful characters, one embodying the moon in attitude, past, and likeness with pale skin and pale hair and eyes as dark as the night on the cusp of sunrise and scars like craters, and the other as bright and young as the sun with more energy and power than one can harness without reflection, and not ship them.

What is a moon without its sun? Simon knew, for a long time, shadowed in darkness and only lit by the distant speck of sister stars, but then came Johnny. And for once in what felt like a lifetime, he shone as bright as the sun in front of him, just like he did with his family.

So anyway, I may be writing a Ghoap God!AU with Ghost as Manì (Norse God of the Moon) and Soap as Lugos (Celtic God of the Sun) with a load of other mythologies and gods…

#they’re meant for each other your honour #it’s in the stars #cod mw ghost #cod mw soap #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #ghoap #ghost x soap #ghostsoap #soapghost #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #the brainrot is real

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storeecbrcod · 2 months

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Whump Drabble/fic where Soap suffers realistic trauma from MWIII (though we’ll put a bandaid over his ultimate fate lol).

TW: explicit medical injuries and treatments, angst with a bittersweet ending, will likely be inaccurate in some way seeing as I’m not a medical professional nor a trauma doctor/nurse (I’m just a girl fr), Ghoap✨

Ghost had been wrangling with this worm of guilt that chewed at his heart, something that he thought he had grown accustom to over his life but was now back with a vengeance. When he wasn’t clawing his skin from his bone to try and find the fucker, he was with Johnny.

He had thought the hardest part of this would be overcoming that guilt, but he quickly realised the coma was much worse.

He’d followed soldiers after they’d suffered significant GSW trauma before, of course he had. He’d caused many himself, knew how to engineer one that would guarantee a kill, knew how impossible it seemed yet possible it was to survive a shot to the temple, nearly point blank. He knew what recovery entailed.

Yet, he didn’t know what recovery entailed when it made the soft birdsong in his life silent and still.

He was a sniper and a stealth operative, he was used to sitting in one place during recon, unmoving and hyperaware for hours on end, days or weeks or even months at a time.

Yet, he wasn’t used to searching for a heartbeat and willing it to keep going rather than aiming to stop it.

He’d never felt so restless in his life, cataloguing every detail of the man on the bed in front of him every day. He watched as bandages turned red, watched as the side of his head swelled and bruised and went so black it was like staring into space. He read the words ‘Pressure relief DO NOT TOUCH’ scribbled on the vacuum-sealed, open wound on the back of a window in his skull over and over and over until swelling bowed the dressing and the words didn’t make sense.

He watched air be pumped through tubes down his throat when his brain couldn’t do it for him, and saw urine pool in a bag next to the bed. He watched nurses exercise his body, watched the shut door as they cleaned him up with sponge baths. He’d watched the codes be called and watched from outside the room as ribs were broken in the frail, pale body that was a fifth of the size it used to be and void of the usual tan.

He watched it all. He watched everything.

Just watched.

He knew people in comas could often hear what’s going on around them, he’d learnt that when he rushed Tommy to the hospital after a particularly bad overdose. But it was like his lips were fused together, vocal cords totally lax and frozen. He couldn’t speak, wouldn’t speak, scared of what would tumble from his tongue and leave in the open when Johnny couldn’t even respond.

Spontaneity was a common tactic on the field, as much as they tried to negate it. It wasn’t very often a plan went totally right. Damage control and problem solving were heavily exercised skills that Ghost possessed.

But he couldn’t solve this. He could wish death on Makarov as much as he did before, he could research the best trauma surgeons and doctors and nurses and therapists in the UK, he could monitor Johnny’s condition obsessively all he wants, but he can’t fix it. He can’t heal the snapped neurons, he can’t dig into Johnny’s veins and fish out the blood clots that continued to threaten his life or limbs. He couldn’t crawl into John’s skin and nest there in his warmth, protect him and feel protected. He couldn’t.

Helplessness wasn’t something he’d felt in a long time, but he’d much rather be clawing out of his own grave as ravens cawed again than have to put John in one, still and unable to dig to join Simon.

So when Soap eventually does wake, it felt like an endless tunnel came to an abrupt end with blinding lights and trees, waiting for birds to call their greeting.

He made his own greeting, his imposing yet solid presence next to the bed as tubes were removed and the body was propped up and assurances were given. He was eager, after 4 months of pure silence about to be filled with music again.

But it was off key.

“Where am I?”

“Hospital, Johnny.”

A furrowed brow.

“Who th’ fuck ah you?”

Simon thought that the worst part of all this was the coma, the silence, but he was wrong. It was the recovery.

Simon had learnt that the temple was the perfect place to locate the parts of the brain responsible to speech, decision making and rationalisation, and memory. He’d learnt how irritating it could be re-explaining the same thing over and over every few minutes could be, he learnt of the shame that followed the irritation knowing that Soap couldn’t help it. He learnt how much it hurt to be escorted out of the room for routine check-ups because the once unrelenting trust between him and Johnny had relented to the shadow of unknown.

He had learnt that nothing is permanent.

His visits became less and less. Unsurprisingly, John (not Johnny; only his family calls him that) didn’t want a mountain of a man, full of angst and anger and sadness, haunting the corners of his hospital room. He only wanted his ma and pa, and as much as it hurt Ghost, he respected his wishes.

For months, Ghost isolated himself, got lost in his work. For months, John worked at recovery, regaining his smart mouth and witty remarks, slowly relearning his impulse control that wasn’t really as much control as it was pure will power to restrain himself.

For months, Ghost sought birdcall in the gurgles of his enemies’ throats, revelling in the garbled melodies that never matched the one he remembered, but breaking off just the same.

Beware the mockingbird, Johnny would say.

Yet here he was, searching for a blue jay’s song among the mouths of the unknown and wicked.

He got so used to the warped record that he often found himself forgetting what the original chords sounded like when they reverberated through his chest, right to his heart. Was it sweet, like the pull of a blade through supple skin? Was it explosive, like the crack of body armour in the hap between Kevlar plates? Was it deafening, like the rounds discharged that aimed for his heart?

Was it quiet, like an unmonitored heartbeat over nighttime?

Was it gentle, like the lingering touches left on his waist that still burned his skin months later?

Was it still there?

“Simon.”

Ghost blinked, looking up to Price. He hadn’t realised that he’d let his gaze wander, his mind even further.

“You need to go see him.”

There’s a cry of a broken-winged dove in his ears, overshadowed by the croon of a raven. Stability and chaos, broken and mended in one.

It hurt his head.

“He asked me to leave,” Ghost reasoned.

“When he first woke up, yes,” Price conceded. “Back when you honoured your callsign very proficiently, mind you.”

A scoff erupted from Ghost’s chest, under his crossed arms.

“Look, Simon,” Price sighed, leaning back against his desk, blue eyes of cobalt melting the sulphurous gleam of Ghost’s brown ones. “He remembers, now. Remembered Gaz in a matter of moments, recognised me soon after.”

There was a pause, pregnant and heavy as Ghost kept his mouth shut, luring Price to continue. Daring him to try and push past the raven’s sharp talons to help the dove.

A hand reaches towards the nest.

“It might be time for you to try again.”

The raven hesitates.

“The hospital staff spoke to us about how helping Soap’s brain reconnect the broken neural pathways from the trauma could help him recover faster.”

The dove coos.

“Please, Simon.”

Outstretched fingers.

“Fuck, I can’t watch two of my men crumble at the same time.”

A flurry of feathers, the screeching of breath through gravel, rubber on road, nails on chalkboard. It’s overwhelming, sending his heart into overdrive and rationality to the wind.

“Fuck you, Price.”

Yeah, the recovery hurt the most.

Looking in the mirror during recovery, specifically, hurt like a bitch. Scars that pulled over once unmarred skin, hollow cheeks where laughter and smiles once grew, gnarled soul and memories where purity reigned. It was all thrown back at you, as insistent as a murder of crows at your doorstep.

He could see the way John, not Johnny, sifted through his memory like a locked filing cabinet while trying to place Ghost, desperately searching through the unlocked drawers over and over for the file he needed, all while the closed drawers taunted him with kept knowledge. It was all right there, yet he couldn’t access it.

“Ghost, aye?”

It’s met with a grunt. Silence stretches out, black feathers shielding the delicate white ones.

“And ye were my… lieutenant?”

He was going off of information fed to him, his brow furrowed in concentration, still trying to place Ghost. He couldn’t tell where the darkness around him ended and Ghost started, obscured by inky blackness.

He doesn’t sound right. It’s not the same teasing, playful lilt that danced in the air. It’s not pronounced the same, not said the same, it’s not the same.

It’s some… imposter. Something that looks the same and smells the same and tastes the fucking same, but it’s different.

A cuckoo’s egg in a nest.

“Price ‘nd Kyle were telling me some stories about ye,” John noted with a small smile. “You’re quite the stunner out field, ‘pparently.”

It’s an olive branch, a bridge built half way. An offering to meet in the middle, to talk and revere and remember.

But Ghost didn’t remember, and neither did John.

Recovery never ends, you know. It goes on and on and on, haunting your nerves and your wits for the rest of your life. You’ll always have some sort of ache or pain, a reminder of what happened to you.

John never ended up recovering fully. He was medically discharged, left to nurse a broken cage and a silent heart. He did well, considering; it wasn’t hard when you didn’t remember the song that beat with the rhythm of your heart.

He still joined the team on outings sometimes, staying in a local hotel when everyone was back at base. They’d have a meal, or go to a pub, catch up. Re-establish connections once lost.

Ghost rarely joined them, to save his own torment.

But of course, he had to honour the dove occasionally. Just as he was now, sitting across the table from the lively Scot and with his two other teammates, Gaz and Price. Beers had been served, a single glass of warm whiskey for cold hands. The table was lively, fun, rambunctious in all the best ways.

The cuckoo had hatched in earnest, Ghost found.

It was easy to see the progress John had made, loud and bright and cheeky like he used to be. Demanding of attention, hungry for every scrap of past he could swallow to try and heal old wounds. Listening to stories about himself and his old crew when they were all together, as if it was another version of him. The right version of him.

And by god, were the scraps from Simon the most nourishing of all.

John’s mouth felt desert dry, cactus dust caking his tongue as he bit desperately into every glimpse of Ghost’s bare face, lips wrapped around glass and breath smelling of potent, liquid gold with every word. It hurt, it tasted awful, and it was impossible to rid himself from. It hurt so good, feeling his heart pull and swell in ways he didn’t understand anymore.

He felt like glass, he felt like the air, he felt like expensive liquor, he felt like it was meant to be him in their places, held and touched and breathed and consumed. It was overwhelming, leaving him starstruck and staring, a flutter in his chest reawakened.

Ghost’s own nest was erupting with displaced wind, white wings desperate to spread and carry it away, escape the raven’s hold. Right now, meeting Johnny’s eyes, he realised that the time spent captive in the nest had only lent to the dove’s healing. It was stronger now, bigger and fiercer and so, so hopeful.

The cuckoo cackled, loud and leering. Mockingbirds whistled and cawed, off key and haunting. The raven keened, shaken and damning.

The white dove flew.

The blue jay sang above the bramble.

And the two nested together, among the dappled branches of a birchwood tree, cool and calm and surrounded by colour year round. Above the bramble of the past.

Ghost had learnt one thing over everything else; a lesson that was recurrent in his life, stubborn and overwhelming. It swallowed him in waves, crashing him into the sand bank below.

Nothing is ever, ever permanent.

Admittedly, his retirement had gone well. The down payment was easy, the renovations smooth, moving in a sigh of relief. They’d have their harder days, where getting out of bed and walking without aid was difficult for Johnny, but they’d have their good days, too. They’d have their days where they’d go for walks across the countryside, watch as their service dog bounced around through tall grass, tongue lolling from her mouth.

They’d have quiet days, relaxing days. They’d have loud days, rough days.

But they were all days where the sun would rise and then set.

They were all days when the blue jay sang.

Simon had forgotten silence. His life was filled with sound, and love, and content.

Maybe… maybe the worst part of it all was loss.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the unmoving body, still warm.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the frantic screams that drowned out the silence.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the silence.

Silence.

A/N: bandaids don’t last forever

Idk if this is coherent or cohesive or any other co-words meaning readable and enjoyable. Maybe I’ll rewrite it, who knows. Probably not, I can’t post consistently as it is lmao

#tw mcd #tw medical procedures #tw violence #tw graphic #idk what this is #enjoy #I hope #there’s so much symbolism/metaphor in here it’s crazy #it probably doesn’t make sense #call of duty #cod mw ghost #call of duty modern warfare #cod fanfic #ghoap #ghost x soap #ghostsoap #angst #whump

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storeecbrcod · 2 months

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8 from the angry prompts for Ghoap? :D

My Love Is Sick

maybe i’ll make a longer ao3 fic on it later. but this was a fun little drabble to write!

Loving Simon Riley is a different kind of heartbreak. It’s a festering thing, constantly infected, never fully healed. Simon Riley knows hatred, he knows distrust, he knows betrayal.

Simon Riley does not know love. He doesn’t know the delicacy of trust. And he doesn’t know what it’s like to give and receive in return.

John’s affection spirals into quiet, harsh words, because Simon Riley doesn’t yell.

“Your love for me is like a deadly infection,” and Simon sounds genuine, he looks fucking genuine as he says it, “and you’re going to kill the both of us, John. You cannot love something that is— You can’t love me.”

John presses his hand into his eyes, a wet broken laugh leaving him, “Then tell me how to stop loving you. Tell me how i’m supposed to un-love you, Simon!” John hates the way his voice breaks. He feels like he needs to tear his skin off to breathe, he feels like a bird that wants to go back in its cage, “Spare me the fucking consequence of this— infection.”

“You’ll kill yourself.” Simon sounds defeated, broken. “I cant tell you how to— I don’t even understand how you do.”

John sighs. “Simon,” He whispers, trying his hardest to will Simon to open his eyes and look at him, “I would die for you. I would give up my life for you. My love will not kill me, I will kill me. If that’s what you need.”

Simon’s shoulders shake. He sucks in a breath, shakes his head, “I would live for you.” John’s heart shatters for probably the hundredth time. He isn’t sure how many times his heart has broken having these conversations, “I wouldn’t even live for myself. Do you understand how horrifying that is?” Simon speaks quietly and harshly.

John sits on the bed next to him. “Do you know how much it scares me what I would die for you without a second thought? I would rather be rotted and wounded than not have you at all.”

Simon looks at him, eyes filled to the brim with tears. He blinks and the tears gather on his pale lashes, smearing black onto them. His eyes fill all over again, just as quick as before, and he blinks again, slower. In the two seconds that his eyes linger shut, tears flow down and gather the black paint, leaving streaks in the black gathered around his eyes.

“I haven’t ever wanted to live before,” Simon whispers. His eyes flutter open, and John can’t not admire the way the brown cleanly cuts into ice blue. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want— everybody around me gets hurt. Everybody I have ever opened up to—“

“I haven’t ever wanted to die before.” John’s love is messy, and wrong, and too much, and all over the place.

Maybe Simon’s is, too.

#oh #call of duty #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghostsoap #ghoap #soapghost

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storeecbrcod · 2 months

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Cue that stereotypical high-status couples scene in romance movies where Simon watches Johnny from across the room, charisma oozing from the man like warm honey and covering up the old rigidness of disdain and boredom. Watching the easy smiles, polite laughs, strong hands cradling a champagne glass so gently yet so assuredly, navy suit making his blue eyes pop.

Simon can’t even bother himself with how rude he may seem as he places his tumbler down and walks away from the old-money couple trying to butter him up. His muttered apology and trained stare were the only things in his wake.

They’d both changed each other, apparently.

John clocked on as Simon approached, eyes flicking to the blond man and instantly understanding the way he pointed with his eyes to a dark hallway at the edge of the banquet hall as he passed. He excused himself politely, loosely following Simon.

“Ach, fuckin’ hate those prickly bastards,” John sighed, watching the bustling, bright room and smile dropping as the honey washed away the instant they were alone.

Well trained, he was.

“Askin’ me the same damn questions, over an’ over. Cunts cannae even look me in the eye, ‘alf the time. Too busy strokin’ each other’s cocks to show off an’ get in m’ pockets-”

Back against marble wall, chest against a different wall, and soft lips to dull the edges of his prickling irritation. John’s body melted, a new sweetness turning his insides to mush as Simon’s body all but welded itself to his own, stone abdomens grating against each other and hands clamping fleshed hips together.

They parted with a few heavy breaths, Simon staring down and a dazed, uneven smile growing on John’s face. He glanced down to take in how the other man’s chest still managed to nearly bulge out in the white dress shirt under the black blazer, tie matching John’s own blazer tight around his bobbing throat.

“Do somethin’ right, eh, LT?” John teased, flicking Simon’s medals clipped onto the breast of his suit jacket. Brown eyes narrowed as they met blue.

“Only cock you should be strokin’ round here, Johnny, is mine.”

Oh.

He definitely did something right.

(Uhhh I don’t use the internets nor tumblr often so OP if you’d rather me take this down cuz it’s an unnecessary and elaborate addition to your idea I will. I didn’t want to clog your asks with this, is all :,) My online etiquette is shit cuz idk how to interact with people irl let alone online :D)

new rich soap who’s still trying to get used to his new wealth, never having been able to spend so much so freely when he was growing up. he doesn’t feel like he fits in with this new group of people he’s meant to now be socializing with, all at the same level of rich—it’s just… not him. and he does his best to avoid it as much as he can, but it’s only inevitable he’ll have meetings, events, and so much more he loathes.

and old rich ghost, who grew up with the snobbery of the upper class, who doesn’t take it for granted but still resents not having earned it. who sees soap feeling out of place and decides the least he can do is help someone else not feel so much like a fish out of water.

soap who doesn’t want ghost’s pity, but grows to appreciate the etiquette lessons when he learns that ghost doesn’t like being defined by his status. ghost who falls in love with soap all the while, particularly when soap shows him normalcy and humanity that not many others in his overlapping social and business circles possess.

#tw suggestive #oldmoney!Ghost #newmoney!Soap #this is such a good idea #they’re both naturally charismatic #but Ghost was forced to use it #Soap needs to learn to use it #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #ghoap #alternate universe #call of duty #cod mw ghost #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw soap

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storeecbrcod · 4 months

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Yellowjackets Spoiler!

Warren, Warren. Listen. I know “I don’t make threats, I make guarantees” was a sick line but my guy not everyone needs to betray their people! Now poor Shauna (pfft) is gonna end up *lipsmack* “detained” for murder and you’re gonna be *lipsmack* “detained” for blackmail. Really, bro, not cool.

The Graves Effect fr

In reality, poor Jeff. I’m feeling bad for Warren’s character again lmao.

At no point in the Yellowjackets series on Prime was I expecting to yell “IS THAT PHILLIP GRAVES?” (It was)

Shit’s wild

#yellowjackets #phillip graves #jeff sadecki #warren kole #this is sarcastic. and completely unserious don’t come at me

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storeecbrcod · 4 months

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At no point in the Yellowjackets series on Prime was I expecting to yell “IS THAT PHILLIP GRAVES?” (It was)

Shit’s wild

#yellowjackets #call of duty #phillip graves #jeff sadecki #Warren Kole wtf are you doing here #I know he’s an actor but I was not expecting to recognise him in a small photo in a 2 second shot

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storeecbrcod · 5 months

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See? This is what I mean. THIS IS WHAT I MEAN!

Drabble <3

keen eye 🤍

#Simon is the baker #Johnny is the cook #ghost mw2 #mwii #soap mw2 #call of duty mw2 #cod mw2 #modern warfare fanart #mw2 #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost

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storeecbrcod · 5 months

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This is so Ghoap coded. I wrote it as a stand alone but my god it just screams Ghoap.

MWIII Spoilers under cut!

No but imagine Simon grieving Soap, having never really gotten the chance to confess or really move past their small touches or quiet nights together. They had spent all this time up until Soap died just existing together, bonded by how relaxed they were in often frightening times. Content with Soap’s head on Ghost’s chest, dozing or talking or simply basking in each other’s presence.

And how that feeling is so fucking nostalgic to Ghost now. How, in a way, he felt young with Soap. And now he can’t help but look back on his memories of Soap in the same way he looks back on his few happy memories as a child. Because, in a way, Soap was healing his inner child and showing him he’s deserving of quiet love, of unconditional love, of understanding love.

And now it’s gone, just like the days where he’d make pillow forts with his brother.

Fuck, I’m making myself cry over silly little gay military men, how embarrassing-

And fucking “Think of me every one in a while, take care” came on while I was writing this GOD I’m in my sad boy hours Fr

There’s this heavy blanket of grief, yet here we are, making a pillow fort under it; finding refuge with warm lights and fantasy books, pretty words and muffled laughter.

Finding refuge with each other.

Yes, with each other.

#call of duty #cod of duty modern warfare #cod mw soap #cod mw ghost #cod mw3 #cod mw3 spoilers #ghoap #ghost x soap #soap x ghost #I can’t believe I start my first day at work tomorrow (today) and I’m here crying at 1:30 am over pixels

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storeecbrcod · 5 months

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HOMIE I DONT KNOW YOU BUT DAMN YOUR FIC HAS ME IN TEARS THE TURMOIL ONE LIKE IT IS SO GOOD????!!!!!!! WHY ARE THERE NOT MORE NOTES ON IT HOLY HELL BUDDY I AM AGGRESSIVELY APPRECIATIVE CHEFS KISS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hahah, thank you! As cruel as it is, I’m glad it dredged up tears and emotions, it’s what I aim for when I write. I really appreciate this!! <3

I gained a following on tik tok first and was influenced to put it here, so I promise I’m getting ample attention. I love every like, comment, reblog, ask, etc I get. I appreciate you all so much!

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storeecbrcod · 5 months

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Orange Peel Theory

Ghost x Reader fic

“Give the damn thing to me, Lt. Thought you wanted an orange, not orange juice.” He glared back at you, an action most people would have stopped in their tracks from seeing. Instead, you plucked the fruit from his hands, easily sliding your thumbs into the hole he had made and peeling back the skin. He huffed at how easily you’d peeled it, fingers deft and graceful compared to his own.

“There,” you said with a smirk, holding out the fruit. “Now I don’t have to watch you fumble.” He scoffed, moving to grab it from you. You managed to steal a segment of orange, popping it into your mouth with a grin before moving away. He stared at your retreating form, the sting of citrus in cuts on his fingers oddly similar to the sting in his chest.

It was odd how you were always there to offer help with such mundane things. You were simply the FNG when that had happened, a bright force among such dire circumstances. A sergeant who, despite seeing more than enough acts of war and sacrifice, had managed to hold on to what humanity you had left.

Humanity that came as small actions no one expected or demanded, ones you just took to because you could. At first, Ghost found it annoying; always offering help, always checking in on him, always stepping in with his duties to try and make them go faster so he could rest earlier. It infuriated him. He’d never do things like that, it opened up way too many opportunities to be taken advantage of.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

A light rap on his door. Hesitant, shy.

“Lt?”

He sighed, getting up from his bunk and trudging over to the door. Irritability shifted under his skin, like he wore too many layers and they were bunched up under each other, not moving no matter how much he tossed and turned and pulled at them.

He swung the door open, a huffed, “What?” leaving him. He froze nearly instantly, seeing your face look back at him.

Dark undereyes, red capillaries pulling at the corners of dull white sclera like a mirror. An exhausted, yet worried pinch ghosting your features.

“Sergeant,” he started slowly, frozen in place. The irritability swelled, but he couldn’t find it in himself to take it out on you. “What do you need?”

A glance sideways, a shaky breath poorly concealed. Regretable, shameful.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” you mutter. “Just- just can’t seem to settle. Soap’s out field, of course, and Gaz is working with Price on recon-”

“Inside,” he said gruffly, leaving you at the threshold. He stopped halfway to his bunk before turning, looking at your surprised form with a raised brow. “Move your feet, sergeant.”

Eventually, it all evolved into a back and forth game. You’d find little things to do for him, little ways to make his day better. You’d visit his office during your rounds, picking up piles of paperwork or files he was about to deliver to someone else in the base, somehow always tricking him into telling you who they were intended for.

You’d find little bits and pieces he’d misplaced and put them somewhere he knew to look, smiling to yourself when you heard him huff in mild irritation when he eventually found something somewhere he’d ‘fucking looked before’.

You’d bring him a tea, or a snack when he had spent entirely too long in his room or hunched over paperwork.

You’d fill his water bottle when he was training in the gym.

You’d peel his oranges.

You never noticed how he’d lead on your conversations, watching your cheeky smile as he gave you the name of the intended recipients of his work.

You never noticed how loud your smile was, even if you weren’t facing him in the same room.

You never notice how sometimes he’d purposely avoided being seen by you outside his office so that you’d assume he had been there all day and bring him treats.

You never noticed how he left his water bottle out for easy access.

You never noticed how Soap or Gaz would throw him a confused or knowing look when he grabbed yet another orange, days in a row when he didn’t even really like them that much.

It soon divulged into a game of hide-and-seek tag, really. You’d always do something for him, something small, and he’d always do so in return. He was a lot sneakier about it, managing to turn a lot of your own tricks back on you and never being caught.

“I know what you’re doing.”

He looked up, his face neutral as the pen in his hand stilled. He raised a brow. “And just what am I doing, sergeant?”

A small huff, a cross of your arms. Defiant, playful.

“You’re taking my stuff just so you can say you found it when you return it,” you accuse.

He doesn’t know how he managed to keep a smile off of his face, even if his mask was able to hide it somewhat. He doesn’t know how his voice remains even, either, as he turns to you properly with a long sigh. “Why would I do that?”

“Well-” you splutter, suddenly falling short for a moment. “I wouldn’t know. Seems like you’re going soft.”

“Soft?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

Another silence. This time, he can’t keep a smirk from tugging at his lips, his eyes sparkling with mirth. He waited for your response, watching as you shifted uncomfortably. For an amazing and competent soldier out field, you sure were pretty awful at concealing your thoughts and feelings around him.

A shake in your resolve, a sideways glance. Flustered, cute.

Cute?

He couldn’t help but think of all the things you’d done for him over time. At some point, it had become the norm for you and him; helping each other out in tiny ways while never acknowledging them. Small boosts of morale and easiness provided that was eagerly accepted.

Like when he helped you get back to sleep after a particularly restless night filled with waking night terrors and the silent tears that he had learnt to not mention, rather swiping them away without another word. Like when either of you were sure you wouldn’t make it another day, either one of your heads resting on the other’s chest.

There were times where you would text him, his contact given to you purely for basic communication or emergency that quickly descended into the occasional conversation.

03/9/20-- 11:47 Heard you got caught in cross fire. What, bullets don’t phase through ghosts? I’m the one with the jokes love, not you Quit your bitching, old man You picking on the injured now, huh? New low And here I was about to offer to bring you some real food, not hospital food. But I guess I have a new reputation to uphold Not a reputation if only one person knows about it. I can keep secrets I’ll be there in 10 minutes Thanks, love

04/11/20-- 05:23 You up? No Yeah, good one. Slick Glad you think so, sarge. What do you need? Need a fucking coffee, wanted to know if you wanted a tea Are there sticks in the woods? Dunno, would have thought one was up your arse with your sunny attitude yesterday. Milk and sugar, like usual? Yes please

29/11/20-- 18:03 I’m glad you’re going home this time Why, need a break from me? Now that you mention it… But no, just think you deserve some actual time off instead of lurking around here like you always do I lurk. Yes, you lurk. You take your call sign too seriously sometimes I’ll keep that in mind

29/11/20-- 18:07 Did I do something wrong?

He struggled being away from you, he found. He hadn’t realised how much he enjoyed being around you, how much he took the little game for granted. Now, when he lost something, he found himself wishing you were there with him until his keys magically appeared. He missed waiting for the small knock on his door as you walked in with cups in your hands, maybe a paper bag with a muffin or such.

He hadn’t eaten an orange since he went on leave for the holidays.

24/12/20-- 22:58 Happy holidays, Sarge I should have said it earlier, but todays been hectic Not that you really care anymore

24/12/20-- 23:01 I wanted to invite you over for a drink or two, maybe a nice dinner, but thought it would be better for you to spend it with your family Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t have family? I would have spent my holiday with you if you asked I should have asked

24/12/20-- 23:17 I’m sorry

24/12/20-- 23:23 I miss you

24/12/20-- 23:39 What a day to lose your humanity I would have helped you

25/12/20-- 00:01 Merry Christmas, love I miss you I love you, too A Christmas miracle, I guess

Thumbs plunge into tough skin, ripping and tearing. Yet, nothing leaks from the cavity. No, it comes away easily.

A chuckle, the burn of citrus in cuts on his fingers and in his chest. Ire, melancholy.

25/12/20-- 00:06 A Christmas miracle I peeled my own orange

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw ghost #cod fanfic #cod x reader #ghost x reader #reader x ghost

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storeecbrcod · 6 months

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I need some more highly intuitive Soap. This man has so much shit going through his head constantly, but I can guarantee half of it is just his mind breaking down how things are made, what he could use from certain substances to make totally new products (that may or may not combust).

We, as a fandom, have established that as much as we make fun of Soap’s little quirky characterisations, that at the character’s heart, he is incredibly smart. Chemistry, technology, engineering, math… this man is a himbo in STEM. He might not be able to tell you what he ate for breakfast, but you know damn well that if a recruit asked him how soap works as a stupid joke, this guy would go on a whole rant about saponification and how fricken cool it is. The blank stares from the recruits don’t ever concern him.

He’s got all kinds of things flying through his little noggin. You know how when you or someone you know buys a new car, and suddenly you see that car everywhere around you? Soap experiences the same thing, except it’s just chemical and mathematical theories. He can’t just exist in the world, his mind is in constant hyperdrive to perceive.

That’s why he’s so good at his job (and pool). His constant heightened sense of awareness allows him to soak up information like a sponge when he finally manages to turn the constant perception off, like out field. Instead of the molecular structure of different plastics, or the force needed to crush a can theoretically, he is able to manage and monitor multiple things at once; his position, his team’s position, the enemy, the direction of bullets, and sometimes even how many seconds it takes for the cease of gunfire from one weapon on the opposite side of the grounds to start up again, notifying a reload.

Ghost made the mistake of opening one of Soap’s chemistry textbooks, once. Once. Soap found him practically tweaking, just staring at the hexagons and lines and graphs and abbreviations, all making his head throb. Soap simply sighed with a smile, plucking the book from skeleton gloves and placing it down, leading the Lieutenant away.

“Don’t hurt yerself, Lt.”

“Careful, Sergeant.”

“You’re tellin’ me, yer eye’s twitchin’ like you’ve been rummagin’ through the contraband stores.”

Extra Ghoap Bonus!

Sometimes, Soap gets so overwhelmingly exhausted from not being able to turn his mind off. (Un)Surprisingly, science is everywhere, and he can’t help but think about it. When he feels a migraine coming on, neck and jaw straining after trying to rein in his overactive brain, he goes straight to Ghost.

Something about Ghost’s dry humour and blunt conversation helps ground him; he doesn’t have to worry about subtext, or necessarily work-related chat. Just silly (read: flirty) banter and bad, clear-cut jokes. Ghost allows his mind to focus on one thing while he occupies his hands. A journal, playful taps on Ghost, a Rubix Cube, fiddling.

Eventually, he manages to calm his thoughts enough to doze off, lying haphazardly across couches, a mattress, on the bench seats of the cargo planes, or even on the floor. Many soldiers could attest to seeing Ghost gently cradling the man’s head, moving him into a comfortable position, even once or twice carrying him to his barracks. Could, if a certain skull-faced soldier didn’t pierce them with a very clear warning glare at the memory, as if he could tell they were thinking about it.

#rip Ghost’s braincells #street smarts vs book smarts #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw ghost #cod mw soap #cod fanfic #ghoap #ghost x soap #soap x ghost #soapghost #ghostsoap #cod drabble #drabble #I know this is a little more niche #but I love the idea that Soap is just too intelligent for his own good #and maybe mildly ADHD #there’s a reason the military appeals to the neurodivergent folk #like my previous post this may just be me projecting onto Soap a little bit cuz I also love chemistry and can’t help but see it everywhere

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storeecbrcod · 6 months

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In light of recent events (watch your back, Activision), I’d like to share a domestic Ghoap thought, or add to an existing one.

Soap and Ghost, living together. Whether it’s on leave, or after their time in the military, whatever. Usually, they take turns cooking; Soap is a good cook, whipping up delicious and hearty meals like his hands were guided by God himself (even if it looked closer to a failing juggling act despite the results, much to Ghost’s amusement). Ghost likes cooking, even if his food isn’t as good as Soap’s, because he likes doing things for Soap to help him. He likes taking some pressure off of his partner if he’s had a bad or tiring day (acts of service, amiright?).

Soap loves cooking. It occupies his mind, it’s something he’s got a natural knack for, and the end result is always worth the effort. While he’s never been one for instructions, he’s always shadowed his mam in the kitchen, which has compounded over the years despite not really having a space to cook since he was 18 unless he was on leave. All in all, it’s cathartic and helps him overcome his pestering perfectionism with small accidents that have no effect on the heavenly result, most of the time.

One day, Johnny tried baking. Unlike cooking, it’s not quite as smooth. Whether it’s baking paper that won’t rip right and won’t sit in the tray, or accidentally messing up the measurements, or having to go out to the store again because he forgot something, or trying his hardest to stir every little lump out of the batter, it just isn’t working right. He’s frustrated, struggling to understand why nothing was working as the recipe says it should, and he’s about ready to throw the batch of still lumpy batter at the wall.

Ghost, having been out on some errands, walks into the apartment to complete silence. There was always some sort of noise; music, tv, Soap’s own humming or playful singing or laughter. Now, though, it was eerily quiet, and Ghost couldn’t help but revert to creeping around silently, trying to find Soap.

When he enters the kitchen, he sees a scene. Flour spilled onto the counter and ground, a batter-covered spatula lying on the counter surrounded by opened containers of ingredients, and a metal bowl of batter sitting amongst it all, alone. As Ghost rounded the island, he found Soap sitting on the ground, legs out in front of him and his back against the corner of the cabinets.

If it wasn’t for the pure defeat on Soap’s face, Ghost would have laughed. Instead, he sighed, his concern melting to calm. He placed his wallet, keys, and handful of mail on an empty space of counter, then sat next to Soap on the floor in silence for a few minutes. He could practically feel the frustration rolling off of the other man, Soap’s jaw clenching and unclenching in silent irritation.

“What do you call a baker holding sugar in both his hands?”

Silence.

“Ambidextrous.”

A reluctant snicker later, Soap’s burying his face against Ghost’s shoulder, groaning.

“Ye’r fuckin’ insufferable, Lt.”

“And you’re a useless baker.”

“Aye.”

“C’mon, I’ll help.”

Ghost helps Soap finish up, fixing the batter as much as he could and setting it in the baking tray. They cleaned up as it baked, though somehow Ghost ended up with a face full of flour, and Soap ended up with his shit-eating grin being wiped off his face in surprise when a white handprint ended up on his ass with an accompanying chuckle.

When the offending brownies were finally done, they tried them.

“Steamin’ Jesus, these are incredible.”

“Not bad.”

“What d’ye mean? They’re beautiful, Simon!”

“Needed salt. And batter was over beaten, but yeah. Not bad.”

For Soap, it was yet another surprising thing he’s learnt about Simon in his time of knowing him. He was a damn good baker, a talent he’ll be looking to take advantage of in the future.

For Ghost, it was the first time in a long time where the memories of his childhood weren’t exclusively bad. Right now, with Johnny, he could almost feel his mother’s hands on his shoulders, a whispered “Good job, baby,” breathed against his ear like she used to in their own kitchen, with their own batch of brownies.

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw ghost #cod mw soap #ghoap #ghost x soap #soap x ghost #cod drabble #ghostsoap #soapghost #domestic ghostsoap never fails to make me happy #soap is a great cook and ghost is a great baker #soap is me fr though

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storeecbrcod · 6 months

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Through the Rubble (Part 4, Finale)

Ghost x Reader fic (TW: Themes of suicide, suicidal ideation, descriptions of death, altered perception of reality)

If you or anyone you know is experiencing thoughts or feelings similar to the ones discussed in this post, no matter how "mild" they seem compared to the ones here, please reach out for help through family, friends, trusted adults, and/or professionals.

For him, the story ended the moment your last breath snuffed out the fire of his heart, a funeral pyre doused with icy stillness and suffocation.

There was no after, there was no recovery, no rebuilding, no rekindling. There was ash and dust, laid as a carpet to the hole you left behind. There was you, and now there isn’t you. There was a building, and now there’s rubble.

And now he desperately tried to climb out, wiping plaster from his eyes and pulling glass from his skin, moving rebar and lifting concrete. Yet nothing was enough; no matter how much he tried, he could not dig himself from the grave you lay in next to him, a similar fate from similar means, in two totally different ways.

Strangely, he found comfort in this coffin, though. He had grown accustom to cold, sloughing flesh with a foul stench clinging to his skin and permeating his nose, no room as splinters rained into his eyes and soil caked his mouth. Now, though, he unearthed an odd settlement within his desires when a dead man’s grip was replaced with your limp hands.

Why?

He wanted it to be disturbing, he wanted it to be insanity-inducing. He didn’t want to wake up laughing uncontrollably, echoed words of his father and you battling for dominion over his frosted heart and tortured soul.

The same question had hung over his head like an executioner’s blade, the kiss of the edge drawing blood every time he considered it for too long.

Why?

Why was he still here? Why were you gone? Why did the building collapse on you? Why is he still breathing? Why are you not here? Why can’t he just leave? Why is everyone so oblivious to you? Why can’t he just give up? Why does he keep fighting? Why does he scratch at his throat, even when it’s useless? Why does he pick the hardest ways to do things? Why does Death just sit in the corner of the room, pointing and laughing while wrapping its sharp claws around someone else close to him? Why aren’t you here to greet him? Why can’t he just fucking die?

It’s no use, really. He could tempt Death with his blades against his skin, by wrapping a rope around his neck, by putting a bullet in his skull, and he’d still end up mocked. Nothing he did was ever good enough to find relief.

He just wanted relief.

So, after cleaning up the mess and wrapping up the rope, placing his pistol back under his pillow, he went for a walk. He told himself it was aimless, his mind spinning with too many thoughts, even if he was used to being preoccupied.

Before, his thoughts would have been plans, building and shaping and changing and cementing on top of each other to handle each foreseeable outcome, and even unexpected ones. How to get himself and his team out, how to neutralise a target or threat, how to get the job done.

However, his wandering was full of entertaining the unknowable. With every failed, half-assed attempt, it only built onto the mountain of questions and plans. Too many started with the word why, but many more spoke of ways to sabotage himself. If he couldn’t kill himself, maybe he can help someone do it for him.

Trucks run through all the time. All you have to do is walk in front of one, close to the grill. The driver won’t see you…

If you linger in a charged building, they’ll have no choice but to blow the place with you inside…

One wrong punch in a fist fight, and you could fall back, crack your head open…

A cinder block, a chain, a lake. Throw away the key and take a leap…

Maybe Johnny would take one for the team? He’s got a steady hand, even when he’s nervous…

It feels like Christmas all over again. It feels like Roba all over again. It feels like I’ve got dirt in my eyes, maggots in my hands, and a meat hook between my ribs.

I wish I wasn’t such a coward.

“Simon.”

It was a whisper, bringing him back to reality. Silver light washed upon the surface of flickered stone, spatters of colour like freckles brushed on skin. The engraving was stark against the sleek, dark granite, name and dates embossed on it that only reminded how early the bearer had been taken from the world. From him.

The only thing that brought him solace was the blank plaque next to it, an opportunity. An invitation to be near again and forever, become a dead man again and stay a dead man.

“Why are you here?”

He flinched, body shying away from the irresistible pull of the voice. He wasn’t a stranger to hallucination these days, empty promises of conversation and touch that, like everything, meant nothing. His mind was often full, self sabotage a quick high for a fragmenting mind trying to convince itself it was still in control.

Deep breaths, the air stale despite being outside. He wasn’t in the right state of mind tonight, as if he ever really is. But tonight, after feeling a suffocation so close to how he imagined you felt, he can’t handle being mocked. He had come so close to you, only to be ripped away from you again, and he just wanted some damn peace.

“Don’t ignore me.” He could have sworn breath hit his neck, arms wrapping around him as he continued to stare at your name carved into cold rock. He didn’t understand why he had come here, why visions and sounds and touches were grazing his skin with the grace of a knife hidden from his sight under his jaw, at his throat. It was painful, and these imaginations were so much more realistic than usual.

“Why?”

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, bringing a hand to his face and dragging it down. “Y’have to leave me alone, love. You need to.”

He expected words, some sort of pleading that brought the burn of combusting rubbish and sandy dust back to his eyes and lungs. He expected to get lost in your last moments, the viscosity of your blood thickening as it coagulated and aired, resistant to water from the showerhead hours after. He expected the same dance he had grown so used to for the past eternity since you left him.

Instead, he had a hand cup his jaw, forcing his face to the side slowly. Instead, he had his chest collapse and balloon out again. Instead, his eyes were met with ones that, last time he saw them, were dull and pale.

“Why would I leave you alone when I finally have you again?”

He hadn’t realised how much of you had slipped from his memory, replaced by blurred versions of you as his mind grappled with the last glimpses of you. He’d forgotten the way you voice was so honeyed with him, smooth and balming to his heated temper under his cool exterior. He forgot the small expressions you’d course through when looking at him, your eyes tracing lines and details in his face.

“What- What’s happening?” he whispered, disbelief clawing its way past hope in a desperate attempt at defending his weak heart from another hit if this wasn’t real.

Yet, your touch was firm on his skin, thumb caressing his cheek bone. It felt real, too real.

“You didn’t listen to me, again,” you replied softly, a chuckle following that made him feel like he was going to faint, a blessed curse to his ears. “You’re a stubborn bastard, you know that?” He wanted to move, but his limbs were frozen. His words were tentative, quiet, as if so much as a breath in your direction would snuff you out all over again, “Are you really here?”

Your hand on his, his hand guided to your face, his skin meeting yours. You were real, impossibly and incredibly real.

“Yes, baby,” you whispered, your smile widening as tears formed in your eyes.

His gaze raked over you as if he was seeing you for the first time all over again. He felt his heart crumble, but not to pieces; rather, concrete and rot fell away to the ground, dust brushed into the air and caught by the wind, leaving the strong muscle exposed and unrestricted, ready to beat again.

You were here, you were with him.

His arms wrapped around you, a shuddering breath leaving him as he let your presence envelop him completely. He finally had you again, your bones sturdy beneath your skin and your breath easy and unlaboured. His throat opened up, the unrelenting grief and longing finally being answered.

Beside you, the call of the plaque quietened.

Behind him, across the base, the clatter of metal against tile and the groan of plaited fibres straining under a limp weight echoed down the halls.

Somewhere, bones around a scythe danced like fingers against ivory keys, walking away satisfied.

Peace.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod fanfic #cod mw ghost #reader x ghost #ghost x reader #cod x reader #Through the Rubble

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storeecbrcod · 8 months

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Traces of Turmoil (Pt 4)

Ghost x Reader fic

Your fingers tingled every time you heard Ghost in the apartment. The memory of his skin was scorned into your fingerprints, how each texture rubbed against every ridge of the pads of your fingers. It was if your body had latched on to that one sliver of interpersonal connection, that one sliver that felt like Simon.

You had been getting better, the weakness in your extremities leaving and the pounding headaches of your mending brain tissue become less and less frequent. Now, you could move around the apartment without leaning against the wall, or even crawling on your past worst days. You were no longer scared to move, confident in your recollection of the apartment to walk with only occasionally bumping into furniture or walls.

The darkness never waned, though.

You and Ghost had just finished dinner and were sat on the couch while watching and listening to the TV respectively. It was some soap opera, something that was easy to listen to despite how cheesy it was. It rarely had loud noises that could startle you.

A scoffing laugh sounded from your chest, a smirk following. “This is so bad,” you muttered. Even without seeing the screen, you could tell the acting was atrocious.

“Yeah, it’s pretty fuckin’ poor,” Ghost muttered, a hint of a smile in his voice. It made you smile wider, yet it was accompanied with a pang of longing. I wish I could feel his smile, know if it’s lopsided or thin or wide, if it reaches his eyes and scrunches them a bit. I wonder if-

“You ok, love?” Ghost asked, pulling you from your thoughts. Your head spun in his direction, the muscle memory of trying to find his face never fading, even in the months you’ve been without sight. You almost never got it right, always slightly off and never meeting his eyes. You smiled softly, realising your face had fallen. “Yes, of course,” you replied, trying to sound cheerful despite the painful ache reverberating in your chest. Your fingers itched for his skin, itched to push the mask away and just admire his composition like you had a few days ago. But, you were too afraid to ask, always coming close but thinking better of it.

You heard him shift on the couch, the cushions bouncing slightly underneath you at his movement. “I don’t believe you.”

“You never do,” you replied playfully, not wanting to dive into your need for him, knowing his boundaries with touch. Even after nearly a year of being so close, he was strict with the rule; do not touch. The fleeting touches you used to share were mere stones thrown at a tall wall, stones he invited. But touching his face? You knew the only way to get that privilege was to be let through the gate, and it only opened from inside.

He was quiet for a moment. Then, you heard the ruffle of his clothes, then a hand on your arm. You were surprised, your expression contorting to show it. It only heightened when you were pulled forward, a gentle but insistent force.

You gave into it tentatively, at first shuffling across on the couch. However, you were quickly and easily maneuvred by a leg, then another arm, until you were laying against a warm form, your chest pressed to a surface that rose and fell, a thumping sensation beating into your skin, mirroring your own.

You were stiff for a moment, disbelief coursing through you. It was quickly stripped from you when firm limbs pinned you against the warm, clothed body of Ghost. “Ghost-” you started, but you were hushed by a rumbling laugh that shook your chest.

“Shut up, and relax. You’re stiff as a board,” he muttered, his deep voice echoing in your head. It wasn’t monotone, but soft and smooth.

You followed his order, relaxing against him. You laid your head on his shoulder, the rush and ebb of his blood pumping through his body crashing in your ear that rested against his skin. It soothed you, as if every throb pried away a thorny tendril of loneliness from your heart.

The smell of cigarettes and cologne assaulted your nose, yet you revelled in the way it singed your sinuses. You settled into his warmth, your eyes closed as you soaked up this rare showcase of affection. For the first time in months, you felt genuinely safe in your own space.

The TV sung in the background, but its noise bounced around the room without meeting your attention. All that mattered was the consistent drum of his heart, the soft heave of his chest. You slowly slunk your arms around him, hugging him back however you could.

“Better?” he asked, the question bouncing around your skull.

“A little.”

There was a pause, then a sigh from him.

“I don’t give you what you deserve nearly enough, [Name],” he muttered. “You deserve the world, yet you settle for a body that can’t even bare to touch you.” Your brows knit together, not appreciating his newfound self-depreciative stance on how much he helped you. “I understand your boundaries, Ghost. Just because I’m sick doesn’t mean I need to be a charity case,” you muttered. He chuckled in response. “I guess not.” “Plus, you’re helping me now. You always have. I wouldn’t have known you were such a good cook without this happening.” “Always about the positives hidden in a mountain of shit, you are.”

He sighed again, adjusting himself slightly but still hugging you close. He started rubbing small circles on your back, a soothing motion that let you sink further into his grasp. It felt as if he was enjoying himself, too, though you’d never bring it up. It was best to let him be, lest he pull away.

The hold your grief had on your heart slowly unravelled, falling away in crumbling chunks. If touch could heal, Ghost’s caress was a potent fountain of youth, reversing any damage your desecrated soul harboured.

You both stayed that way for a long while, the calming flow of his breaths and his heart lulling you into a beautiful daze of near sleep and comfort. Every second felt so slow, yet so fast in a dance of tandem lifelines.

You must have truly fallen asleep at some point, because you were suddenly aware of Ghost’s stillness. His hand no longer trailed your back, and his breaths were deep and held pauses between them. You kept your head against his chest, trying to decide whether he was asleep.

You couldn’t tell, so you lifted your head to try and look at him. You moved your head, neck craning as you tried to look, your eyes sliding open.

Darkness, of course.

The thought bounced in your head, a pang of disappointment following. You couldn’t even tell if you were actually looking at him or somewhere past him, no bearing for where to look.

You felt his breath under your touch as you kept your head up, just enjoying him. You assumed he was asleep, seeing as he wasn’t responding to the fact that you were supposedly looking at him. You blinked a few times, noting an odd, staticy film in the darkness. It wasn’t unusual, an occurrence that popped up every now and then. It wasn’t actual sight, but your brain trying to register something, anything. A sign you were healing, according to the doctors.

Ghost shuffled slightly in his sleep, and it made you jolt. It took a moment to register, confusion and concern and surprise all mixing together. You felt like it’d been a hallucination; your mind playing tricks on you again.

Desperately, you shook Ghost to try and wake him.

“Ghost, Simon-” you urged, and your heart leapt when he roused, lifting his head to look at you.

“What, [Name]? You ok?” Tears brimmed at your waterline, the blurriness growing. His own concern curled inside him, unsure what was happening as a soft light met his eyes from behind you. His eyes softened, swirling with understanding as he realised why you had woken him suddenly.

You were looking straight at him.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

#call of duty #cod x reader #cod fanfic #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw ghost #ghost x reader #reader x ghost #Traces of Turmoil

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storeecbrcod · 8 months

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Traces of Turmoil (Pt 3)

Ghost x Reader fic

“Ghost, they’re approaching. We need to move.”

The mission had been going well for Ghost and yourself. It was a recovery mission in a foreign town amongst enemy territory, night falling as you moved towards your extraction point. You were both moving carefully; despite having the objective sitting in a pocket of Ghost’s uniform pants, you had to be just as careful leaving as you were going in.

Now, however, trucks filled with enemies swept through the streets of the town in search of you. It had been expected, a few patrols, but this? This was a bit excessive. Trucks moved past every few minutes, patrolling the streets as you crept through back alleys. You both had your rifles up, ready to protect each other if it was needed. You brought up the rear as you turned a corner in an internal courtyard, heading for another exit.

“Stay close,” Ghost instructed. “We’re only a few streets away from-”

He was cut off as a soldier stepped out of a building into the alley, using the butt of his assault rifle to hit Ghost in the chest. He stumbled back, his breath escaping him as his guard dropped for a moment.

“Ghost!” you yelled, pulling up your own gun to shoot the adversary.

In an instant, your world spun as a sharp pain blew over the back of your head, forcing your balance from you.

Ghost shot the enemy that had attacked him, turning around just in time to see your body fall, lurching forward with the hit. He could barely react in the milliseconds that you fell, his eyes widening.

Crack.

The echoing of shattering bone rang out, bouncing against the walls as your head slammed into a set of brick stairs. You came to rest next to them, blood quickly dripping from your ears and nose. You were out.

It was cold, dark. You’d never experienced being actively aware of being asleep before, the sensation all new. It was as if you could sense that something was happening around you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to awaken. So, you settled into the peace, watching the pitch dark dance as your mind drifted aimlessly.

It was a fuzzy sensation tickling your body all over that roused you, aching as if you’d been sitting in the same position for a lot longer than would be comfortable. It took a moment for you to feel connected with your body again, the weightlessness of sleep disorienting. Pain started to radiate from your head as you listened to the faint beeping of medical equipment, feeling your heart sink.

God, not a hospital. Hospital’s aren’t good.

Where’s Simon?

You felt a hand grab yours, making you jerk slightly. Your eyes were still closed, scared to see what injuries you may have gotten. The touch, however foreign it may have felt in that moment, brought some relief.

“Morning, soldier,” the voice was deep and smooth. Its familiarity was a balm to your blistering anxiety, letting you hold a small smile on your face.

“Morning,” you croaked out. Your muscles were still heavy, unresponsive, so when you tried to open your eyes you weren’t too surprised when the black didn’t subside.

“Hey,” he said again, and you could hear the smile in his voice, a whisper of relief leaving him with his words. Your lips twitched, threatening to turn your smile into a grin for a moment.

It quickly fell, though, as it hit you again that you were in a hospital, presumably in a bed, with Ghost rubbing your hand in comfort. Touch was often reserved for behind closed doors, and you could only assume doctors could walk in at any moment. You felt a pang of worry in your chest. He’s acting differently. Something didn’t go right.

“What happened, Si?” you asked softly, your voice a bit rough as your throat was so desperately dry. His touch stuttered a moment against your skin, and the implication sent a shiver down your spine.

“Nothing good,” Ghost said, his voice steady. You tried to open your eyes again, needing to see his eyes to read his expression, to have him tell you just how bad the mission went after it all went dark. He paused, and you could feel his gaze on you as his hand stopped moving completely. “Why are you doing that?” he asked.

“Doing what?” you replied, confused. As he hesitated in answering, you felt dread settle between you both.

“Simon, doing what? I’m trying to open my eyes, but they feel heavy.”

His grip suddenly became tighter, only adding to your newfound fear. You tried to open your eyes again, but you were met with nothing but black. You reached a hand up, rubbing your eyes and trying again.

Nothing.

“[Name],” Ghost started, his voice serious and slow. “Your eyes are open.”

It took you a moment to comprehend his words through your aching mind, fear only growing. You meticulously closed your eyes, opening them again and feeling your eyelids slide up and down, but the darkness never left.

“What?”

It had been about 3 months since you had woken in that hospital room. 3 months of never ending darkness. It was getting to you more and more, your mind twisting itself to try and imagine your surroundings, to imagine the people around you. To imagine Simon.

It was incredibly hard on your relationship. Your relationship relied so heavily on seeing one another, communication often occurring in silence as you looked into each other’s eyes, and now it was completely cut off. It hurt you, hearing Ghost’s consistently monotone voice, not being able to differentiate his normal commanding tone from the loving and sweet self. You relied so heavily on seeing Simon, that Ghost sounded like a stranger. Back where you both started.

You constantly felt guilty for your emotional needs when it came to Ghost, wishing you didn’t crave his comfort so badly. You knew his boundaries, especially with touch. Other than the fleeting taps or brushes, you barely touched each other. Before, when you could see, it was sweet. But with your every jolt at his unseen contact, he had slowly started to withdraw, too.

It wasn’t long until you were simply sitting in the apartment you had near base, alone while he worked. Yet somehow, whenever he came back to visit after his shifts, you only felt more alone. You felt like he was a stranger, your conversations often short and meaningless.

Despite your situation with neurological symptoms of weakness in your hands and legs, on top of your lost eyesight, you had refused an aid. It felt demeaning to have help as a high-calibre soldier.

Tonight was no different. You were sitting on the couch, running your fingers over the stitching of your couch, counting silently as you listened with perked ears to the noises in the room; the fridge humming, clacking and movement of cutlery and plates behind you as Ghost slowly cleaned up the dishes of your most recent meal.

You had become so hyper aware of every single noise, the vulnerability of your condition frightening you. You constantly felt like you were out of control and weak to attack, as if at any moment someone might come into the house and hurt you and you wouldn’t be able to defend yourself. It didn’t help that Ghost had a habit to sneak around with little sound, often startling you. “[Name],” his voice called softly. You hadn’t noticed that he had stopped doing the dishes while in your thoughts. He was close, somewhere in front of you, and you flinched. You heard him sigh softly.

“[Name], do you need anything?” he asked, his voice frustratingly icy.

I need many things. I need comfort. I need Simon.

“No, I’m ok,” you replied simply. You tried to point your head towards him, acting like you can see him. It was another habit that you had developed, trying to make it seem like you were engaged in a way you couldn’t be anymore. You felt a touch under your chin as he guided your unseeing gaze back towards him, making you jerk slightly again. Whoops. “Nothing?” he asked. You strained to hear something in his voice, some clue of the depth you used to be able to see. You’d never forgive that adversary for taking him away from you. “No, Ghost. I’m good.”

He stayed quiet for long enough to make you wonder if he had left, your brow knitting together as you tried to listen for him.

“I’m here, [Name],” he reassured you. You felt as something moved wind in front of you, pausing, before his warm hands settled on yours. The touch was soft and gentle, making your heart jump slightly. It was the most you had gotten from him in a long while.

“I feel so awful that you’ll never see my face,” he muttered softly. His tone was still frustratingly monotone, but now, you could hear something else. You leaned in a bit in an eager attempt to somehow hear him speak enough to see him again. You felt yourself soften a little at his words. You could imagine how his eyes could look right now, muddy and thick. It made you smile, finally being able to see it again in your mind.

You hadn’t forgotten.

You stayed quiet, enjoying his fingers moving against the skin of your hands for a little while. Then, slowly, he gripped your hands lightly and moved them, twisting them away from you. Your hands came to a stop, arms outstretched a little, his hands cupping yours and facing your palms together. You could feel some sort of heat that separated your hands, radiating off of something that you did not touch. After a moment, he guided your hands together slightly until you were met with fabric. Even more confused, you rubbed the thing in your hands gently with your thumbs as you held it.

A rumble ran through your hands, a small laugh coming from him. In an instant, your eyebrows shot up as you realised what you were touching. You made sure to stay relaxed, continuing to rub your thumbs over the material, excitement coursing through your veins and making the numbness in your weak legs throb again as a distant reminder.

He let you feel his face from over his mask for a while, staying quiet as you sat with your mouth open slightly as you tried to commit his face shape to memory. His hands eventually met yours again, grabbing them. You felt a prick of disappointment run through you. I guess he’s had enough.

Fabric was against your fingers again, this time accompanied by warm skin, making your breath hitch. You felt as he guided your fingers under his mask, the stretchy cloth pulling your hands closer to the skin of his neck, jaw, and face. The pressure from the mask was removed, and you knew from how his hands left yours and the mask moving up against your fingers that he had taken the mask off completely.

You sat in wonder as you caressed his face, tracing textures that were like braille of his life, of his self. Lines in his face from where he would often scowl prominent, along with the few blemishes across his face. The feel of the stark bone contrasting his soft flesh around his jawbone.

You felt the tickle of his eyelashes, the small bump on the bridge of his slightly crooked nose. You felt the corners of his mouth, hard ridges meeting smooth, sensitive skin as breath tickled your fingers, making you giggle.

But what interested you the most was the silkiness of some parts of his face. You felt the jagged lines, the taught skin pulled over his right cheek, his eye, and through his lip. It was significant, you could tell by the way he slightly tensed up when your fingers ran over it exclusively. It felt interesting, it felt important. It felt…

“Beautiful.”

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4

#call of duty #cod x reader #cod fanfic #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw ghost #ghost x reader #reader x ghost #Traces of Turmoil

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