uhadoreable

[uhadoreable]

Stalker!Ghost who thinks of Soap as too weak, too trusting, and too naive but also really just wants to break that until Soap isn’t so trusting and is just a mess

Love blind!Soap who doesn’t know he has a massive crush on Ghost but is so okay with whatever Ghost does to him

Just thinking about Soap on his knees in front of Ghost with a bloody nose and a busted lip and Ghost looking down at him knowing he did that, he ruined that perfect face

[uhadoreable]

Thinking about writing the most pathetically needy Soap and the cruelest Ghost my fingers can manage.

Want to write Soap so he’s too dense to realize Ghost isn’t here for his best interest and just really wants him because he’s too naive to see it.

Canon? No.

But I’ve shipped worse

Anyway.. let me know if y’all want to see me make Dog Bleeding Goodness even more vile 🩷

[uhadoreable]

Hi. This one is a lot shorter because I can and I said so. Anyway, I hope you all like the toxic Ghost and the really stupid Soap dynamic I’ve got going. Feel free to tell me if you do!

GhostxSoap

TW: The whole gosh darn thing is just gaslighting, but this time, from Ghost’s perspective!! (It’s horrible. I made this man awful, please be careful if you are Pookie!Ghost enjoyer.)

Dog Bleeding Goodness (3)

Ghost lived and died a hundred times each day, a constant raging storm between him and whatever spark of him still craved to be good. That tiny thing, wrapped up inside him had died more than he had, constantly subjected to being stabbed again and again by Ghost’s lack of humanity.

Whatever had happened with him and Roba, well, it did a mighty fine job to kill Simon, leaving only a shell left to rot a wasteland.

Leaving Ghost, alone, to make himself something within nothing, to make better choices and have an impact on the goodness of this world.

He chose to burn it instead, let his hungry and rabid fangs sink in until everything he bit was just as rabid and disgusting as him. He sunk his teeth into anything, anything with or without a pulse. Ghost let anything he bit go mad, let them loose a greater part of themselves until he felt justice for the crimes committed against him.

He tore and tore until nothing was left to tear, he bit and bit until the blood of the innocence paid the weight of the blood he lost.

Ever the cruel man, ever the regular man.

He liked biting certain things more than others, just as dogs had a favorite toy. His favorite things to watch go mad were things that weren’t used to it, things that withered and cried when even the tiniest bit of bad entered their veins. Things that didn’t know what to do when they were dismantled and put back together in a shape not like their own anymore.

They were his favorite because he saw himself in them, or what was before him, and he wanted to kill whatever was before him so that maybe, he’d forget just as fast as he would have justice.

And Soap was a good man, good just came naturally as did blindness, one did not exist without the others presence. Likewise Soap was just as good as he was blind.

Blind to how Ghost stared with ugly intent, how he twisted and contorted within himself as he thought of ripping that pretty throat of the Scotsman in two.

And he was too good to notice, too sweet and loving. There was a youthfulness to him, the kind that just begged to be ruined and smothered into the concrete below, until all that was left was a defiled mess.

Ghost knew that’s what Soap wanted, whether he knew what to name it or not. Men like him were all the same, they just didn’t know what to call their deep need to be destroyed and ruined, to have their goodness burnt at the stake while they were made to watch. But Ghost would help, he’d give that pretty sergeant the words he was looking for and he’d change his shape until it was something that pleased the lieutenant, because that’s what Soap wanted.

That’s what he needed.

He was just too blind to see it yet, so Ghost would lend him his eyes.

“Keep your head on the ground, air head.”

The lieutenant curled in around his own throat, his voice a rough sand paper that he knew Soap felt trail down his spine. Knew his words hurt like hell but that Soap really wasn’t keen on them not, things like him craved pain whether they knew it or not.

He saw it, saw Soap long for more vile and cruel words fixed in between barely there praise, that’s what the red on his face was. That’s why by the heavens Ghost swore he could hear the sound of Soap’s pathetic whimpering as they laid upon hot grounds with their snipers trained on the target house.

They weren’t close, physically that is. The distance between them paramount but essential if any good shots were aimed to be made. Their distance more focused on the mission, more centered around addressing the bigger threat, like the human trafficker they were aiming to pop the head of.

However important; it irked Ghost. He wanted that sergeant right up by him, hear him make snide remarks as if he wouldn’t be alone at his bunk tonight, making a fool out of himself wishing it were Ghost.

The sand dug into his belly, his gear did little to hide the pin pricks of fine and coarse sand. He could feel it, swore that he could feel it up his spine.

It almost made him squirm, made him move just a little to relieve the ache, but he was too trained. Price, the easily recognizable but yet hard to describe captain, had ensured he only picked men who could handle their own. Little bit of sand and too much squirming, it was a recipe for disaster, corporal punishment.

He knew Price, knew he had people wrapped up in his finger with how sweet he appeared, how he could make men sing acapella. It was a lie, carefully made to fool those too stupid to keep their own head somewhere beneficial.

But Soap, Soap was new, didn’t yet know the well hidden wrath of their captain, so he squirmed. Good things were too centered around themselves when they weren’t paying attention, saw themselves as god like and dressed up their love for humanity. So when nobody was watching, not even themselves, they were selfish.

And selfishness, no matter how endorsed it was upon their senior officers, wouldn’t go unpunished.

“Lay still sergeant, or I won’t bother carrying your dead body back.”

Despite his slightly nicer than usual, it really wasn’t, Soap didn’t settle.

He thought he was slick, Ghost knew why he wasn’t, so he entertained his squirming by threat. All good puppies liked to be threatened, liked to be thrown on their back, liked to have their crap kicked into them until they were molded into obedience, not goodness.

“My office after this mission.”

And that threat was clear.

[uhadoreable]

Hi. I did it again. This chapter will probably be pretty gosh darn long too, so sorry in advanced.

Ghost x Soap

TW: Ghost really doesn’t have soaps best intentions in mind, Makarov would do him better, I keep yapping, Scottish women can’t even translate soaps crap

Dog Bleeding Goodness (2)

If the gods asked Soap to design a drug to curse humankind into addiction, he’d let it be Ghost’s voice.

That raspy, slightly too raspy, yet gruff voice that echoed from behind his dirty skull balaclava etched a shiver into his spine, sent him whipping his head around to meet Ghost’s gaze a little too fast.

Loosing out on any attempts on subtleness.

“Aye, LT, bet’n you could loosin’ up, aye?”

His words were loose, lost in vowels after just a drop too much alcohol. It was crappy alcohol, but it got the job done. It left Soap feeling just the smallest sparks of a high, being left on edge and hoping to lose all sense of worldly convictions.

Yet, Ghost said nothing. Just watched.

It drove Soap mad. Made him look like a foaming and rabid dog how his body stiffened and silenced itself, how he blocked out the world around them, until he could hear the soft breaths of his lieutenant. It wasn’t that he needed to hear Ghost speak, no, he was just - being a good sergeant for his commanding officer.

And he surely wasn’t waiting for any praise.

No.

No, god no.

He would never steal his own breath away and deprive his blood of oxygen until he could hear Ghost purr out the most lack luster praise. That would be insane, improbable, unlikely.

And it surely didn’t get himself even higher to look at Ghost.

“We have a mission to get through, don’t get yourself too drunk.”

As if the crummy beer was ever even a little capable of getting Soap drunk.

But if Soap contorted his words enough in his head, changed how Ghost stared at him with such blandness in his mind, it felt like Ghost cared.

Which was insane to say, so he decided to shut his maw on it. Ghost didn’t care for other people, didn’t let his heart yearn for others, he especially wouldn’t love a man like his sergeant.

Yet Soap, for some odd reason, appreciated contorting and changing how Ghost spoke in his head to fit the catalyst of a delusion that Ghost did. He liked to believe that Ghost said these things, watched him with such a firing blaze, because he liked him.

“Aye, wouldnae’ upset ye’”

And that was that.

Ghost nodded and then looked away.

Their conversations were never long, never anything worth much. They were worth so little, the men having the smallest party around them didn’t care to butt in. Didn’t interrupt like most drunk men would do when anybody had any sort of semblance of a good thing happening.

That’s how he knew he had nothing.

————————————————————————

Soap’s job was to blow crap up, push into buildings, and then maybe get what the brass ordered them to get, assuming he didn’t end up in a massive dog fight first.

Sniping was nowhere in that job.

But some old cat stumbled along back into the task force and the ever so subtle pushover Price was, pushed Soap out of his main role so said old geezer could have a swing at nostalgia.

But sniping was Ghost’s job.

He did fine without him, it was insane he even had to group up with a man who was just edging his forties and could handle sniping on his own without another soul’s help.

He should be down there, fighting, taking on fights - not watching them from atop a hill.

The only good that came out of it was that his body was almost painfully close to Ghost, just close enough that when he did take a good shot, or didn’t move around as much as a teen on their first line, Ghost would whisper out some generic praise.

A good man, good work Johnny, good work Soap.

When the older man whispered out Johnny, that’s when Soap really got still, almost begging for Ghost to keep going, and he never did.

He kept it tactical, Soap, well Soap was damned to spend his hours walking across an unsure line. The kind of line where he didn’t know what beast rested on either side but found himself more keen to figure that out than what was at the end of the line.

He would gladly throw his safety and well being away, his chance at a tomorrow, to find out what he was to Ghost and what Ghost wanted him to be.

It was only after a particularly good shot that Ghost praised him the most, almost made Soap open up his jaw to demand more. Almost.

“Good work Johnny, keep your eye steady, good man.”

It was a compound of every praise that was generic enough to rip out his control and force him to look at Ghost. Force a small smile dusting his face before Ghost’s glare turned sharp again. A compound of everything he was velvety weak to.

It was only natural the small gasp he let out, his thoughts muffled into nothing, his head felt shockingly empty for once. There were no buzzing race tracks of thoughts and feelings, it was just the quiet and loving buzz of praise from a man he’d convince even god himself he wasn’t in love with.

And maybe, maybe just once, it would’ve done him favors to forgo his mission if only for a second and glance at Ghost.

Look at him as Ghost glared daggers into his soul.

He knew why he always stared at Soap now, fragile things, good things, would always find their way into the maw of a hungry creature.

And Ghost was starved.

A starving dog realizing he’d been chasing after a high quality slab of steak.

Whatever that rotten head was pondering, staring was soon a promise to be the least of Ghost’s efforts to sink his rapid maw in.

[uhadoreable]

Hi there!

I’m adorbs and I’m a COD fanfic writer, my inbox is always open for requests, suggestions, comments, and random crap!

I prefer writing dark romance and I don’t do character x reader (because I stink at it)!

[uhadoreable]

This is a multiple part story (IE, I don’t want to write it all tonight 🩷), rating varies from stories, if no rating is available it’s just generic.

Ghost x Soap

TW: soaps an idiot, I made Ghost worse, I also yapped ( Idk which one is worse)

Dog Bleeding Goodness (1)

It’s stupid to search for a good man in this world. You would’ve had an easier time trying to search for a cure for cancer than ever expecting good men to come around.

Most people weren’t stupid enough to make the mistake of trusting, of believing a sick man when he stretched his hand out and offered safety. Offered a beautifully built illusion of safety, of love, of happiness. Of utter bullshit.

Luckily for the accursed men that floated on their rotten boats and shrunken wrecks, there was still people stupid enough to believe blindly.

Like Soap.

Soap, despite his very realistic skill as a SAS operator and a bloody haphazard explosive expert, was beautifully blind. In his eyes, the sinners were victims, brought on by cursed promises cut out of the rocks of hell. Bad people were as good as saintly people, and dead dogs were only good dogs. Puppies gone too soon.

Pretty things like him with nice full eyes that didn’t flinch when a knife got too close to the sharp junction of his neck were what people fiend for. Like drug addicts, like addicts hooked on a pimp’s black tar, they were the sinner’s amelioration. A chance at a heaven they would never reap if not for the temporary promise of this life.

————————————————————————

Soap was like almost any other SAS member, spent his days being barked at and ordered around by brass, cleaned his weapons until they were spotless and his improperly wired brain was left with nothing to twiddle his fingers with.

Expect where other men were rotted inwards by the cruelness of time, had their youth stolen away by a man in the dark, Soap retained it. With that youthful beauty, his bronze skin, and that bloody horrendously attractive mohawk. He wore the skin of youth and danced around with it on his tongue. The way he spoke, mocking and cruel, like words of a higher and more professional manner were nothing more than a brain rotting puzzle to him.

With his youth, and occasionally easy to describe dimness, he attracted a certain kind of man.

Noticeably one more rotted away by the withers of time.

Ever since Soap’s painfully bushy and demanding personality stormed into the hangers of the task force, he had fiend after the attention of a dog too sick to be dead and too cruel to be alive.

The praise that dog would occasionally growl at him, telling him any other man could do something as simple as that but that he did it sufficient enough that he wasn’t unimpressed.

And whether that praise be worthy of his high standards or not, he accepted it, like a man starved of something simple yet something vital. A man who had lost and lost and lost, until finally it was found and had no clue what to do with himself next. That praise was his missing part, softened his head and made him all sweet.

Or as sweet as a bloody explosive man like Soap could get.

Standards were low. He was special forces for a reason.

And that hound dog of a freak was none other than his lieutenant. He was unlikable to say the least, but so was any other man within the higher regards of the SAS. Special forces wore down a person’s personality until all you were left with what was frankly the ugliest thing manageable to have been formed.

And that man was cruel, if there were ever proof good men were dead, then it was Ghost.

Ghost watched Soap, watched him when he trained, when he worked, when he sat in the helicopter waiting for departure.

He watched him, let his eyes follow him like trained snipers followed their enemy. Watched until any other man would be confident that Soap had holes upon his back from his lieutenant stare. And even then, he watched more.

At first he wasn’t sure what he was looking for, unsure that he was even looking for anything. Days and months had passed since Soap forced an opening on the team with rather unforgiving need, and yet, Ghost still hadn’t been sure why he stared. Why he ached and ached until he laid his eyes on the man.

Ghost knew Soap was pretty, even a blind man knew that, but it wasn’t just the beauty that radiated from Soap that damned Ghost to watching.

Maybe it was how young he was, how his youth was something Ghost hadn’t tasted in almost 20 whole years himself. Maybe it was how egotistical Soap was, the eagerness to break him and move him down a peg. Or maybe it was because he was a good man, and good men didn’t last long in a world as cruel and ugly as this.

Maybe it was because that heart still beat inside Soap’s chest, maybe it was because it riddled Ghost with feverish jealousy. A want, no need, no, desire.

————————————————————————

The sun was hot, the brass sure loved to send the 141 out when the weather was enough to burn a new crater or when there was enough snow to convince a stupid man he lived in the polar north.

This was the unnaturally hot days.

The 141 had been forcibly held up in a safe house, meant to wait out until some enemies naturally migrated away.

It was stuffy, hardly a way to live very long. And most men took it upon themselves to strip off the shirts and limit their pants to just jeans. Commando was better than creating a new lake inspired by the ungodly ounces of sweat poured from their bodies.

Soap was no different, sporting just jeans and that’s it. His hips hugging themselves tight by jeans too small to be practical, his bare chest visible, and his well defined muscles ached across his body. To say he looked attractive was to say that the world owed the poor an apology.

It was true, but it wasn’t hard to be truthful, and so it was a painful understatement.

Ghost, as usual, took his perch, sitting on a busted up sofa that matched the otherwise destroyed aesthetic of the safe house.

His sharp eyes watching, watching as Soap rough housed with the other soldiers. Watched as he wrestled and drank a couple beers with them. Watched as his small walls were lowered even further as the limited alcohol coursed through blood stream. With all the watching, Ghost knew it wasn’t enough to get him drunk, but it was enough that he could pick up on the subtle signs of Soap and his wish that the booze did get him plastered.

Yet, despite how every other man within the safe house noticed, Soap never did notice Ghost staring at him.

Or maybe he didn’t want to, like a fearful puppy he kept looking away, scared he’d lose the limited attention and be left alone.

It did things to Ghost, sent an awful shiver down his spine as he watched Soap pretend, pretend until all his fantasies intertwined into delusion, it was the kind of shiver that almost drew our lines of bile.

“Soap.”

The lieutenant finally called, his voice gruff and unwavering, though to be fair he didn’t know what he was calling the sergeant for.

In fact the last thing he remembered was his chapped lips pursed up together and his eyes wandering down south. He wasn’t thinking to speak, wasn’t planning it, but maybe those pathetic baby blues did something to his cognitive strength, his mental endurance.

“Don’t drink yourself a fool.”