mikhailwrites - Tumblr blog

mikhailwrites · 2 months

Text

Soaring Ever Higher 5 - Ghoap/Ace Combat 7 crossover

Previous chapter | This Chapter on AO3

Maybe you should manage your expectations befor the one-night stand? Yeah... someone should probably tell Ghost...

AN: I've put together a companion post with some explanations and whatnot so if you're getting a little lost, you can give it a shot, might help you.

They lay in bed, side by side. For a long moment, they don’t speak. Then Ghost asks what he considers an easy question. “So, what’s with those three strikes on your plane’s tail?”

“What’s with the skull mask?” John retaliates. Apparently, Ghost’s question was much less innocent than he thought. Fair enough.

“Touché,” Ghost smiles without elaborating further. However, he does change the topic. “How about your jet? You said you rescued that thing. Why?”

“Actually… I needed it. I had a mission that required stealth beyond the usual means. Americans were willing to lend us a Raptor, but it didn’t cut it, especially since I also required something faster, with greater range but capable of carrying heavy payload. The YF-23 was the only thing in existence that fit the bill.”

“The hell did you do?” Ghost turns his head, clearly interested.

“Classified,” Trigger shrugs, then gives a sly grin and elaborates a little, “but it included a submarine.”

“Wait a second… you’re… not serious. That was you? The madman that sank the nuclear sub with a jet? Singlehandedly prevented another World War?” Simon’s brown eyes are wide as he stares at John. Shit, he had no idea.

“I can’t neither confirm nor deny…,” John’s smile is confirmation enough.

“Alright, you needed that thing then. How about now? Is it even safe to fly it?” he did hear the mechanic back on the base. Now, Ghost might not be all that knowledgeable about fighter jets, but he does have some experience with using prototypes. They’re very rarely reliable.

“It can be… challenging. It’s still a prototype, it has its issues, and the maintenance costs a fortune, especially since there’s only a handful of engineers familiar with it. Still, I happen to have the best engineer on the base,” Trigger confirms much of what Ghost suspected.

“Right. Well,” Simon gets up and starts to gather his clothes, “be careful out there. Would be a shame to lose you.”

“Shame for RAF or yourself?” Trigger smirks, stretching on the bed, and displaying all that impressive physique.

Ghost smiles as he shakes his head. “Why not both?”

“Where are you going, anyway? Have somewhere better to be?” John frowns as he watches Ghost dress.

“Look, this has been nice and everything, but I know how it goes. Don’t wanna wait around for things to get awkward,” Ghost says casually, putting his boxer briefs and socks on.

John looks at him momentarily like he’s some puzzle waiting to be figured out. Then, snorts in barely contained amusement. “We’ve seen each other naked; I think we’re way past the awkward point, Simon. Stay if you want to. Or I can go if you want to spend the night since you paid for the room.”

“You okay with me staying?” Simon cocks his eyebrow, pausing with a tee in hand.

“Nah, I’m just the sort of lad that does things he’s uncomfortable with. Get back here, you English cunt,” he outstretches both his arms in open invitation.

Ghost looks at him with feigned offence, but he climbs back onto the bed and pretty much tackles MacTavish with his sheer bulk.

They stay the night. Curled around each other, shagging once more in the wee hours of the morning. It’s a slower and gentler affair the second time around, and the touches and kisses afterwards make something in Simon’s chest resonate in a manner that has him concerned. He doesn’t panic; such a thing was trained out of him. Instead, he pauses his thoughts and inspects the feeling and the whole situation. It doesn’t look too good.

He doesn’t really know Trigger; what he does know damn well is that he cannot form this sort of attachment. Especially since they’re both military, most especially after one bloody night together, that would be just stupid. So, Ghost doesn’t. He acknowledges the feeling before he wills it away. His mind is clear and focused as he falls asleep again, with John’s arms around him, his hot breath on his neck, and the faintest smell of campfire and cologne that’s too nice for men like them hanging in the air.

Trigger returns to the base and earns some wolf whistles as he walks on the tarmac. He’s got a reputation and staying in the city overnight means he scored some. Which, to be fair, he did, it’s just that the lads haven’t got the faintest idea.

John walks into the hangar, not in the least surprised that the lights are already on and there’s a clicking and clanging of a mechanic doing their job.

“Did you even sleep?” Trigger asks when she puts away the welding gun. He recognises the part she’s working on: it’s a wing flap.

Avril straightens where she stands, taking him in. “Sure, but I like to start early, you know that. All the tools are still in place, so I can pick and choose. But… I get a feeling I should be asking you the same. Are you gonna enlighten me? Who is he?”

Trigger is suddenly very occupied with checking the non-existent scratch on the stealth coating. “Who is who?” he feigns ignorance.

“Oh don’t play dumb with me! Who’s Mr. Six-foot-two?”

“Just an acquaintance, we met briefly on the last mission. I helped him out, he promised to buy me a drink as a thanks, so he did,” John shrugs.

“Well, seems like that’s what he did... thanked you. Properly, not just with a drink,” she chuckles and dodges a dirty rag Trigger tosses at her.

“Christ, what’re ye, twelve?” John shakes his head and fastens a bolt that really doesn’t need it.

“Look me in the eye, John MacTavish, and tell me you did not, in fact, fucked him. Then I’ll rest my case,” Avril puts her hands on her hips and looks at him expectantly.

“Och what are ye on aboot? Cannae the lad go for a drink?”

“Did you, or did you not?”

“Well..,” he pauses. It’s not worth lying to his friend. “Kinda.”

“What? What do you mean, you muppet? Kinda?”

“We... och hell’s bells... we... aye, we did.”

Avril’s face blooms into a shit-eating grin. “I knew it! Damn, he looked like a good lay. You gonna see him again?”

“I dinnae ken, maybe? He’s SAS, not exactly an everyday occurrence his sort working with us.”

Avril whistles. “SAS? Damn, so... was he a good lay?” she nags at him, all smiles and winks.

“Yer not gonna leave it, will ye? Okay, fine. Aye, he was good. Better than, actually. Happy?” John rolls his eyes, feeling the slight heat as blush creeps on his face.

“Yeah, I’m happy now. And you’re, too, that’s what I like to see. Does the SAS man have a name?”

“He does, but... I can’t tell you, it’s not common knowledge. But his callsign is Ghost, and aye, I’m serious. Couldnae make that shit up if I tried.”

Avril looks at the landing gear cover, at the Gray Ghost. “Funny,” she says, but the tone of her voice is thoughtful when she returns back to her work. “Got a feeling it wasn’t just a one-night stand.”

Trigger doesn’t deign that with an answer. But truth be told, he has the same feeling.

#call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghoap #ghost mw2 #soap mw2

20 notes · View notes

mikhailwrites · 2 months

Text

Soaring Ever Higher - companion post

Hello!

I've decided to write this post detailing my motivations and explaining the realities of my fanfic crossover between Modern Warfare reboot and Ace Combat 7.

Do you need to read this in order to enjoy the story? No. Are you going to have better idea of what's going on and who's who (including Soap's new callsign being Trigger) if you do? Yes! And for those of you not familiar with AC, it might be a reason to play it, and I'll be very happy if you do, because it's a great game.

So, without further ado, let's get to it!

Jets are cool!

Let's start with obvious. Jets are cool. As-in, "one of the pinnacles of human ingenuity combined with unique and often genuinelly pleasing aestethics" cool.

There's also prestige and, obviously, a huge popculture cult surrounding Top Gun and being a fighter pilot. The fact that I've loved planes since I was a kid also played a role.

Soap or Trigger?

Trigger is a silent, faceless protagonist of Ace Combat 7. Now when I say he's silent and faceless, that doesn't mean he doesn't have a personality. This is mostly conveyed through the other characters (with the most prominent being his wingman Count and a mechanic Avril) that either talk to him or about him.

Trigger is an outstanding pilot, an ace, he's a daredevil but also has a strong moral compass. He owns his mistakes and does what is right. Since he's a fighter pilot, he's also very independent and can sometimes come off as defying.

Long story short, I think he has a lot in common with Soap. But since there's virtually no information about Trigger, it made most sense to me to create a crossover where Soap would take on that role.

That's how John "Trigger" MacTavish came to be. The "three strikes" on the tail of Trigger's jet, that's also AC thing but I will address that in the story, so... no spoilers.

So I basically took Soap off of 141 and made him the AC Trigger, including characters from AC that are now part of RAF, as is Soap. The rest of 141 stayed the same, but they are one Sergeant short. If only there was a character from OG MW that Activision deleted from the reboot, huh...

MW vs Ace Combat

There's a lot that MW and Ace Combat share, too. Of course, both deal with military themes, even though Ace Combat takes place in an alternate universe called Strangereal. Countries on Strangereal Earth are fictional but they are historically and politically mashed up from our reality. The jets, however, are 100 % licensed "real deal" stuff.

The similarities don't end with military themes. Most notable is an anti-war message. That is not really that strong in rebooted MW, but in OG, it was pretty clear. Ace Combat is very, very vocal about it's anti-war sentiments. While Ace Combat adores the "warmachines" it condemns their purpose. Think of Gundam or Metal Gear.

Ace Combat tells the story of war and combat through the eyes of individuals affected by it. Soldiers and civilians alike. That is a little bit closer to the rebooted MW that focuses on the individual characters way more than OG used to do.

So, all in all, both games give me kinda similar vibes of "it's cool to play soldiers and acknowledge the heroism of people fighting for peace and freedom, but killing is still wrong and war is in itself a crime against humanity".

And... that's it. Thank you for reading and if you're videogame music nerd, absolutely go dig that Ace Combat soundtracks (at least all the way to Agnus Dei from AC4) because that stuff is really good.

youtube

#call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghost mw2 #ghoap #soap mw2 #ace combat #ace combat 7

20 notes · View notes

mikhailwrites · 2 months

Text

Soaring Ever Higher 4 - Ghoap/Ace Combat 7 crossover

Previous chapter | This Chapter on AO3 | Next chapter

And so, Ghost finally has a chance to make good on his promise... with some interest...

Be advised that this chapter is pretty spicy so if you mind or are a minor, I trust you'll stop reading at # symbol :)

The bar is nice and surprisingly classy, considering the city is on the smaller side. The music isn’t too loud or obnoxious; the overall noise is also bearable. Ghost lets himself enjoy it.

“What can I get you, lads?” the bartender flashes them a broad smile, not even batting an eye at Ghost’s scarred face, which is to his credit.

Trigger also doesn’t seem to mind. Once Ghost took the balaclava off, the bloke did pause on his face, but there was nothing to suggest what he thought of the map of scars. After a few seconds, he nodded and smiled as he held the door open for Ghost.

“Bourbon for me,” Ghost points at the bottle of Woodford Reserve on the shelf. The bartender nods and looks expectantly at Trigger, who seems to be scanning the shelves for something specific.

John shakes his head in mock disbelief. “And here I thought you were a cultured man,” then he turns back to the bartender, “Do you have Lagavulin 16?”

The bartender thinks for a second. “I think so, but let me check; we keep the better stuff in the back.”

Ghost chuckles. “What can I say? I’m drinking Yank stuff with a bloke flying a Yank plane. If you were a patriot, you’d be flying Typhoon like the rest of the base.”

“Somebody knows their jets,” Trigger whistles. “But last time I checked, Typhoon ain’t Scottish-made.”

Their exchange is interrupted by the return of the bartender with two glasses. Ghost says he’ll be paying for both. The price doesn’t really surprise him. “Are you getting the good stuff at my expense?” The money is no issue. He’s just interested in the reaction.

“Why, of course,” Trigger smirks, “it’s not every day I get a free drink.” He raises his glass, “Slàinte mhath.”

“Cheers,” Ghost answers the toast with his glass, sipping the bourbon, sighing in content as it slips down his throat, warming him inside out. “You think I believe you? With the free drinks? Or do you want me to feel special?”

“Right down to the business, aren’t you?” the corners of his mouth twitch. “The thing is, I don’t leave the base often. Don’t have much business outside.”

“And for pleasure?” Ghost watches him intently, noticing a minuscule twitch in John’s left hand, the way his tongue darts to wet his lips. He’s either nervous or pretends to be. Both options are intriguing, if for slightly different reasons.

“That’s complicated,” he lowers his gaze. Now that’s a good tell that he’s just pretending and luring Ghost, tickling the hunter in him by playing a helpless prey.

“It’s really not. When you boil it down, it’s always about pushing, shoving, and exchanging bodily fluids. Nothing complicated about that,” Ghost presses, shifting a little closer and putting his hand on John’s knee.

“Yer not a wooing and romance kind of lad, are ye?” Trigger takes his glass and drinks a bit more of his whisky. The smell of smoke, disinfectant and burnt tyres tickles Ghost’s nose. Christ, he could never stomach peated scotch, but the scent becomes John. It may very well be how he smells when he climbs out of his plane after a mission.

“Is that a problem?” Ghost asks with fake concern, tasting the bourbon once more.

“Didnae say that,” Trigger shakes his head, resting his hand atop Ghost’s. That’s the only permission Simon needs.

He leans closer as he speaks quietly, right into John’s ear. “I want to bend you over the counter and shag you like there’s no tomorrow."

“Damn, not even a second drink? You think I’m that cheap?” Trigger grins, and it’s all teeth and intent.

“Not cheap. I think you know what you want and usually get it. Am I close?” Ghost leans even closer. If he tried a little, his lips could brush the trimmed beard. He notices a pleasant whiff of cologne as well.

“Close enough,” Trigger admits, wiggling a little in a movement intimately familiar to anyone ever sported a stiffer in public space.

“Base or hotel?” Ghost asks, momentarily turning his attention back to the drink. There’s still about half of it left.

John understands and promptly finishes his glass before answering. “Hotel, but we need to do some shopping first.”

“Obviously,” Ghost agrees, tipping the glass back and setting it on the counter.

The moment the door of the small hotel room closes behind them, they’re on each other. John’s fingers tangle in Simon’s blonde hair where it’s long enough on top of his head, nails scraping the scalp. Simon’s lips smash against John’s; tongue, teeth, doesn’t matter. First, Simon presses John against the wall. Then the other man, despite being shorter, retaliates and shoves Ghost back, pinning him to the opposing wall and wedging his knee between Simon’s legs and up until Ghost grunts in both impatience and anticipation.

Trigger’s hands leave Simon’s head and immediately sneak under his tee, feeling him up, kneading at the hard plains of muscles.

“Fuck I love how you’re built,” John gasps between harsh breaths, tucking the tee up, uncovering inch after inch of scarred, pale flesh.

Simon grabs him by the mohawk and forces him to expose his neck. With no hesitation, he licks it with a long, broad and wet stroke before sinking his teeth in. John yelps above him, digging his fingernails into Ghost’s sides with enough strength for it to hurt.

Trigger’s pelvis also moves in a fluid, steady motion, hard-on on hard-on. It’s wild and heavenly, free of any and all troubles. Just like Ghost said back in the bar, when it comes down to it, sex is a rather uncomplicated endeavour.

Somehow, they manage to get mostly undressed and on the actual bed. Simon lies on his back with John braced above him, only heading in the opposite direction. They suck each other’s cock in a perfectly balanced ratio of giving and taking. Well, it’s a little more taking on John’s part once he finds out he can actually fuck Simon’s throat and does so with relentless vigour. Simon, however, uses the situation to his advantage, blindly grabs a bottle of lube and, without John noticing, squeezes some on his fingers before he presses them against his hole. Two at first, and he’s about as gentle about it as Trigger’s cockhead is to his throat.

John gasps and groans at the intrusion, but Ghost sucking him feels too good for him to withdraw. He takes those fingers just like he takes Simon’s prick, at least what he can actually fit into his mouth.

Soon enough, the stretch starts to feel good, and he moves back further to have more. He’s close and feels the orgasm building between his prick and his balls. He lets the cock fall from his mouth to slobber nearly unintelligible “’M close.”

Simon grabs his ass and helps him thrust deeper. He’ll have an even raspier voice for days; he knows it, yet doesn’t care. His airways are momentarily blocked, but he expected it. John grunts and then changes the rhythm to senseless rutting as he nears his peak. Simon adds another two fingers and wedges them in by force, knowing the pleasure and the tension of impending orgasm will numb the pain, morphing it into something else entirely.

John cries out, his voice breaking, and he thrusts one last time as he comes down Ghost’s throat in powerful pulses.

Simon barely lets him have a few seconds before manhandling him, throwing him off of himself and onto the mattress face-down. Once more, he reaches for the lube, slicks his prick and slides into John’s now pliant and lubed-up hole. John moans, hypersensitive and surprised, but he doesn’t move.

“Fuck yes,” Simon growls as he starts thrusting. Fast and deep, he’s way past caring. Bracing himself on John’s shoulder blades, he enjoys the hard body beneath all the more as he knows the other man could stand his ground easily. He could fight Ghost if he wanted to, and even though he wouldn’t probably win, it would be a good fight. And he shags him like that, too. With none of the gentleness and all of the respect.

John grunts and huffs beneath him, the discomfort clear in his voice, but eventually, he starts jerking his hips to meet Simon’s thrusts. His back glistens with sweat, scars starkly pale on the tanned skin. Ghost leans down and tastes the salt and musk—breathes Trigger in as he regains his focus and slows the thrusts to savour this.

Simon drags his fingers through the mohawk, grabbing a fistful of hair barely long enough to get a hold of. He lifts John’s head from the bed and motivates him with a firm tug to look over his shoulder. John’s face is flushed, his lips slick with saliva, his eyes searing despite their colour.

“That all ye’ve got, Si?” Trigger taunts, smirking. His brow furrows, and his mouth forms a pretty “O” when Ghost answers the challenge with a backstab of the pleasurable kind.

Simon can feel the tension inside him rising. The fast, punishing pace he’s set does nothing to stave it off, and he doesn’t even try to fight it. His breath is ragged and Simon groans every time he bottom out. So close…

And then it’s here, rolling over him, dragging him under as his whole body locks for a moment before the muscles seize and his heartbeat thunders in his ears. Simon collapses on top of John. It’s bloody uncomfortable, all hard muscles and hot, sweaty skin, but he barely even registers any of it.

In about ten seconds, his brain reboots, yet he still doesn’t move. Instead, he nuzzles against short hair and the mohawk. Trigger sighs; it sounds content and peaceful, so Simon continues rubbing his stubbly cheek against the trimmed hair.

“Yer a good weighted blanket, Simon,” the Scot says quietly, but there’s mirth in his voice—an almost fond edge.

Ghost hums. He wouldn’t mind staying like this longer, but the discomfort is only worsening. Eventually, Simon rolls off of John, but seeing as the other man didn’t complain so far, he grabs him and squeezes him in a firm hug. He basks in the closeness as he buries his face in the nape of John’s neck.

“Not that I’m complaining, but I haven’t pegged you for a cuddler… ‘s nice surprise,” Trigger speaks again, squeezing Simon’s hands where they hold onto him and presses even further into him.

They drift off like that, because shower can wait, and they wouldn’t be in the military if they couldn’t stand being occasionally gross and disgusting.

I have way too many screenshots, here, have some Eurofighter Typhoon.

#I so enjoy their dynamic #Johnny playing coy is mood #Simon Riley - the weighted blanket #call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghoap #ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #ace combat #ace combat 7

27 notes · View notes

mikhailwrites · 2 months

Text

I can absolutely sign everything that's been said above but I also want to add a more personal perspective as an author.

I put my stuff online because I want to share it. Do I write solely to get likes and comments? No. But if I wrote solely for my own pleasure, why would I bother with formatting it and putting it online? Why would I bother with summaries and tags and little tidbits I share along with the fics?

Every time I get an email notification about new comment, I'm so excited! Of course I absolutely adore readers who write me damn essays, but even something as little as posting a heart emoji makes me smile. Really. Truly. Sometimes a nice comment can make my whole day so much better, sometimes, I'm so happy I read the comment out loud to my husband. Sometimes, when I feel down, I re-read the old comments.

And as a bonus for readers, it also motivates the hell out of me! I have a fulltime job, I have a crapload of heavy adulting stuff going on, but you know what? Knowing that someone genuinely enjoys my stories makes me wanna drop everything and just write, because knowing I might brighten someone's day is a very powerfull feeling and it makes me happy.

Is the lack of comments and reblogs going to discourage me from writing? Hell no. But I'll most likely write a lot less if it seems like I'm only doing it for myself.

No one reblogs on tumblr anymore.

No one leaves comments on Ao3 anymore.

Seriously people the lack of fandom interaction these days makes me genuinely depressed, it never used to be like this, makes me wonder what's the point of coming online to do anything anymore.

Reblog a post so other people can see it.

Leave a comment so the author doesn't feel like giving up.

Fandom cannot live on Likes or Kudos alone.

#Let the authors hear you!#Don't be shy and comment!

19K notes · View notes

mikhailwrites · 2 months

Text

Soaring Ever Higher 3 - Ghoap/Ace Combat 7 crossover

Previous chapter | This Chapter on AO3 | Next chapter

Ghost still owes Trigger that drink. However, it's not so easy for RAF and SAS soldiers to meet by chance. Or is it?

Two months after returning from Colombia, Ghost finds himself in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in Scotland, to supervise part of the SAS selection in the Highlands. He actually volunteered because it’s been either that or R&R, and he hates the leave much more than dealing with recruits.

The weather is British or, well, Scottish, he supposes. Heavy clouds hang low, crying rivers over several dozens of trekking soldiers. Ghost doesn’t particularly mind; he would take rain and cold over humid heat any day. He’s on the tail of the group. He is casually noting who’s lagging behind, who’s breathless or sweating more than they should. For once, his mind takes a break, and he can take in the scenery. Harsh rocky terrain, hillsides covered in lush green grass and hardy shrubs. Ghost stops for a minute to take a few deep breaths, to taste the rain and the air. Momentarily, he looks back, just in time to spot… something flying in the distance. A bird, eagle, perhaps. But then it gets bigger and bigger, closing in fast. Soon, it’s clear that that’s no bird, or at least not one made of feathers and flesh. It’s a… jet? Every fibre in Ghost’s body tenses and senses focus on discerning if it’s friend or foe. It doesn’t make sense for it to be an enemy this far inland. How would they get here? And why? The jet closes in, rolling between the hills at high speed, manoeuvring with practised and deadly efficiency. Ghost realises the jet is flying even lower than he first thought. He can hear the aircraft now, too. The sharp, powerful whine will morph into a thundering roar once the jet passes.

As it closes in, Ghost frowns. That’s not the Typhoon. Nor the Lightning II. It’s bigger, sleeker, and weirder. And it’s dark, almost black. With three white strikes and claws painted on the tail fin. No way. Ghost’s breath hitches as the jet passes him. One person is sitting in the cockpit, and Ghost is pretty sure he knows them.

What are the bloody odds?

Later that day, when they return, and most of the people in selection end up immediately in their bed, he goes to the canteen, hoping to catch some locals there. He’s in luck; there’s an SAS sergeant currently engaged in a lively chat so that Ghost can pick up her Scottish accent. He gets a tea and waits patiently until she disengages.

He asks about the RAF bases around and is given a name: Lossiemouth Airbase. Apparently, the gal has some friends and even family there. Military runs in their blood or something. Ghost tries his best to be tactical and friendly at the same time, and he suspects he fails horribly in the friendliness department. It’s not that he’s a bastard or cold; no matter what people say, he’s just… not as good with words as he is with actions. It’s simple, really.

“You interested in a tour?” the Sergeant asks him with an easy smile, “I’m sure I could arrange something.”

“I’d like to meet someone stationed there,” Ghost admits.

“Right! Well, you should be able to get inside with your military ID. If yer lucky, you could even catch someone driving there who could take ye,” she shrugs and smiles, unperturbed by Ghost’s presence. It’s refreshing, but it makes sense; all sort of people try their luck in the selection; she must’ve seen weirder stuff than tall, broad and brooding Ghost.

He gets a couple of days off at the end of the selection. The last part are interrogations and he doesn’t need, nor does he want to be present for that. Instead, he hitches a ride to Lossiemouth.

His military ID gets him through the security checkpoint without any issues, just like the Sergeant said it would. After that, he’s a little lost. The base is big. It's not the biggest he’s been to, but it's big enough to warrant asking for directions. He also feels different. RAF is its own thing, with its own language and culture. Even though he only wears a plain black balaclava, he gets a lot of lingering stares. In the end, he chooses his victim: a wide-eyed young man.

He asks for the Strider squadron and then, specifically, for Trigger. The man, a Lance Corporal by the insignia on his shoulder, looks up at Ghost with poorly disguised surprise. “You a friend of Trigger’s?” he asks, searching Ghost’s plain attire for any indication of rank. He has a feeling he should be addressing the man as “sir”, but there’s no proof.

“Something like that,” Ghost answers without really answering, and he doesn’t clarify on his own rank, either. These are not his men, his people; why should he care?

RAF bloke nods and points to one of the large hangs further away. Ghost thanks for the help and goes on about his business.

The day is pleasant, with clear skies and sun that’s not too hot. It's a true rarity around here. As he nears the hangar, he notices the gate is open and, sure enough, there’s Trigger’s aircraft. Ghost strides across the tarmac, eyes set on his target. A shadow passes over him, and he pays it no mind. But then he’s startled by a deafening roar. He looks up, but the plane is long gone. Bloody madmen, these fighter pilots.

The path before him is clear, so he continues, noticing four Typhoons taxying on the runway. Nearing the hangar, he notices two people there. One is Trigger; his mohawk is easily recognisable. The other is a young woman with short, dark hair, clad in a grey overall and tinkering with something on the workbench.

Ghost comes nearer, stopping right at the entrance.

“Take a look at the starboard tail; it’s been acting up again,” John tells the engineer, motioning with his hands to illustrate the issue better. “I got a feeling it’s gonna jam one of these days. Maybe the frost issue, again?”

The engineer nods, scratching at her neck. “Listen, John, I know you love her. Believe me, I do, but it may be time to let her go. The tail, the flaps, the outer cockpit glass crack... I could go on. These issues? They’ve been stacking up lately. She will let you down one day, and I won’t be up there with you to fix ‘er up.”

“I ken,” Trigger sighs, brushing his fingertips over the edge of the wing; his voice is wistful. “I ken, Avril. But what am I gonna do?”

She cleans her oil and lubricant-stained hands and tosses the rag on the workbench nearby. “Fly something else, of course. The craft doesn’t define you. Do you think the brass doesn’t like you enough to get you the Lightning? Plenty of those down at Marham base. Or, hell, maybe some hush-hush deal to get a Raptor loaned?”

“I dinnae ken,” John shrugs, “that thing in Colombia is gonna stink for a while longer. Just… look at the tail for now. Please.”

“I’ll do the thorough maintenance, like I always do, love. Don’t worry. I’ll get the old Gray Ghost here all patched up and air-worthy,” the Scrap Queen smiles. “Just don’t go feeling sorry for saving someone’s life. You’re a good lad, John; don’t let the brass scream it out of you.”

“Thanks, Av, wouldnae still be here if not for ye.”

“That’s for damn sure,” she laughs as she picks up the toolbox and stepladder and goes around the plane. That’s when she notices Ghost, still standing by the entrance.

“Uh, John… you’ve got a visitor,” she calls out.

Trigger walks up from behind the jet with a mildly confused look. The frown deepens momentarily as he takes in the visitor in question. “Ghost? How did you... what are you doing here?”

Avril eyes him with sudden recognition; there’s a subtle smile on her lips as she pretends to focus on the machine.

“I was nearby, and I still owe you that drink,” Ghost goes straight to the point. No greeting, no explanation. Simply stating the facts.

John visibly relaxes and chuckles. “That you do, but considering I stood you up, I guess we are even.”

“Duty called. Nothing you could do,” Simon shrugs. “So, I still owe you a drink.”

“Well, who am I to say no if you insist?” John inclines his head, blue eyes twinkling with mirth.

“I insist,” Ghost nods before he changes the topic. “I overheard her, something about old Ghost?” Ghost lowers his voice. He’s still unsure if he should feel offended or not. He’s not that old, after all.

Trigger takes a few seconds to connect the dots and then starts laughing. A bright, hearty laugh that causes Ghost to smile in return. Not that anyone could see it under the balaclava. “Come ‘ere,” Trigger leads him around the plane until he stops and points at something under the fuselage. Ghost looks, unsure what he should see there. Then he understands. Behind the front landing gear, on the cover that is now open, is writing in thick black lettering: Gray Ghost. “It’s her name. And thank you for spoiling that, by the way. I was saving that piece of trivia for when we’re at least the second, possibly even third, drink in.”

Ghost’s mind is reeling both because of the explanation and implication. “So... that Ghost saved this Ghost’s arse, eh? What are the odds?” Ghost shakes his head in amusement.

“Not massive, I reckon, but it is funny,” John agrees, then, suddenly, his smile freezes, “or... it’s fate,” he says in a low voice, almost whispering. The sparks in his eyes are proof enough that he’s only joking.

“Yeah, I guess as far as destiny is concerned, I could’ve ended up worse than a destined love made of steel and having some wicked angles and curves,” Ghost snorts, placing a palm on the nose. The metal is warm as the sun shines through the open gate. “I wonder where the ring goes.”

Trigger laughs, then feigns offence. “Oi! This lass is already taken! And you don’t have what it takes to be with her, anyway.”

“Oh, and what is that? Lack of common sense and self-preservation?” Ghost mocks him lightheartedly.

“Exactly! Anyway, I still have some stuff to finish here, so how about you walk around, see our lovely home, and I’ll meet you here at…” he looks at the wristwatch, “five?”

Ghost agrees and goes on to explore the base as suggested. He truly hopes they will get to enjoy that drink this time—that, and maybe something more.

Some useless trivia for you:

Soap, or, rather, Trigger, in this case, is flying Northrop YF-23. Two prototypes were made in the late 80's/early 90's to go toe to toe with (Y)F-22, one of them was painted charcoal grey and named Gray Ghost. And yes, that is one (but not the sole) reason why I decided he will be flying this cool af, weird-ass thing.

#Johnny is sentimental about his jet #of course he is #And Johnny and Avril are terrific friends #call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghoap #ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #ace combat #ace combat 7

35 notes · View notes

mikhailwrites · 2 months

Text

Waiting for Connection 15 / Ghost x Soap

Ghost is retired and plays milsim videogame. Soap is still in the force and sometimes plays that same videogame...

AN: It's a short chapter, but... just think of the exciting things to come from this!

Previous chapter | AO3

Ghost was right, of course. When they do the rematch, he gets his ass handed to him. First, Alejandro and Rudy flush him out of his hiding spot with outstanding teamwork. They don’t discover him, but it’s a close call. While relocating, Ghost runs into Roach, who’s been waiting and ready, and there’s nothing close about that encounter. It’s a quick and clean vendetta.

All the while, Soap takes out some AI enemies and gets to the holding cells. By the time Roach is putting a bullet into Ghost, John is well on his way to the RV. It wasn’t entirely fair since it’s been basically four-to-one, but Ghost did his best to make it harder. The truth is, he’s not sure he would be able to win this round even with Gaz, so it’s a well-deserved victory.

Just like the last time, they reunite after the match, and predictably, the mood is much lighter. There’s not much for Ghost to comment on as to future improvements; they really did well this time. Apparently the most challenging part was to get the AI-controlled VIPs to RV since they sometimes got stuck or the follow command stopped working.

“I swear I almost wanted to shoot them myself,” Soap says as he tells them of his little jungle adventure.

“Then the mission would fail. In any case, it couldn’t have been worse than escorting civilians for real,” Ghost replies, earning a hum of agreement from Alejandro. It seems he’s had his fair share of experience. Not that it surprises Ghost. He might not know what Alejandro did prior to joining the task force, but that doesn’t mean Ghost doesn’t have at least some idea. The man is clearly skilled, well-trained and experienced, and that, paired with the accent and some off-handed mentions here and there, paints an interesting picture. Special forces, most likely, and from that part of the world? That says a lot. Ghost had some joint operations in South and Central America. In Mexico, too, of course, but he would rather not go down that particular memory lane. In any case, he always respected his counterparts.

They talk about the mission a little longer before Rudy changes the topic. “I was thinking… It’s my birthday next month, and we wanted to hit the pub and have a few drinks. Wanna join us, Ghost?”

Simon sits back in his chair, thinking hard. He appreciates the offer. It’s just that it sounds like a lot of people at once.

“Come on, Ghost, last time I went to visit you, it’s time you returned the favour!” Soap joins in with a very low-blow argument. Technically speaking, it was John’s idea to visit him in the first place, but Simon happily agreed.

“I… I’ll think about it,” Ghost relents eventually because he has to give them some answer. It’s noncommittal; he can always refuse later.

“Great, we’ll hold a spot for you in any case. Just let me know if you want me to arrange a room on the base for you, it shouldn’t be a problem, but I’ll need a little heads-up,” Soap's voice betrays a smile. He wants Ghost to come, and Simon would be lying if he said he didn’t want to see him again.

They say their goodbyes and good nights, Simon takes off the headset and sighs. Sergeant appears out of nowhere, jumping onto his lap with an inquisitive meow. Simon scratches the cat on the neck, letting it sit. “What do you think, should I go?”

Stripey starts to purr, closing the big green eyes as his human continues with scratching.

“Some help you are,” Simon inclines his head but smiles softly at the creature. He should really start thinking about what he’s hoping to achieve with all of this.

#Simon Riley - master of rhetorical questions #call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghoap #ghost mw2 #soap mw2

55 notes · View notes

mikhailwrites · 2 months

Text

Soaring Ever Higher 2 - Ghoap/Ace Combat 7 crossover

Previous chapter | This Chapter on AO3 | Next chapter

Ghost met John "Trigger" MacTavish and after the pilot saved his life - at cost of disobeying a direct order - asked him out for a drink. However, Trigger stood him up...

John is on his way to change from his flight suit to something considerably nicer. Well, maybe not all that much nicer since he wasn’t exactly planning on going out during this deployment, let alone going out with someone. Still, a tan tee and black cargo trousers could be considered an improvement.

Just as he’s nearing the door to his room, someone is standing in front of them, hand raised to knock. Trigger makes another two steps before he pauses. He’d recognise the unruly mop of dirty-blonde hair anywhere. “Count?” he calls out his wingman, who turns around quickly.

“Ah, there you are! Come on, the boss needs you,” Count gestures. Trigger stops. No way. Do they really have to do this right now?

“Can’t he wait at least till tomorrow? He can chew me out then,” John shrugs, resuming his walk towards his room.

However, Count shakes his head. “It’s not about your stunt today, I think. There’s another mission, an urgent one,” he explains. “So, come on. It’s not like you have somewhere better to be.”

He does, actually, but doesn’t say it out loud. If Count knew about his plans, Trigger wouldn’t hear the end of it. “Aye, okay, lead the way.”

True to Count’s words, Long Caster is already in the briefing room, going over maps and documents. The moment Trigger and his wingman come through the door, their commanding officer looks up, eyes locking on John.

“Good thing you haven’t changed yet. You’re about to go out again. The station personnel is refuelling your aircraft as we speak.”

“What’s so damn urgent then?” Trigger barely hides his displeasure as he walks around to the table and looks at the mission intel.

Long Caster also turns to the table and pulls out a topographic map of the nearby mountain range. “We need you to do a recon sweep.”

John gives him a long, hard look as if to ascertain if he’s serious or not. “Excuse me? A recon sweep? Don’t we have drones for that?”

“We do. That, and insubordinate, obstinate SoBs that treat commands as if they were mere suggestions. Get ready. You leave in ten,” Long Caster nods at the fellow pilot. When Trigger doesn’t move an inch, he adds: “Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir,” Trigger grunts and leaves.

Count looks at the back of his friend and wingman before he turns to Long Caster. “With all due respect, sir, was that really necessary?”

“I don’t need you questioning my orders, Count. However, if you insist, I’m sure we can arrange some rewarding mission for you as well,” his superior cocks an eyebrow in obvious challenge.

“I think I’ll pass. Permission to leave?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you were never here,” Long Caster nods to the still-open door and Count excuses himself.

The flight path is long and utterly boring. Trigger has to fly low and slow for the radar and lidar to catch everything he needs. He’s bored. His jet is bored, too. It’s just a sea of green, stretching in all directions, and, even worse, the sky is still overcast, so it’s just the green below and dull grey above.

He returns after the nightfall. Taking off the helmet, the sweat-drenched mohawk sticks to his head. Trigger only exchanges a few pleasantries with the staff and engineers before retreating to his quarters to shower.

Only then, under the spray of lukewarm water to cool himself down, does he remember he was supposed to meet with Ghost and practically stood the man up. Great way to fuck up a promising start they had. John shortly debates if he should go to Ghost’s quarters and explain to him what happened.

No. It sounds like bullshit, and he’s way too beat to go anywhere, anyway. Even more so since the Strider squadron’s mission has been completed, and they will be returning to their home base tomorrow. Another long, boring flight. At least he will have his mates to chat with.

Ghost finds Laswell first thing in the morning. He’s not angry, and he’s willing to give Trigger the benefit of the doubt. Ghost knows better than most how quickly downtime can turn into active duty, especially for top operatives such as himself or Trigger.

Laswell is fully immersed in the display of her laptop. Ghost knocks on the open door and is given a lifted index finger – a universal symbol to wait, and that’s what he does. Full five minutes, actually. Only then does Laswell click a few times and finally nods at Ghost to come in. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Do you know where Trigger is?” Ghost’s voice is steady, as is the rest of him. To anyone else, it wouldn’t sound any different than asking what’s for lunch, but not to Laswell since it’s her job to notice even the most subtle changes and details. She’s also damn good at her job.

“Yesterday, Flight Lieutenant was needed elsewhere, in a rather urgent manner, I’m afraid,” she confirms Ghost’s unvoiced theory, “as of this morning, Strider squadron’s mission has concluded, and they returned to their home base”. By mentioning Trigger’s rank, she also lets Ghost know that MacTavish actually outranks him. Interesting, if not exactly surprising. It’s good that John didn’t intend to leave him hanging. However, Trigger is now, quite literally, in the wind. Who knows how long before they run into each other again? Ghost tries to convince himself that he mostly minds the debt; he’s promised John a drink. “I could get you his phone number if you want.”

“No need,” Ghost declines her offer and pointedly ignores the knowing look on her face. Laswell doesn’t need to know everything, let alone the degree of interest Ghost has in MacTavish.

Ghost walks out, stopping on the tarmac and looking up. There’s the vast expanse of clear blue sky. If he’s honest, he never paid too much attention to it. His fight is and has always been on the ground. Now, he can’t help but wonder: how does being up there feel? There is no ground to support you, no cover to help you, no nothing, just you, the mission, and almost endless space. There’s something freeing in the thought but, at the same time, anxiety-inducing. No, Ghost is very much ground-animal, thank you very much.

If he gets to talk to MacTavish again, he will ask him what he sees in the blue. What does he feel when the jet leaves the ground? What is he thinking about, up there, among birds and clouds? And what’s with those three strikes on the tail? With a newfound resolve, he changes the initial if to when. When he gets to talk to MacTavish again.

#call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghoap #ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #ace combat #ace combat 7

39 notes · View notes

mikhailwrites · 2 months

Text

THIS IS NOT A JUDGMENT.

It's just a hot-button issue within the fandom, and I'm just genuinely curious about the numbers. Please reblog for a bigger sample size! If you want to put your answer in the tags, feel free, but of course, you don't have to.

I wanted to ask more detailed questions about the games played, but I only had a limited amount of questions. I might make another poll about what games you play or what you play for. CoD Zombies fans, I see you, and I love you.

292 notes · View notes

mikhailwrites · 2 months

Text

the next time you hesitate to leave a comment on a fic remember that I go back and read all the comments I get on my fic whenever I'm feeling down and it makes me feel so much better

if you leave nice comments on ao3 i love you

15K notes · View notes

mikhailwrites · 2 months

Text

Soaring Ever Higher 1 - Ghoap/Ace Combat 7 crossover

Remember when I said it's gonna be a one shot? Yeah, me neither...

Ghost looks up, into the vast expanse of clear blue sky. To be honest, he never paid too much attention to it. His fight is and has always been on the ground. Now, he can’t help but wonder: how does being up there feel? There is no ground to support you, no cover to help you, no nothing, just you, the mission, and almost endless space. Is it freeing or terrifying? Maybe both? Maybe he will ask MacTavish, if they cross paths again...

This chapter on AO3 | Next chapter

„This is Bravo 0-7. I’m in position and ready,“ Ghost says into the com, crouching in the vegetation, trying his best to ignore a bead of sweat tracing his spine. Of all the places, the jungle is probably his least favourite. Everything around him slithers and crawls, the humid heat making him sweat gallons.

“Copy that, Bravo; ETA on Strider is T-minus seven minutes; be ready to paint the target,” Laswell informs him in her signature matter-of-fact manner.

Ghost takes the laser designator out of the backpack and mounts it on a tripod. The conditions are less than ideal; the sky is uniformly grey and overcast. It’ll be hard, if not impossible, for the laser to penetrate the clouds, and even then, there’s still a dense jungle that could thwart the attack. It’ll take a damn skilled pilot to make this work.

“Bravo 0-7, this is Strider 1 en route; how copy?” a new voice on the coms. Ghost’s eyebrow twitch in surprise as an unmistakable Scottish brogue greets him.

“Solid copy,” Ghost answers out of habit more than anything.

“Some taps-aff weather today, eh? I reckon I’ll be entering the OA in about three minutes.”

Sure enough, a few minutes later, a behemoth of a jet emerges from the clouds like a bloody reaper surfacing from the Styx. Ghost has never seen a plane like that before, all sharp angles and planes of dark grey stealth coating. It looks like something from a sci-fi movie. And right behind it comes the thundering sound, unable to quite catch up to the plane.

“Strider 1 entering OA. I’m getting a solid reading on the laser, moving up to drop the package. You might want to turn around, LT,” the pilot warns as the jet closes in on the target. The drop is flawless, and Ghost doesn’t turn away despite the advice. The jet thunders by, and a few seconds later, the whole enemy base goes up in an eruption of fire, debris and smoke. The explosion shatters the building and shakes the ground. Ghost is grateful for his protective headset because it most probably just saved his hearing.

“Bloody hell!” Ghost shields his eyes as the shock wave reaches him and, with it, the gust of dust and dirt. The worst of the dust settles in, the jet gone, up above the clouds once more, as if it was never here in the first place, a spectre of destruction. “Bravo 0-7, confirming a direct hit.”

“Happy to hear that. Strider, Bravo, you’re RTB. Get out of there before the enemy regroups,” Laswell instructs, just as Ghost is packing the designator and prepares to trek back through the jungle to the RV, where the helo will be waiting to pick him up.

No sooner than he starts to think the mission’s been a breeze, the bullets start flying. The base is destroyed, but apparently, what’s left of the enemy managed to regroup rather quickly. Ghost curses and immediately lifts his rifle as he scurries through the dense vegetation, hoping to lose the tail. There’s no telling how many are onto him, but it doesn’t matter; he’s alone, and that’s some crappy odds he doesn’t want to test.

“This is Bravo 0-7. I’m in a hotspot, multiple tangos on me,” he hurriedly explains his situation just as a bullet chips away at the tree not even a few feet from him. He has no choice but to throw himself on the ground to make himself the smallest target possible. “Fuck!”

“Break the contact and proceed to the RV!” Laswell urges him.

As much as he’d love to heed her words, he’s pinned down. “Negative, Watcher 1, I’m stuck!”

“I can turn around and make a sweep; he’s got the IR tag; I’ll see him and can provide support,” Strider cuts into the conversation.

“You’re RTB, Strider 1; do not stray from the course!” yet another voice, male, older. Perhaps Strider’s CO.

“I’m not leaving him there if I can help!” Strider 1 argues, sounding more irritated than agitated.

“That was a direct order, Strider. Return to base immediately! You are not armed for close air support!”

“I still have the 20mm; that’s more than enough! Re-entering OA in two minutes!”

Ghost doesn’t say anything, but he’s bloody grateful for Strider’s help, insubordination or not. Carefully, he turns and dusts one tango he has in his sights. There’s plenty more as another salvo of bullets flies over his head.

“ETA thirty seconds, Ghost; hang in there, soldier!” Strider says, sounding breathless.

“I’m going to have your ass for this, Trigger!” the man on comms shouts.

Ghost is almost tempted to say something at that point. Luckily, the grey war beast makes a hell of an entrance right then. Ghost’s only warning is a shout of “incoming!” as the fighter swoops in from the left and spreads some 20mm cheer across the jungle—the vegetation yields. The enemies do, too. The jet is gone, leaving an ungodly amount of devastation in its wake. Only to make a second pass from the right moments later. Strider had to pull off some serious high-G turn to be that fast.

It paid off, though. There’s not a single living thing near Ghost.

“I’m in the clear, heading to RV now; thanks for the air support, Strider 1. Much appreciated, mate,” Ghost says as he’s finally on his way from this hellhole.

Ghost can’t leave it alone. He wants to thank the man properly, so after a lengthy mission report, during which he hasn’t forgotten to stress that Strider saved his life, he heads to the hangar. Sure enough, the aircraft is there. Up close, it looks even stranger. Like it shouldn’t even be able to fly, let alone be capable of stuff Ghost had witnessed earlier that day. The jet is huge and imposing; short, diamond-shaped wings and vertical stabilizers placed on the outer edges of the craft only enhance the overall alien look. Ghost also notices distinct white decals on its vertical stabilisers: three scratches and a clawed paw. It feels familiar, yet he can’t honestly remember why. Maybe he overheard someone talking about it, or maybe his mind is playing tricks on him.

“Bonnie lass, ain’t she?” someone asks from behind his back. The voice is a little familiar now. Simon turns around to put a face to it. And is surprised. Pleasantly so. The man is a bit shorter and well-built, obviously fit, but that goes without saying. You can’t sustain high-G manoeuvres without some proper muscles and strength. His face is pleasant, too, thin lips curling in a smile. He looks like a father proudly displaying his offspring. Only the “kid”, in this case, is a multimillion-pound war machine. Ghost pauses his inspection on the mohawk. How cliché is that? Yet, it suits the man.

“What is it even?” slowly, he turns back to the plane.

“An old prototype made for the Americans. They went with a different plane in the end, the F-22. The two of these were meant for some sort of museum or whatever. Got a chance to rescue one, so I did,” Strider shrugs, looking at the plane almost lovingly.

Ghost hums in contemplation. The plane looks like a prototype, alright. But whatever does the Strider even mean by rescuing it? How do you rescue a jet? And why? “What’s your name?”

That seems to get the pilot’s attention. For a split second, he looks confused, then bursts into laughter. “Aye, that’s fair, boasting about my plane, and I haven’t even introduced myself.” He walks closer, extending his right arm. Ghost shakes it, noting the firm grip. “John MacTavish, call-sign Trigger.”

“Ghost,” Ghost replies, not bothering with his name and surname as he suspects Trigger already knows. “Thanks for… earlier.” The Lieutenant nods to show his appreciation further. Trigger truly saved his ass back there. What an apt call-sign, too.

“Don’t mention it. You needed a backup, and I was close by,” Trigger waves his hand to dismiss the gratitude, looking almost sheepish as if anyone would do the same. Ghost knows only too well it’s not true.

“You disobeyed a direct order,” Ghost reminds him, having a very clear idea about the reprimand and possible disciplinary actions that awaited John.

“I value life over the orders, anytime, and from what I’ve heard about you, I think you understand,” suddenly, Trigger’s face became unreadable, blue eyes searching Ghost’s own for… something.

The Scot is not wrong, but how exactly does he know? He has no idea. Ghost’s notoriety comes mostly from the mystery behind his mask and his combat skill. Sticking up for his teammates is usually not part of the legend.

At first, Ghost thought MacTavish to be yet another flamboyant hothead. Fighter pilots are an odd bunch, all of them. Yet MacTavish seems different, somehow. As if he wants to fit the stereotype; wants the people to see him for someone he’s clearly not. Why? Ghost has no idea. There seems to be a growing number of ‘whys’ around the man, and Ghost would be lying if he said he’s not intrigued. “I do, which also means that I can appreciate the sentiment all the more.”

“Tell you what, if you really want to thank me, how about you buy me a drink? I’m parched!” Trigger proposes, and the smile is back on his handsome face.

Ghost has a pretty good idea about where this is heading, but there are not many reasons not to pursue it. The bloke is interesting, entertaining, and easy on the eyes. If he’s game, then Ghost is, too. And if he’s misreading the situation? Well, he deserves a drink anyway.

“Give me a few minutes. I’ll finish up here and meet you by the gate,” John says as he takes a rag and cleans an oil stain on the nose of his plane.

Ghost nods and heads out. The night has fallen while he was in the hangar, but the base and especially the tarmac are always well-lit.

Ghost waits by the gate, just like Trigger asked him to. However, it’s already been over thirty minutes, and there’s still no sign of John. Ghost gives it another ten before he comes to an inevitable conclusion that he’s been stood up. Ghost shakes his head in disbelief. In his thirty-odd years, this has to be the first.

The Lieutenant chuckles as he starts to the barracks.

#Soap is Trigger #And flies YF-23 #call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghoap #ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #ace combat #ace combat 7

30 notes · View notes

mikhailwrites · 2 months

Text

Soaring Ever Higher - Ghoap/Ace Combat 7 crossover preview

“Break the contact and proceed to the RV!”

“Negative!”

“I can turn around and make a sweep; he’s got the IR tag; I’ll see him and can provide support,” Strider cuts into the conversation.

“You’re RTB, Strider 1; do not stray from the course!” yet another voice, male, older. Perhaps Strider’s CO.

“I’m not leaving him there if I can help!”

“That was a direct order, Strider. Return to base immediately! You are not armed for close air support!”

“I still have the 20mm; that’s more than enough! Re-entering OA in two minutes!”

Ghost doesn’t say anything, but he’s bloody grateful for Strider’s help. Carefully, he turns and dusts one tango he has in his sights. There’s plenty more as another salvo of bullets flies over his head.

“ETA thirty seconds, Ghost; hang in there, soldier!” Strider says.

“I’m going to have your ass for this, Trigger!” Ghost is almost tempted to say something at that point. Luckily, the grey war beast makes a hell of an entrance right then. Ghost’s only warning is a shout of “incoming!” as the fighter swoops from the left and spreads some 20mm cheer across the jungle.

Yeah, I have way too many WIPs but I simply had to start this, because I fell in love with Ace Combat and then an idea popped up of Johnny taking on the role of Trigger and it went downhill from there. So, there will be a one shot. Soon. It could be a proper story, but I don't have the resources to support third ongoing project at the moment. Waiting for Connection and Serpent's Coil are still being worked on, don't worry.

Chapter 1

#call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghoap #ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #ace combat #ace combat 7

30 notes · View notes

mikhailwrites · 2 months

Text

I think I've seen headcanon or theories about pretty much any preference imaginable for them... but did someone dare to ask the really big question? What Linux distro would each of them choose?

Soap: Open Suse Tumbleweed. Reliable, state-of-the-art, nice, easy to use, and has unique features. And he would love the linux-centric cover songs Suse produces. Seriously, Google it.

Ghost: Arch. Because the man wears a skull mask, of course he would use Arch (btw). DIY distro that gives you control over pretty much everything. If you use Arch, you're either mad, or you really know your shit (and are mad).

Price: Debian. Somewhat old-fashioned, but rock solid, time-proven classic that became the foundation of many other popular distros (such as Ubuntu).

Gaz: Fedora. Cutting-edge, innovative, with a very involved community.

#call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #kyle gaz garrick #john price #cod meme #cod shitpost

15 notes · View notes

mikhailwrites · 3 months

Text

Waiting for Connection 14 / Ghost x Soap

Ghost is retired and plays milsim videogame. Soap is still in the force and sometimes plays that same videogame...

Previous chapter | AO3

Ghost thanks Gaz and bids him good night before he rejoins the main voice channel. As expected, a rather wild discussion is underway. Clearly, the jury is out about whether or not they should’ve split.

“It was a sound idea, threw me off,” Ghost voices his opinion and announces himself at the same time. There’s a brief moment of silence.

“But it didn’t work in the end,” Roach quips, sounding a little bitter. Not overly so, thankfully, it’s just a game, after all. They all know the difference, intimately so.

“You got way closer to the extraction than I thought you would. I assume you wanted to either flush us out or create a diversion?”

“Yes to both, actually,” Alejandro says, “Soap thought that you will expect us sticking together or at the very least split into two pairs, covering each other. We were hoping to gain some upper hand. But I guess we underestimated your friend. Is he joining?”

“No, he’s… a very private person. But he enjoyed the game so I can extend his thanks. Told me that whoever he managed to jump in the lower part of the base was pretty solid. He was lucky to win that one.”

“That was me,” Roach replies, “I had a clumsy aim, it was a deserved death.”

“I’m sure you’re gonna walk all over me next time. You know the layout of the base and the terrain now, and the help I’ve got was a one-time thing.”

“But that wouldn’t really be a fair fight,” Rudy remarks.

At that moment, Ghost realises something. “Where’s Johnny?”

“Had to go, said he wasn’t feeling too good,” Roach explains.

“Ah, I see. Alright, I think I’ll call it a night as well. It was a good game, I’m looking forward to a rematch.”

“Yeah, sure, we’re gonna kick your ass, cabron,” Alejandro laughs.

Simon turns off the PC, puts the headset on a stand and reaches for his phone. He debates with himself for a little before he opens a new text message and types, “Thanks for the game; you were good. Hope you will feel better in the morning. S.” He hits the Send button without thinking too long about it. Otherwise, he would probably change his mind.

Soap’s phone buzzes on the nightstand just as its owner returns from the shower. Soap’s eyebrow quirks up momentarily as he sits on the bed and looks who’s messaging him so late; not many people have his number, and a substantial portion of them wouldn’t bother him at this hour unless it were urgent.

Flicking the lock screen away, he’s surprised to see the message is from Ghost. It’s short but considerate. A little sweet, really. Truth be told, Soap’s only has a minor headache, nothing that would warrant his quick retreat from the game. The real reason why he disconnected was this bitterness that swallowed him whole. Ghost has been ignoring him ever since John left Manchester, and then he shows up with this entirely impossible scenario and some unknown friend to boot? John is not jealous; that was probably the first thing he ruled out. He’s not a jealous man and never has been. But he is confused, and that confusion leads to frustration.

“Just a headache. Thanks for the game, it was interesting,” John types and sends the reply. He knows he could’ve ignored it and could pretend he was already asleep.

And since his phone starts to ring in the next second, he’s sorry he actually did reply. Well, no way around it now. With a sigh, he takes the call.

“Ghost,” John says in a way of greeting while he sheds the towel around his waist and gets in the bed.

“Johnny… how are you?” the deep timbre of Simon’s voice is pleasant. Soothing, almost.

John frowns, remembering he forgot to open the window a bit to let some fresh air in. “Fine. Tired, have a headache, nothing a good night’s sleep won’t solve.”

Simon hums in contemplation, Soap uses the break to get from the bed and open the window. The moment he does, cold air hits him hard. He’s still a bit damp on the back. A low hiss catches Simon’s attention. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Aye, ‘s just bloody cold outside. My balls almost froze the moment I opened the window,” John admits.

Simon chuckles into the phone, and John pauses. He sounds different than in the game. It makes sense, of course; a phone call has a different quality to it. “Do you build a blanket nest on the base as you did at my place?” There’s a hint of teasing lightness to his voice.

“I might, got a problem with it?” John challenges, but there’s no bite.

“Why should I? It’s just…,” Simon trails off, as if unsure how he wanted to finish the sentence.

“Aye?” John presses on, seeking the warmth of his blanket once more. It’s nice to be snuggled in bed with Simon in his ear. Suddenly, all the bitterness and frustration from earlier simply fizzles off. He never had any real reason to be angry, anyway. It’s not like Simon owed him anything, and he didn’t ghost (or Ghost?) him, either. Every time John asked, Simon simply politely declined, never left him hanging.

“It’s a little unusual,” Simon finally finishes the sentence from earlier.

Now it’s Soap’s turn to chuckle. “I bet you’ve seen a ton of weirder shit when you served.”

“I did, but I always appreciated a nice quirk. So long as it wasn’t dangerous.”

“The opposite, actually. It’s a camouflage technique, really handy behind enemy lines,” Soap says, pretending to be dead serious. In moments like this, he feels like he’s known Simon for years: the banter, easy conversations, jokes.

“Right. I guess the field manual changed since I got out,” Simon plays along immaculately.

“Nah, it didn’t; this is our very own Scottish thing; you wouldnae ken about it.”

“That explains it. Speaking of, I was meaning to ask… why SAS?” That’s a good question. Usually, people assume it’s just a prestige thing. However, someone who’s ex-SAS would know better.

“Didnae wanna be a cog in the regular army, knew I had what it takes to make the selection, and I wanted to do shit that actually matters,” John answers truthfully. Only a handful of people know his reasons; the rest got the usual bullshit of serving the country and being the best. “Why did you do it?”

There’s a moment of silence. John actually expects an outright refusal, but he’s at an advantage: Ghost asked him first and got the truth. It would be a dick move to bail now. “I was never a great team player,” Ghost starts and pauses, thinking about what he’s just said before continuing. “Well, that’s not exactly true… I was never a great babysitter. I worked best alone and I was so good at it, that my CO had no choice but to ship me out to the selection. Told me it’s the best he can do for me and that I would thank him later.”

“Did you?”

“I did. Eventually. I didn’t enlist because of some ideals, I joined because I had nowhere else to go, never aimed to prove something to some wankers I’ve never seen.”

“Did you ever regret it? Enlisting, I mean.”

“No. Never. I’m not really religious, but I guess it was my calling. Something I was meant to do. Otherwise, I couldn’t have been so damn efficient at it. It all came easy to me. Not all, but things that mattered. Stuff that helped me survive and complete my missions.”

Soap stays silent, feeling Simon’s words sink under his skin, heavy and tinged with darkness. Before he can think of anything to say to that, Simon continues. “Sorry, that turned a bit dark I guess. We should probably hit the bed, especially you, Sergeant.”

“I can handle an early start and shitty sleep, Ghost, don’t you worry,”

“Yeah, but I can’t. Remember, I’m an old man now,” Simon’s voice carries a lightness of smile.

“I see. Well then, out of respect to my elders, I’ll let you go then. Good night, Si,” John uses the nickname. He’s been very careful with it so far, unsure if Simon likes it or not.

“Good night, Johnny,” Simon repays him in kind.

I tried Ghost Recon Breakpoint since I dropped it soon after it released. Ubisoft actually kinda fixed it! I still like Wildlands more, but it ain't bad. Created a totally-not-OG-Soap, too.

#Soap is in deep denial #And even deeper shit #Late night phone calls like high school sweethearts #call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghoap #ghost mw2 #soap mw2

29 notes · View notes

mikhailwrites · 3 months

Text

Waiting for Connection 13 / Ghost x Soap

Ghost is retired and plays milsim videogame. Soap is still in the force and sometimes plays that same videogame...

Disclaimer: I've played a lot of Ghost Recon Wildlands this past weekend (damn, I almost forgot how much I love that game) and it shows :D

Previous chapter | AO3

Ghost plays much less in the following days. Instead, he spends the majority of his time in the mission editor. The new mission is going to be much bigger and more complex. Ghost raked his memory until he came up with a perfect scenario for a fire team of five. It’s an amalgam of several missions he’s done. Hostage rescue from a heavily fortified base with little to no intel. Difficult terrain, lots of guards, unknown layout of the compound.

He builds the base meticulously on a rocky hill overseeing a valley, with watchtowers and unclimbable walls with coils of razor wire on top. Oh, and there are cameras along the perimeter wall, too—absolutely the worst tactical situation.

Ghost places the A. I. controlled enemies throughout the base. Some walk in pairs, some go solo, and others oversee the situation from a vantage point. Most of them have visibility on another patrol at any given time, and their paths cross here and there. They have good weapons on them, but the base also has some pretty nasty surprises.

As a cherry on top, the hostages are civilians, so he adjusts their stamina to be lower than the default setting for the soldiers. He also can’t forget about the exfil, placing checkpoints and random patrols along the way. The mission won’t be over until they manage not only to free the hostages but also to cover some distance so the extraction helo will be able to land safely.

Frankly, if Ghost had been given this mission back in the day, he would have told his CO that it could not be done. The only way would be to wait for the enemy to transfer the hostages and intercept them. In this instance, however, they’re going to tackle it head-on. He’s done his fair share of miracles and impossible missions, but this right here? That is absurd, which is why it’s going to be so much fun.

Especially since there’s only one way for him to play it with all the knowledge he has: he’s going to be on the other team. The defending one. And with a little luck, he’s going to have a teammate, too, apart from the AI.

It takes him a week to fine-tune it to perfection. Or, well, as close as he can get with AI guards. There are a lot of them, but they wouldn’t pose all that much of a threat to a well-trained and professional unit. He’s so immersed in the preparation that he even turns down John’s numerous offers to play together. As much as he’s sorry and misses his voice and stupid jokes a little, this is going to be so much better.

Right now, he only needs to confirm one last thing—the piece de la resistance. Ghost takes his phone and dials the number. Honestly, Soap is doing wonders for his social life. Simon knows that Kyle will call him out on it soon, but it doesn’t matter. If it goes smoothly, the payback will be very much worth any and all ridicule from his former Sergeant.

The call is actually not very long at all. Because Kyle always has been and always will be up for some good old fun. Especially on the account of men under his command. He accepts Ghost’s offer for a 2v4 match under one condition: the boys can’t know it’s him. Simon happily agrees.

Finally, the day comes. Simon joins the voice chat and receives a warm welcome.

“Almost thought you’d fallen from the face of the Earth,” Soap jokes, yet his voice is slightly serious. Maybe Simon wasn’t the only one who missed the other’s voice and jokes.

“No, but I’ve been working on another mission,” Simon says as casually as he’s able.

There’s an excited “ooooh,” from Rudy, who, apparently, managed to get a new headset in the meantime.

“Don’t leave us hanging, mate,” Roach joins in, albeit keeping his cool, at least for now.

“This one is a bit different. Here’s the briefing,” Ghost uploads several files. It’s a briefing stack, alright. Map of the area, outline of the mission, and all the details the non-existent command has on the mission. Which is not much, really. Also, photos of the hostages and some bullshit story about them having information on a local drug cartel. He waits until the first person gets to the part of the brief where it says that there will be four operators.

“Wait… four?” Soap asks, audibly confused. “But there’s five of us?”

“I’m relieved you can count to five, Johnny,” Simon smirks. “That’s correct. I won’t be joining you. It would hardly be fair since I created the mission, no?”

“Uhm… I guess? But… why design a mission if you’re not going to play it?”

“I didn’t say I’m not going to play it. I said I won’t be joining you. See you in the lobby,” Simon says cheerily before he disconnects from their voice chat. He is going to have his own, after all.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Gaz greets him, his grin audible in his voice. “Ready to kick some ass, Ghost?”

Simon closes his eyes for a moment and feels the corners of his mouth lift in a smile. God, so many memories. And it feels pleasant and warm, this years-old familiarity. They saved each other’s lives many times, shared so many pints, so much banter, and some hurt and misery, too.

“Let’s show them how it’s done,” Simon agrees as he joins the lobby along with Gaz, who has a completely inconspicuous nickname of GhillieMan854. As soon as he sees all six of the players in the lobby, he starts the game.

Ghost didn’t spend the week just tweaking the mission; he was also easing Gaz into the game. Luckily, the Lieutenant was always good at picking up technology-related skills, so it was a fairly quick process. They also discussed the strategy and their roles. Both of them can efficiently work alone, and that is what they’re going to do. Lure the unit in, let them think they have everything under control.

Just a few minutes after the start of the mission, it starts to rain. Just as planned. It’s not just any rain, too. A downpour bad enough to lower visibility to shit. Ghost slips out of the base and disappears into the jungle just behind the walls. Kyle might have a “Ghillie” in his nickname, but it’s Ghost who’s wearing a ghillie suit. As he takes the position on a small hill hidden in the forest but with good visibility of the base despite the weather, he becomes pretty much invisible. Thermal vision would be the only way someone could spot him; too bad it’s raining hard enough to render thermal useless.

Now he waits. Just like Gaz waits, hidden somewhere inside the base, silent and deadly. They have the comms, but it would be stupid to talk shit now. They need to listen closely.

For the next thirty minutes, nothing happens. Ghost is sure the unit is scoping the area and studying the guards' routes, who are not too keen to stay in the rain. The rain, that is gradually losing intensity until it morphs into a mere drizzle. Ghost remembers how miserable he’d been years ago, alone in the Bolivian jungle. Drenched to the bone, cold and tired. That’s the undeniable magic of video games; you can do whatever you want while sitting in the comfort of your home. That, and you probably won’t die playing them.

Ghost looks through the scope, carefully checking all probable points of breach he can see from his position. Then he hears a faint rustle to his left. He freezes. Another rustle. A little bit closer. If they have a thermal on them, he’s fucked. If not… Simon smiles but stays completely still.

Soon enough, one man enters his field of view. It’s hard to say who it is, but Ghost is more concerned about the number rather than identity. Did they actually split up instead of creating two teams of two people, like the brief suggested? That would be either very stupid or very clever. They would play Ghost’s expectations, but at the same time, they would be much more vulnerable. It could also be a trap. The bloke in front of Ghost could be bait, with a partner waiting nearby. If Ghost makes a move, he could either take the man down or be killed before he gets to him.

Ghost opts for patience. But he can’t resist taking a screenshot. He loves the feeling of having an advantage. The moment right before he seizes the opportunity, knowing with absolute certainty he’s going to prevail. This is what he feels now. Yet he’s careful. It wouldn’t be the first time somebody turned the tables on him. The man moves forward, looking cautiously around him. He can’t hope to see Ghost. Not a chance.

However, Ghost is now reasonably sure he’s alone. Good. Painfully slowly, he lowers his head to the scope. Slower still, he turns the silenced, foliage-covered rifle a little bit to the left. Strictly speaking, he could do that shot without the scope; the bloke is close enough. Better not risk anything, though.

Ghost caresses the trigger, taking a breath, holding it.

The sound of a silenced shot is lost in the sounds of the jungle: one down, three to go. And Ghost needs to change position.

When Ghost chimes in, Gaz is sitting in the control room, looking at the monitors with camera feeds. “Got one. Seems they split up.”

“Bold,” Gaz grins, fully aware that Ghost and he are doing exactly the same thing. Three highly trained operatives? Could be anywhere. Gaz takes his SMG and goes on a patrol. It would actually be hilarious if they mistook him for an AI. Gaz wishes they would. He would’ve given them so much hell.

The guards are on the same team as he and Ghost, so they ignore him, and Gaz does his best to imitate the lifeless guards. The rain has let up, but the dusk has fallen. Strong lights come to aid, illuminating the base with white light.

Gaz is vigilant but not overly so. That could tip them off. He makes a round and starts back to the main building where the hostages are held. He sees one of the guards on the right stop. The AI-controlled body hesitates before the programming commands him to investigate whatever seems suspicious. Gaz also remembers his plan and stops, pausing and following the guard. Could be nothing.

Unless… there! A movement behind a tent. Time to play. Gaz drops lower and slowly makes his way around, SMG poised to shoot anything that sticks its head out.

He seems to be in luck. As he rounds the corner of the tent, sure enough, there’s a soldier there. With his back turned to Gaz. What a treat. Now, Kyle could make it fast and painless, but that would also mean loud since he doesn’t have a silencer on his weapon – that would set him apart from the bots. So, instead, he whips out a knife and presses the key for the slowest, quietest movement possible. He’s barely breathing, staring at the display, clutching the mouse way too tight as he crosses those last feet.

The bloke turns in the last second. Kyle can see the jolt of surprise in the movement, but this is a very skilled operator he’s dealing with. The rifle comes up, Gaz immediately dives forward. The knife finds the target, slashing the leg. A burst of gunfire misses Gaz narrowly. He won’t be so lucky next time. Switching back to the SMG, he doesn’t even have time to aim; he just pulls the trigger, sprays and prays.

The soldier staggers and tries to disengage. Gaz is not going to allow that. Rolling on his back, he aims upside down, and another salvo hits. The man is done for. A second later, a bunch of bot-guards show up. “Thanks for the help,” Kyle mutters, then informs Ghost. “Got one, too.”

“Good, they’ve managed to take out the lights by the back entrance, probably some of the bots, too. Might be close to the hostages now.”

“You going to greet them on their way out?”

“Already in position. I think that was their strategy: distract us and grab the prize.”

“Could be. Risky as hell, they lost two teammates, but if they were fast enough, might just work.”

“We will see,” Ghost muses, and he sounds like he’s really having fun. It’s nice to hear.

As a matter of fact, Soap and Alejandro are close to the hostages. So much so that they’re already leading them to the small hole in the perimeter wall. Ghost has placed several because this is supposed to be a bit of a run-down place in the middle of nowhere, not a high-tech prison.

Alejandro is taking the point as Soap ushers the package to walk faster and be quiet. They haven’t heard from Rudy or Roach, meaning they probably didn’t make it. It sucks, but it’s just a game, and they agreed that they will win this, no matter the cost. Who dares wins.

Soap is promptly reminded they’re far from safe as a bullet ricochets from the wall nearby. Sniper. Fuck! “Sniper!” he hisses into the comms, laying on the ground and taking the hostages with him.

“Where?”

“East, bearing one-ten-ish,” Soap makes an approximation.

“Okay, I’ll cover you; get to the jungle; we will lose them there. On my mark,” Alejandro hides behind a rock. “Now!” he gets up and fires somewhat blind in the direction Soap told him.

The Sergeant gets up, orders the hostages to do the same, and runs to the tree line. It’s not far, thank god for that.

“Fuck!” Ghost curses as he misses the soldier’s head. Stupid mistake. He prepares to change position the moment the second soldier opens fire in his direction. Ghost ducks, but a lucky bullet still finds him. It’s not fatal, but it’ll definitely hinder his movement. “Bloody hell… Gaz, get to the eastern wall. I’m hit, but we can still get them.”

“Rog,” Gaz confirms, easily slipping back to Ghost being in command. It’s how they served for many years, after all. Yet he knows who he can get away with. “Hold on for me, old man.”

Gaz arrives some two minutes later and patches Ghost up. Good thing he equipped the first-aid kit. “So, how do you want to play this?”

“Good old manhunt,” Simon smiles, shouldering the rifle.

“I’m up for that,” Gaz agrees. “Think they’ve changed the LZ?”

“No, the jungle is too dense elsewhere. Let’s go.”

Soap and Alejandro trudge through the jungle. It would be much less of an issue if the bloody civilians could keep up. Damn Ghost and his attention to detail. The escape was exciting, Soap would even go as far as to say it really rattled him a little.

But now they just make their way through an endless sea of green. Well, it’s mostly black now since night has fallen. Luckily, they brought night vision. The jungle in the eerie greenish-white and black tones is almost ethereal. But they can’t stop. It’s still quite a long way to the extraction point and Soap seriously doubts that Ghost and his friend are going to let them win just like that.

Ghost’s friend. Hm. Soap finds himself thinking about the unknown variable. Well, he assumes it’s Ghost’s friend, but it could be anybody, really—even some random bloke. No, no way, Ghost wouldn’t invite a random to a custom-made game with his friends. Who the hell is it? Someone from Ghost’s past? A fellow retired soldier? If he has someone like that, why did he never mention them?

“Soap? Focus, hermano, you’re thinking too loud,” Alejandro chides him, and deservedly so.

“Aye, sorry,” Soap answers sheepishly.

Ghost and Gaz track their prey like professional hunters. They, too, have night vision on them. And they know the terrain better. They are quiet, brushing through the undergrowth, guns in their hands. Their great advantage is that they can move quickly and silently. The civilians the other group is dragging along are bound to make some noise.

And they do. Footsteps are easily discernable in the background noise of the jungle. Ghost signals to Gaz to stop. They listen, gauging distance and precise location. Ghost makes a decision, gesturing to Gaz to go around. They will flank the group.

Alejandro stops and looks around.

“What is it?” Soap asks, looking around as well. He can’t see anything. Anything but trees and undergrowth.

“Not sure,” Alejandro says. Then there’s a burst of bullets from SMG, tearing through the night like a disembodied terror. “Mierda!” Alejandro cries out as he’s hit.

Soap turns immediately, finger on the trigger. At the same moment, someone tackles him on the ground. The last thing he sees is a swirling mass of foliage very loosely resembly a man and then a glint of a knife.

Alejandro tries to stand but is immediately mowed down by the SMG.

That’s a game over for the rescuers.

Have a little bonus of totally-not-Soap from Wildlands :)

#Gaz kicks ass #Ghost woos Soap by knifing him #Just the usual business at 141 #call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghoap #ghost mw2 #soap mw2

38 notes · View notes