Idyllic Musings

A place to keep my writing and talk about our favourite war criminals (CoD). Idy, she/her, 25. MDNI

[idyllicmusings]

Welcome!

I'm Idy, 25, she/her. MDNI, 18+ only.

Follows and likes aren't from this blog, sorry about that.

I write mostly for our lovable Scottish bastard (affectionate).

Ask box is open, feel free to hit me up!

Masterlist:

My writing tag is here

Ghostsoap

Brat - 09 ghostsoap (ao3)

Yours/Mine - 09 ghostsoap - SFW (ao3)

Divider by @cafekitsune

[sefarlen]

💪✨✨

[noodle-artist]

I didn’t choose soapghost, soapghost chose me

[your-fave-hates-ai]

YOU

YOU HATE AI !!

[very-gay-alkyrion]

[ftmsimonriley]

mactavish as ghost's own personal weighted blanket

he had heard weighted blankets being suggested to him before, namely by his former psychiatrist. something about how it made some people feel more secure, or that the increased pressure was therapeutic. he knew that already, as joseph had had one, turning his normally fussy nights into quiet ones. it just sounded unpleasant to him. he could only imagine waking up from a nightmare, screaming and thrashing and that terror would be made worse by a heavier blanket getting tangled in his limbs.

and yet, he finds out his captain is a cuddler. bunked in the same bed for lack of space, with some bickering between them of who isn't going to take the floor.

he's wide awake as usual, having mastered the art of just laying there for an acceptable amount of hours, feigning sleep and getting some rest. mactavish had fallen asleep quickly, and all he could hear in the quiet room is his steady breaths, rarely ever not sleeping like a stone.

ghost first thinks the other had woken up when he hears the shift of blankets, feeling the mattress dip and compress as the other moved. until suddenly, arms are snaking around him and he suddenly has his captain sprawled across him. he had frozen immediately, not even breathing as he waits for something else to happen. for him to wake up and realize their positions, for him to roll back to his own side of the bed. anything.

but mactavish doesn't. he just settles once more, immovable. it isn't like ghost is much smaller than him, having the height advantage by a few centimeters and having decent muscle mass. but he doesn't exactly have any freedom to move, what with his captain being wrapped around him like an octopus that had just claimed his prey. so ghost resigns himself to this, and...

he nods off faster than he thinks he ever has before. doesn't even realize it until he's blinking himself awake to the feeling of movement, of mactavish lifting his head and blearily glancing around, the sun just barely about to rise. they stare at each other for a few awkward moments, before the older man extracts himself from where he had been clinging onto riley, mumbling a sorry.

and if ghost doesn't complain when it happens the next night, and the night after that, and a week later after they had finally been given their own spaces yet he had found himself weakly making up some excuse just to get in mactavish's bed again, neither of them mention it.

[notyoucat]

Whoa! Shiny! ✨

Inspired by this tweet!

[nicijones]

Ao3 version that lets you open the 'director's cut' where I, the author, explain every detail in excruciating detail to you and what it is in reference to.

[awordwasthebeginning]

@bonsaibovine being absolutely correct in the tags

[dreamtigress]

Legit. Ask me anything you want to know about my fics.

[panscalloffanfics]

Ghost runs cold. No matter what he does he is always just a little cold. His hands are the worst, always freezing.

Soap rubs hot. He produces heat like a space heater. He will actively walk around outside in shorts and a sweatshirt during winter.

This has lead to Soap getting scared shitless because Ghost just *appears* and stuffs his hands under Soap’s shirt (or his pants). Multiple times.

[antisisyphus]

✨🍂🎃october won't be a shit storm🎃🍂✨

✨🍂🎃october won't be a shit storm🎃🍂✨

✨🍂🎃october won't be a shit storm🎃🍂✨

✨🍂🎃october won't be a shit storm🎃🍂✨

✨🍂🎃october won't be a shit storm🎃🍂✨

✨🍂🎃october won't be a shit storm🎃🍂✨

✨🍂🎃october won't be a shit storm🎃🍂✨

like to charge, reblog to cast

[laswells-ashtray]

Lying on his back in the bed of a man twice his age is exactly where Simon wants to die.

Johnny is riddled with scars, thick hair coating his tits and two little silver balls bracket the man's nipples. His tattoos are faded with age, just begging to be bitten.

There's a thick patch of curls leading down to exactly where Simon wants his mouth like a glaring arrow.

The Scotsman barely offers him a glance as he makes work on Simon's belt and the dismissal has him leaking in his boxers

"Ken, son. A've git tattoos older than ye."

It's embarrassing, the way his hips buck up against the other man. He flushes scarlet from the tips of his ears down to his chest.

"Needy wee thing, aren't ye?"

Simon is going to die here. And he's going to go out happily.

[thatanxiouskiwi]

"Modern Showering"

for @fuckthepersonwhostolemyusername

[notyoucat]

Chonky baby 🦦

Otter ghoap art based on a strawpage request

[lovely-v]

writing fanfiction is just. i’m being so creative and original. i’m plagiarizing everyone by accident. i’m a genius. i’m cringe. i’m too angsty. i’m too cheesy. this is not in character. it doesn’t matter that it’s not in character because these are my characters now. i love my hobby. this is the worst possible use of my time. i’m seeking validation. i’m projecting my own personal problems onto this story and i’m barely hiding it. i know so many words and i’m using all of them wrong. im on tumblr posting about it instead of writing it.

[kithnkin]

#and then you do all that and you STILL have to think of a title

[hatsbuckets]

How about leopard seal hybrid/selkie(??) soap displaying courtship behaviors towards a bird hybrid ghost by bringing him dead things?

ooohhh okay okay, I like the way you think anon. I'm going to use Raven!Ghost for this one, just to sorta play with his own little collectors brain not even knowing what to do. And I like raven Ghost. And yesss Selkie!Soap. So he's a shifter hybrid. sure okay here go:

cw for dead animals. not gore, just is.

It starts with the rabbit.

Ghost finds it just before dawn. The sky’s still navy and smeared with stars, the air sharp with salt and cold. The rabbit is laid out neat and deliberate in front of his bunkhouse door. Still warm. Little ribs intact. Fur slick with dew. Not a speck of blood. Like it curled up and died there waiting for him.

Ghost stares down at it, arms folded, breath fogging in the thin light. There’s no note. No tracks. Just the soft, small body and the faint weight of meaning pressing at the back of his mind like a bruise.

He watches it long enough for the dew to bead on his lashes. Then he scoops it up with a gloved hand and carries it to the kitchen like it means nothing. Like it’s roadkill.

He tells himself not to think about it, but he does.

The next one is a fish.

It’s on the steps this time, belly-up and iridescent in the moonlight. Its sides rise and fall with the last twitches of death. A little saltwater pools beneath it, still warm enough to steam in the cold, trailing in arcs across the concrete like something dragged it up in its teeth.

Ghost crouches beside it. His gloved fingers hover over the trail. He touches the fish, just once, as if testing for heat. His mouth draws tight.

This time, he cleans it. Then roasts it over a pan and eats it alone. It makes some deep and ancient part of his instincts settle. His bird brain happy enough about it.

He sleeps like shit anyway.

Then another. And another. A fish. Then a gull, wings still half-spread like it had just landed. Then something unidentifiable and wet with fur, and he doesn’t look too close.

They show up like clockwork after missions, after training, after nights he pushes too hard and comes back with the copper tang of blood on his tongue. He finds them left at thresholds, always clean kills, always fresh.

He starts asking questions. Not serious ones, not yet.

Gaz just shrugs. “Fox maybe. Or a hungry cat likes ya.”

Price only lifts a knowing eyebrow and doesn't answer.

But Soap watches him too closely and too often.

He’s been different lately. He talks less and grins wide, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Sometimes he disappears for hours, comes back soaked, hair mussed, collar twisted. Once, Ghost swears he catches the glint of a bloodstreak down Soap’s throat before he turns away and towels it off.

Ghost doesn’t ask. He wants to.

He wants to ask about the ocean too, how Soap lingers there, long after the others leave. About the low croon he caught him humming last night, not quite human. About the scent he carries since they've been at the coast for a while: salt, brine, blood, wildness.

Ghost knows selkies are water-bound shifters. He knows their kind prefers the deep cold, the lap of the waves. But he doesn’t know what it means that his sergeant’s been bringing him offerings like some feral tide-creature dragged out of myth.

It comes to a head after a recon op up the coast.

They’re both soaked through, boots squelching, gear heavy with saltwater. The ocean churns behind them. Ghost rounds the far end of the dock, wings slick and low from the wind, and there it is.

Another fish, big and fresh. He's at least figured out this one's Johnny. The seal taking a minute to hunt while they're all still out.

It's laid right on the plank.

Ghost doesn’t move and he hardly breathes.

Something in him, instinct, rage, confusion, embarrassment, he's not sure, snaps like a tripwire.

“Soap.” His voice is low and as cold as the waves beneath them.

Soap startles on the stairs, half-jumping like he wasn’t expecting him to speak.

“What?” he says, wary.

“The fucking fish. The rabbit. The gull. The rat three nights ago.” Ghost’s voice stays low and sharp.

Soap blinks. “I—”

“Say it,” Ghost growls, wings twitching like they want to flare. “Say what you’ve been doing. You think this is funny?”

Soap’s face shifts, fast, shifting from confusion, guilt, then something like hurt. “No. I didn’t—I never meant—”

“Then what?” Ghost steps forward. His boots hit wet wood. “You’ve been leaving dead things at my door like a feral cat. If this is a joke, it’s done. If it’s something else, spit it out.”

Soap falters and looks down at the fish. Then up at Ghost.

The wind hisses past them. Gulls scream in the grey.

Soap’s jaw moves. Then he exhales, rough and unsteady, and runs a hand back through his damp hair, pushing it from his face.

“I didn’t think it’d bother you,” he says. Quiet now. “Didn’t think you’d... take it like this.”

Ghost’s stare is flat.

Soap’s throat bobs. “It’s instinct,” he says finally, his voice gone small. “That’s all.”

Ghost frowns. “Instinct?”

Soap shifts and rubs the back of his neck. “M'a shifter hybrid. Selkie, technically.”

“I know what you are.”

“Aye. But maybe you don’t know what that means.”

He won’t meet Ghost’s eyes. His voice stays low.

“When we... like someone, or admire them, or feel... grateful, maybe. We bring things. For feeding. For nesting. For comfort. We

"I know that, Sergeant."

Soap swallows. "Aye. I know… selkies, when they—when we like someone, or admire someone, or are grateful, we bring things. Dead things, sometimes. For feeding. For nesting. It’s a—fuck—just appreciate you, Lt.”

The wind cuts sharp across the dock. Somewhere above, gulls cry.

"That's it then? Appreciation?" Ghost can't meet his eyes now. Not that Soap would know, considering he's looking back at the fish.

"No—Yes. I—"

"Which is it, Sergeant?"

Soap huffs out a bitter laugh. “I—You think I wanted this to be weird? I didn’t know how else to say it. You don’t exactly invite conversation, Ghost. You don’t let anyone in. And I—” He cuts himself off. “I just wanted you to know I see you,” he finishes, quieter now. “And that I’d… I’d take care of you. If you let me.”

Ghost’s mouth works open then closed. His wings flare slightly, then snap tight again. “You’ve been leaving me dead animals to say you like me.”

Soap nods, defeated. “Yeah.”

Ghost's wings twitch. His hands curl. His mouth opens and shuts again. He exhales slowly and drags a hand down his face. Then: “You’re fucking insane.”

“Yeah,” Soap says. “Little bit.”

Another long pause.

Then Ghost sighs. “Next time,” he says, “just bring me a knife. Or something you find on the beach, a shell or… something.”

Soap looks up, eyes wide with disbelief.

Ghost’s expression doesn’t change. “You can keep bringing things. But pick something my hindbrain doesn’t mistake for a threat. Your choice, Johnny.”

And slowly, Soap smiles.

thanks for reading

Is this anything ? Idk. I think Ghost would be such a dumb little ass about hybrid instincts bc he's ass about his too.

[youre-only-gay-once]

"you can use ai to improve spelling and grammar"

[purgaytorysupremacy]

if you’re wondering why spellcheck and grammar check is worse now, it’s because they replaced it with AI! 🥰

now, instead of maintaining a comprehensive, nuanced, and human-maintained encyclopedia by which to check your document, they have switched to an AI that just compares what you’ve written to what other people write in, say, Google Docs, and use the most commonly used iteration.

ever have it change something like “all intents and purposes” to “all intensive purposes” or “should’ve” to “should of”? that’s why!

people make the same spelling and grammar mistakes so often, AI thinks that’s the way you say it because it is a PATTERN DETECTOR and cannot THINK let alone use language.

[youre-only-gay-once]

"you can use ai to improve spelling and grammar"

[cheaphalloweencostume]

i want all my friends and followers and mutuals and acquaintances to know from the bottom of my heart: i don’t respond to your messages because i’m an insane person, i am insane medieval hermit software running inappropriately on modern queer hardware and social media scares me. it is not your fault

[cheaphalloweencostume]

when i get a notifications on my phone i try to kill my phone with a rock

[selenekallanwriter]

John Oliver gets it, as usual. AI Slop is one of the best episodes of Last Week Tonight I've seen so far. Gen AI is theft. Those who use it are not authors or artists, they're grifters profiting from real creatives.