vodkabutgay
21| slow down you crazy child you're so ambitious for a juvenile
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Latest Posts by vodkabutgay
Did you kiss the brick before throwing it at me?
Rest easy
He's a cat. Simon is a CAT.
Simon not feeling the need to keep his hair to strict regs once he gets with Johnny, steps away from the buzzcut and allows himself to feel more human, more Simon instead of Ghost. Besides, it's hidden beneath the mask anyway.
He doesn't let it get too long otherwise it would just get too hot and in the way, but it's still more than anyone was expecting.
Johnny coming back from a mission and sliding his hand up the back of his mask to rest against the back of Simon's head, surprised when his fingers sinks into soft curls instead of the soft spikes he's grown to expect. Johnny applying a little pressure, just enough to tip his head back and smiling down when he sees Simon's big soft eyes looking up at him, Johnny whispering "hello" and Simon just slowly blinks at him.
He's so handsome I need to eat him
Red light graves red light graves shadow uniform graves AHHH
Need him.
Idk what about this man screams cryptid but honestly. This was fun.
INTERIM // if (then)
(also sorry for the no cws on my previous post. my bad!)
If.
and if you'd like to hurt yourself more:
also, im sorry in advance teehee ^_^
h/c that soap insinuates ghost is ugly for months, because it's the only thing he can think of for someone so skilled and too elusive to have any visible flaws, and he can't be nice even to his favorite superior. and ghost is amused by it, mostly because it's the least mean thing he's heard about him.
up until it's price who gets a little too loose lipped during a visit to the pub that, as usual, is missing ghost. he lets a nickname slip from way back before simon was ghost of pretty boy riley and soap's stupid, pining brains latches onto it.
and of course, his usual taunts reflect this change.
instead of saying ghost is doing them all a favor by covering up his ugly mug, he finds himself saying that ghost has done them all a favor because he'd be too much of a sight for sore eyes for them all to aim right. instead of saying that he should take off the mask to really scare hostiles, he finds himself saying ghost should take it off to stun them.
ghost reacts just the same, with some quip or a huff of a laugh. but that little bit of attention is always enough to feed soap.
he really learns how this change makes ghost feel when he's covering him while soap's setting up charges in the basement of a building, left completely unguarded. he doesn't even think when he tells ghost "just sit there and look pretty for me. a little bit o' eye candy while i work never hurts."
and ghost just had to pick that day, of all days, to ditch the grease paint that would hide his red face well enough for sunglasses.
Soft fluffy tooth rotting Ghoap thought that became a mini fic
Johnny gets put on concussion protocol after a mission. A bad knock to the head, the kind that leaves his vision fuzzy and his mood worse. Medical sends him on leave, off-base and under strict orders to rest. Lights stay off in the flat for days. Curtains drawn. No TV. No music. No cellphone. No work. Just the painkillers, cold water, and the occasional muttered curse when the neighbor’s car alarm goes off.
And Simon—God bless him—is a ghost around the place. Quiet as a shadow, moving through rooms like he’s on recon, not just bringing tea or folding laundry. He cooks in silence, cleans without fanfare, and makes sure Johnny takes his meds on time. Johnny doesn’t have to ask for a thing.
The rain tapping against the window still makes Johnny hiss some days, the light of the fridge makes him squint, but Simon never pushes. Just offers a warm hand and a whispered “You alright, Johnny?” when the migraines hit worst.
And Johnny—dramatic, daft bastard that he is—soaks it all up. He rests, yes, but he also notices. The careful way Simon tucks the blankets around his feet. The way he keeps to soft shirts, no zippers, no buttons, so the quiet isn't broken when he moves. The way he presses one soft kiss to Johnny’s hair each night and thinks Johnny’s already asleep.
So, naturally, Johnny does what any self-respecting man in love would do under these circumstances.
He fakes his own death.
Well, not really. But he does lie dramatically limp and still on top of the duvet, arms flopped out like he’s in a Shakespeare play.
It’s a Tuesday afternoon. Simon’s just come home with groceries and chicken soup ingredients. And Johnny thinks it’s time he got a little extra affection. He has been through a traumatic brain injury, after all.
Simon pads into the room a few minutes later, that low, soothing voice he’s been using all week curling around the words: “You wanna eat, Johnny?”
Johnny doesn't twitch. He keeps his breathing slow and even, though his lips are fighting to stay straight.
Simon doesn’t push, just assumes he's sleeping again. He sets the food down and walks in closer, brushing a hand gently along Johnny’s knee. “Food’ll get cold,” he tries, coaxing but quiet.
Still nothing.
Simon stands there for a beat too long. Then his chest shifts with a breath that’s a little sharper than the rest, barely audible. He leans down, carefully, fingers soft against Johnny’s jaw, brushing over cheek and temple. “C’mon, sweetheart. Just a few bites, yeah?”
Still, no movement.
And then Simon’s jaw ticks. Something in him flickers. Worry, sharp and sudden. The kind that grips the spine and squeezes. He leans in closer, too close to dodge, taps Johnny’s face again, firmer now, a touch of urgency. “Johnny.”
And that's when Johnny strikes.
Arms snap up, legs curl around Simon’s waist like a fucking koala, and he yanks the poor man down with him—Simon lets out a startled grunt—only to get a mouthful of laughing, smug Scotsman pressing a kiss right to his lips.
Simon blinks, wide-eyed and floored. Johnny just grins, stupid and pleased, still holding him tight. “Caught you.”
“Mm."
“Yooohhh were worried,” Johnny sing-songs, clearly delighted. “Felt the panic settin' in. You were picturing my obituary, weren't you?”
Simon doesn’t even deny it, just sighs, long and put-upon, forehead pressed against Johnny’s. “You’re lucky you’re still concussed or I’d drop you.”
“I knew you cared,” Johnny whispers dramatically, then kisses him again, softer this time.
And Simon, despite himself, melts right into it...
They stay there for a beat—Simon braced awkwardly over him, caught between exasperation and affection, and Johnny clinging like a barnacle, head tilted back against the pillow with the smuggest smile in Scotland.
“You’re a child,” Simon murmurs, but there’s no heat behind it.
“A very injured child,” Johnny corrects, fluttering his lashes for good measure. “One in dire need of affection.”
Simon rolls his eyes, but his hand’s already smoothing over Johnny’s side, tucking under the hem of his shirt to check for warmth. “You need to eat.”
Johnny hums. “I need you to cuddle with me. My head still hurts. Emotionally. Spiritually. And a little physically.”
“You faked being unconscious, Johnny.”
“I said I was injured!”
Simon huffs out a breath, like he's two seconds from laughing. “We’re eating first.”
“Fine,” Johnny relents, but not without a dramatic sigh. “But I wanna eat in bed.”
Simon raises a brow. “That so?”
“Mmhm,” Johnny says, already smug again. “My body’s weak. You said that. Fragile. Like a Victorian maiden. Don’t you want to be my sturdy war husband and bring me soup in bed?”
Simon does laugh at that. Just once, quiet and dry, before leaning down and kissing Johnny’s forehead. “Alright, love."
A few minutes later, they’re tucked under the blankets again—tray balanced on Johnny’s lap, bowl of soup in Simon’s hand, one spoon shared between them even though they definitely own more. Johnny rests his head on Simon’s shoulder between bites.
And when the food’s finally gone and the dishes are abandoned on the nightstand for Future Simon to worry about, Johnny snuggles in closer with a groan.
“You said cuddling,” he mumbles into Simon’s shirt.
“I meant it,” Simon replies, already shifting to pull Johnny into his arms.
Quiet falls and the rain starts up again outside, but Johnny doesn't flinch quite so hard.
those baby blues..
all the old ghost archives i liked that was deleted off my old blog
this is my new account, same user same style whatever
something about a quiet night with simon in your kitchen; of him hefting you up by your hips to place you on the counter, slotting himself between your legs before dropping low to kiss you; of him bumping noses with you, making you giggle as he huffs, his cheeks thrumming with warmth.
“m’bad,” he says, his breath fanning over your lips. “jus’ really wanted t’kiss you, s’all.”
“s’okay,” you coo, throwing your arms over his shoulder. “i wanna kiss you so bad too.”
“oh yeah?” he hums, teasing, and you feel more than see the way his lips tug up in a crooked smile.
you roll your eyes at his weak tease before pulling him down, finally claiming that kiss because you can’t wait anymore. it’s just a peck, it’s not heated or weighted, and your noses are still slotted awkwardly but you breathe him in, hearing the hum of your refrigerator and the quiet ticking of your oven, and simon’s back in your arms, and truly, you think that this might just be the best kiss you’ve ever had.
Johnny is so pretty :(
reunion :)
(heavily inspired by “all that’s said in the low light”)
Did you guys read Soap's journal?
While I reading COD wiki, i found out that OG Soap had journal
And he is a fuckin artist
And he really hates army dogs lol
He spent 3pages for talking about dogs
And the first one, he even said "consider me a cat man now"
What the hell kind of name is Ghost?
- Says the man named Soap
Og mw2 Spoiler below
For Ghost, Roach
Drawing of Price
How many times can a man save your life until it's no longer your own?
the thing is that childhood doesn't just end when you turn 18 or when you turn 21. it's going to end dozens of times over. your childhood pet will die. actors you loved in movies you watched as a kid will die. your grandparents will die, and then your parents will die. it's going to end dozens and dozens of times and all you can do is let it. all you can do is stand in the middle of the grocery store and stare at freezers full of microwave pizza because you've suddenly been seized by the memory of what it felt like to have a pizza party on the last day of school before summer break. which is another ending in and of itself
"You think you're better than me because you aren't doing the trend of Ghibli style ai art."
No. I don't THINK I'm better than you. I AM better than you for not using a soulless, emotionless machine that steals from real artists and their hardwork. I will always be better than you. And for the record, it's not ai "art" it's ai garbage. You people are tactless weirdos for supporting such nonsense. I have seen my literature major friends doing this pathetic excuse of a trend when Ai steals from books and pieces they give up hours to study and learn.
Bunch of idiots.
Sergent Cock or Sergent KFC?
It's been a while, preety boy :)
Here's a chicken for you. Don't eat it.
-🌷
we need to get this lass on the task force
Ghost doesn't cutesy talk cats, he talks to them like other adult men and it's hilarious.
They're at a safehouse, and Ghost is listening to the radio, Price hears him talking to someone, and he's confused because both of his sergeants are conked out asleep.
So, he walks around the corner and finds Ghost sitting on a step with the radio playing and a stray kitten biting his laces while he talks to her. "I don't believe shoelaces constitute part of a balanced diet."
John just sits down on the step next to him and ignores how his knees click. "What's her name?"
"She's yet to disclose name or rank, but given that she's clearly smarter than those two through there, I'd say she's a lieutenant." He responds so dryly that John can't help but snort.
"Ah, I see. Making her way through the ranks at her young age, impressive." He leans forward to pet the kitten, flattening down the tuft of fur sticking up on her head.
"She's a hard worker, look at those paws. Grubby, she's been busy."
The kitten offers them a mewl in response, and he nods accordingly.
"She's stern, reminds me of Laswell."
That makes Ghost laugh.
// GHOSTSOAP x sailor song! (🔊 ON ) // suggestive imagery ⚠⚠⚠ individual panels:
Forehead smooches 💋
It's important to smooch your Soap at least once per day <3
HES LAUGHING AT HIS OWN FUNERAL BECAUSE HES ACTUALLY ALIVE (i scream as they drag me back to the padded room)
So, we all know Simon is covered in freckles, beautiful constellations blooming on his pale skin, nature marking the perfect paths for kisses along his collarbones, down the dip of his spine, scattered on his arms.
And his face, of course, little spots on his nose and cheeks, sneaky ones all the way up to his eyes. Hidden from everyone, full attire, a mask and smear black providing cover for the shy stars, like clouds do on windy, humid autumn nights. Cold and detached wrap to keep this weird sign of life on a living dead body from overly curious eyes.
But not from his Captain. Price knows these freckles, he's seen them young and bright, he's seen them dull and almost invisible on a half translucent skin.
He's seen them disappear, long, cruel winter and the mask almost grown into Ghost's skull wiping everything besides uneven scars and black ingrained into his skin. He's seen the summer taken out of his boy, replaced with the dead sleep of the winter, white and icy like Simon's eyelashes.
And, frankly, he won't have that.
If there's not enough sun for those little specks of life to shine, be it London fog half of the year or excruciating cold of the northern polar night they're stuck in on an op, Captain Price is giving his Lieutenant a personal sunshine. One that will melt polar caps if you let it shine in full brightness, hot, unpredictable in its flares, relentlessly glowing and cutting it's radiation through any barier.
Deadly as a burning globe of gas can be. Sergeant MacTavish.
Johnny doesn't have a problem with disregarding laws of physics. If this sole, dark, barren planet of ice refuses to circle him like everyone else does, Soap flips all those heliocentric theories over and instead makes a satellite to Ghost out of himself. Simon's joints stop aching when the shared space heats up, air few degrees away from rippling around Soap's broad form like it's boiling overhead a fire pit. His breath appears visible again, contrast to the almost non-existent fog that was leaking out of his mouth, making everyone who knew (not many of them) wonder, if Simon Riley actually ever left his grave.
One day, Simon's knuckles turn white and hurt. One day, Simon's frosty lashes flutter and not a single cloud of steam exits his mouth. One day, he feels frozen in place despite being basked in molten sunlight of Johnny's gaze, because Sergeant's restless hands found a makeup pen and are swiftly covering Simon's flushed cheeks in freckles.
Crowded constellations, all little sister stars from the MacTavish clan, clinging to Simon in semi-permanent kisses.
Price walks in on them, Simon sitting with his hands clenched tight and his breath held, Johnny with his tongue stuck between his front teeth as he keeps bringing spring out of its long dormant state on Simon's once again alive face.
Just like a sun should. Just like Captain Price expected.
So..forgive me you're the first person I'm ever asking anything on Tumblr (Kinda new and I usually like to describe it like hiding in the corner and just watching everything quietly and leaving likes and I love your work) but I was thinking about your concept with 141 and reader dying and the notebook. Would there ever be a case where the others stumble upon it? Whether Price forgets (somehow) to put it away or someone's in the midst of searching for something and stumbles upon it?
Again, love your work, feel free to ignore this tho
Yeah, I think this type of readers people call “lurkers” which is cool🙂↕️you guys are usually the backbone of the audience, I enjoy you tremendously.
And that’s a really good question, anon!
You know what? Why not turn the heat up a little more for this pot with the frogs.
I can imagine Price not exactly forgetting it somewhere but harbouring it so close to himself that people start to notice. This specific notebook is always with him — under his armoured vest and in the front pocket of his shirts, on top of the stack of documents, edge of it peeking out of his pants pocket.
It’s always there when before he didn’t carry it with him. It’s small and simple, technically it shouldn’t rise any questions but Kyle is the first who notices it. Maybe because after your death he’s so sharply attuned to everyone else on the team, it’s practically unhealthy.
Kyle who watches John fumble with the leather bound corners of the little thing and wonders…what’s inside of it? They have been all grieving but your things have been taken by them all and shared fairly.
Simon doesn’t withhold your pictures or books with your annotations. Soap doesn’t say no when Gaz asks for one of the keychains. Kyle himself lets Simon and Johnny take one of your things each. Simon takes the big oversized T-shirt and Soap whisks away one of your hoodies, clutching it hard to himself, knuckles white with tension.
(Kyle will never admit but when he walked in on Johnny in hoodie with your name and rank on the back of it his knees buckled. For a moment a traitorous part of him thought you were there. For a moment he could breathe again)
So Price keeping something of you to himself almost felt unfair. It wasn’t, of course, no, Captain had every right to grieve and mourn in a way that made it easier for him.
But-
But Kyle missed you. Everyday and every morning he’d wake up, realisations hitting him again that you aren’t coming back. You are never coming back.
You disappeared so suddenly you were now everywhere.
The unwashed cup they couldn’t bring themselves to wash, the clothes and trinkets, the books and pictures. The notebooks.
Kyle remembers how you two played games in it, drawing X’s and O’s when debrief would get too long and your brains too sluggish to keep awake without external stimulation.
Kyle remembers you writing in them, so focused you oftentimes wouldn’t notice him getting closer until he’d plop himself down in front of you, pretending to pose. Your favourite model, wasn’t he?
Kyle remembers you smiling at him, eyes flickering to his face for a moment, your gaze so impossibly soft he feels like choking and burying himself next to you.
There is a whole life ahead. Kyle isn’t sure how to live it with a hole in this chest the size of your love.
It’s a selfish thought, maybe. Maybe he is selfish.
Maybe he should have been content with what he has been given. But he wasn’t.
So now he slips the notebook off Price’s desk when the man himself is so wrecked he can’t see straight. John’s drinking got worse after your death. Not yet enough to cause disciplinary action but enough to make them all worried.
Gaz has never seen him like that.
Why were they all lucky enough to meet you but not lucky enough to save you? Would the outcome be different if one of them went with you on that deployment? Could they save you if they knew how it ends?
Could they try?
Kyle’s fingers skim over the pages, your hoodie on him and if he pretends hard enough it almost feels like a hug. It almost feels like his body heat seeping through fabric is yours. Like you were just wearing it.
Like you didn’t leave at all.
Like you are coming back.
Kyle flips through the pages, gurgling wet laughter in his throat when he notices that you have been writing Simon’s jokes down and coming up with your own. (The “just got hospitalised due to peekaboo incident. They put me in ICU” joke almost makes Kyle choke).
Some part of him gets why Price has been guarding this specific journal so hard. Why he wasn’t letting anyone else close to it, because this right here is you.
Everything that’s left of your thoughts and feelings, of your humour and love, of your plans and scribbles.
It’s tangible proof that you were here. You lived, you loved, you thought. You were there and you were a person. Their favourite person. Their beloved one.
Maybe that’s why your small note hits him harder than he could have ever expected. A small resigned “I’m not sure I fit in. I’m not sure I’m not second…or fifth best in this case. Don’t even know if I wanna talk about it. Just plain stupid” splits Kyle’s scull open and leaves him bleeding and aching and shaking.
What…what did you mean “fifth best”? Why would you say that? What- no. Nonononono. No, it’s not fair. It’s not true, it has never been true.
Kyle feels like driving back to the cemetery and wrapping his car around the poll.
Kyle feels like clawing at the ground and sobbing-sobbing-sobbing.
Kyle feels like begging.
Please, no. Please, come back. Please, let him fix it, let him tell you the truth, let him tell you.
Kyle understands why Price was guarding the journal this fiercely. Kyle is so mad he feels like demolishing John’s office and yelling until his voice is raspy useless thing, vocal cords damaged, headache pounding inside his head and he’s burning from inside out.
Kyle looks at the page, his whole core so hollowed out you could feel an echo if you’d knocked.
Kyle doesn’t know what to do because you are gone.
Because he wants to say “I’m sorry, love, I’m so sorry, I’d be better if I knew”, he wants to say “come back and scream at me, come back demand attention, come back and hurt me in return just please please come back”.
He wants to say “I love you” in a hundred different ways, he wants to kiss it better, he wants to hold you again, he wants you back, why can’t you come back, why can’t he get you back? He will change, he will do better, he will pay attention, he’s sorry, love, he’s so sorry.
Soap finds him just blankly staring at the page and he doesn’t understand at first, concern sharpening his features like one of the razors he uses for his drawing pencils.
Johnny sinks down next to him, lips pressing to Kyle’s temple, breath panting when Gaz doesn’t respond because he can’t.
He doesn’t know what to say.
How do you live knowing you may never change what already happened? How do you keep going knowing your tenderness is decaying six feet underground, that your love is springing with flowers when they should have stayed above the ground and picked them? How do you get over it? How?
Johnny’s eyes skim over the page and Gaz can feel when the realisation sinks in, when the body next to him is getting poured full with raw ache and ice sharp panic.
Johnny asks “Gaz whose journal is that”, Johnny pleads “Mate, talk to me, where did you get it?”, Johnny whimpers “Kyle tell me it’s not theirs, Kyle please, Kyle say something”.
Kyle doesn’t know what to do other than wrap himself around Soap and hold him despite the thrashing, despite the disbelieving laughter that descends into gasping for air and clawing at his back and shoulders.
Kyle doesn’t let him get out and do something stupid, like drive to the cemetery and wrap a car around the poll and curl near your gravestone.
There is an awfully loud gulp and the journal is getting carefully taken off Kyle’s lap, Simon’s fingers long and scarred — things broken too many times to grown back straight and narrow, calloused pads of his fingers catching on the paper of the notebook.
Kyle has to drag him down to them, he has to practically kick the ground from under Ghost’s feet because the man looks like he will get the shovel and get you out of the coffin.
(Kyle doesn’t want to think how Simon refused to let them bury you, how he sat with you for days, until the decomposition became evident. Kyle doesn’t want to think how Simon placed a phone in your coffin despite knowing that you are not coming back. Kyle doesn’t want to think that Simon was terrified the 4 of them might bury you alive).
Ghost looks like the sky just fell on his head, crashing his spine and grinding down his nerves. Ghost looks like he wants to cry but doesn’t know how.
Ghost looks like how they all feel.
Kyle forces the man into their cuddle pile and forces his hand to wrap around Johnny, because Soap digs his fingers into them like he’s falling-falling-falling. System crashing, bomb ticking, Rome burning down.
Funny how Ghost never understood the phrase “going mad with grief”, always felt like it was a bit of dramatisation. People die every day after all, don’t they? It’s statistically impossible to never lose a single person.
Funny how Soap gets it now perfectly. The shift of tectonic plates in his brain, the rewiring of the whole system, pain so intense he might have ash for heart now.
Funny how it’s not funny at all but Gaz still laughs, face wet when Simon tightens his grip and pulls Kyle in, letting him hide his face.
Taglist: @synthe4u