#cod:mwii

[002405txt]

PITCH-HIT A GIFT FOR THE GHOSTSOAP SERVER GIFT EXCHANGE 💪never done '09 soapghost so I hope I did them justice <3

Also haven't done a comic in fuckin forever but shshshshhhh

[fanficsforheartandsoul]

German!Reader: Schnitzel and Pommes

König talking to Soap after a fight: You saved my life just now... Thank you so much! Soap, who had covered him with his body: Ah no problem, big guy, it was nothing. Gaz: No, you really did save his ass there. König: Ja... that was really brave! You know... When we're home I'll cook you some Pommes and Schnitzel. I think you'll like it. Soap: I don't know what exactly that is but hell yeah, thanks König! König, shyly: You're welcome... Gaz: oh? [A few days later] Reader: I heard you got married, congrats man. Soap, confused: huh? Reader: Gaz told me König made you some Schnitzel with Pommes. Soap: He did, it was really nice. But what's that got to do with marriage? Reader: König proposed to you with that meal! Soap: What? NO! He just wanted to say 'thank you' for saving his life! Reader: HE MADE YOU SCHNIPO!! THAT'S THE EQUIVALENT OF GOING DOWN ON ONE KNEE!!

[cazhmaer]

I couldn’t help myself, I made another OC. This time for Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II.

Meet Evelyn ‘Ursa’ Dubois, lieutenant in the French Commando Marines, medic on Task Force - 141. Think of her as the stubborn medic who took an oath to do no harm, but takes no shit if you mess with her patients. I’m still working on her backstory, but her mother is a doctor and her father is a chef. She’s married to Ghost in my own twisted little universe, but the only people who know are Price and his family, and Laswell.

Standing behind her is @sleepyconfusedpotato ‘s OC Jade. She is so adorable, I just wanna squish her cheeks.

I feel like Jade and Ursa would get along pretty well. Which is a bit of a problem for Price, when he realizes Jade likes to egg on Ursa when she’s on her annual prank kick around April 1st. They become downright villainous when they work together. Ursa on the other hand would be like an older sister to Jade, maybe a mentor who helps her open up about what she had gone through during her time with MI6.

Maybe I’ll write out a full profile and make a character sheet someday, who knows.

[mysticalgalaxysalad]

My lil Simon sketch 😊❤️

[002405txt]

In regards to the whole soul mate thing, Soap's been through all the phases.

He'd started curious, then confused, then mournful, then resentful. For now he's settled somewhere in the vicinity of apathy—maybe spite.

He doesn't have a soul-mark. Never has, never will, and that's... fine. He's far from the only one lacking that kind of connection, and that's enough for him to feel understood. Not alone. He's got plenty of good friends besides—with and without soulmates of their own—and he's happy that way. Really, he is; it took him a fair amount of work to get to a place where he could say that and it not be wishful thinking. He's got friends, family, dalliances, motion and company and light in his life despite the lack of a mark that tells him where his place is.

And then he meets Ghost.

The Lieutenant is huge in the sense that his presence alone takes up what space his height and muscle can't. He's quiet, too, at least before Soap makes the effort to worm his way under all that tacgear. (The man is intriguing, what can he say? Who else walks around with a honest-to-fuck skull mask day in and out.)

Ghost seems to tolerate him at first, then inexplicably starts to prickle and grouch whenever Soap comes within six feet of him. He could make up a few reasons for why that is, but instead contents himself with pretending he doesn't notice—pushing the implied boundary until Ghost mans up and tells him off.

He never does, though. And it's not long at all until Soap's found that the boundary has given way and Ghost is—well he's actually pretty pleasant to be around. He's funny, and patient, and gives way too much of a shit to be in a career that pretty much ensures the death of everyone he works with. (He likes to pretend he doesn't, but there's no other reason he would have been waiting up in that church for Soap—in fact he shouldn't have still been there at all, since he'd already scoped an escape route. The bastard's soft, is what he's saying.)

And that's when things start to backslide just a little.

They're sitting in the mess—only three of them, the Captain unable to grace them with his presence—and Gaz is talking about his sister's husband's new boyfriend being the result of a late-discovery soulmatch.

"Could you imagine," he says, pausing to chew his mouthful before he continues. "Going thirty years knowing there's someone out there for you, and not seeing them until after you're already married?"

"Could be platonic," Soap pointed out, not bothering with the same courtesy of chewing his food. Ghost kicks him under the table for it, but he honestly can't be asked to care for only three words worth.

"Could be, but still—could you imagine?"

"Nope." Soap pops the 'P' and grins. Ghost doesn't kick him this time since he hasn't taken another bite yet. "I'm a wee bit hopeless in that department."

"Ah, brother." Gaz reaches out and they clasp hands for a moment, then he nudges his shoulder. "You and me both. Never much got the fuss about it, but that does seem like some sort of cosmic irony yeah?"

"Issat irony?" Soap asks. "Don't think that's right."

Obviously, that incites a short argument that ends when Gaz pulls out his phone to look up the actual dictionary definition of 'irony', and Soap grasps to change the topic to literally anything else to avoid Gaz gloating on the off chance that he's right.

"Lt, what about you?"

Ghost blinks at him as if he hasn't been staring at the both of them through the whole conversation.

"I know what irony is, Johnny."

"No—" he can't help the scowl, and talks over Gaz's sudden jeering as he shoves his phone under his nose. Soap lifts his chin to avoid it. "You got a soul mark?"

"Read it and weep, Soap!" Gaz cheers, only slightly subdued in respect for every else in the room.

"I do." Ghost says at the same time, dipping his head in a tiny little nod, and Soap's world ends just a little bit, right there in the mess hall. Curls up, withers, and dies without so much as a squeal.

He's not able to ask if Ghost knows who it is, or if he's met them, or if they're still alive, or if it's romantic or platonic; he's not sure if it even matters, because Johhny knows right then that he will never be as close to Ghost as they are.

And it hurts.

It hurts in a way he wasn't entirely expecting.

He must hold it together well enough through the rest of dinner, and then through walking with Gaz back to their rooms, but once he's got the door locked behind him he feels the smile fall off his face. He sits down on the edge of his bed.

Ghost has a soulmate.

Ghost has a soulmate and Soap is pissed about it. Because that soulmate isn't him—it can't be, since he doesn't have a mark of his own.

It's just—it's unfair. They work so well together, on the field and off. He knows for a fact no one else can read Ghost as well as he can, no one else talks to him like he does, he doesn't hang around anyone else like he seems to hang around Soap. If anyone should be Ghost's soulmate, it should be him.

But he's not. Which means there's someone else out there that can watch his six better, understand him more, have more satisfying conversations—and it seems fucking impossible, because he doesn't even know how it could get better given the time they've known eachother... and yet.

And yet Ghost has a mark, and Soap doesn't.

It takes him days to get over it—at least enough to act himself when he's in company. Ghost tries to get him to talk about it three separate times before he can manage to get his shit together. He won't *lie* to Simon, nor is he about to admit to what's eating at him, and it leaves him snappish. Leaves the vitriol closer to the surface than it ever has been around Ghost and he hates to see how he reacts to it; he doesn't cower, doesn't flinch, doesn't avoid him, just stares—in a different way than before. John's temper will flare and Ghost will freeze a little, tilt his head, furrow his brow, and fucking stare at him until the moment passes. It might be better if he raised his voice in return, let it escalate into a proper fight—or even if he shut Soap down hard and told him to cool off. Instead Ghost looks at him like he's gone and become a stranger; like he's confused where he doesn't expect to be, and that hurts almost as much as finding out his place isn't next to Simon—or at least, he doesn't have any rightful claim to it.

[002405txt]

[Excerpt of a journal found in the possession of one Captain John Price, dated 02.03.24]

Zombies.

Nothin' much more to say than that.

As expected, world's gone to shit.

People have died.

Some are still holdin' on.

Shitton of research. Ethics on that went out the door.

Not ashamed to say I think about handing them both over sometimes.

Our domesticated animals.

The academic types would be all over them for certain.

Zombies that don't bite? Trained, walking corpses?

Could bring us leaps and bounds closer to a cure.

On the otherhand... could just turn into a science fair project.

I wouldn't do that to my boys.

Even if I did, I wouldn't live long after. Because Simon isn't dead.

At least, I don't think he is.

No-one has been able to get close enough to confirm... Aside from Soap.

And Soap is definitely dead.

We thought the poor muppet had a stroke, at first; struggling to talk. To move.

Put him on bedrest. Ghost took watch (wouldn't give it up).

Didn't suspect a thing of either of them until I caught Ghost feeding him raw meat.

(Still don't know where it came from.)

They were quarantined for a bit. Ghost hadn't spoken for weeks at that point.

Just stared at us. Sat beside MacTavish.

He tried to break out when Soap started to go hungry.

I could have put them out of their misery.

Should have.

Gaz was on watch when Ghost finally broke out.

(Soap was too weak to walk by then.)

Let him go hunting. He brought back a body.

We didn't bother locking them up again.

No one has noticed yet. Not enough of a system left to report them to anyway. Options are to ignore it or shoot them yourself.

Guess their work makes up for it. Plenty of reason to turn a blind eye.

Soap is as well-behaved as ever. Quick on the uptake for someone who can hardly string a sentence together.

Simon is the worst he's ever been, but competent. Deadly. More ruthless than before.

Still hasn't spoken a word.

Suppose he is dead. Funny that his heart stayed beating once it finally took.

[002405txt]

The portrait was an accident.

Not an accident he regrets, but he sure as hell hadn't intended on getting here—lurking in his Sergeant's room in the early hours of the morning.

He just... well, sue him, he hadn't really been thinking when he made the offer. It's so easy to just fall into the flow of conversation when he's with Johnny that he hardly considers what comes out of his mouth at all—every word could very well bypass his brain entirely.

It had just seemed natural. "You only draw the pretty boys naked? So if it were me... do you need me to be joking?" and then he'd gone and agreed to a nude portrait done by Johnny himself. Worse still was that it was good. Soap was one hell of an artist to make it so that Ghost couldn't help but glance back at the image of himself every few minutes, gaze sliding off uncomfortably only to return as if magnetized.

He's not prone to looking at himself beyond what it takes to do basic hygiene or wound-care. It's not an uncommon occurrence to catch sight of his own maskless reflection and mistake it for someone else—his father, his brother, a stranger—but Johnny's drawing looks...it looks good.

(It looks familiar. It doesn't look like his father, or his brother, or anyone else. It just looks like him.)

When he tears the page out by the perforated edge, he hesitates to fold it over, and settles on resting it face-down on Soap’s desk until he's ready to leave. He might bite his own fingers off if it was smudged or creased or worse.

Fuck.

That's it. Just fuck. Ghost got himself into this mess and he will reap the fucking consequences—doesn't mean he has to be happy about it, though. Or maybe he is happy—maybe this is what happy looks like on him. Maybe that creeping, restless feeling that's been crawling up his throat is happiness.

He doubts it. More likely that he's caught something.

---

Soap takes a snuffling sort of breath, lungs shuttering full under his palm, then deflating with a slow exhale.

He wasn't meant to stay this long.

Problem is, it's turned out to be really fucking mesmerizing to watch someone breathe—to feel someone breathing with his hand splayed over their back. Actually, it's worse now that he can feel it too, nearly every sense he has is focused in on the steady, predictable, rise-fall-rise of Johnny sleeping.

(Worse still is that he's avoiding the real problem: the fact that he'd meant to leave as soon as the portrait was done. He was meant to have a laugh with Soap, tease him some, then dress and head back to his own room to sleep off the mission. He hadn't been planning on falling asleep—wasn't supposed to. Wasn't expecting to be that comfortable, wasn't expecting the way Johnny took it in stride like this was just something they did.)

Emotions. He lifts his spare hand and bites his wrist through the mask. It's not sharp enough to satisfy him but it is enough to remind him not to bite himself. Rabid animal he is, Johnny mightve had a point in the mess. It still takes him a second or two to commit to being a human being and stop gnawing on his own arm. Every time he thinks the habit is dropped, it comes back with a vengeance. Used to be he'd have his own dental record written in bruises around his fingers and constant sores on his tongue, though, so he'll take what success he can get.

(Similarly, as long as Price doesn't see, it hasn't reached a point of concern. Funny how much he measures by Price noticing. He wonders if Price has noticed this, yet; has noticed how Johnny has Ghost wrapped around his wrist and held in the palm. Surprising that the old man hasnt said anything yet, if he did.)

[002405txt]

Screaming is a waste of breath for Simon Riley.

People scream to let someone else know it hurts. They scream to share the pain, to call for help. All screaming ever got Simon was more of the wrong kind of attention. Maybe just laughter, if he were lucky.

He remembers the day he realized it, too. Remembers a school trip to a theme park, buckled into a civilian-grade jumpseat 102 meters in the air and looking out over the park five seconds before the drop. He'd screamed about halfway down before he realized he was slipping through the restraints, (he was a small kid. Malnourished, probably) then he'd stopped, thought _if I'm going to die here I might as well enjoy the view,_ and breathed the rest of the way down.

He didn't die, he'd landed along with the rest of the class, but he hadn't screamed since. It's funny to Simon that out of all the things he'd been through by that age, it was the bloody Rollercoaster that taught him a lesson.

He grew out of screaming, but he's still not grown out of finding places to hide. When he was young it was just the smartest practice; living in a tiny flat with his violent father meant that if one were to even have a chance at avoiding conflict, he'd have to know a good spot to hide, and a good way to get out without revealing where he'd been. By the time he was twelve he'd known where he could fold himself, all the places Tommy could fit, and how long they had to make themselves presentable should their father come looking. Not seen until looked for, was the best way to go.

(Simon can still remember when he was slim enough to go into the bathroom closet and slide between the standing plastic drawers and the wall. There couldn't have been more than a foot of space for him to occupy—if that—and he couldn't crouch or sit because of it. He'd go in with his hands above his head so that he could cross his arms over the wall and rest his head on his forearms.)

Getting older was hard in that way. It meant getting taller, broader, limiting the ways he could make himself unobtrusive. Becoming an adult and properly filling out, though... that brought with it the advantage of new environments, new techniques, new ways to get himself into places. By the time he'd enlisted it was second nature to scan a room and find the places most people glossed over. It was a strange habit, he knew—something that gave away far too much to anyone who knew how to look—and so he refrained. Stood with the others, made sure he was seen. Just another one of the guys.

After Roba, he stopped caring as much about whether or not people found him obtrusive or strange. He'd had other things to focus on.