Yikes

I just got here, I write fanfiction and stuffs this is just a dump for all my writing I’ll never complete. Feel free to use my stuff as prompts but please credit me :) ✨he/him✨

[idk-i-just-write-tings]

Hey! I’m Shroom, and I write tings

22, he/him, English

Fandoms I’ve written for (on this blog):

— Modern Warfare (2022 and 2009)

— My Hero Academia

I may in the future write for:

— Call of Duty: Ghosts

— Apex Legends

— Arcane

I typically write MLM (as a gay dude I don’t think I could capture a WLW relationship very well without getting something wrong lmao) but I may branch out to other types in the future.

If you use any of my things here as a prompt or they give you inspiration, that’s great! I’d love to be tagged in it to see what you make :D

Final notes (I’m almost done, I promise)

— Don’t use my work with anything involving AI. This includes those chatbots.

— If you’ve realised one of your accounts is blocked, I’m sorry! It’s not personal! I tend to block people who’ve posted things like nudity/xreader (I’m just not a fan, personally) without tagging it so it doesn’t filter out.

I think that’s all, remember to drink some water! - 🍋🍄

AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonShroom/profile

[idk-i-just-write-tings]

Drops this 09 ghoap smut fic I wrote and disappears into the abyss once again

You Call The Shots, Babe (I Just Wanna Be Yours) [10880 words]

“Cold, are we?” Riley feels his face burn hotter and he almost chokes on the smoke as he breathes out. “A little,” he lies. True gentleman that he is, MacTavish pulls his jacket off and drapes it over Riley’s shoulders. It makes the guilt in his chest squeeze tighter, and he really shouldn’t be doing this. He should tell the captain who he really is. He should stop lying and apologise for both himself and Roach. Stop this before it goes too far. “Thank you,” he says, instead.

Tags + extra under the cut!

Rating: Explicit No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Relationship: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley Characters: John "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Gary “Roach” Sanderson Additional tags: Game: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 (2009), Captain John "Soap" MacTavish, First Time, Kinda, First Time with a guy, Bottom Simon "Ghost" Riley, Top John "Soap" MacTavish, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Multiple Orgasms, Wingman Gary "Roach" Sanderson, Identity Porn, because Riley thinks Tav hasn't recognised him, No beta we die like 09 ghost

…

"But Shroom, I thought you were writing the other 09 fic?"

Well, dear reader, this all started with a discord message, in which I wrote: “I’ve been thinking of that trope where one character realises they’re gay, and their friend is like “I have a person who can help you with that” (or essentially just Roach playing wingman so that Riley can finally get laid by their captain — he is sick and tired of them dancing around each other)”. And suddenly BOOM. 10k words.

"Why is it posted as Anon?" Simply put — I am afraid of it.

[lt-riley83]

Here's a rough timeline for 09 Ghost the my mate @idk-i-just-write-tings and I worked out together based on the comics for a fic he's writing. We needed Riley as young as canonically possible, so we set his enlistment age at 18 (though I think he probably joined a bit later than that.) Comic panels (all sfw so no torture shown don’t worry haha) are at the bottom for evidence/examples of certain events. Hopefully they upload in order. Let’s go:

Start of timeline: 1983 — Year of birth no rank / 0 years

2001 — Enlistment after 9/11 happened *picture 1* pvt / 18 years

2002 — Out of basic training, possibly already aiming for SAS pvt / 19 years

2003 — This is the earliest he could've made it into the SAS. Any rank he earned during this time will therefore have been reset. pvt / 20 years

2004 — By now in the comics he's been promoted to Cpl as seen by the rank on his shoulder *picture 2*. (As far as I know this doesn't make much sense timewise, but this game sucks with ranks anyway.) Cpl / 21 years

2004-2006 — These are the years that he takes leave to go back home and fix his family. Within these years he kicks his father out and helps Tommy, who soon marries Beth. Cpl / 21-23 years

2006 — Here we had to begin theorising a little more. To be a liutenant he'd need to be commissioned, which means he'd need to undertake officer training. Usually this takes 44 weeks, however there is a shorter course for experienced soldiers, and since half a year has passed already for Tommy's marriage, *picture 3* let's put him on the 8 week course. Under Officer / 23 years

2007 — By now he will have finished officer training entirely and be a commisioned officer. 2Lt / 24 years

2009 — This is the year he gets sent to Mexico. By now he’s a Lieutenant. *picture 4* Usually it takes 3 years to reach this rank from 2nd Lt, but exceptions are made for certain officers if the higher ups deem them ready for a promotion. He’s captured early November of this year. Lt / 26 years

2010 — He remains captured until July of this year (9 months) although no specific date is given. His teammates escape moments before he’s taken to be buried alive. He digs himself out and manages to get across the border into Texas about a month later (August). Between then and December he’s in recovery. By December he wants to go back, but isn’t allowed to yet. *picture 5* Very soon after this is when his family is killed and he becomes Ghost. He goes back to Mexico and takes out Roba before Shepherd finds him. Lt / 27 years

2011 — This is where the game COD 4 MW takes place. He's not in this campaign, we just thought it'd be useful to include this date. Lt / 28 years

2016 — Finally, this is the year that MW2 is set, five years after the first game. Here we finally meet Ghost in game. Lt / 33 years

That's it! If you find any mistakes please let one of us know!! We’re not perfect. Neither of us entirely agree with the ages in this timeline (we both think he joined later than 18), but for the sake of Shroom's fic we were trying to keep him younger than Cpt MacTavish whilst keeping it as cannon as possible. P.S. thanks Shroom for helping me with this! — Zip

[idk-i-just-write-tings]

Unnamed 09 Ghoap thing:

CW: there’s a nsfw paragraph near the end of this one (if you’d like to skip it, it starts with “He couldn’t help the sudden turn his thoughts took.” and ends immediately after that paragraph

Captain John MacTavish wasn’t a man who drank often. For the most part he was too busy. His days consisted of organising training, planning and carrying out missions, keeping an eye on his squad, and working through mountains of paperwork. He didn’t have time to go down the pub for a cheeky bevvy; he had too much work to do. At least, that’s what he’d told his lieutenant earlier that evening.

By 2300 hours that same night he found himself in the local pub frequented by more than half of the soldiers on base, an almost finished pint on the sticky wooden table in front of him and feeling a touch too warm. Ghost had taken a table in the corner for them, the two privates who’d been there before had anxiously left when they’d seen the lieutenant staring them down from the bar.

Roach and Meat had joined them, though the latter had left early for reasons MacTavish didn’t really care to ask about. When Ghost slipped away to buy another round, it left him with only one for company.

Samderson was a good kid, almost reminding MacTavish of himself when he was younger. He’d admit to having a soft spot for him, treating him like a younger brother when they were off the field, so he didn’t mind being left to converse with him. He was quiet at first, but a chatterbox when he got used to the people around him, much like Riley. Currently he was waffling on about something, but MacTavish was far too busy watching someone else to know exactly what.

He’d been fixated on his lieutenant a lot over the past few weeks, and he knew pondering over why was making it worse, but he couldn’t help it. Even now he watched him talking to the bartender, likely flirting his way into at least one free drink considering how interested the man behind the bar seemed in what he was saying. Riley winked at the man and it made something ugly stir within MacTavish’s chest that he immediately tried to stamp down.

He wasn’t homophobic. He was perfectly okay with his lieutenant being gay and flirting with a man. He was supposed to have gotten over that internalised hatred years ago, but there was something still there clearly, because watching Riley lean into the man’s space was far too difficult and he had to turn away. Maybe it was the alcohol. He’d had quite a few and could feel the buzz under his skin that warned him he was only a couple more pints away from drunk.

He didn’t want to say anything bad if the alcohol really was affecting his thoughts like that. He supposed he’d have to call it a night after the next round; he didn’t fancy a hangover anyway.

A new pint was set down in front of him, another by Roach, and Riley’s was placed down by the bartender who’d apparently offered to carry his drink for him. The guy was down bad, clearly, and Riley didn’t seem to mind, stealing the pen that MacTavish always kept in his front pocket to write something, most likely his number, on the inside of the guy’s wrist.

“Cheers, love,” Riley thanked him as he finished the number.

The guy looked flustered but far too eager and mumbled out a “no problem” before heading back to his job.

MacTavish looked up as Riley handed his pen back, hoping he didn’t look as aggravated as he felt. There was nothing for him to feel so off about, and it irked him that he apparently still had a problem with what he’d seen. He washed down the rest of his last pint and pushed the empty glass into the centre of the table to replace it with the new one.

Riley stepped back, thankfully not seeming to catch his tension. He turned to head back to his own seat but paused suddenly, staring at the floor for a moment before bending at the waist to pick something up.

It was like the world froze.

Riley’s cargos were tight and left hardly anything to the imagination, especially at such a close proximity, and it took every second of MacTavish’s training not to reach out and grab a handful.

He couldn’t help the sudden turn his thoughts took. From the pub to his home off base, Riley bent over the kitchen counter, the table, the back of a sofa, fuck, any surface that could take his weight. He’d have the man crying on his cock, bedsheets clutched in his hands, or blunt nails scraping over skin, scrambling for purchase as he writhed and moaned. He’d be so tight, might even struggle to take him at first, but it would be worth it to fill him up, to hear him begging for his captain to-

A glass shatters on the floor somewhere to his left and a rowdy cheer echoes around the pub, breaking Tav from his thoughts and subsequently making him realise exactly what, and who, he’d been thinking about.

“Oh, fuck me,” he groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I think I’m gay.”

This is the start of a fic I’m currently working on, (I’ve got burnout for HCTS) idk if I’ll finish it but if you think it’s worth it feel free to let me know, I might write more. It’ll be my first ever attempt at smut so please be nice to me 🙏

[idk-i-just-write-tings]

Summary: Soap falls in a mosh pit, gets saved by a stranger named Ghost Length: 741 words

John Mactavish had been in the metal scene for years. He’d been to hundreds of shows, participated in many a wall of death and even punched a couple of assholes who decided to touch someone inappropriately. He could handle himself in a mosh pit just fine, he was by no means new to them.

So there he was, 2200 hours on a Saturday night, at a relatively large metal concert. The headliner was playing a popular song of theirs and the drop was coming up, so of course he joined in on the edge of the pit. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, heart racing in anticipation while the bass of the music seemed to flow through his entire body.

He glanced at the people around the pit and counted the beat of the music, readying himself for the chaos coming. As the music reached its drop he threw himself forwards.

The sound of bodies colliding was drowned out by the loud drums and guitar, the singer’s screaming vocals echoing through his ears. He was pushed further inwards and found himself in the centre. In every direction was another person knocking into himself and others.

He’d only been in there for 30 seconds at most, but it felt like a lifetime of adrenaline and excitement. He glanced up to the stage for a second, distracted.

It was a mistake.

Suddenly he hit the floor, unable to keep in his pained grunt when another person tripped over his body. A platform boot to the face was not a good feeling, even if it wasn’t on purpose.

He instinctively covered his nose as blood began to rush out of it, but he didn’t have time to think of how to get out before two hands were on him and a loud voice, somehow audible over the music, shouted for everyone to back up. The crowd, as was typical for a metal show, listened immediately. The pit opened up again and John was given room to breathe, not that he could with his messed up nose.

The two hands on him were suddenly pulling him up to his feet, with an ease that he didn’t expect considering his build. He looked up at the person holding onto his upper arms and swore under his breath.

The guy was hot, even with a skull mask covering the bottom half of his face. Short blond hair, long enough on the top to curl, the skin that wasn’t covered was pale and lightly dotted with scars. He was tall, and well built too, broad shoulders and arms that were probably bigger than some people’s thighs. Built like a fridge, were the words that flashed through his mind as he stared up into chocolate coloured eyes.

He leaned down to John, still holding him steady, to speak in his ear. “You okay?” He asked before leaning back to give him what looked like a concerned glance over.

John could only stare in utter disbelief that even this man’s voice was sexy. He felt like he must’ve died when he got kicked and gone to heaven. Still, the band playing on stage and the pit starting up again now that he’d been safely pulled out of it showed that he was definitely still alive.

Realising that he’d been staring, John nodded quickly. “Aye, aye. I’m alright.” He gave the stranger a grin that was slightly bloodied. “Thank you.”

“It’s fine. What’s your name?”

“John, but my friends call me Soap.”

“Soap?” The man’s eyes crinkled in the corners, giving away his hidden smile. “You’re gonna need some to clean your face.”

John wiped his nose, cringing at the pain and the amount of blood that came off on his hand. He was still bleeding, then. It was probably broken. “Aye, I guess I will.” He said, smile turning sheepish.

The man let go of his arms to stick a hand out in front of him. “I go by Ghost.”

John raised an eyebrow at the name but still grabbed his hand, realising too late that apparently he’d managed to get blood on both of his hands. To his credit, Ghost didn’t even flinch. He just shook his hand before leaning down to speak in his ear over the music.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, then, Johnny.”

And normally John would’ve complained over the nickname, but in that voice? He supposed he could get used to it. “Lead the way, Ghostie.”

[idk-i-just-write-tings]

Prompt: Ghost breaks a glass and Soap helps him. (Hurt/comfort)

TW/CW: angst, mentions of blood (small amounts), unintentional self injury, trauma response (it’s more of a shutdown than a panic attack I think?)

Length: 1349 words

They’d been joking around in the kitchen with Price watching them fondly, even if he was pretending to read a magazine, when it had happened.

It was late evening, closing in on midnight, and Ghost was only planning on getting a glass of water before he would head off to his barracks and attempt to sleep. He’d walked into the kitchen just as Soap finished talking to Price, so the Scot happily began a conversation with Ghost instead. He listened to Soap chatting away about something one of the recruits in basic training had done earlier that day when he’d been working with them, apparently one of them was a ventriloquist and had learned to throw his voice as well. He reached up to grab a glass from the cupboard but he was distracted by Soap’s story of the recruit pranking the other sergeant who’d been training them, so as his hand closed around one glass he knocked another and it toppled out of the cupboard and smashed on the ground. 

Price almost missed the way Ghost flinched at the sound, but the effect the broken glass had on him was obvious from how he stood frozen. Soap had made a lighthearted joke at the sound of the smash, but when he turned around and saw the way Ghost was beginning to close in on himself he knew that something was wrong.

Price frowned and stood up from his chair, putting his tea down on the table. He did his best to keep his voice calm when he spoke. “Simon?” He didn’t get the chance to speak another word. 

Ghost flinched again and suddenly he was on the floor on his knees, frantically trying to scoop up the broken glass with his bare hands. The action panicked both of the others in the room and Soap was immediately crouched down in front of Ghost, close but not touching him yet. “Si? We should use a broom for that,” he urged quietly.

Ghost only shook his head, still trying to pick up broken shards. He couldn’t speak, could barely even breathe.

Soap cringed as he watched a smaller shard practically disappear under the skin of Ghost’s palm. “You’re hurting yourself, Si.” He reached out his hand a little towards Ghost, but the man clutched the glass tighter in response, a helpless noise escaping his throat. Soap immediately backed off again and looked up at Price for help. His fear and desperation showed in his eyes.

“Ghost,” Price finally spoke up, “do you copy?” 

And then there was silence, Ghost freezing at the words. Seconds crawled by slowly and it began to look like he wouldn’t reply at all when eventually he spoke quietly. “Copy.”

It took everything in Price to not let out a sigh of relief, instead he took a careful step forwards. “I need you to let go of that glass for me, son.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Ghost unfurled his hands and allowed the glass to fall back to the tiled floor in front of him. He didn’t speak again, just staring down at the mix of blood and glass shards littering the floor. His flinch when Soap reached out one hand again was barely perceivable, but the two other men noticed anyway.

“Si? Can you hear me?” Soap asked quietly, his voice so much more gentle than normal. A small nod in response, and he was speaking again. “Can I see your hands?”

Ghost clenched his fists and brought his hands closer to his own body. “I didn’t mean to,” he snapped. His voice was cold and harsh, but Soap heard the fear hidden in it and it broke his heart.

“I know, Si,” he glanced at the Captain who’d been creeping over slowly, “we both know.”

“You’re okay, Simon. It’s just a glass.”

Ghosts eyes flicked up, a horrible mix of confusion and terror dancing behind them. “Just,” he glanced back down at the red stained shards, “a glass?”

Soap nodded. “Yeah, we can always buy another one.”

And suddenly Simon seemed to come crashing back to reality. His eyes widened and he took in a sharp breath as he looked down at his hands, slowly unclenching them in an attempt to ease the pain. Then he finally looked up, meeting the concerned faces of Captain Price and Soap. 

Price was the next to speak, immediately recognising the change in his lieutenant’s body language. “Let me clean this up, yeah? You should get your hands looked at.”

Soap was nodding and standing up before Ghost could refuse, looking down at him with a gentle smile. “Aye, we should get that glass out.”

Ghost silently clambered to his feet again and drifted along behind his sergeant as he was led out of the kitchen. He sent an apologetic look to Price as he went only to get immediately waved off, so he continued to follow Soap.

The walk to the medical bay was cut short when Ghost reached out and tugged, almost timidly, at Soap’s wrist and then began walking to his own room instead. Soap wordlessly followed him the short distance to his private quarters, walking in and shutting the door behind them. Soon enough Ghost was sitting opposite Soap on the bed with the first aid kit he kept, offering his hands to the sergeant who gently brought them to lay in his lap. 

Soap took a few seconds to assess the damage before picking up some tweezers and cradling one of Ghosts hands in his own. He met Ghost’s eyes and gave him a sheepish smile. “Sorry ‘bout this, LT,” he murmured. As carefully and quickly as he could, Soap pulled all the shattered glass from Ghost’s hands. He was almost surprised that the larger man didn’t react much to the pain at all, only tensing up occasionally. Once all the glass was gone, Soap checked over his hands thoroughly just to be sure, he cleaned all of the cuts and applied an antiseptic to them before finally wrapping each of Ghost’s hands with a bandage.

With his hands taken care of, Ghost began to panic again. He didn’t want to be left behind. Alone. Not when his thoughts were so loud. His hand tightened around Soap’s, afraid of him letting go. 

Soap looked up, meeting his lieutenant’s gaze and feeling his heart break for another time at the fear and hesitation that danced behind those brown eyes. “Simon?”

“Johnny.” His voice was quiet, unsure, now. It was nothing like Soap was used to hearing and he desperately wanted to make it better. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. Ghost shook his head. Soap tried again, gently squeezing the man’s hand where it now laid in his lap. “Do you want a hug?” he asked carefully. He saw Simon hesitate and immediately spoke again. “Only if you want to, Si. We’re helping you now.”

A few beats of silence passed before Simon leaned forwards, resting his head on Soap’s shoulder and feeling the Scot’s strong arms wrap around him. Slowly he began to relax, melting away into Soap’s arms with a shuddering breath.

“There you go,” Soap mumbled, one hand soothingly rubbing Ghost’s back. “You’re safe here, you didn’t do anything wrong.” 

Ghost grabbed at Soap’s T-shirt, his fingers tense in the fabric. “Stay,” he mumbled. It wasn’t really a question but the Scot didn’t mind.

“Of course, Si.” He squeezed the man tighter. For the next few minutes he worked on slowly grounding him, on speaking gently and trailing soft patterns with his fingers on the man’s back to calm his rapid thoughts as much as he could. Eventually the stiffness left Ghost’s shoulders and he began to pull away, yawning as he went. “Are you going to sleep?”

Ghost nodded as he moved back on his bed, laying down and gesturing Soap to follow. Soap turned off the bedside lamp before laying down as well. The two curled up under the blanket, Ghost’s head coming to rest against the sergeant’s chest, where he fell asleep; warm and comfortable and safe.

[ghostslostknife]

Infinity: Hey Soap! We’re rebooting MW2!

Soap: Awesome! I’ll still be a Captain, right?

Infinity:

Soap: Right?

[idk-i-just-write-tings]

I had to make it

[idk-i-just-write-tings]

Prompt: A short piece on Ghost’s feelings about the similarities between what happened at Las Almas and Chicago

Length: 649 words

Ghost had tried to promise himself, after he watched Soap drag himself through Las Almas, that he’d never let him go through something like that again. He’d pulled over onto the side of a dirt road before they’d reached the safe house and hugged him, staying as long as they both needed.

The way Soap had clung to him as if he were his lifeline, shaking like a leaf from what Ghost knew was a mixture of remaining fear and overwhelming relief, had only solidified Ghost’s need to hold him; to protect him. Soap had tried to brush it off as leftover adrenaline, but Ghost knew better. It was his first betrayal, and Ghost knew how that felt, so he stayed there with his sergeant in the middle of nowhere, holding him tightly, keeping him secure. He couldn’t let it happen again.

When Soap went after Hassan and found himself weaponless and running around with the nuclear codes, Ghost felt like he’d already failed. He was useless again, unable to move or do anything to help. All he could do was watch the windows and talk to him through his earpiece. It was just like Las Almas. It made him feel sick.

Then suddenly he was in the window and calling for Ghost to take a shot, and it was so close with the way the two struggled, moving in and out of the way of each other in his scope. He had to shoot though, or Soap would die. So he steadied his shaking hands and pulled the trigger. Seeing his sergeant fall to the ground with the terrorist had sent a new wave of nausea through him. He could’ve sworn Soap had been out of the way when he pulled the trigger.

“Perfect shot, LT.”

The relief hit him like a truck. “You called it, sergeant.” He replied without thinking, talking to him was second nature by now and he was grateful for it, otherwise he probably would’ve sounded afraid.

Seconds later his rifle was packed away and he was flying down the stairs of the building he was in, his sights set on Soap and only Soap. Nothing else mattered. He dodged medics and other people working with them to push into the building and start up the stairs, he wouldn’t relent until he saw him.

It felt like the stairs went on forever. Up and up and up in a continuous never ending loop. He almost felt like he’d never get to him. His breath was short and fast and he couldn’t tell how long he’d been running, didn’t know what floor he was on anymore. Maybe he could check a sign, there would have to be one somewhere near, but that would take too much time. He kept running until he heard him.

“Ghost?”

The man stumbled to a stop, his eyes meeting blue ones. There he stood in the stairwell, having only made it six floors down from where Ghost had last seen him. Soap. Johnny. And he was still smiling, despite everything. He was clearly shaken and a bit beaten up but he was okay. His sergeant was alive.

“You alright, LT? Yer shaking like a leaf.”

Ghost hadn’t even realised the way his own body was trembling, wasn’t used to feeling so much emotion anymore. He pushed forwards, not even able to make a smart remark in return, not until he knew for certain that Soap was alive and with him.

And then, for the second time that week, Soap was in Ghost’s arms. They both held onto each other as if it was the only thing keeping them alive. Soap’s legs gave out the second he was in safe arms, being held up by Ghost, but neither of them minded. As Soap heaved a heavy, exhausted sigh into his chest, Ghost made a promise to himself once more. Never again.

[tavtarnish]

More rugby au doodles

[idk-i-just-write-tings]

This is it! I found the rugby au again bro I’ve been looking for ages DD:

This is the coolest thing ahhhh

[idk-i-just-write-tings]

Prompt: Simon Riley meets up with his old captain who was now head of a rugby team. While he’s there he gets hit with the opportunity for a new friend, or possibly more.

(Or a rugby AU that includes everyone shouting “heads” when a stray ball goes towards the crowd)

Length: 1899 words

Of course it had to hit him of all people. He’d only been there because he knew the team captain; that’s who he was waiting to see. He’d met John Price as a captain in the military, but after retiring the man had started up a rugby team for ex military soldiers. Ghost, who’d just been forced into retirement through injury, had been contacted by Price in regards to a flat that he could rent now that he was no longer staying on base.

He stood in the crowd nursing a pint of beer, he didn’t particularly like the drink but it was the only alcohol a man could drink in a place like this without someone taking the piss. He wore a black balaclava because it was cold, and definitely not because he still wasn’t used to not wearing a mask every day. It was rolled up to the bridge of his nose so he could drink his beer as he watched. The game had been pretty good, if he was honest. He used to play rugby when he was younger, before he’d joined the military, so he at least managed to enjoy watching it.

The time for the match was called and the ball got turned over to the winning team, Price’s team, so all they needed to do was kick it off and they’d win. Ghost pulled his phone out of his pocket to check a notification that had come through, as well as to send the captain a message that he’d meet him outside when he had changed.

He heard the ball get kicked and then a sudden chorus of people shouting “heads!” but he only managed to look up before the rugby ball was colliding with his face and falling down to knock the beer out of his hand. At least he managed to catch the ball with the hand that was now free from his beer. A murmur of “good hands” as well as some cheers for the smashed pint came from the crowd around him. Ghost just pulled his mask back down to hide the way blood was beginning to trickle out of his nose and waved off the few people that were still looking at him, chucking the ball to one of the players near the side of the pitch. They caught it and everyone moved on to finish off the match, the teams going to shake hands and the crowd applauding the players as they left the field.

Ghost didn’t follow the crowd into the clubhouse, not even to get another drink from the bar, instead sending the message that he’d been working on to the captain before settling on a bench outside. He was there for a small while, just enjoying the quiet as he looked over the muddy pitch. It felt serene. He watched birds land on the empty pitch to pick at the mud and grass and hopefully unearth some worms. He could see the top of the rugby posts sway very slightly in the wind if he looked long enough, and the muffled sound of laughter and conversation drifted through the brick walls of the clubhouse, not loud enough to distract from his thoughts completely but enough for him to linger on it, listening halfheartedly to the chatter as his mind wandered elsewhere.

“You alright, mate?”

Ghost glanced up to meet the eyes of one of the players from the captain’s team. He had a mohawk, which is the only reason Ghost recognised him at all, that was slightly damp and flopped over to one side from being in the changing room showers, but he had changed into clean clothes and was smiling at Ghost warmly.

“I’m alright,” Ghost mumbled with a light shrug. He leaned back on the bench from his previous slightly hunched posture as the stranger moved to sit next to him. Suddenly he was being offered a beer, which he took with a curious glance.

“I hit your glass earlier, I owed you.” He explained.

Ghost noticed his accent, Scottish, but didn’t comment on it. “Was just a pint,” he mumbled with a shrug. “Cheers, though.” He pushed his mask back up above his nose, wincing a little at the pain but only stopping when the man’s eyes widened.

“Yer nose is bleedin’, ye bampot! Why’d ye not get it looked at yet?”

Ghost shook his head a little, trying to wave off any worry. “I’ll get it checked later,” he said, lifting the beer up to drink when suddenly the Scot produced a packet of tissues from his pocket and held one out.

“At least wipe off the blood.”

Ghost took the tissue and began to wipe his nose carefully, coming away with more blood than he’d expected. Maybe it was broken. “Hell of a kick from you.”

“Just unlucky,” he shrugged, still watching Ghost, “didnae mean for it to go that far out.”

“Better hitting someone than it landing back in play.” He wiped his nose a few more times until the tissue came away clean, then he decided to see if he could feel a break. He brought his hand up to touch the top of his nose through the balaclava, taking in a sharp breath at the pain there. He reached up and pulled the balaclava all the way off, setting it down on the bench beside him, before going back to prodding his nose. He couldn’t say from just feeling if it was actually broken or not, but it definitely felt bad. He glanced back at the man beside him, about to ask if it looked broken, but noticed his cheeks had flushed pink. “What?”

The Scot huffed an embarrassed laugh. “Guess I should’ve bought more than just a pint for injuring a face like yours, aye?”

“Is it that bad?”

“No!” He shook his head quickly before flushing darker. “I mean, aye, yer nose looks broken, but I meant-” he cut himself off and looked away. “Och, never mind.”

Ghost leaned closer to him, a small smirk beginning to appear on his lips. “No, no, I want to hear.” He didn’t get to continue teasing the Scot though, because suddenly a new voice spoke up, one he recognised.

“Good to see you again, Simon.”

Ghost almost smiled at the familiar voice, standing up and nodding at the older man as he approached. He still wore his signature hat, like he always used to in the field, but now he was dressed in much more casual clothing. He looked like a stereotypical father with his polo shirt and khaki trousers. He was also carrying a bag with what was likely his rugby kit in it over his shoulder. It was nice to see him relaxed. “Likewise, John.”

“I see you’ve already met Soap.” He looked pointedly at the man behind Ghost.

Ghost glanced back at him, noticing his face was still bright red. “Soap?” What the hell kind of name is Soap?

Price huffed a laugh. “Old callsign. Can’t have two John’s on the team.” He pulled a slightly crumpled piece of paper from his pocket along with a key and held them both out to Ghost. “This is the address. I have to get going, though, something just came up.”

Ghost nodded. “That’s fine.”

“If you ever want to train with us you’re more than welcome.” Price gave his shoulder a pat before he stepped back and began moving towards the car park. “And you should go sort out that nose, it looks broken.”

Ghost huffed and gave a lighthearted roll of his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

The captain grinned and waved before fully turning to walk away. “I’ll see you around.”

Ghost waved back before turning to look at the Scot, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Soap, then?”

Soap jumped up from the bench, holding his hand out for Ghost to shake. “John Mactavish, actually.” He grinned brightly when Ghost took his hand, giving it a firm shake. “And you?”

“Simon Riley, callsign Ghost.”

Soap’s eyes widened and suddenly he looked starstruck. “The Ghost?” He gaped up at him.

Ghost pulled his hand away carefully, dropping it back to his side. “Did we meet?”

“Not officially, but I saw you in the field a few times. The Captain talks about you a lot.” He tilted his head to one side, curious. “Price said you wouldn’t ever retire.”

Ghost shifted back a little at the unspoken question before holding his right hand up again. Across the back of his hand was a large jagged scar, it was still raised and coloured a harsh pink against his pale skin so it had only recently healed. “Mission went wrong,” he began, “I got caught by a dying man who was desperate to take me out. He’s dead, but I can’t reliably pull a trigger anymore.” He spoke without emotion in his voice. Couldn’t show that he was still angry at himself for being off guard. He didn’t expect Soap to take his hand gently to see the scar closer. It took everything in Ghost to not instinctively jerk away.

“Did he cut a tendon?” He asked, his voice gentle. He wasn’t pitying him but still spoke carefully, softer than before. He didn’t let go as he looked up, blue eyes meeting Ghost’s brown, gently cradling the man’s hand in his own.

He nodded slowly, suddenly finding himself unable to look away from those blue eyes. “I still have some movement, but it’s not enough.”

Soap frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in a way that Ghost thought was cute, though he mentally berated himself for that thought a second later. Soap, oblivious to Ghost’s internal argument, spoke up again with a hopeful smile. “Maybe you can play some rugby with us? It’ll give you something to do.”

Ghost shrugged. “Maybe,” he mumbled, finally dropping his gaze. He didn’t pull his hand back though, could feel Soap looking at the scar again, practically burning holes through it.

“You haven’t drunk much of that beer.” He didn’t say it accusingly, just as a quiet observation. He was still looking at the scar as if it would give him the answers to the universe should he stare at it long enough. “I can get you something else.”

Ghost shook his head, taking a sip of the drink he’d completely forgotten about. “No, I’ll drink it.”

Soap smiled at him, finally dropping Ghost’s hand to meet his eyes. “What’s your favourite?”

“Whiskey,” he murmured, putting his hand into his pocket now that it was free.

A certain playfulness filled the Scot’s eyes at the revelation. “You mean scotch?”

The corner of Ghost’s lips twitched upwards. “I drink bourbon.”

“Like a good ol' boy,” Soap drawled, a teasing lilt to his voice. Ghost brought the beer up for another sip, trying to hide the way his cheeks flushed red at the Scot’s words. Before he could reply Soap spoke again. “I’ll buy you one, after you get your nose looked at.”

Ghost considered this for a few seconds, his head tilting a little as he looked Soap up and down. “Are you asking me out for drinks?”

Soap nodded. “Aye, I am. I think I owe you for damaging your braw face.”

Ghost huffed a breath, flustered but trying to pretend the words didn’t affect him. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer, Johnny.”

[idk-i-just-write-tings]

Prompt: Ghost tends to run cold and Soap is a living radiator. The first time Soap ever hears Ghost’s real laugh is when it’s a hot day outside, Ghost puts his hand against the back of Soaps neck and he actually screams

Length: 391 words

He’d honestly only been trying to help. The day was hot, way too hot to be training outside. Unlike in countries that are supposed to be warm, England’s heat was sticky and humid, only ever enjoyable up to 27°C unless you had a pool.

Soap had always run warm. Maybe it was his body climatized to the colder winters in Scotland, or maybe it was just one of his little quirks, but he was barely ever seen in more than a light jacket even if according to the others it was ‘freezing’. His normal attire was just jeans and a short sleeved shirt. Today he’d traded that out for a light vest top and shorts, doing everything he could to not burn up during the 141’s training session. Why did Price have to choose endurance for today? It was already hard enough to breathe with the heat without having to run for miles.

Somehow despite this Ghost wore his signature balaclava, a long sleeved shirt and some jogging bottoms. How he wasn’t sweltering in that black clothing was a mystery to Soap, and the Scot had told him as much only to receive a shrug in response.

They managed to survive through their extensive training and were soon left to their own devices by the captain. Gaz had quickly run off to the showers, but Soap hung back to get a drink first.

“You wanna join me, LT?” He’d asked, looking up at the man with his signature smile.

Ghost easily accepted the offer and they began walking together towards the 141’s building. As they walked, Soap chatted away as normal, but a lot of it was now just complaints about the heat. He’d said something about pretending to be injured so he could get an ice pack from medical when Ghost decided he had been whining for long enough. He raised one hand, thankful for once that he wasn’t wearing his gloves, and placed it on the back of Soap’s neck.

The scream that escaped Soap as he jerked away from Ghost’s ice cold hand was high pitched and easily loud enough to be heard from inside the building, which was still at least 200 metres away. Soap had whipped around to glare at Ghost when the normally stoic man lost his composure entirely. He instinctively brought a hand up to cover his face, even with the balaclava, as a full belly laugh erupted from him. It was only a short burst of laughter, but it was real, much more than his normal quiet huff.

Soap’s heart must’ve stopped for a second at the sound. He suddenly found himself unable to do anything more than huff in embarrassment as he was betrayed by the smile that fought its way onto his face. He looked up at the man, warmth flooding through him, and rolled his eyes. “A cannae even be mad at ye when you’ve got such a bonny laugh.”

[idk-i-just-write-tings]

I have the Modern Warfare brain worms right now and I’ve been thinking about this for days so I had to write it down. Sorry if it’s a little all over the place and like scattered thoughts

I’ve seen a lot of people write Soap fall first and then Ghost kinda messes him around because he’s not sure of/accepting his own feelings, and I love that trope a lot and it’s so good for angst but consider instead:

Ghost falls for Soap first.

He of course goes through an angst stage (how could he love someone, he’s supposed to be stone cold) but eventually comes to the conclusion that he can’t do anything about it, I mean look at Soap, who couldn’t love him??

Of course he doesn’t think that Soap would return his feelings, so he doesn’t do anything about them. And he’s just quietly enamoured

He keeps the flirty energy (which he regrets every time because Soap flirts a little with everyone)

The others don’t really catch on for a while, he’s quite subtle about it as he doesn’t want to make Soap uncomfortable, but eventually they begin to piece it together. The main love language that he uses is acts of service, so they’ll see Ghost doing little things for Soap that he wouldn’t really do for anyone else

One time Soap falls asleep on him on the way back from a mission and he just lets it happen. Everyone is (silently) surprised, and even more so when the car/plane ride gets bumpy and he puts an arm over Soaps shoulders so he won’t fall

Another time Soap has an old knee injury flare up and Ghost helps him over to medical and then stays with him until he’s ready to leave just so he can help him walk back to the 141s area of the base

And the thing that tipped the others off the most was when Ghost memorised exactly how Soap likes his coffee in the morning and began making him a cup of it whilst making his own tea

People (Price and sometimes Gaz) will be like ???are you gonna ask him out then??? and Ghost just brushes them off, maybe because he feels like he doesn’t deserve Soap, and assures them that he’s fine just letting the feelings linger (not that he’d say it in so many words)

Because he’s observant he notices when Soap starts to flirt genuinely with him, when his touches start to linger a little longer than necessary and he watches Ghost when he thinks he isn’t looking.

He’s secretly excited but stays silent, he’s afraid of building himself up just to be wrong.

When Soap eventually confesses (expecting a “keep it tactical, sergeant” or to get pushed away because Ghost has never really changed his attitude towards him, even after he started properly flirting) he’s surprised to get a quiet “okay”

Or maybe it’s a desperate confession of “I really needed to tell you, I understand that you won’t feel the same but it’s been /weeks/ and I cannae get you out of my head” and he’s so afraid of upsetting Ghost,

But then Ghost just kinda tells him that “the only reason I’m upset is how long you left it. I’ve been waiting for you for months.” And he says it so simply too

Bonus points if Soap realises his own feelings during a sparring match. Maybe Ghost picks him up like he weighs nothing and pins him. Ghost is too busy trying to keep his thoughts clear and on training to notice the gay panic that is Soap happening beneath him.

Bonus bonus points if people are watching and are like “are they dating?” “Apparently not?”

Anyways, I wanna see some soft, in love Ghost

[idk-i-just-write-tings]

Prompt: Everyone in class 1A forgets how Bakugo and Midoriya grew up together until one of them does something in a moment of tranquility because they’re just used to being near each other.

Length: 350 words

Bakugo stood at the stove, stirring the pot of beef stew that he was making for the class. He was so concentrated he barely responded when Midoriya walked up to him and asked what he was cooking. “What does it look like, nerd?” His voice was much quieter than usual, distracted and at ease.

Midoriya paused, turning his attention back to the pot and then the ingredients on the counter, frowning in thought. “Something with carrots and mince beef,” he mumbled. “Stew?”

A confirming grunt was the only response from the blond, who paid no mind to the shorter teen looking at him directly now. He was frowning just a little at the sight of something on Bakugo’s cheek. Was a bit of dirt? Or some hair? No, he realised, his hand beginning to lift towards the blond’s face.

“Kachan, you’ve got a loose eyelash,” he murmured. He reached one hand up and Bakugo instinctively turned his face towards him slightly more. Midoriya used one finger to remove the eyelash from the blond’s cheek before holding it out in front of him. “Make a wish.”

Bakugo rolled his eyes but still paused in thought for a few seconds before blowing the eyelash from Midoriya’s finger. He turned back to the pot and Midoriya turned away to leave the kitchen only to notice all of the stunned eyes watching from the living area. The silence was loud.

“Wha- did I miss something?” Midoriya squeaked out, earning Bakugo’s attention.

The blond looked up at the class with a glare. “What the fuck are you all staring for?”

Todoroki was the first to speak, his head tilting to the side just slightly in curiosity. “You let Midoriya touch you,” he said simply. “We were waiting for an explosion.”

Bakugo’s ears tinted red at the statement before he growled. “I’ll explode you fuckers if you keep staring like that!” He glared at Midoriya who was now also staring at him in shock at the realisation. “And you, Deku!”

Midoriya looked away to hide his laugh at Bakugo’s antics before scurrying out of the kitchen.

[idk-i-just-write-tings]

Wrote this in like 15 minutes and read it over once (sorry for mistakes) but I’m never gonna use it, so:

“What are you doing here, nerd?” Bakugo practically growled out. Even when his voice was thick with sleep Bakugo could sound scary to most people. But Midoriya Izuku wasn’t most people. He stood outside the blond’s dorm room holding a pillow to his chest and the expression of a kicked puppy on his face.

“Mineta’s watching weird stuff again and I can’t sleep because it’s too loud.” He mumbled, his cheeks tinted pink from what he’d heard from the grape teen’s TV. He’d tried putting a pillow over his head, using earplugs and even playing music through headphones but nothing could block it out.

“Tell him to turn it down then.” He went to close the door but Midoriya stopped it with one hand, giving Bakugo a pleading look.

“Please, Kachan? I won’t try to bother you, I’m just really tired.”

Bakugo didn’t reply, but Midoriya knew he’d won when the blond huffed and walked back into his room, leaving the door open for Midoriya to slip through and shut behind himself. Midoriya watched silently as Bakugo climbed back into bed, facing the wall, before he glanced around. He’d gotten further than he’d thought, so he hadn’t even considered where he’d be sleeping. The floor was his first and final guess, so he sat down on the floor near the bed just to hear another huff.

“Don’t sleep on the fucking floor. It’ll mess up your already shitty bones, idiot.”

Midoriya looked up at the bed to see that Bakugo had turned over and was glaring down at him with sleepy red eyes. He hugged his pillow tighter to his chest and glanced around again. “But where…?”

“My bed,” he grumbled, a little louder this time. “Where else?”

Midoriya’s eyes shot up to meet Bakugo’s. “You’re okay with it?”

“Duh, why would I say that if I weren’t?” he said simply before he turned over to face the wall once again and closed his eyes.

After a few seconds of hesitation Midoriya put his pillow down beside Bakugo’s and lay down next to him, facing his back. He stayed there for a while, unable to quieten his thoughts enough to sleep, until Bakugo’s voice scared him.

“Quit staring and go to sleep, Deku.”

A yelp of defiance escaped Midoriya and he shook his head quickly. “I-I wasn’t!”

“You were,” he looked back over his shoulder and met Midoriya’s eyes, “I could practically fuckin’ feel it.”

Caught red handed, Midoriya rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling instead. “Sorry,” he mumbled. The only response he got was a quiet grunt, so he closed his eyes and listened to the quiet for a while. Rain had apparently begun to fall, as it (pitter-pattered) against the window and balcony. The sound was relaxing but easily overshadowed by Bakugo’s breathing beside him, slow and quiet. Grounding.

Midoriya rolled onto his side once again, facing the room with his back to the blond this time, and let out a soft breath as the grasps of sleep began to pull him away. “Thank you, Kachan.”

“‘s fine, nerd.”