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mikhailwrites · 9 months ago

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Soaring Ever Higher 2 - Ghoap/Ace Combat 7 crossover

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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

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specter319 · 11 months ago

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𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓'𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄? (Ace Combat x CoD 141)

A/N: As a little Christmas present, I decided to work on a little something something, seeing a random anon state in @mockerycrow's Ask about fighter jets and Task Force 141 got my interest real quick, having been someone who got introduced to these two fandoms 1-2 years ago I absolutely adore the storyline in regards to Trigger and Count, but also the storyline as a whole, neatly wrapping up the reason why three strikes is called three strikes, if only a certain other game could have the same sort of stable plot- Complaints about the plot aside for those who stumble upon it have fun with this little short story that's been brewing in my head! Please enjoy the Homoeroticism of Ghost and Soap Trigger Warnings: Mention of Blood Word Count: 2.5k Words Characters: John 'Soap' MacTavish x Simon 'Ghost' Riley, mentions of Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick and Johnathan Price.

From the moment John MacTavish’s Scottish blue eyes gazed upwards into the beautiful atmosphere above him, he knew he was utterly and completely fucked. It all started with one moment in time, watching the infamous ‘Ghost’ launch one of their newly brought F-35s testing it out for another squadron, making sure all systems were in check. Watching it from the fences as the utter decimation of their ears thanks to the lack of protection were good faith to the man taking it, for what seemed to be a joy ride. And as Kyle and John stood there, seeing it hovering just mere meters above the runway, their joy was all but uncontainable in knowing just who was behind the sticks.

Conversations were the only thing that took over the engines' mighty roar as Kyle and John yelled at the inanimate object in celebration.

“Ooh yeah! Ooh yeah!” Kyle yelled out.

“Ooh, go ‘un, go ‘un” John egged right back.

And then, just as it pulled up, sure it was now at best pulling upwards of 5 gees, the men on the ground cheered.

“Go on you fuckin’ beauty!” Just as it was making its way further into the clouds, graciously curving its own form into the shape of them.

They were ecstatic, joyful, even, at least one was, to see a man so tall, almost built like a damn statue from ancient history managing to tame a beast so wild, and wicked. And yet, knowing that it was almost second nature in that man's blood to fly it, because that bastard was the only one allowed, thanks to the great charm of the bastards in the west, to have an F-22 Raptor. The only one in the UK, belonged to a man who had no name, never showed his face to the people he didn’t know, including the two men who stood there on the grassy knoll outside of the airbase cheering him on.

What a weird shitpot of luck that was, almost as if the gods of fate above had been watching the two men above, seeing them be so supportive of a man who never had the cheers of his fellow squad members, but instead, feared him. Tried to rebel against him, just to get a far enough away distance to stay away from a man and his, as some people called it ‘Raptor’s Ghost’.

Those that had seen it, had been lucky enough to tell the tale, at least, on the side he came back to, fellow squadron and captain, but those who had been on the receiving side of those guns as they lifted from their molded seam, only saw a wisp of a dark gray aircraft, before a fiery explosion filled their cabin.

Yes, there was one thing to be known about this ‘Ghosts’ jet — he’d specified that he must have it in a darker gray. Just a couple of shades darker than what the original metal was painted as. And the thing was? Somehow, amongst his captains ranking, the government and even the fuckers down in Lockheed — they’d said yes to the request. Even if a few bureaucrats in the Pentagon were waving the red flag from the start.

So he guessed that’s what the plan was then, to go and catch a sneak in the middle of the night of what it looked like, though Kyle tried with all of his might to persuade him otherwise, John was dead set on seeing the beauty that stood in the dead of the night in Ghost’s hangar, wielded far away from the rest of the base, but close enough to know that the rest of the team always, haunted by a Ghost, he guessed that’s where the name came from then. Given that this was usually seen beside the B-2, a call sign of Ghost would’ve been fitting for someone in a something like this. And it seemed like fate was tempting him all and amongst this, because, as John approached the hangar, as big as it was, there was a crack left open, not closed, like all the other times he’d passed it in his own jet. Only to then realize this was the reason why they had called him Ghost to begin with, no one thought he was around, until it was too late.

Everyone knew this Ghost, was a guy, they’d heard his voice, never heard him laugh, was only ever a man of a few simple commands and went off when requested. What caught John MacTavish off guard however, was not only the hangar open, but the place had reeked of oil and fuel, only to be diverged its acoustics of the tin metal in the sound of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, a far cry from the throat roar of the hotdogged engines, John could already tell what Ghost had been doing to the poor thing. Either someone had been here recently or there was still someone here, but that never mattered as his Scottish blue eyes once more, got him fucked over, classical music be damned.

The metallic gray was no longer present, much like he had seen on the various photos that had beautifully given the thing a personality of beauty, and yet deadly. But instead, it was given a more, mature grayed look, as if it was a rehashed version of the F-35, the very same one he had been seen in this afternoon in a reskinned jet. Sudden realizations hit the man when thinking in Ghost’s logic, not too shabby for a Ghost when John had realized that much to his enemies disliking, when they suddenly realized that the jet was no longer a most recent US fighter, it was too late to break off anyway.

And much akin to John’s own footsteps, he’d realized that he was pulled in by the absolute sheer squared beauty of the thing and had moved right into the Ghost’s trap.

“What are you doin’ in my hangar?” Ghost lowly spoke, standing to the side, having seen him since he strolled in here.

“Jesus wept!” John spoke as he suddenly turned around, the closed distance between them was something almost scary at just how close and personal this man had gotten, and all amongst that, he seemingly had the goal to wear a bloody balaclava, all the while wearing a stripped down version of the gear they would have to haul around on their bodies. Was he really that comfortable in wearing the same shit each day? At least the only thing invading his senses was oil and fuel.

“I said what are ya doing here?” Ghost questioned before his eyes glanced over at the hangar “Squadron leaders gonna know about this,” his voice loomed.

“Sorry,” That’s all the weak bastard had as he tried to pick himself up faster than he could pull back on his own stick. “A’m interested in that piece of art ye’v got there, heard you were the one flying the Lightning around this mornin’”

“So you were the two hanging around the fence”

John stiffened at the sheer mention of that, he’d seen them? He didn’t think he had given the height already gained as he passed the pair of them from the runway.

“Wanted to watch her give her a proper launch, sir” John hesitated as Ghost only snorted and shook his head at the mention of the last word.

“Flight Lieutenant to you” This Ghost guy seemingly didn’t want to have him out of his hangar after all, but there was no doubt that heavy brown eyes were on him, painted darker then the plane before him as his eyes registered on MacTavish’s uniform still barely on given the zip that was seemingly fought with, the sheen of sweat that was just above the ridgeline of his eyebrows gave away just how much he’d been working during the rest of his day, when he seemingly wasn’t cheering this man on, then again. MacTavish did seem like a familiar last name, what could hurt but to take a guess.

“Apologies,” John moved ever so closer to the jet, almost as if he were to go ahead and, to the thought running in the back of Ghost’s mind, steal it. Poor bastard, probably wouldn’t be able to handle the ride as well as he could. “Does that mean I get to call you LT then?”

The cocky chatter over the radio, often with another teammate, only gave Ghost all the more confidence to take that stab in the dark to try and pinpoint just who he was.

“You can, so long as you tell me if you’re the one flying that bloody F-16 around.”

John’s eyes suddenly went wide, and of course, that cocky Brit saw it, and with his own pair too. His soul had actively left his body in the acknowledgement that someone had noticed his maneuverability, everyone else had F/A-18’s. But MacTavish was the one that stood his ground when he said he wanted a former fighter pilots F-16, ready to be given back to the Americans, decommissioned, probably in a scrap heap, and yet, here he was, breathing new life into it and treating it like it had just come off the factory rollers. Though, his only fault that he seemingly had with it, was that of the lack of gun ammunition, paling in comparison to something like the beast that stood before him.

“Uh, and why would tha’ be?”

Ghost paused, raising a brow in confusion, maybe he was going to have to talk to John’s squad leader, had he really not seen beyond his two feet at just who he had under his wing, the man could maneuver the thing as well as he could like the jet he stood before and maybe, if he ever took the chance (which, in high unlikely doubt he would) he could probably pilot Ghost’s, if not, with just a bigger amount of hesitation.

“Just wanted to give a recommendation to the squadron leader as to who to take under our wing, old talents retiring at the end of the year, figured I’d give whoevers flying that F-16 and the one with the yellow strip along the body of the ‘18 a fighting chance at joining the 141” He brushed it off, like it was a chance to come clean. Ghost knew that MacTavish was the one flying the thing, often put in a good word about it to Price. And Price often agreed, that and ‘Gaz’ who was often his wingmanaccording to Price’s notes were often hotshots, but never in an egotistical, ‘wanting to show who’s boss’ way, it was always one of teamwork, and he quite enjoyed seeing them chant as one of their other teammates took down a target before they did.

“The 141?” MacTavish asked

“Yeah, just need to find out who the pair are in the two jets first” Ghost was toying with him as he finally made a move over to his own, inspecting the various scratches that were seemingly evident in the light, but gave the aircraft a seemingly weathered look, one that, Ghost admired.

“There a reason why they call you the Ghost?” Quick this one was to change the subject, avoiding it, but copying him all the more in his movements as John did the same, placing a gentle hand along the aircraft as his calloused fingers felt a deep scar along the face of the jet, maybe that’s why he rarely had repairs done to the thing other than ones that were required. Maybe that’s why he wears the mask, he’s damaged, just like the bird before him – but he still flies, still finds meaning in the daylight and blue hues of skies.

“There a reason why you’re dancing around the question?” Their hands moved along the surface of the steel at almost the same time, unknown, but as if they were tracing one another's patterns as the question was left in the air for a bit too long before they finally moved to the nose of the aircraft, having no choice but to look at one another as they did so.

“Could say the same,” He watched as Ghost moved towards him, facing him, how he towered over the man with that stature of power, and yet, the only real dominating power he seemingly had left was his rank, and the jet. Because all the smug bastard did was place his hands behind his back and look down at the Scotsman, as if inspecting him as he did the jet, to see if like him, he too had scars beneath that mohawk and blue eyes that seemingly contrasted ever so beautifully along the dark gray. “What happens if one of us already knows the answers?”

“Then I guess one of us will have to await the answers of the future, but if they already know the answers, they shouldn’t have to wait too long” They both knew one another were staring, helplessly, but stopping it neither as eyes behind that mask squinted ever so gently. So he did have his scars, one on the chin, must have had a bad accident for it to get that bad, and the blood from it too.

“Then I guess I’ll ‘ave ta’ see me way out of this museum then huh? Wouldn’t want ta make a scene now aye?” John smiled, physically having to retch himself from the spot he stood in, not wanting to move away from the view that was before him.

“Don’t quite appreciate customers making a scene and disturbing the nature of this art” So he wasn’t the only one to quickly move along with what he was suggesting as he followed him, only ever a few steps behind, maybe that’s why he got that name, loud as anything in a jet, then he never exists once the engines shut off.

Ghost eventually stopped following him as John made his way out near the doors of the hangar, lingering around just a bit more before he stopped in his tracks, just maybe, if he really did have the answers, he could see how his future LT would respond. “Don’t think I could handle two pieces of art in a museum, never been able ta handle more than one” He swore up and down he saw the man’s head snap into place about that comment, a slight squint at the body language that John was trying to portray as he moved through the hangar doors. “Have a good night, LT”

“Officer Mactavish.”

Payback time.

“Aye sir?” And they’d fallen into line already, a wingman, of sorts, to a Ghost.

“Call me Simon”

Now MacTavish was standing there, being a complete idiot, baffled by the fact that he, of all people, managed to get into the inner circle of a man named Simon, a Ghost. A snort was then heard through the airy atmosphere as he suddenly turned around and walked back towards the stairs of his office, looking back over his shoulder, leaving him in a scrambled state that was the brain of John MacTavish.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” He paused, “For a F-16 Pilot.”

So that’s his name.

#spectersblog #cod #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mw22 #specterwrites #soapghost #call of duty #ace combat #ghost x soap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #captain price #john price #kyle gaz garrick

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