I DONT WRITE X READERS SORRY || did you know I love grillby undertale yet or should I post about him again to make sure || incest/pedo/noncon shippers DNI || strawpage
I go by scourge, or leo if you prefer, and this is my main blog! you'll find my posts under the tag #scourge's posts, and my art posts under #my art .
The main thing I reblog to this blog is art (drawings, fics, fibre arts, etc) and fandom-specific posts, but I have a side blog where the rest of my reblogs and a whole load of text posts go lolll including those about characters and my fics (I choose what blog to post on based on just vibes I guess? )
⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️ In general please be warned that descriptions (of varying graphicness) of topics such as violence, injury, mental health issues, suicidal ideation, toxic relationships, self harm, and sexual abuse will probably come up at some point in my posts about ghost and potentially other characters ⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️
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FAQs:
...like the warrior cat?
yes. like the warrior cat ...
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expanding on my DNI (an ask and my answer)
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side blog: @wingdingos
grillby blog: @dailygrillby (currently on a hiatus loll but I have plans to come back to it :] )
Idk who else to tell this to, but I just had a thought
What if Reboot Ghost and Reboot Soap had a bit of a Romeo and Juliet incident. Ghost thought Soap was dead, but Soap recovered somehow just to find Ghost died
i think it would be pretty interesting to explore what kind of relationship they'd need to have for ghost to consider killing himself over soap's death,,,
i mean, og ghost in the comics cant bring himself to do it even after his entire family is murdered, so their relationship would have to be prettyyyyyyy life changing for him to be able to go through with it
and even then i think it would have to be so incredibly devastating that he decides to do it the moment he thinks soap is dead, because even a couple extra seconds could confirm that soap is alive
and then external factors of price and gaz being there,,, i think it would be pretty difficult for him to decide to do it in front of them at the very least, so any plan to kill himself would probably wait until he's alone, and i think price would probably be a voice of reason that ghost would ultimately listen to if he did try to do it then and there...
and being that he's there when soap dies in canon i doubt he'd be in the dark about him being alive or dead...
i think ghost is a really interesting character because it's been established (in the og comics at least) that he would make the choice Not to kill himself even when faced with pretty much the worst time in his entire life... he still Wants to live despite it all... even if living seems more painful than death...
so i doubt he'd do a romeo and kill himself
BUT he could die hunting down makarov,,, while soap is recovering from the headshot in a bit of a coma, meaning to kill makarov like soap should have all those years ago, in the head like makarov tried to do to soap... in the end dying while trying to kill makarov(whether he succeeds or not), and leaving soap to wake up to the news that ghost is KIA ...
and i think soap is in a similar boat to ghost in that theyd have to have had a veryyyyyy life changing beautiful relationship to make life seem so dismal and bleak without the other for them to consider killing themselves when the other dies...
but he could very feasibly die on the field either through increased recklessness out of angry grief or by relying on an overwatch that is no longer there to keep him safe ... but that's really only if he's fit to serve after... maybe if he's discharged he succumbs to depression and stops taking care of himself, stops taking medicines, stops eating, stops getting out of bed, stops doing Anything, and succumbs to his own already weakened body giving out on him, all the fight leaving him...
a lot of that depression would probably be caused by his life suddenly being upended, changed forever, but made all the bitterer by the absence of someone who could have softened the change and held his hand through it...
Sometimes I think of what if Ghost was immunocompromised or at least a bit immune deficient and that could be why he always wears his balaclava
i think a lot of these ideas about why he wears his mask have so much potential for really interesting fic potential,,, i mean he'd probably have to hide the fact that he's immunocompromised to get into the army, they have minimum health requirements i believe and especially for the SAS you have to be pretty tough to pass their tests,,, the reasons why he'd be desperate enough to lie about his health to join could be interesting to explore.... and if his og backstory is applied then he could probably serve with any medical condition after roba because he's legally dead and therefore slips through the cracks when it comes to documentation and rules...
it changes things a lot for him !! why he needs the mask, why he never takes it off could be both to protect his health AND his identity, and it would make missions a lot more dangerous for him,,,
This prompt belongs to @hyperfixationsgobrr from this post.
The radio crackles twice before the line clears.
“Gaz, say your position,” Price requests.
Kyle adjusts the dial, squinting at the treeline stretching, endless and black, against the fading light. “Grid’s accurate. I’ve got cover. No hostiles in sight.”
A pause. Static hums like distant insects.
“Nearest we can get to you is eighteen hours. The weather’s grounding us further south. Sit tight, Sergeant.”
Eighteen hours.
Kyle exhales slowly through his nose. Not ideal, but not catastrophic. He’s been in worse. At least he’s unharmed this time.
“Copy that,” he replies with a sigh. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Price mutters something about him not doing anything stupid. Ghost is silent, but Kyle knows he’s listening. Soap tells him not to get too bored, but he can tell the Scot is amused.
Then the comms click dead.
The quiet that follows is different. Thicker.
Kyle moves automatically—muscle memory and training taking over. He chooses a spot tucked between two large outcroppings of rock, partially shielded from the wind. He builds a low fire, careful not to give away his position. Minimal smoke. A shelter angled just enough to break the breeze.
It’s almost peaceful.
For the first hour, he lets himself breathe. He checks his ammo. Cleans the Bowie knife strapped to his vest. Sips water. Watches the trees.
The forest watches back.
It starts subtly.
A rustle, nothing more.
Not wind. Not the rhythm of branches settling.
Kyle’s hand moves before his brain finishes processing. He reaches for the Bowie, unsheathing it with practiced silence. He rises slowly, boots barely whispering against the dirt.
Another sound.
Closer.
He circles wide, keeping his fire at his back, letting the shadows fall in front of him. The trees crowd in, trunks like silent sentries.
And then he sees it.
A pale shape on the ground several meters away.
White.
Fabric.
It looks wrong against the dark earth.
Kyle narrows his eyes. No movement. No breathing. No obvious trap wire.
He advances slowly.
The smell hits first.
Musty.
Sour.
Rot.
His jaw tightens. He nudges the white fabric gently with the tip of his boot.
No response.
He crouches and, with the Bowie’s edge, he lifts the fabric.
And the world shifts, and he reels back.
The body beneath is swollen, discolored, skin split, and darkened with decay. Insects scatter at the disturbance. What was once a human face is barely recognizable.
Not fresh.
Far from recent.
Just left there.
Kyle exhales carefully through his mouth, forcing himself to catalog details instead of reacting.
Civilian clothing.
Hands bound.
No obvious animal damage.
This was deliberate.
He kneels, gloved fingers hovering just above the wrists, checking for any identifying marks, anything that tells him who this was.
He should call this into Price.
And that’s when he feels it.
The shift in air.
The pressure behind him.
The animalistic instinct that has saved his life more times than he can count.
He turns—
Too late.
A hand clamps onto his shoulder.
Something sharp pricks into the side of his neck.
Kyle reacts on instinct, slamming backwards with his elbow, twisting, but the plunger depresses.
Cold floods his bloodstream.
His vision fractures.
He swings the Bowie blindly, catching fabric—maybe skin—a grunt of pain somewhere behind him.
The forest tilts.
His knees hit the dirt.
Sound distorts, stretching long and warped.
Through blurred vision, he catches a shape moving in front of him—boots. Dark clothing. A silhouette bending down.
A voice, low and almost amused.
“He'll do nicely.”
Kyle tries to reach for the radio.
His fingers don’t obey.
The trees blur into white.
And then nothing.
GAZ
The room has no clock.
No windows.
The lights never turn off.
Kyle counts time by breathing at first. Sixty breaths, one minute. He keeps it steady. Controlled. Like Price taught him during resistance training refreshers.
He loses count somewhere past what he thinks is six hours.
They unstrap him only to move him.
Different chair. Same restraints.
Different voice.
“You're handling this well,” the woman says. Clinical tone. Educated. “Most candidates reach agitation by now.”
“Candidates?” Kyle rasps. His throat is dry. They’re rationing water carefully. Enough to keep him conscious, but not comfortable. It's like this isn't the first time they've done this.
She ignores his question.
A tablet turns toward him.
Photos.
Price.
Soap.
Ghost.
Zoomed in. Timestamped. Surveillance angles.
“You operate in a small unit,” she continues. “Highly skilled. Extremely valuable.”
Kyle says nothing.
“You were separated. They will attempt recovery. We’ve calculated a 72% probability they’ll escalate beyond authorized channels.”
He stares at her.
She smiles slightly. “We account for that.”
The screen changes.
Audio waveform.
A voice plays.
Price.
“...can’t justify the resources if there’s no signal...”
If he listens closely, it sounds clipped. Chopped. Rearranged.
Kyle knows that voice. Knows the cadence, the weight behind it.
The sleep deprivation makes doubt sticky.
Another clip.
“...we proceed without him...”
The words echo too long in the concrete room.
Kyle’s jaw tightens. He says nothing.
But for one split second—
He hesitates.
The woman sees it.
And that’s when she knows where to press.
PRICE
They find the transport mark first.
Not tire tracks but dragging marks.
Compressed brush.
Displaced soil.
A faint trace of synthetic fiber caught on bark.
Ghost collects it in silence.
Soap is the one who finds the camera.
Half-buried. Camouflaged.
Watching the campsite.
Price stares at it for too long. Whoever this was, they've been planning this for far longer than they first thought.
“They were waiting,” Soap mutters, too weary of Price to speak any louder.
Price doesn’t respond.
He pulls every contact he has within the hour.
Old SAS extraction teams.
A black-market broker in Bucharest.
A CIA liaison who owes him a favor from Kandahar.
Patterns emerge fast.
Former military.
Contractors.
Disappeared in remote regions.
Reappear in private security contracts overseas under altered identities.
Some never reappear at all.
Ghost traces a shell company tied to “skill acquisition logistics.”
Soap hacks deeper than he probably should.
And then they find something that makes the air go cold.
An auction forum.
Encrypted.
Invite-only.
Listings coded.
One new listing posted six hours ago.
Asset: Active UK Special Operations Sergeant. Field capable. Minimal degradation.
“No,” he says, voice calm in a way that makes both Ghost and Soap exchange glances before straightening. “They’re trying.”
GAZ
The room changes again.
New tactic.
They bring in a man this time.
Older. Polished. Expensive watch.
“You’re not a prisoner,” he says conversationally, “You’re inventory.”
Kyle lifts his head slowly, the realization slowly dawning on him.
The man continues, “You have two options. Resistance—which decreases value and limits placement. Or cooperation—which ensures optimal reassignment.”
“Reassignment,” Kyle repeats flatly.
The man nods. “Private sector security. High compensation. Discrete operations. Your skillset is... desirable.”
Kyle laughs once, hoarse. “You abduct me and think I’ll sign a contract?”
The man tilts his head.
“You misunderstand. Contracts can be signed willingly... or neurologically encouraged.”
A small case is set on the table.
Syringes.
Clear liquid.
Kyle’s stomach drops.
The man leans closer. “Your team cannot find you in time. Even if they trace the forest site, you’ll be relocated before they breach. You’re already a transaction.”
For the first time since being shoved in the room, real anger flickers in Kyle’s eyes. “You don’t know my captain.”
The man smiles. “We’ve profiled him extensively.”
PRICE
Ghost secures the warehouse linked to the shell company’s regional office.
Soap intercepts encrypted traffic.
Price is kicking the door in before backup fully clears.
Every person inside is detained or unconscious within minutes.
Price drags one executive across a concrete floor and slams him against the metal table. Ghost hovers over his shoulder.
“Where is he.” It’s not a question.
The man tries to maintain composure, but Price only leans in closer. “You took one of mine.”
There’s no shouting. No raised voice. It’s eerily calm, scaring the man even more.
“Transfer hub,” the man finally gasps. “Mobile. Rotational. We don’t hold inventory in one place.”
Price presses the knife just enough to make the point clear.
“Where.”
Three hours away.
Airstrip.
Private transport is scheduled within ninety minutes.
Price releases him abruptly, leaving the warehouse.
Ghost meets Soap’s eyes and shakes his head.
They move.
GAZ
They prep him for transfer.
Wrists restrained.
Sedation prepped and ready for use.
Black transport bag waiting.
The woman pauses, sparing a glance at Kyle. “You’re still resisting.”
Kyle’s voice is rough but steady, his eyes holding that fire that makes her sick. “Yeah.”
She sighs slightly. “Disappointing.”
A speaker in the room clicks on.
Static.
Then—
A gunshot in the distance.
Muffled shouting.
Another gunshot.
The staff exchange confused looks.
Kyle’s heart stutters.
That wasn’t a recording.
The man with the watch reaches for his phone.
It never finishes ringing.
Smoke.
Flashbang.
Shouting.
Kyle blinks through the haze.
And through ringing ears, he hears the one voice that cuts through everything.
“KYLE!”
His name. Not his call sign. Not his last name.
Price’s voice.
Not edited.
Not distorted.
Real.
And furious.
The syringe slides into Kyle’s arm before he can jerk away.
Cold spreads through his bloodstream almost immediately.
He knows that feeling.
The sedative from before, now diluted.
It’s not enough to knock him down instantly—just enough to make his muscles heavy and thoughts slow.
“Dose injected,” the woman says calmly to a nearby man. “We can wake him up during transport.”
Kyle tries to focus on the table in front of him.
Metal.
Scratched.
A single bolt in the corner.
Focus on something small. Something real.
Price’s voice echoes faintly in the back of his head—old training.
Control what you can. One thing at a time, son.
But the room tilts anyway.
The man with the expensive watch checks his phone. “Aircraft’s five minutes out.”
Kyle’s vision blurs. He tries to move his hands.
The restraints hold.
Someone lifts the black transport bag.
Another prepares a second injection.
Then—
The gunshots.
Everyone in the room freezes.
Another shot.
Closer.
Then shouting.
The woman frowns. “What—”
Kyle’s heart lurches, and he forces his head up.
The man with the watch reaches for his phone again. “Security—”
The door explodes inward.
A flashband detonates with a deafening crack.
White floods the room.
Kyle’s ears ring violently if they weren’t already. The world dissolves into bright static and muffled chaos.
Boots thunder across the floor.
Someone shouts, and bodies collide.
Gunfire erupts in sharp, controlled bursts.
Kyle tries to stand.
The sedative drags him back down.
Through the ringing in his ears, he hears something cutting through the noise. A voice, both familiar and furious.
“KYLE!”
Again.
Kyle blinks hard through blurred vision.
Shapes move through the smoke.
One of the traffickers grabs Kyle by the collar, trying to haul him towards the exit.
“Move him now!”
Kyle reacts on instinct.
Even drugged and barely hanging on, his training takes over.
He drives his knee upward with everything he has.
The man grunts as it connects with his ribs.
Kyle twists violently, chair legs scratching across concrete as he throws his weight sideways.
The chair tips.
They both crash to the floor.
Kyle’s wrists are still bound behind him, but he rolls, slamming his shoulder into the man’s knee.
The trafficker staggers.
Kyle swings his legs up and kicks him square in the chest, sending him back.
The room spins violently.
His muscles feel like wet sand.
But he forces himself onto his knees.
Across the room, another guard raises his pistol.
The shot never fires.
A suppressed round cracks.
The guard drops instantly.
Smoke clears just enough for Kyle to see three figures pushing into the room.
Soap first.
Fast. Aggressive. His face is red with fury.
Ghost on his heels.
And then Price.
The captain stops dead the moment he sees Kyle.
For half a second, the room goes still.
Kyle sways where he kneels, barely upright, wrists bound, pupils blown wide from sedatives.
Price crosses the distance in three long strides.
“Easy, lad. Easy.”
Kyle tries to focus on him. “Sir...”
The word comes out slurred.
Price’s jaw tightens when he sees the needle mark on Kyle’s arm.
Soap cuts the restraints with a knife.
The second the straps fall away, Kyle tries to stand.
His legs give out instantly.
Price catches him before he hits the ground.
“Whoa—steady.”
Kyle grips Price’s vest weakly, blinking hard. “Took... took you long enough...”
Soap barks a laugh from across the room while checking another doorway. “Listen to him! Gaz’s been kidnapped and dugged, but he’s still got a mouth on ‘em.”
Ghost kneels briefly, checking Kyle’s pupils.
“Sedated,” he says gruffly.
Price nods once. “Can you move him?”
Ghost shifts Kyle’s weight against him, one arm braced around his back. “Yeah.”
Kyle tries to focus, blinking slowly. The room still spins in slow, nauseating circles. His arms feel like they don’t belong to him anymore. “Sir...” he mutters, voice thick.
Price crouches so he’s in Kyle’s line of sight. “You’re alright, son.”
Kyle squints at him like he’s trying to make sure Price is real. “...thought that was a recording,” he slurs.
Soap huffs a soft laugh somewhere to the side while checking the last doorway. “Nah, mate. That ugly mug’s the real thing.”
Price shoots him a brief look but doesn’t argue.
“Transport’s clear,” Ghost says, after a moment.
Price nods again. “Let’s move.
The walk out of the facility is slow.
Ghost supports most of Kyle’s weight while Price stays close, one hand steady on his shoulder whenever he stumbles. Soap moves ahead, clearing the path even though the building has already fallen silent.
Outside, the cold night air hits Kyle’s face.
He sucks in a shaky breath, the stars blurring above him. “...feels weird,” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” Soap replies softly. “That’s the drugs, mate.”
Kyle attempts a laugh, but it comes out more like a tired breath.
They reach the vehicle waiting near the edge of the airstrip. Ghost helps guide him into the backseat while Soap climbs in beside him.
His head droops forward.
Soap catches it gently and guides him back against the headrest. “Stay with us, Garrick.”
Kyle’s eyes crack open again. “Tryin’...”
The engine starts, and the vehicle pulls away from the facility, disappearing down the dark road.
For a while, no one speaks.
The hum of the tires on asphalt fills the quiet.
Kyle’s breathing grows slower, heavier.
The sedative is still working its way through his system, fighting against his dying adrenaline and dragging him down.
His head tilts slightly toward Soap.
“ ‘Tav...” Kyle mutters.
Soap glances over. “Aye?”
Kyle’s eyelids are barely open now. “...they said... you weren’t comin’.”
Soap snorts softly. “Yeah, well, they clearly don’t know us very well.”
Kyle tries to smile. It’s small and crooked.
His fingers twitch weakly against the seat. “Didn’t... think you’d let ‘em sell me.”
Soap puts his arm over the back of the seats, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Not a change, mate.”
Kyle’s breathing stutters slightly as the exhaustion deepens.
Kyle’s head leans fully against Soap’s shoulder this time.
Soap doesn’t move.
“You can let go,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Kyle to hear him.
Kyle exhales slowly. His grip on consciousness finally loosens.
He’s asleep within seconds.
Kyle wakes to the faint hum of ventilation and the sterile smell of antiseptic.
For a moment, he doesn’t move.
His brain feels slow, heavy, like it’s wrapped in fog.
Then he notices the softness beneath him.
A bed.
He cracks one eye open.
Fluorescent lights. Medical ceiling.
Base.
Memory rushes back in fragments—the forest, the needle, the concrete room, the door blowing open.
Price shouting his name.
Kyle shifts slightly.
Immediately, a voice nearby speaks.
“Easy.”
He turns his head slowly.
Price is sitting in the chair beside the bed, arms folded, looking like he hasn’t moved in hours.
Soap is leaning against the wall nearby, half-asleep with his arms crossed.
Ghost stands near the doorway, silent as ever.
Kyle blinks slowly. “…we’re home?” he croaks.
Soap opens one eye. “Aye.”
Price exhales quietly through his nose.
“You’re safe, Sergeant.”
Kyle lets his head sink back into the pillow.
“…good.”
For the first time since the forest, his body finally relaxes completely.
And this time, when he closes his eyes—
It’s just sleep.
It's a long one but it's here! I had so much fun writing this I couldn't stop. Is my writing format inconsistent through this? Ofc but some of my best works are. I saw the short story from @hyperfixationsgobrr and had to run to begin writing (once given permission ofc).
I'm out for midterm break starting today so please feel free to send me any asks!
i keep thinking about reboot ghoap where soap calls things off with ghost saying he "doesn't love him anymore" (whether he's lying or not is up to interpretation, maybe he's just dumb and scared of loving someone so much or maybe he really did just fall out of love) and leaves ghost heartbroken and then the next mission is the one where soap is killed . zero reconciliation
I LOVE GAANG SMM!! And yes, Suki is part of gaang. I can’t stand the suki under representation. I love my queen sm. ALL CREDITS TO THE ARTIST!! @schwesterchiz in Insta
ghost with the "there's something wrong with me" internalised homophobia but it's the LEAST of his worries when there are much worse things wrong with him than him liking to kiss boys
How do you feel about an AU of Ghost having an eye condition like a collapsed iris? (example images online might trigger scopophobia and/or ommetaphobia)
I've literally never heard of this before but it looks really cool, almost planetary???? like broken planets ... I think it's a pretty cool headcanon !!!!
