A fanfic writer here! Haven't had a Tumblr in a while, thought I'd get back into things here since I'm writing fanfics again. Feel free to ask me anything or swing around for a chat. Me & my two braincells will gladly entertain you.
Daily clicks for Palestine.
AO3: Cam1942
Current fixation: Ghoap 🫶
Currently working on:
Charred Bones: Post MWII canon compliant fic (until it's not) with dog-coded Soap and Ghost going through his multitudes of issues while falling for him. Will include puppy play and other,, not so safe for work aspects in the later chapters 😏. (5/?)
Bleeding Oath: a Vampire!Ghost x Werewolf!Soap fic that features angst, enemies to lovers and soulmate shenanigans. (5/?)
not alone (anymore): Alone Ghost monsterfucking fic, ft. trans Soap, human experimentation, torture, gore and horror themes. (3/4)
COMPLETED FICS:
With The Softness Of Your Breath; a holiday centric domestic fluff fic for the boys! Retired Soap needs to figure out what to do with his life after a medical discharge, but thankfully there is a certain blond from his childhood waiting for him at his family's farm, right when he inherits the property. 4 chapters. 26k.
People You Know Can Hurt You The Most; also a holiday fic, revolving around New Year more but there's a Christmas moment. ft. angst with a happy ending, John MacTavish's family and Simon "Pretty Boy" Riley. 11k.
carry me in your teeth (with jaws of tender sympathy): an Orca!Ghost x Seal!Soap shifter fic. With a lot of angst, fluff and a meet bloody, even. 9 chapters. 70k.
NSFW FICS:
Leaving Your Heart On Fire: omegaverse smut fic, featuring Ghoap. I'll probably add more chapters in the future because the setting helps me practice ™️.
Only Yours: part 2 of the omegaverse smut series, wall sex galore.
You've Got Me Mind Body And Soul: part 3 of the series, featuring desk sex.
Sweetest Gift: a BDSM verse oneshot, with Lingerie Soap, Shibari & Ghoap in love shenanigans involved.
malt liquor on your breath (you're mine): Dilf ghost smut pwp, featuring older Ghost with a literal daughter and younger Soap who's friends with the said daughter.
a dog's trust: puppy Soap + consensual somnophilia with scent kink and sex toys as a treat.
tamed by my own longing: trans dog hybrid Soap, sex pollen and love confessions. also fucking, of course.
TUMBLR POSTS:
(MCD) a letter from a dead man (to another), to be known is to be remembered (is to be loved), a cycle of destruction (burning just to keep him warm), pet names & Ghoap, it'll be alright, (smut) taking care of each other's problems, (smut) the bed doesn't creak, trust is a knife with curved teeth (smut),
the most insufferable people will be like, this game is woke I'm not playing it because the protagonist is a woman that I can't jerk off to, her tits are normal sized and she has wrinkles i'd rather play as a big muscly man so I can jerk it to his big titties and thighs #nohomo
Part 1 of a little comic for mershark soap and pirate ghost :)
Ghost thought sharks didn't make noise so he's really shocked when the one he's stuck with (hes not really stuck hes keeping it around cause he feels bad and the mer is handsome) starts crying loudly...
not every mutual fits neatly into an archetypal medievalism but there are some mutuals that im like yeah addressing you as “my liege” would come strangely naturally
Summary: If someone would have told him a year ago he’d be pulling a knife on Price, he’d have pulled a knife on them. Time has never been a kind thing. Time has never made much sense of things either.
Or: based on mw4 trailer end scene.
Characters: Simon Ghost Riley, John Price
Relationships: Simon ghost Riley/John soap MacTavish (past, soap is dead, they never became anything, Ghost still loves him, ow)
Tags: Major character death, betrayal, hurt no comfort, no happy ending, suicidal ideation
It reminds him of a rooftop in Chicago, this. Must be the breeze against his balaclava. He’s without his hard shell mask now, unlike then, so it’s really cutting into his skin just like how the sheer force of wind in Chicago had through his clothes not so long ago. Maybe he’s just feeling sentimental.
Maybe he’s always fucking sentimental these days. And maybe, probably, definitely, he’s finally lost his entire bloody mind. Coming here. Doing this. The ultimate betrayal if Price hadn’t already beaten him to it with leaving he and Gaz to the fucking Royal Military Police. Bastard knew they were coming when he made his break for it without even warning them. His little scapegoats. Nothing more.
He’d been cleaning Johnny’s room out, boxing things up to take to his own, when they arrested him. All of his things are probably somewhere in a landfill now. Cigarettes, beloved journal, expensive kilt—they’re all gone. Scattered just like his ashes. The only thing that remains of Soap MacTavish are the discs that hang around Ghost’s neck. The first MP to try and take them off had got their arm bitten. The first and last to try.
Gaz had been asleep in his bed when they came. Safe and grieving. Neither of them had even known about what Price had done to Shepherd at the time.
If he’d only have asked for their help. Then the charges might be true.
“What do you want, Ghost?” Price asks like he already knows.
He clenches his jaw. This isn’t about what he wants, it’s about what the brass wants. It’s simple enough; bring Price back alive or dead in exchange for his and Kyle's freedom. That’s it. His own he doesn’t care so much about—not anymore. Price already killed Makarov, and that was the only thing Ghost had left to do. He’d been prepared to hang himself in his cell or slit his wrists with the sharpened metal of his bed frame when the offer came. But Gaz? Gaz has his entire life ahead of him. And Price already fucked one of his sergeants over. Ghost can’t let him ruin the other one.
“You broke a lot of rules, Price.”
What would Soap think about watching him pull a knife on the man he died for?
“That why you’re here? You care about rules now?”
“I’m here ‘cause Gaz doesn't deserve to rot in the fuckin’ Glasshouse for your crimes.”
Something like regret flashes across his features for just a second before it’s carefully masked. Ghost learned from the best. Price eyes the knife in his grip before pulling out his own. Fine. This is how they’re doing it, then.
“This is bigger than us, Simon.”
He doesn't ascribe to that for a single second. There was a point in time where he would’ve believed it, but not since the One-Four-One.
“We were a family.” It slips out in a breath before he can think about holding it back. There it hangs in the air between them. Heavy and haunting. “Nothin’s supposed to matter more than people you love.”
He sounds pitiful. A sad man clinging on to memories of the best year of his life.
“No more rules,” Price growls, marching closer.
And because he wants to be a cunt, wants to hurt him in the way he’s hurt them, wants to feel something:
“You’re the one who killed him, y’know,” he nearly chokes. “Twice over.”
Price smiles, self deprecating and mean, like he’s already gone through this a thousand times in his own head. “So, that’s what this is really about. Your revenge.”
No. It’s not.
But he can’t say he’s not been giving it a lot of thought while cooped up in his cell. They wouldn’t be in this mess if Makarov had been taken out years ago like Soap wanted. Soap would still be alive if he hadn’t popped back up from that initial shot to save their captain. Either way, he’d be here beside him in a very different life.
Christ, he misses Johnny. He misses what Price took from him, misses the touches he never got to feel in the way he wanted, misses the words he never got to say.
Even the revenge was taken from him. By Price. Naturally. So, maybe he’s right. Maybe in the deepest parts of him this is why he came—the closest he can possibly get to a reckoning.
Price moves first. Of course. He’d expected it, and in turn he knows Price expected Ghost to wait. Price is the one who engages on his own terms and Ghost is the one who waits in shadow. This is how it’s always been. Going to be a little hard to fight someone whose every move he already knows.
Ghost doesn’t go for anything vital. He could. Three times in the first twenty seconds alone. Price knows it too if the way his eyes track the blade is any indication.
He can’t make himself seriously hurt him. He wants to, but he can’t.
For all the shit he’s pulled and mistakes he’s made, Ghost still can’t do it. That’s the problem. He just wants him to open his eyes and see how ridiculous this is—wants him to pull himself together and come willingly, because that’s his fucking golden-boy locked away. Their friend is dead, the love of Ghost’s fucking life is dead, and they were all supposed to be in this together until the end. He’s supposed to give a shit.
Price is quick but he is sloppy in whatever turmoil is going on inside his mind. And Ghost has always been better at knife work.
He opens a cut across Price's forearm almost gently in a question more than an attack. Stop this? Price hisses and comes back harder as Ghost takes an elbow to the jaw that rattles his teeth and tastes like copper, and he thinks…good. Feel something.
They're breathing hard now. Blood drips steadily from Price’s arm and a second line Ghost cut across his collarbone without really meaning to, instinct taking over when the opening appeared. Neither deep enough to matter. Both of them know it.
Stop. Come back. We’ll bust Gaz out together and go from there.
“We don’t have to do it this way.” The way he says it can only be described as wrecked, and he hates how much he means it. Like a corny line from the latest action blockbuster, but it’s true. If Gaz knew what was going on right now he’d be so fucking disappointed. Johnny would be too. What a fucking mess he is. The both of them.
Price says nothing. His jaw is set in that way Ghost has seen a hundred times and always trusted, and he doesn't know how to handle it being aimed at him now. Never imagined it could be. Another slash seems a good idea as any, though.
He breaks past his defences again, his blade pulling against Price’s side, doing fuck all besides drawing a bit more blood. Practically announcing: see? I could. I’m not.
And Price goes still suddenly. Eyes wide open, looking from the superficial wound in his side turning his top red, over to Ghost.
For just a second, Ghost thinks he has him. His chest blooms with something stupid and hopeful, until Price’s face goes through all stages of grief right before his eyes narrow back down. Cold. Distant. He’s lost him. Never had him back to begin with.
Momentum and fury latches on to Ghost within the blink of an eye. All of Price’s rage channelled into this one moment.
And it’s not as if Ghost doesn't have a death wish. It’s not as if he didn't have a plan back in that prison. It’s not as if he has anything on this planet left. So, he’s not sure if when he moves at a fraction of the wrong angle it’s completely an accident. All he knows is that he came to save his friend, hoped to save two friends, and now he’s saving neither. All he knows is that he misses Johnny, and there is a building pressure in his neck.
His knees hit the ground, and a familiar voice grunts, “Fucking hell, Simon. You made me. You made me.”
He opens his mouth to speak but only a horrible gurgling comes out. The rooftop tilts. He doesn’t understand how they haven't gone sliding off.
“I’ll take care of everything. You’ll see. Gaz will be fine. You’ll see.”
He can’t breathe.
“I’ll stay until it’s over.”
He needs to get to Gaz. Help him. He needs to get to Johnny. Hassan—
He doesn’t—
“Go be with him now.”
The wind blows.
Chicago isn’t half bad, he thinks. Near death experiences aside. Soap is someone he wants to get to know better, which is something he hasn’t felt about another person in a very long time. Kyle, too, even. This task force could be something good. Price did right bringing them all together.
Sunrise against a cityscape is a strangely beautiful sight. It feels like possibility in the quiet way early morning brings. The tunnel vision makes it more interesting. Cold metal against his heart and warmth against his lips. It’ll be alright. This life.
