#SOAP PLAYING WITH THE RACCOON | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

charliemwrites · 2 months

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Chapter 1

Content: Violence, Murder, Horror Elements, Masturbation, Kidnapping, Threats, Mild Pet Play, the One (1) use of an ableist slur

It’s the middle of October when Soap convinces you to go camping.

Autumn has sunk its teeth deep into the countryside, bleeding green from the trees and leeching warmth from the days. Deep shadows and lengthening nights are cold enough to condense breaths into pillows of steam. All of the little critters are fattening up and bedding down for a frigid winter, prepared to be snowed into burrows and dens until spring pries away the ice.

Your hip already aches through the first half of your morning exercises. The ghosts of splintered shrapnel prick beneath tender scar tissue until the rust of sleep flakes away. Lying on hard, cold ground sounds like a one-way ticket to agony. You’d much rather be one of those fluffy bastards curling up to hibernate. You tell Soap this on Monday when he initially proposes the idea.

Besides, you add, trying not to chug your coffee, Soap’s in no condition to be fucking about in half-frozen woods either. Not with his finicky nerve pain.

On Wednesday, when you meet up again, he takes a different route. It’s been too long since you two last dipped into a civilian-appropriate but military-adjacent activity. Paintball, knife-throwing, base-jumping…

Your bed is starting to feel too soft and too big again. The city is loud but not the right way. The tedium of self-imposed routines is starting to grate on nerves still tuned for combat. If you don’t get out before the trap of winter snaps closed, you might go mad. You can see it in Soap’s eyes too, a manic glint behind glass blue.

But still. Camping feels too much like what you’ve just left – the shrinks probably wouldn’t approve. Not that you’d ask them.

On Friday, Soap offers a compromise. His grandfather (“Seanair”) left him an old hunting cabin out in the countryside. Nothing luxurious, but it’s got a fireplace, cots, kitchenette, bathroom. It’ll be more like holing up in a safehouse than roughing it for a mission. More importantly, it’ll be gentler on your battle-worn bodies.

That next Monday, you meet him at the café with supplies packed and an honest anticipation for a week off the grid.

“Yoohoo! Any murderers about?” Soap calls. “Any armed psychos? An angry raccoon, perhaps?”

You scowl, caught behind him in the doorway. “I thought you checked it out already?”

“Aye, but ye ne’er ken,” he reasons, shrugging. He shuffles in as you nudge him. “We’ve the luck o’ the devil, you an’ I.”

You snort as you start kicking off your shoes. “True enough, I s’pose.”

“Course, I like our odds against any weirdo wi’ a knife, don’ you?”

You shrug. “Maybe. Not so sure about a raccoon though. Think we’d be fucked.”

“Och, tha’s right. I remember your lectures about rabies.”

“Good.”

You snicker at his grimace, likely feeling the phantom sting of vaccines.

The cabin is cute, honestly. There are only three rooms – the living room/kitchenette, the bedroom, and the bathroom. The bathroom is small enough that you could stretch your arms across the width of it and touch both walls, but it’s got a working shower so you’ve no complaints. The bedroom has a dresser and a nightstand, plenty for you and Soap.

While you set to work putting the groceries away, Soap putters about opening windows and making up the beds. The two of you don’t immediately have much to talk about, considering how often you see each other and the long drive out. It’s alright, though, you’ve long grown comfortable in stretches of silence together.

Once settled in, you suggest a walk to explore the area. Part of it is genuine interest in appreciating nature before the sun sets early. But there’s also a large, paranoid part of you (sounding like your old captain) that demands you get your bearings. Just in case.

There’s a loch about a mile from the cabin, a beautiful sheet of dark glass big enough for decent fishing. You’re able to see the row of holiday homes on the other side but wouldn’t be able to see any people on their docks out there. You and Soap follow a deer trail for a way, exchanging stories of your respective childhoods.

No surprise that John MacTavish was a wild child with a rebellious streak that got him in trouble more often than not. He gets you laughing bright and easy before long, and for once it doesn’t feel like playacting as a Normal Functioning Person.

When the sun starts to skim the evergreens, you return to the cabin. You start up a pot of cheesy mac while Soap gets the fire going, pyromaniac that he is. Once it’s burning nicely, he starts closing up the windows. Not too soon either – the temperature is starting to dip and twinging at your hip, unhappy from sitting in the car so long.

The two of you hum over empty carbs and excess dairy by the fire, a glass of scotch for each of you. When you’ve had your fill, he washes the dishes, you pour another round, and the two of you settle together on the old sofa.

“Almost been a year,” Soap says after a while.

You sigh through your nose, stare into the dwindling pool of amber in your hand. “Three more weeks.”

“You miss it too.”

Against your will, your eyes slide sideways, to the hand he’s clenching and unclenching on his thigh. There’s a wicked line of scar tissue beneath the sleeve of his shirt where the surgeons salvaged what they could. Mostly successful too, apart from the damaged radial nerve that ruined his career.

“So much, Soap, fuck.”

You didn’t mean to say that. You’re supposed to be the healthy one here, encouraging this necessary and healthful change to your lives.

As if reading your mind, Soap hums, bumps his elbow into your ribs. “No shame in it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t even know what I miss.”

“Feeling useful, I reckon. Feeling… necessary,” he muses, subdued.

It’s insightful but too accurate. Too selfish. You rub your thumb over the lip of your glass.

“I hate that I can’t keep an eye on Price and Gaz,” you say. “Feels like I’m always waiting to hear the worst, ya know?”

“Yeah,” he whispers roughly. “I ken.”

The two of you end up falling asleep on the couch. Soap, sitting up with his sketchbook, and you folded into the corner against the arm, book pages fluttering between lax fingers. At some point, the cramped position aches enough to wake you. Your eyes flutter open, low fire throwing long, deep shadows across the wooden wall.

Something is watching from the window.

You jolt up, hand reaching for the gun you no longer carry on your thigh. The movement jostles Soap awake as well. It involuntarily draws your eye, just a fraction of a second. But the haunting shadow is gone by the time you turn back.

That’s not enough for you. You roll to your feet, hiss as your knee threatens to give. But you manage to get your balance and snatch your combat knife from your boot as you storm towards the door.

“Kit? Kit! The fuck is going on?!” Soap calls.

“Saw something!” you reply.

There’s a flashlight hanging by a hook next to the door. You grab it as you burst out into the chilly air, tensed for a fight. A quick sweep of the front yard and immediate tree line reveals nothing. Steps soft and careful, you approach the side of the house, expertly gripping your knife.

“On your six,” Soap breathes behind you.

“Copy.”

You round the corner, eyes scanning the trees, the brush. There’s no movement, no suspiciously rustling branches. You tilt your head, listening for anything past the normal sounds of the night. But there isn’t even an unusual silence in the dark world around you.

“Just a dream, then,” you sigh.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Unusual, though. Your nightmare-induced hallucinations usually conjure guns in your face or teammates bleeding out on the floor. Not strange figures at the windows. Still, you can hear the explanation of your shrink trying to soothe you. Middle of the night after drinking, in a new and atmospheric environment. Plus, there’s been all that fuss on the news about a serial killer; nowhere near you and Soap, mind, but still. Subconscious or some shite.

“Let’s do a sweep anyway,” Soap says.

Your chest warms. “Alright.”

Naturally, there’s nothing. Soap only gives you a one-armed hug as you return to the cabin. One final check of the interior – since you did leave the door open when you rushed out – and then the two of you turn in for bed.

The next day starts lazy and slow. A strange reprieve from your body’s military-trained urge to wake early. It’s nice, though, to snuggle beneath the covers with Soap’s soft snores only a few meters away. You play pre-downloaded games on your phone while you wait for him to wake, enjoying the lie in.

Breakfast is enjoyed on the little porch out front; you bundled up in a woolen throw while you sip coffee. It’s shaping up to be an unusually sunny day, and you agree to a longer hike around the loch before lunch. When you return, you settle on the porch again to read while Soap chops wood.

Which, well.

You don’t mind a bit of entertainment between pages… or paragraphs… or…

Soap hasn’t neglected his physique at all since the discharge. All corded muscles, broad shoulders, and tapered waist. Watching the bunch and release of his arms has always been a guilty pleasure of yours, and so blessedly indulged during training sessions in the 141.

You try not to sigh and drool over it (him) like a repressed Victorian.

“Ach, fer fucks…”

You snap to attention, book set aside. “Is your arm acting up?”

He’s set the hatchet down, grabbing at his elbow with a pinched expression.

“Aye,” he grumbles.

You trot to his side, pleased that he still instantly submits to your care. He lets you manipulate his arm, prod along the nerve pathways and bunched muscles that are spasming in pain. His groan has no business being that low or rough or close to your ear. But you ignore it like you always have, focus on getting him right. Barely even register when he sets his jaw on top of your head.

A few minutes pass in silence while you try to massage away the worst of the flare up. When he finally sighs, slumping into you a little, you gently squeeze his forearm.

“Bampot,” you huff.

“Aye, I ken,” he mumbles. “’S why I have you.”

You click your tongue. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive. Next time let me help.”

“Not on yer life.”

You pinch his side, grinning wickedly when he yelps and jerks away. Little shit. Your favorite little shit, damn him.

He allows you to help carry the firewood to the rack next to the tiny shed. It’s round back of the cabin, covered by an old blue tarp. Soap is in the lead and sees it first.

“Oh, well isn’t that pure dead brilliant,” he huffs.

“Hm?”

You peak around him and blink at the rust-colored splatters decorating the side of the shed. There’s a dark patch in the scraggly grass as well and drag marks into the trees. Clearly, some prey fell victim to the circle of life here. Recently, too, from the color of the blood.

“What do you think it was?” you ask. “There aren’t wolves here.”

“Nah, but coulda been a fox.”

You scrunch up your nose. “This close to us? Usually foxes steer clear of humans.”

“Feral dog, then, maybe.”

Maybe.

It’s a lot of blood for anything a dog or fox would risk taking down, though. Even a feral one.

“C’mon, let’s get inside. Need a coupla pills ‘fore mah arm starts taking the piss again.”

You help him stack the firewood and then follow him back to the cabin. And if you linger on the blood, your random dream, and the lingering sensation of eyes on you… well, nothing new for you.

It pours all of the next day. Soap says it’s good timing, that he won’t have to wash the shed himself. Both of your injuries are acting up, though, and you spend the day trying to find different positions to appease the ache in your hip. At one point, he has to help you to the shower, your leg feeling too weak to support your weight. It’s frustrating, but you’ve had nearly a year to learn to cope.

Soap lifts your spirits, though, like always. Convinces you to play Scrabble and keeps insisting that he’s just using Scottish words. It ends the way it usually does – you and him wrestling like children, trying to trap the other to determine the winner. You only just manage to get a hold of him, though he puts up a good fight. He eventually admits that “daylich” isn’t actually a word and he didn’t deserve the triple word score.

Then he breaks out a pack of biscuits as a peace offering and all is forgiven. The two of you nibble on those while watching a movie on your laptop and then shuffle off to bed.

Long after Soap has fallen asleep, you’re awake. The memory of his body against yours always leaves you feeling branded. Like the heat of him burns right through your clothes. It’s been… probably too long since you last got off. Way too long since someone else got you off. And yeah, you had a couple of shameful secret wanks around teammates back in the day, but things are different now. You’re not high on adrenaline in the military anymore. No excuse for shoving a hand down your pants.

Still, your thoughts spiral as you finally start to doze. Rough hands on your hips, your thighs, your throat. Gentle but teasing at the true strength they possess. A hot tongue along your cheek, treating you like something to savor… or to devour. A shadow looming over you, dwarfing you. Phantom sensations that you crave as much as you shy away, wanting it but knowing you shouldn’t.

The throbbing between your thighs rouses you. Sleep-addled, you give in. You’d be embarrassed of how wet you are if anyone else were to know. And of the soft, needy noise you make when your brush your fingertips between your thighs. But Soap is still snoring steadily, and the pounding of the ongoing rain makes you brave.

You stroke slowly and gently over the bundle of nerves at first, mimicking those dreamt touches. It’s almost as maddening even when it’s your own hand. Sleep is half-dragging at you, though, and you speed up, drawing tight little circles at the top, teasing lower to stoke the heat burning in your gut. Your breathing picks up, little breaths past an open mouth.

It’s really not going to take much. Not with how long it’s been, how much you want it, vague thoughts of your darkest fantasies flickering through your hazy mind. You tilt your hips down, get the pressure of your heel against your empty, aching hole. You rock a couple times, high-pitched noises caught at the top of your throat.

You come imagining a big hand around your neck choking off those sounds. Have to slap your free hand over your mouth as you shake and writhe through it. Drag your nails up your bare thigh just to balance out the unbearable pleasure. And then you go limp against the pillows, panting and shuddering through aftershocks.

When you extract your hand from beneath the blankets, you blink at the wetness coating your fingertips for a moment. If someone asked, the excuse you’d give is not touching anything with your wet hand. But truthfully, you’re just indulging in impulsive hedonism as you suck your own fingers.

“Fuck,” you whisper to the shadows.

Then you climb out of bed for a proper cleanup, ready to finally fall asleep and definitely not think about how much quicker you came knowing that Soap was right there the entire time.

It’s raining on and off the next day. You and Soap take a little walk during one of the dry patches, though it’s cut short with how sore your hip still is. Soap collects more firewood from the shed, keeps the flames well fed while you putter about. Nap for an hour, start rereading one of your favorite books, watch a scary movie with him, make American flapjacks just for the sake of it.

Even though you should be feeling stir crazy, Soap has always made for good company. The day passes pleasantly into an early night, the sun standing little chance against the thick cloud cover.

You and Soap are settling in with scotch when frantic knocking interrupts the peaceful quiet.

“Help!” a ragged voice screams. “Someone please help me!”

You hardly exchange glances before the two of you are up. Soap goes for the door, gun in hand. You scramble for the ever-present medical kit that earned your call-sign, left out on the counter.

Soap yanks the door open; a man tumbles in. Middle aged, lanky build, bleeding from a long cut on his forehead. His ankle is twisted at a damning angle. You scan him for obvious weapons, but his t-shirt and muddy boxers reveal nothing but bruising and scraped skin. His hands are empty as they scrabble at the floor, trying to drag himself inside. Soap slams the door closed and locks it.

“Please!” the man cries again. “You have to help me!”

You drop to your knees beside him, already popping your kit open.

“We’re going to help you, sir,” you say evenly, “but you need to calm down.”

“You don’t understand,” the man gasps as you help him sit up. “H-He… he’s out there.”

“Who?” Soap asks, grip shifting on the gun.

“S-some psycho,” the man answers. You work easily past his shaking, getting a look at his swelling ankle. Definitely broken… with force. “In a mask.”

You blink, shoot Soap a look. Have the two of you fallen into some weird horror movie by accident?

“What did he do?” Soap asks.

“H-he attacked us with a big bloody knife.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” you ask. “Who else was with you?”

“The lads – my friends – my brother. Oh, god…” He pales further. You brace him, eyeing the packaged shock blanket peeking from your kit. “Danny is dead. There was so much blood.”

“How many?” Soap asks, voice hard. “How many of you are still alive?”

“I-I don’t know. I barely got-got away. Oh, god—”

He dissolves into tears and whimpers. You rip open the blanket and drape it around the man, then scoot down to his ruined ankle. Over his head, you frown at Soap. Something is missing here. This man was with at least three other people, but one man attacked them? There’s something to be said for shock and surprise and fear, but still…

“Soap?”

“Gonnae see if I can find survivors,” he says. “I’ll send ‘em your way if I find any. You stay here, take care of this ‘un.”

“That’s stupid,” you argue. “You can’t go by yourself!”

“No different than recon, aye? Not gonnae engage, but we cannae leave anyone bleedin’ out there.”

Your mouth twists. No, no you can’t leave civilians potentially wounded with a killer out for blood. Discharged or not (war criminals or not… and you both are, technically) you’re both too dutybound for that.

“RV here in ten and I’ll have the car ready for exfil.”

“Affirmative.”

He crosses to you, knocks your foreheads together – a pre-mission gesture you never thought you’d receive again. You close your eyes for a second, squeeze the back of his neck. Then send him off with a firm nod.

You lock the door after him, then return to the man.

“Are you two military or something?” he asks.

“We were,” you answer, “medical discharge.”

“Oh brilliant! You’re telling me that my only hope is a couple cripples?!”

You level him a flat, unimpressed look. “I’m a medic with more kills than you’ve got chest hairs, understand? Shut up and brace. I need to wrap your ankle.”

He whimpers and whines and curses while you set and compress it. Nothing you haven’t heard before, vehement as it may be. Ungrateful, though, you think vaguely. Save a guy’s life and he’s calling you all sorts of derogatory names while you try to salvage his ability to walk.

“You done?” you ask, interrupting his latest stream of expletives. “I need to hear if someone is coming.”

That only shuts him up for a moment before he’s piping up again. “Do you have a weapon?”

You tug your pant leg up to show the knife strapped to your calf.

“Do you even know how to use that?!”

“Look, I know this is a lot for you, so maybe you should stop talking for a while.”

His face twists, brain turning to anger as he tries to cope with his own fear and new trauma. You don’t pay him any heed, wiping off his head and closing the still-weeping cut with butterflies. All you can hear over his wheezing is the rain outside. No footsteps or screams or, most importantly, gunshots.

With the worst two of the man’s wounds seen to, you take stock. You’re not dressed for any sort of confrontation in lounge pants and socks.

“Here. Start treating your legs and arms,” you say, pressing gauze and wound wash into the man’s hands.

“Where are you going?!” he protests.

“Need to prep to leave,” you explain. “Shout if you hear anything.”

He doesn’t look thrilled, but you’re already up and hurrying to the bedroom. You climb into a thick pair of cargos – relieved that your fashion sense hasn’t improved since the army – and a thermal shirt. Your pistol is waiting in the side pocket of your duffel, loaded and holstered. The weight of it is comforting against your thigh; you’ve missed it.

You grab the bags and carry them back to the door, check your watch. It’s only been four minutes. If Soap isn’t back in another six, you’re going out to get him yourself, injured civilian be damned. Everything you’ve gone through together; you’re not going to lose your best friend to some overdramatic wanker with a knife.

“What are you doing now?!” the man asks.

You give him another once over. He’s done a decent job prioritizing the worst scrapes and cuts, they look clean enough. Most importantly, he seems less faint than when you left. Giving him something to focus on must have helped.

“Checking the car. We’re leaving as soon as Soap gets back,” you answer.

“A-at least give me something to protect myself with!”

You try not to sigh in annoyance. What good would he even be, unable to walk and shaky on adrenaline? Still, you take pity and tug the knife from your boot, offer it to him handle first.

“Not the gun?” he complains.

“No.”

You jog out to the car, gun in one hand and duffels in the other. It’s raining again, getting harder by the moment. There’s a steady, sharp pain radiating throughout your leg, threatening to knock it out from under you. You grit your teeth as you toss the bags in the backseat and move to the ignition.

And the car doesn’t start.

“Shit.”

You don’t waste time trying it again. It should be in perfect condition; it must have been tampered with.

When you approach the house again, you hear shouting from inside. You pick up the pace, nearly skid across the wooden floor when you get there. The man is huddling up by the couch, white knuckling the knife.

“I-I heard something!”

“Where?” you demand, scanning the immediate area. Thank fuck that Soap’s seanair believed in minimalism.

“In the back.”

You frown. “The only way in is through windows back there, and those are locked.”

Right?

“I know what I heard!”

“Stay here, then.”

You click the safety off and pad the short hallway to the bedroom. Don’t bother announcing yourself, or any idiotic “who’s there”. You kick the unlatched door open and sweep through the room just like you would for a raid. The tiny lamp on the nightstand is still on, illuminating the sparse space.

You check under the first bed, then sidestep and tilt your head to check the other. Nothing.

“There isn’t—”

The window is open. The window is fucking open. How?!

You spin on your heel, just in time to see a hauntingly familiar mask bent over the gurgling body of the man. There’s no hesitation as you raise the gun and fire twice, but the killer has already rolled out of the way. Well fuck that.

You rush from the bedroom, fire another two into the couch as you round the corner. He’s a fast fucker, waiting by the wall adjacent to the hall as you exit. And he’s fucking big. Slams into your side – your bad side – like a tank. It fucks your balance, and you go down with a snarled curse, winded as all his weight lands on your much smaller frame.

On training and instinct, you slam your elbow back. There’s a crunch, a grunt of pain. But damn him, he doesn’t let up. A big hand finds yours on the gun. You yelp as he squeezes hard enough to feel the bones bend. The gun fires – bang, bang, bang. His head is right by yours, the hard edge of his mask pressing into your temple, panting in your ear.

You lash out with your other arm, though your aim is off. Instead of hitting his throat, you get his jaw instead. You plant your boot on the floor and push, trying to get out from under him. Instead, he rolls with your back against his chest. The gun clatters as he snakes a thick arm around your throat. You grab at his forearm, but you know you have no hope of matching him in strength.

You scrabble for the knife in your boot, but it’s gone.

Fuck, you gave it to—

The cabin ceiling is getting spotty.

Your fingers brush the killer’s leg, find a familiar shape tucked at the side of his boot. You snatch up the knife and drive it into his calf. He growls, but the arm on your throat blessedly disappears. You suck air, blinking past dark edges. Twist onto your front and blindly fumble for your gun.

Manage two shots right to his chest. He falls limp. You wait a beat, two. He doesn’t move again.

You click the safety on and holster the gun. And then, out of morbid curiosity, crawl closer to the body.

“Holy hell,” you breathe as you get a good look at the mask.

He’s wearing a skull over a black balaclava. Not just a prop either you realize when you tap at it. It’s real. Human. Thin cracks spiderweb along the front orbital bone, the corner of the eye socket – from where you elbowed him, you think. Beyond them, his eyes are closed and still, the skin painted black.

“Big scary fucker,” you murmur. And if you’re a bit admiring… well, it between you and a dead body. A couple dead bodies. Can’t forget about the other guy. “That was almost fun.”

“Kit!”

You jolt, barely able to hear Soap’s voice over the pounding rain, but relieved to hear it. A hiss escapes between your teeth as you get to your feet, hip protesting. You have to grab at the couch to catch your balance. Then brace yourself and walk carefully towards the door.

Your fingers are just centimeters from the doorknob when an arm wraps around your neck again. You flail, try to kick off the door, but it hardly even makes him stumble. Then there’s a sharp pinch in your arm, sibilant shushing by your ear, and the world goes dark.

The world comes to you in bits and pieces.

Something soft under you. A slight ache in your hip. Fabric around your bare legs. Voices? You think you recognize the rumble of Soap’s brogue, but not whoever he’s speaking to.

Soft golden light creeps past your fluttering eyelashes. Soap is sitting across the room on… a big floor cushion? You blink a couple times, adjusting your slightly blurred vision. But yep, that’s him, sitting on a gigantic pillow. And… is that his throat mic?

“Mm… John?” you call, rubbing at your eyes.

“Aye, Kit. Nice ‘n slow now. We’re alright.”

You hum and push yourself up, limbs heavy. Once you’re sitting, Soap speaks again. Gentle and calm.

“You remember what happened?”

You pause, frown. It comes to you in a slow trickle. The trip, the forest, the cabin… and then it floods back. The injured man at the door, the killer, the struggle. The ambush as you were going to meet Soap at the door.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

“Aye.”

You give him another once over. That’s not a throat mic; it’s a collar. A thick black leather thing, complete with a silver chain that trails off somewhere behind him. You stare for a second, bewildered.

“Don’t be jealous. You match.”

Your head whips around to the hulking figure in a doorway to your right. He’s just as imposing as you remember, tall and fucking built, dressed in all black and mask still on. The soft lighting casts spooky shadows across the eye sockets.

The words process a moment later and your hand darts up to your neck. Sure enough, there’s a wide leather band around your neck. You’ll give it this, though – you didn’t even notice it until he said something. Not too tight, comfortable even. Clearly made with long-term wear against skin in mind. There’s a chain attached to yours too and you follow it to an anchor in the wall.

“If it’s any consolation, ye look right bonnie,” Soap calls.

You snort. “’Course I do.”

The killer shrugs off the wall. You watch as he saunters closer in long, heavy strides. No point in scrambling away or trying to run – you’d have a limited radius of escape if he didn’t grab you first. Besides, you’re not about to cower to some spooky bastard with a couple dirty tricks up his sleeve.

He crouches down well within your reach, clearly not concerned about you lashing out. You tilt your head in defiance, meeting his eyes for a moment before he flicks his gaze down. He reaches out, gloved fingers catching your chin. Not hard, but firm enough that there’s no arguing when he tilts your chin up.

Fabric brushes the sensitive skin of your neck, above and below the collar.

“Pretty kitty,” he purrs. “Glad I didn’t bruise this lovely neck.”

Two fingers press against one side a little harder, edging beneath the leather. You recognize the gesture as you swallow. He’s checking your pulse. You’re proud that it’s still steady and unhurried.

“Not scared?” He doesn’t say it like it’s a question.

You arch your eyebrows. “Should I be?”

His eyes flicker. “Not if you behave.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, resisting a sneer. Past his shoulder, Soap is watching with a smirk. Unharmed, you note again. He’s fine. You’re fine, despite slight soreness from the brief struggle. If there was something to be concerned about (apart from the obvious) he would have let you know right off the bat. So, you take a calculated risk.

“Yeah? And what do you consider behaving?” you ask.

The corners of the killer’s eyes crinkle. You knew enough masked men back in the military to recognize a hidden smile. He’s amused by your snarky question. Another good sign.

“Good pets obey their masters.”

You blink, breath leaving you in a soft rush. It… makes sense. Just not the answer you expected. Stupid, maybe, given the collars, leashes, and dog beds. You’ll have to blame the lingering drugs.

“There are so many shelters, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you blurt, bewildered.

The man snorts, hooks a finger under your collar and gives an almost playful tug. An entirely instinctive part of you catches its breath. You’re glad he’s not measuring your pulse anymore.

“Those can’t talk back,” he answers simply, shrugging.

Soap barks a laugh. “Well, you’ll get what you asked for with us then.”

You grin crookedly, showing all your teeth. “And then some,” you agree, reaching up to tug the hand from your collar.

He jerks harder this time, unbalancing you towards him. You catch yourself on both hands, feel a blaze of heat across your nose and glare up at him through your lashes.

“No touching, kitten,” he says. “You’ll have to earn that.”

You try not to roll your eyes, not quite willing to push your luck too far yet. But it’s a near thing.

“Sure, let me get right on that,” you scoff dryly anyway.

He clicks his tongue, but no further retribution comes save for one last warning tug. Then he’s standing, towering over you again.

“I need a shower. You two settle in.”

And he just walks off. Like he didn’t just take two former SAS operatives as human pets. You wait until you hear distant water before turning to Soap.

“What happened?”

“Ambushed me,” he grumbles, sitting back against the wall. “Snuck up as I was trying to get you untied. Bastard is trained.”

Soap’s pouting, even though there’s an entire police case of victims who weren’t as lucky as him.

“Trained like us, you mean?”

“Aye.” Soap pauses, looking at the floor pensively, brows furrowing. “Means he had every reason and way to hurt us.”

You nod. “He had me in a hold and his knife hand free. Could have done anything with it. Let me stab him instead.”

Soap hums. “And, well, there’s a basement. Could have brought us there too, I reckon.”

He glances at the doorway the killer was lingering in when you woke. You get what he’s saying – or not saying, as it were. The two of you are hale and whole only because the killer decided to make it so. Because, as all evidence seems to suggest, he wants pets.

“You figure he means it? About… us?” you wonder.

Soap shrugs. “He’s no reason ta lie.”

That’s what you’re worried about.

“News says he’s a sadist,” you point out. “His idea of a pet might be...”

“Aye, but then why do all this?” He gestures to the big soft beds, which you know must have been a bit expensive for their size and comfortability, and the well-made leather collars. You’ve even got a blanket at your feet for the cool air. “Nae, I think even sadists miss a bit ‘o companionship now n’ then.”

You hum. Makes sense, in the part of you that’s seen the worst humanity has to offer and risen up to greet it. You’ve seen plenty of shit, plenty of people, and the things they’re capable of. But even “monsters” go home to family, to hobbies, to entirely wholesome things that they enjoy just because.

That’s the hard part about war. Seeing the most depraved and evil examples of humanity and reconciling that they have qualities one can recognize in themselves.

“The plan, then?”

“Say we go along with it for now,” Soap says, shrugging. “Not like we could get free as we are anyway.”

You hum in agreement. The chain is clipped to the wall anchor by a thick padlock, and feeling at the collar earlier, you know it’s the same on the other side. The collar itself is too high-quality to come apart without something sharp. So you’re stuck. Even if you did will a lockpick into existence, you’ve no intel on the rest of the house or even where you’d go from the house.

“But listen, Kit, I’m no’ gonnae let anything happen to you. If this gets violent, I’ll tear the walls apart with my hands if I hafta.”

You smile, wish suddenly and fiercely that you could hug him. He looks like he could use it; god knows you could.

“I know, John,” you soothe. “I will too.”

He nods, jaw twitching, then sighs and sits back again. The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, digesting the plan. You take an actual look at the room you’re in – a den, it seems like. A fireplace in one corner, a decent sized couch to your left. Beyond it, you can see a clean and modern kitchen. There’s a coffee table, end tables, lamps, a goddamn rug. It’s downright cozy; like something out of a magazine.

“Nice voice, though, aye?” Soap chirps suddenly, snapping your gaze back to him.

“Soap.”

“Och, don’t ‘Soap’ me,” he grumbles. “You look me in the eye and tell me tha’s no’ a voice made fer sex.”

And damn him, you can’t.

“Can’t say I was thinking about his voice when he was waving a big knife at me.”

“He can wave his big knife at—”

“I’m gonna kill you myself—” You snarl, balling up your blanket and chucking at his stupid, wiggling eyebrows.

“Oi, you two,” aforementioned sexy voice chastises from the hallway.

You wrinkle your nose as Soap grins at you, a shadow in the corner of your vision as the killer comes into the room again. He brings a cloud of clean water and bergamot. He smells good.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you hiss, dismayed.

“Problem?” the killer asks.

He’s got the mask on again (or still? You hope he doesn’t shower with it on, that’s unsanitary) but you can hear him arching an eyebrow. Stubbornly, you turn away to glare at Soap some more. It’s obvious he realizes what you’re referring to from the way he smothers a snicker, though.

Shithead.

You don’t get away with it for long before a hand is pulling your jaw up. Rough only because you resist for the briefest fraction. Once he’s got your face where he wants it, though, your captor’s grip isn’t painfully tight.

“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer, kitten. Understood?”

Your hand twitches to grab at the hold but remember what he said about touching without permission. Stubborn as you may be, you’re not actively trying to incite violence against you or Soap. The plan is to go along with… whatever this is. So you swallow a bit of your pride.

“Understood.”

He hums like that’s not quite the answer he wanted, but it’s acceptable for now.

“Now, is there a problem?” he asks again.

“Apart from the kidnapping?” you snip. “Everything is right as rain.”

He snorts, smooths his thumb over your chin, slow and dangerous. You go still, refuse to falter but careful not to provoke further.

“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” he muses almost to himself.

“Must have expected it,” you reason honestly, “know you watched us for a few days.”

He tilts his head, eyes eerily unblinking within the unholy shadows of the skull. “Longer’n that, pretty thing.”

You open your mouth but don’t know what to say. Longer than the days at the cabin? How long? And how did you and Soap not notice?

Your spiraling thoughts are interrupted by fabric gliding over your bottom lip. His thumb threatening to slip past. You snap your jaw closed, nearly catch the tip of his finger in your teeth. He chuckles and finally releases you, making for the nearby couch.

He settles in with sigh and flicks on the TV. There on the screen is a flashing headline:

Another Ghost Victim Found.

Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #serial killer ghost #serial killer au #scottish cabin in the woods #scitw

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captain-mj · 4 months

Text

Bad dog

Been a while since I did something with muzzles and had an idea

Ghost had come back from a very successful mission, the captured creature had been locked away and catalogued. Another win for him and the fucking scientists.

He lit a cigarette and watched the... things in their rooms and cells. The scientists assured them that none were human, but he wasn't sure he completely believed them. Some were very good at mimicking people.

His personal favorite was A21987028. Or Soap. Scientists liked spouting off that long string of numbers, but Ghost preferred the nickname given. It was like how the dog like creature in cell 483 was named "Riley" because of the collar it had on when it was found. And while yes, she was a little maneater, Ghost still snuck her biscuits and things to eat and she liked him better.

Soap was interesting. Brimming with intelligence, perfectly mimicking a Scottish man, and friendly.

Ghost went to his room and sat with him, likely he usually did. He sat across from him and Soap perked up. The brown leather across his face was the only grim reminder of what he was. Otherwise, he looked normal. Even his clothes were nice, of the latest fashion.

"Hello, Simon." Soap said with a smile, teeth flashing under the brown leather. Same one Riley wore. Same one everything in this building wore but the guards. "Come to chat?"

Ghost shifted, legs spreading to fill out the chair. He looked at Soap. "Another mission. Caught a thing that looks like a mix between a raccoon and a sparrow. Its wings are too small to fly."

"How did you catch it?"

Ghost had speared it like a fish and held it down, blade causing yellow blood to gush out until it had the good sense to stop fighting. He had thrown it in the cage and heard the useless wing snap.

"Used one of those loops on the poles. It hooked around it's neck and i dropped it in the cage. No harm, no foul."

Soap nodded and walked over. There were strict rules on most of the creatures, but Soap was different. Intelligent enough to know that fighting back was futile. Friendly enough to be able to play nice. In the fifteen years there, he had never once caused an incident.

The muzzle stayed, so did the chains around his ankles, but his hands were freed. His room decorated. Books were given to him. A tv. He had plenty of enmities.

Ghost still felt guilty. If he could, he'd let Soap leave. But Soap was not truly Soap. He was A21987028. A thing that had appeared out of the sky and ate flesh.

For now though, it wasn't feeding time. Ghost could be here, with him. In this space.

Soap leaned down and brushed the muzzle against Ghost's mask. Like an animal.

"Simon. Do they listen to our conversations?"

"Don't necessarily listen, but they do record them. If there was ever a need, they'd review them. But you won't do that. You're a good boy." Ghost meant it as a joke. A fucked up version of one, but a joke.

Soap looked at him, that brilliant blue was wrong. It happened occasionally. Soap wouldn't look like Soap. He'd look like someone or something else. Usually they were so subtle, Ghost would be unsure if they really even happened.

"Shame. Sometimes, I want to tell you things. Tell you secrets. But I can't. Things listen."

Ghost had no doubts in his mind that Soap didn't mean the microphones.

"I apologize, Soap. Lights out soon, I'm on night duty."

"Will you come say hi to me as you pass?" That wasn't what Soap really wanted. He wanted Ghost to sneak him food.

“Maybe.” Ghost smiled at him.

Soap brightened considerably. “I’ll wait for you.” He smiled and went around the room, a sway to it.

Ghost left, as always, wondering what Soap would feel like if they could touch without his gloves between them. He’d show Soap the sun. The moon.

Instead, he had to have a picture of them on the wall.

Ghost thought of the dozens of documentaries over space and human history and war. Soap requested to have a documentary over bombs, but they denied him immediately.

He'd do wonders in the human world. But it wasn't human. It was hard to remember that at times.

Ghost made sure before he went back by Soap that he had a candy bar to slip into his cell. A candy bar that was grabbed by a hand with too many fingers.

"Simon?"

"Yes, Soap?"

Soap looked at him, eyes glowing enough so Ghost would surely see him. "I appreciate the time we spend we spend together."

Ghost smiled at him and he could tell, despite the mask, that Soap could see. He pulled away and kept walking through the yard. Creatures tried to get his attention. All hoping that he'll be the one to slip up and let them free.

The night ended like all nights ended. With him turning into his own bed in a different barracks. With Simon laying down and remembering that he's doing good for the world.

He couldn't have been asleep long when the alarms went off. He assumed it was Protocol L at first, a common break they had was that particular one. But then he heard the numbers that followed and realized more than just one had escaped. He grabbed his gun and checked his gear, happy he hadn't taken much of it off, and got out the door.

Ghost put the majority of the creatures back in their cages, safe and sound. Most were intimidated by him, despite being able to grow much bigger than him.

Then his gun came face to face with Soap.

The muzzle was still securely on, but the chains had been broken. "Simon. Don't make me hurt you."

"Think you have the nerve?"

"Come with me. We can go somewhere else. Somewhere just the two of us." Soap grabbed his hand and moved closer. "I promise, I'm really not like the others. I don't want to hurt you.""

Ghost put his gun under Soap's chin. They had about five minutes to leave. "How can I trust it? How do I know you weren't playing the long con?"

"You know me. You love me. i love you. Let's go." Soap squeezed his hand tight. "Please. I want to see the world. See everything."

Ghost squeezed his hand back and made a decision.

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #call of duty modern warfare ii #cod mw2 #ghostsoap #cod #soapghost #ghoap

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blingblong55 · 1 year

Text

Daily things-141

Reader walking out of the restroom after 10 minutes

Soap: r/n, are you okay? Did you throw up in there?

R/n: no, I'm just pooping, you know how I be.

*walks away*

---------

Ghost invited reader to have tea one time. Safe to say, he won't be inviting them anymore.

Ghost, sips tea reader made for him: what kind of tea is it?

R/n, with confidence: oh I boiled some gatorade

---------

-at a meeting-

Price has made the tea, write down ideas for their next mission. He walks to reader, who has no idea he read what they wrote. Price: what is a two way petting zoo?

R/n, ashamed: you pet the animals, they pet you back

Soap: i'd go

Price: soap!

------------

Ghost just asking questions reader and the others have to fill in.

Ghost to Gaz: any allergies?

Gaz: no.

Ghost to soap: any medications you are taking?

Soap: nope.

Ghost to r/n: any weaknesses

R/n: I don't have any, you asshole

-------

French! Reader

Reader has a heavy French accent, the team can barely comprehend what they say.

R/n: the key to life..is a penis in your asshole

Gaz: i dont think you're saying what you mean to say...?

R/n: no..no..oui, oui..eh..a penis...eh..to smile to be appy (happy).

Price: oh! happiness!

R/n, nodding and continuing on: in your asshole..

Soap: ehm...thats..

R/n: in your asshole...eh..where you live..your apartment, your domicile

Ghost: household?....The key to life is in your household!

R/n: oui!

--------

Soap, Gaz and Reader are all chasing a raccoon. Not because it is for its own safety, but because this is their way of playing around.

Ghost to the camera: Sometimes I feel like everyone I work with is an idiot...

Ghost: and by sometimes I mean all the time.

-----

A/n: I'm still working on my writers block, but just know she will eventually die down and I'll be back to writing your requests.

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xmorguekittyx · 4 months

Text

Chapter 1 : 𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠 & 𝘽𝙡𝙪𝙚

master list

Pattering, the sound of the rain pelting the windshield and the whooshing of wind kissing her windows had her heart feeling like it was in her throat. The pulsing of her heartbeat, she could almost taste it. "The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning in these following counties-", shit. It never sees to fail that while she was the most nervous, things would continue to get worse and worse. Strikes of lightening lit up the soaked pavement, there was at least 30 more miles before she hit Raccoon City outskirts. She should've postponed heading out of town, but Desmond needed some Blood BeGone soap, which she had been sent to go deliver. The storm seemed to put everyone out of commission. It was a crying shame, honestly. "-IMPACTS... Flying debris will be dangerous to those caught without shelter. Mobile homes will be damaged or destroyed. Damage to roofs, windows, and vehicles will occur. Tree damage is likely. You are in a life-threatening situation. Flying debris may be deadly to those caught without shelter. Mobile homes will be destroyed. Considerable damage to homes...businesses...and vehicles is likely and complete destruction is possible.", Jesus, could things get worse?

They could; the storm seemed to be a little bit before schedule, her headlights illuminating branches and twigs laid over the pavement. The rain blurring the image as she leaned forwards, praying that the branches would grant her mercy and not wreak havoc on her tires. Surely, one thing had to go right, right? Maybe the gods could pass on a little favoritism. The road had to be cleared, but she would have to make it across, her eyes squint to try and find some distinguishable marker for her calling the sheriff's office once she gets back to the morgue. They should be able to stop traffic at least for the night, hopefully nobody has had to come through- a small gasp part her lips. Between the trees sat a blue Honda, the car having the trunk popped and, absolutely, nobody around. A sick feeling of unease crept up her throat as she eyed the car, analyzing, again, anything she could remember to tell police. Part of her wanted to jump out and make sure everything was okay, but the lights were shut off, she could only see it as her head lights shinned past it. It was just unfortunate timing; she could feel the gusts of wind trying to sway her car. Hopefully they had been picked up and just forgot the trunk, as much as that would suck; that was the best outcome. Especially with how bodies had been piling up at her job.

The anxiety she felt from the storm and car hit an all-time high as she heard the beginning of Nobody by Avenged Sevenfold start to play from her cupholder, jarring her already frazzled mind. The photo of Leon Kennedy flickering in her screen, it was from when her father had still been alive, working at the same police station Leon did. He passed right when Leon joined, but that had been a few years ago. No matter how much it felt like it was yesterday, time was moving fast, but she felt like she was being left behind. Her eyes glanced up at the road before she slammed on the breaks, a doe running across the street as her tires locked up, squealing as her phone fell into the floorboards. Hands fighting the steering wheel as she tried to steady the car and her heart. "I'll have a damn heart attack before I even make it back.", she sighed, her chest expanding to take in all the air she could. Nobody playing once more, had her nearly jumping out of her skin as she scrambled with the phone, scooping it from the floor. "Hello?", she held the phone to her ear, sitting in the car, she couldn't bare driving right now. Afraid was an understatement, it appears the gods found no favor for her, this night. "Where are you? Harvy has been blowing up my office phone demanding I start up a missing person's report.", his airy and slow voice drawled over the receiver. "Well...", her eyes went back through the droplet covered window. "The roads are getting worse, I've been having some trouble returning to the morgue.", she felt the air build up on her lungs before letting it out in a huff. "Hey- Leon?", she figured now was better than never to tell him all the shit that had gone on tonight. "There's a car up here on mile marker 37, trunk's open and lights are off. It's parked in the woods a little off the shoulder. You think you guys could come check it out and clear the road?", if they would tonight, would be the real question. "I'll head out first thing in the morning, it's unsafe to be out there right now. You said mile marker 37? There's a motel just a few roads south of you. If I were you, I'd stop in for the night, Kitty.", his voice sounded like honey poured on pancakes in the golden hour of sunrise. Hot coffee laying in the windowsill as the day started early on. Saying Katerina Visage had a crush on Leon Kennedy would've resulted in pink cheeks and embarrassed groans. Now, it left her wondering; what if?

"Yeah, I'll stop there for the night. I'll have to book it on foot, during this but-", her voice trailed off. "It's better than getting kidnapped or taken in a tornado in your car.", sometimes, he sounded like her dad. "It's... rough out here.", her voice was full of exhaustion. It felt like today had lasted the week, "You mind stopping by in the morning on your way to check things out? It would make me feel a little better just seeing you.", in all honesty, she was spooked. The storm, the car, the deer, the motel she'd never even heard of before. "Yeah, don't worry about that. First thing in the morning I'll be at that motel, waiting to take you back home. I'll get your car towed; Chief Iron's wouldn't want you paying for that.", he sounded like he was stretching, she was sure that it must've been a slow night for the men. The rain probably the only mischief Raccoon City had going on tonight. "Thank you, Leon. I don't know what I'd do without you.", her teeth sunk into the dead skin around her nails. "I guess I'm about to start walking, I'll message you once I get there, okay?", her voice was full of dread. The walk was not super familiar, especially in the dark with a nearly dead road. "Stay safe, Kit. Don't be afraid to call me if anything happens.", he had a soft tone with those words, Kitty remembered Leon being the rookie. She was 17 when she first saw the 21 year old, fresh from the academy walk into RPD. Her dad being one of the first to welcome him.

"My daughter put up a banner for you, we've all been excited to have you join.", he waved to the circle banner that read. 'Welcome Leon', the 'e' in Leon was twisted but she was so proud of hanging it. Her smile wide as she also introduced herself to the man, starting a friendship that grew over a mutual shared space.

Her father's passing brought them closer together, her father was always close with Leon. He had been the one to train him on the job. "Just get there and pray there's a room.", she sighed, before grabbing her charger, her phone, wallet and keys. Her body had to tense as she placed her hand on the handle, taking a deep breath of warm air and dryness. She had to just hurry, it was just a coincidence the car was abandoned, right?

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call-of-duty-incorrect-quotes · 9 months

Text

Watching the raccoons living at the back of the base playing with Soap and some rookies.

Price: Simon. You need to get Soap to stop.

Ghost. Johnny, stop.

Soap: No!

Ghost: I tried.

Price: ...

#cod mw2 #cod mwii #call of duty #cod mwiii #cod mw3 #cod modern warfare #soap mactavish #ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #johnny mactavish #john soap mactavish #john price #johnny soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #simon riley #Raccoons

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lambstoth3slaughter · 3 months

Note

A door creaks open near Sinclair, closing before they can see what came out of it. It disappears a moment later.

"Divorce going well?"

Tal's voices are a little sarcastic, and it isn't entirely clear where they're coming from.

- @eyes-that-decieve

Sinclair was laid on their bed, the baby raccoon cuddled up by their side, sleeping soundly. The bed has many pillows on it. The TV was on and played in black and white, some soap opera called "Vivir de amor." They didn't know what was being said, nor did they care. They just needed something to fill in the silence.

They didn't even notice the door opening or closing, though they were very much aware that they weren't alone. Then a crackle, a voice that they haven't heard before, filled the room. Since sst up, reaching for their knife.

"What the hell are you doing in my flat? Get out! Now!" They said, pushing Fornsaxa behind them, disturbing the poor thing's sleep.

#tma rp #oc rp #tma oc #sinclair foster

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xxbottlecapx · 1 year

Text

I saw someone make an ASMR au where Eddie and Steve are asmrtists so I wanted to throw out an idea into the void

Eddie is an up and coming asmrtist who specializes in mainly satirical/crack ASMR. Steve, a beauty asmrtists who does mostly OOTD, makeup/hair content, absolutely falls in love with Eddie’s videos due to homesickness.

Steve and Robin had to move for college and he misses the party (Dustin, Erica, Eleven, Will, Lucas, Jonathan, Nancy, Argyle, Mike) a lot, and we all know that together that is an absolute Force to be reckoned with.

Steve stumbles upon Eddie’s small YouTube channel and falls in love with how chaotic his videos are. It reminds him of the insanity of home, and the small DND rambles are always the best way to stop Steve from crying.

I’m just imagining Steve clicking a video and Eddie’s face comes on screen, he has rings on his fingers and he waved to the camera calmly, doesn’t do an intro, and whispers “hey, you look tense. Does your back hurt? Oh, it doesn’t?” And Steve thinks it’s gonna be a normal role play until Eddie pulls out a knife and goes “would you like it to?” And it just devolved into chaos after that where Eddie pretends to get kidnapped by aliens or something.

One of Eddie’s most famous videos is of him pretending to be a guy the viewer has a one night stand with and he goes around your house dropping dnd figurines in all your shoes. There’s another one under the one night stand category where Eddie is obviously playing the role of someone you’re trying to seduce into bed but he keeps getting sidetracked and talks about odd conspiracy theories and keeps trying to show you how cool his shrek impersonation is.

There’s one where Eddie is literally doing ASMR dumpster diving but he only speaks the entire bee movie script. (Think AngelicaASMR before she entered her trad fem phase.) Eddie has a video where he pretends to be a raccoon trying to overtake the government, and he ends up making it a series and eventually he adds a plot to it. There’s also one where he is having a serious conversation about the struggles of raising children until you realize that the person he’s talking to is a tiny plastic dinosaur. He also has a mini series where he plays with said tiny plastic dinosaur and pretty much makes a soap opera using a bunch of cheap trinkets. there’s some especially deranged ones where you’re a door and Eddie is trying to rip you off your hinges. There’s one where he runs a cult based off of guitar picks but it gets increasingly harder and more nonsensical to follow as the video continues.

Every once in a while he’ll break character and laugh into the camera, unable to keep himself together, but he never takes it out. He is NOT taking himself seriously at all and Steve adores it.

#crack prompt #asmr #steve harrington #steddie #eddie munson #steve x eddie #steveddie #eddie x steve #stranger things #asmrtist AU #fanfic ideas

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ollie-jpg · 2 years

Text

soapghost headcanons sleep edition

ghost:

sleeps in complete darkness. has blackout curtains and unplugs/shuts off all his electronics before going to sleep. sleeps in complete silence. if you didn’t know better you’d think you were walking into a cave

hates sleeping. it makes him feel vulnerable but he also think it’s an impractical waste of time

sleeps on a twin sized mattress. curls into a ball when he sleeps

always too hot

the first time soap slept in his bed ghost got a foot lodged in his side and he ended up on the floor and got no sleep that night

light sleeper

there’s at least one knife under his pillow at all times. sometimes he hides more between the mattress and the frame

talks in his sleep

refuses to sleep around anyone else because he has trust issues. will force himself to go days without sleeping unless soap is around

locks the door to his room at the same time every night to make him feel safer

has at least two weighted blankets that he’s folded in half to make them seem heavier but they’re still not heavy enough for his liking

loves it when soap lays on him/rests his head on his chest

soap

soap sleeps with the curtains half drawn and always has something playing in the background

wears earplugs when he sleeps ?? don’t ask me to explain it’s just something he would do

s p r a w l s out as much as he can. sleeps on a king sized mattress just because he likes having the space

has led strip lights on the walls but never changes the color from red and he keeps them on the lowest setting because it’s easy on the eyes at night and he knows ghost won’t mind it

the first time ghost slept in his bed he woke up the next morning crying because he had slept really well and that scared him (trauma responses abhorred <3) and soap didn’t understand it at first and thought he had done something wrong

a literal ice cube. loves to snuggle with ghost at night to warm himself up & gets sad when ghost isn’t around to keep him warm

sometimes finds himself sleeping On Top of ghost like a baby sleeping on somebody’s chest

never knows how it ends up happening but he doesn’t complain about it ever because he loves it

wears socks in bed

one time a civvy kid brought him a little beat up raccoon stuffed animal & he sleeps with it very night (it lowkey reminds him of ghost)

keeps a stack of various books on his bedside table to read at night when he can’t sleep

soap snores so effing loud

#soapghost #cod #ghostsoap #original #ollie talks #look at me creating content for something i know nothing about!

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star-quill · 1 year

Note

what are ur fav peter headcanons <3

omg giggles i have so many

while i say he's the big spoon, whenever he's upset he will always love being the little spoon. he needs to be taken care of and being held and made sure he's safe is something he loves.

it's a known fact he will have music playing all the time but he also plays it when he's sleeping. not loud, the volume is faintly playing in the room but it helps him sleep easier.

contrary to popular belief, i think he's an excellent cook. he has this special spicy tomato and garlic pasta recipe that he loves making and even makes some garlic bread to go along with him.

he's a whizz with space technology but slap an iphone in front of him and this man will go blank. he's not a great texter but he tries his best. oh, he fucking loves emojis. this one (🕺) is his favourite. he also got teary eyed when he saw the raccoon emoji.

his music taste is still stuck in the 70s/80s but he's gradually becoming accustomed to modern day music too. i definitely feel like he'd enjoy arctic monkeys' new stuff (mainly tbh+c and the car) more so than the old stuff but other than that, he just enjoys what he's listened to his whole life.

he's definitely a sucker for collectibles. like pin badges or posters, especially if they're like vintage style. he frames them and sticks them up on his wall in his room. not all of them match but he kinda likes that.

he's usually just used to taking showers on the ship or on planets if they have to stop for long periods of time so now that he's back on earth, he craves baths. just soaking up and relaxing for a few hours, he's in absolute heaven. and yes he uses bubbles and soaps.

very good at diy. can put a shelf up in less than 5 minutes. doesn't enjoy chores very much but he seems to end up just doing them anyway without any complaints.

loves being active. works out a few times a week, goes for runs, etc. and when he's bored, he'll just take a stroll round the neighbourhood, stopping to talk to anyone he meets on his path. and he will pet all the dogs he sees.

i could go on for hours abt him fr he means so much to me my little babygirl ☹️🫶

#he's my litle scrumply i lov talking abt him #i will talk abt him 24/7 #peter quill #peter quill x reader #peter quill drabble #peter quill headcanons #peter quill fluff #guardians of the galaxy #gotg #✎ peter quill #answered #anon

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blue-razzslushie · 4 months

Text

Introducing My Hogwarts Legacy MC: Rory Ebony!

GENERAL INFORMATION:

Name: Rory Michael Evan Ebony

Age: 15

Voice Claim: Jessica Vosk (Lute from HH)

Personality Type: INTJ-T

House: Ravenclaw

Patronus: Raven (Ironic much)

Boggart: Themself, corrupted by dark ancient magic like Ranrok was. It was what they could have been, or yet to be.

Hair color: Black

Eye color (s): Yellow and Dark Blue

Skin tone: Caramel

Nationality: Pardo [Brazilian + British.]

Height: 5'4

Clothing Style: Typically casual and easy to move around clothes works for them best. When the Option arises, they always choose to take off their school robe. They prefer to dress more masculine, would rather Avada Kadabra Themself then wear a skirt or dress. Hands get cold easily so they always keep on fingerless black gloves. Also enjoys keeping Solar Specticals on at all times, due to their light sensitivity!

PERSONALITY, LIKES AND DISLIKES

Personality: Rory is a very straight forward serious person, especially for their age. Preferring to outsmart their opponents then go in headfirst. They mostly spend their time in the Room of Requirment studying for classes, making plans to stop Rookwood and Ranrok's lot, and occasionally reading up on astronomy. Besides for a handful of teachers and students, They would very much prefer to not talk to anyone and be alone. Once people do get close to them, they can be more open and friendly.

Traits: Sarcastic, Smart, Cold, Brave, Witty, Snarky, Sassy, Calculative, Funny, Stubborn, Very VERY stubborn

Likes: Silence, Alone time, Cats, Raccoons, Dueling, Lemon tea, Astronomy

Dislikes: Children, Crowds, Loud noises, The Smell of Peanut butter, Squirrels, getting called any words that insult their intelligence or work ethic, for example. . .Ignorant (SEBASTIAN cough cough)

Habits: Fiddling with wand absentmindedly, Being too blunt with people, Overworking, Cutting Sleep, Skipping Meals, Pushing people away

Hobbies: Drawing, Writing, Playing Violin, Studying Astronomy, Talking Shit abt people to their Kneazle

Fears: Being Forgotten, Letting people down.

Favorite Class: Potions/DADA

Favorite spells: Diffindo, Depulso, Incendio, Glacius, Disillusionment, Alohomora

Favorite Professors: Prof. Sharp, Prof. Fig, Prof.Hecat, Prof.Weasley

Favorite Beast: Kneazle/Hippogriff

BACKGROUND/ LORE

Rory doesn't really remember the early years of their life. They were born as what would modernly be known as Intersex, Not exactly known what gender they were at all. And just as you would expect, society including their parents were not fond of this. It was as if they we're a freak. Not too long after being born Rory's parents seperated, and didn't seem either was keen to keep the child they had created. With a stroke of pure genius abandoning them at a small Orphanage called SmileSide Orphanage; and never looking back.

SmileSide Orphanage mind you, was anything but a place to smile. It was rather poor to say the least and the caretakers for the children were. . .less then kind. The place constantly smelled of old socks and despair, every child there constantly scared stiff by the women who ran the place. It seemed like everything anyone did was wrong. Breath too loud? Locked in the cellar with no meals for 2 Moons. Speak out of turn? Wash out your mouth with soap! And the punishments only got more severe from there. Just like the other kids, Rory hated it there.

However, Unlike most children, they never really were too interested in getting adopted or finding friends at the place. Instead, They spent most of their time nose in a book, they liked non-ficton and learning everything they could. But, Fiction always holds a special place in their heart. More specifically, Mystery series. Rory always loved solving puzzles and mysteries, Figuring out the culprit of the crime along with the main character in their favourite book was always something they enjoyed. As well as reading, they did more creative things as well, Drawing, Writing, tinkering. . .all while Learning as much as they could from the local library and other educational things the small town had to offer.

This went on for 14 more years, along the way Rory eventually growing tired of the same routine. They wanted adventure, something new to discover, maybe a new book to read? They had read almost every one in the library twice for Peats Sake! Eventually, on their 15th birthday receiving a letter at their bedside. It was a rather ominis letter, being addressed to:

Rory Micheal Evan Ebony

432 Creek Road, SmileSide Orphanage

Bed #12, 2nd Floor

Oh. . .okay! This was a bit unsettling. Reading the message, they learned the letter came from "Headmistress Matilda Weasley".or whoever she was. The letter informed them they shall be admitted to a school called "Hogwarts". Apparently they were long overdue to go, 4 entire years late? However, a man named Eleazar Fig, or Professor Fig, was going to be coming to mentor them? They were baffled, yet excited. This was unexpected, uncharted Mystery Letter. And you know them. . .They loved solving a good Mystery. Surprisingly (and conviently) enough not even 5 minutes later a older man showed up at the front door wearing rather Flamboyant clothing. He looked at the child before him as if he already knew them, extending a hand and introducing himself as Eleazar Fig. . .hey it's the man from the letter! Now this? This was the sort of new adventure they've been craving. . . If only they new what the future would hold.

RELATIONSHIPS WITH STAFF/STUDENTS

Professor Fig: Father Figure #1! person Rory was able to trust, and I mean fully trust. They bonded well over the few months before Rory attended Hogwarts, Getting taught about the Wizarding World and its inhabitants. Their bond only strengthened once the whole Ancient Magic ability came about. They were a lot alike, Clever, Sassy, and unbelievably courageous. Fig was their emotional backbone throughout the journey, giving words of encouragement and praise all the way. Professor Fig always cared for Rory as if his own child since the day they began being mentored by him, They acted a lot like Miriam in his opinion, and that's what only made him love them more. He understood them, and even when he didn't he tried to be there either way. As much as they would have rather died then admit it, Professor Fig was basically what They always wanted in their father. A kind man who would support them and be able to trust. If only he could still be here. . .Oh Professor, they're so sorry.

Professor Sharp: Father Figure #2! Rory always liked Potions, and Professor Sharp's class in general. They always found it odd how people hated his class, Perhaps those students were just to weak when it came to "Intimidating" people telling them what to do. The two didn't start to truly bond until after Professor Fig's death, Sure they knew each other and were friendly. . . But that's all it was. It wasn't until Rory was in the Potions classroom every other hour trying to hide from People asking questions about the battle under Hogwarts and Professor Weasley's kind but overwhelming mother henning, the potions professor and the Ravenclaw really started to actually know each other. The two were a lot alike in personality and mannerisms, hell even similar mental issues. To Professor Sharp. . . They were too alike for his own comfort. Professor Sharp always was fond of Rory, as much as it could be hard to see. He admired their hard working, no nonsense ethic that very few others their age manages to possess. Albeit he had chided them one too many times about almost falling asleep in their brews every so often. He almost saw himself in the kid, and to say the least he didn't like that

Self destructive tendencies that he knew WAY too well. After Professor Fig passed he stepped up to be their "mentor" in a sense. Mentoring them to keep helping them understand 4 extra years of Hogwarts magic they missed, as well as maybe get them off the destructive path they were going down.

Professor Weasley: Mother Figure!! Rory always highly respected and admired Professor Weasley. She was unbelievably kind to them at the first moment they met. And continued to be during the school year and even after that. Professor Weasley was just as fond or Rory as they were to her, if not more. Such a hardworking student who seemed to be prepared every step of the way. Sure she was a bit cross they had lied to her for the better part of the year about their ancient magic ability and. . . Extra Curricular activities that could have easily ended their life. But she was mainly just glad they were alright. . . She doesn't have favorites what do you mean?

Sebastian: Buddies. Ever since first day DADA, Rory and Sebastian grew to be close friends. Investigating the triptych and that damned Relic, the two had their own hate/love dynamic. There was only so much tomfoolery and idiotic statements Rory can take before having to "take a break" from Sebastians presence. . . Who doesn't need a break from that.

Natty: Platonic Soulmates, From the First day in class, to the troll attack in Hogsemead, and the many more adventures the two had go on. Natty and Rory were joined at the hip, Close as can be. Natsai was one of the only people Rory could be around and genuinely smile, Making sly jokes and Sarcastic comments back and forth at one another. One of the most powerful duo's in Hogwarts I'd reckon.

Poppy: Close friends. Poppy is more of the opposite of Rory, The sun to their moon if you would. Saving beasts from poachers, Successfully returning a dragon egg to it's mother, and befriending the Centaurus, the two grew close over the school year.

Ominis: Friendly aquaintances, besides trying to stop Sebastian from doing anything too idiotic for the most part Ominis and Rory don't talk much. The two mostly conversate in Professor Binns class, since they are sat right beside one another.

Amit: Best Friends! Amit and Rory are two buddy's who love the stars and it's wonders, when the chance arises the two can be found in the library or in the astronomy tower info-dumping about their own discoveries of the cosmos.

Garreth: Friends! Since the two are both adept in potion making, they mostly bond in potions class. Sometimes getting partnered up together for specific lessons. Thankfully for Professor Sharp, Rory manages to keep Garreth from doing anything explosive when paired together. Sure they do threaten him with a hex that would have him puking up slugs for a few days. . . But then again he has it coming.

Imelda: Rivals to Lovers. Ever since the first Flying race the two had against one another in the beginning of the year, a electrical Rivalry started. One thing Rory never did, was back down. Even so they were always impressed by Imeldas firey spirit when it came to flying, being so passionate was somehow attractive? Rory and Imelda met up every week or so to fly, Even if it wasn't on a race track they would fly along together, spitting firey yet affectionate insults at one another. On the other hand, Rory's competitive spirit and down right determination, not to mention how they could easily clap back and stand up for themself. . .it was one of the reason Imelda liked them so much, to her dismay. No no no! They were NOT apart of her future plans! She doesn't have time for them. . . Does she? No she isn't blushing. . . She has a fever! It's hot out!. . . Ughh

CREATOR/ AUTHORS NOTE! ! !

Hey all! You can call Me Razz, and this is my goofy little Hogwarts Legacy Oc! HL has been rolling around in my brain for a HOT ASS MINUTE and I've seen so many lovely people on here sharing their MC's so it's my turn lol! If you like Rory and want to see more LEMME KNOW I LOVE DRAWING THEM!!

#hogwarts legacy fanart #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #amit thakkar #garreth weasley #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #poppy sweeting #natsai onai #professor sharp #professor fig #Rory Ebony #ravenclaw mc #imelda reyes #imelda reyes x f!mc

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cbsxreader · 1 year

Text

Random and odd headcanons/ideas to keep ya'll fed while I work on requests

TF2

Sniper has a small cactus back from Australia in his camper. It's an ideal plant for him because he remembers to water it only twice a month.

Pyro knits, crochets or sews collars for cats. Some are messy, but others are actually very good and detailed.

Demoman has found a dragon's scale. But no one ever believes him it's real and assume he's just made it on his own. It's gotten to the point where he doubts if it's real or not, it is, but y'know, other people's thoughts get to him.

Engie has a crude and messy mug on his desk where he puts his pencils. The mug was made by Pyro during a team vacation by a lake, Pyro found a bunch of clay, molded the mug themselves and left it out in the sun to dry. It's messy because that kind of clay isn't the best, but the effort is what counts.

I refuse to believe that Heavy didn't have a cat or two back in Siberia that helped their family by getting rid of pests and that Heavy loved them very much.

Since Scout had a big family and probably wasn't allowed to have pets, he played with the street animals. His Ma would constantly tell him to stop but he did it behind her back sometimes.

Speaking of pets, Soldier has befriended raccoons all his life and actually has some experience with them.

Spy has a large stash of chocolates that he brings out when he's had a long day. Usually, he climbs into bed, brings his chocolates and wine along with him and watches some soap opera or drama.

Medic constantly loses the little clean cloth to clean glasses with because Archimedes likes the texture of it and steals it.

Ms. Pauling sometimes asks Sniper to make her some coffee and he waits for her in the most random places to give it to her because she doesn't have the time to make it herself.

Freak Fortress:

CBS shakes like a dog after getting wet. A lot of the times, CPS gets hit by water because Brutal just shakes it off wherever.

CPS's favourite book would be Good Omens. And no one can change my mind. Crowley and Aziraphale would remind him of him and CBS. Also, that book makes him question his sexuality-

Painis Cupcake would listen to Lady Gaga while waiting for his next victim.

(Dw if you've made a request I promise I'm working on it, these just existed in my mind before and I quickly threw them in one post)

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writeforfandoms · 1 year

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I learned that raccoons apparently just. Screech when upset/distressed.

Just. The boys hearing a high pitched screech from somewhere on base, sprinting to see what’s the matter, only to see that Sneaky is playing a video game by herself or something, and is having trouble beating a boss and/or a level. Or she was playing a horror game and the jump scare really got to her. And she just. Screeched without thinking of the ramifications of such an action.

She is asked to please keep the screeching to a minimum, as it gave them all a heart attack. Or to at least give the boys a heads up when she games so they know the screeching isn’t something to worry about.

🦝🦝🦝🦝

I'm bloody cackling at this!!

Just. Sneaky sitting in the pack room by herself like watching a horror movie and a jump scare gets to her and she screeches, kind of on accident. Doesn't even think anything of it.

Until Ghost bursts in with a combat knife in hand, Soap and Gaz both shifted ready to deal with whatever threat, and Price right behind them. They're all like "what happened???" And she's so embarrassed to tell them, just staring all wide-eyed, low key wondering if she can shift and run away

Price just sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose and very calmly asks her to please either tell them ahead of time, or try not to screech, because they thought she was in actual distress

Soap, meanwhile, is laughing his head off (after he shifts back) because the jump scare got her. Ghost decides to jump scare him and Soap absolutely shrieks and like jumps a foot in the air

Sneaky feels better after that

#🦝 anon #shifter au

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angelically-crying · 10 months

Text

|: Call of Duty HC 🫶 :|

Note : This is my first post, other than the intro post, so Don’t get all mad if I misspell anything or I have a certain HC you don’t agree with. 💕

Characters mentioned : John price, Simon Riley, John Mactavish, Kyle Garrick, Kate Laswell, Nikolai, Alex Keller, and Farrah Karim ‼️💕 the sillies

John Price-

Greatest and most stressed father of the year award.

💥 silly Quokka smile💥

Y’know those iq ads that show the older you are, the less you know? He gets so offended by that so he tries playing it to show he isn’t dumb, but gets pissed when they just aren’t interactive and send him to the download page.

He’s an animal dude, he can rock with any animal you put him next to. But I am guessing, personally, that he was like obsessed with black bears specifically. Nobody knew why. He just found them cool and amazing as a kid, and still does.

He has that old dad cough that sounds like he’s dying of influenza. AND DONT GET ME STARTED ON HIS SNOR—

You know how some dads hug and sway you and themselves as you hug? He does that. He got that treatment when he was younger, it conditioned onto him. When he first did it to Simon, MF was confused as shit and gave the most horrendous and judgmental side eye after they finished the hug.

speaking of the others, They will get spooked like cats when Price suddenly sneezes like a bazooka or coughs like he just smoked 20 packs of cigarettes at once. Especially Kyle, he most definitely had a heart attack the first time he heard Price cough twice in a row thinking he was dying.

Supportive ahh bisexual dad.💕🥺

Gives off “Hey Gay, I’m Dad!” Jokes if you came out to him.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

I both Can and can’t see why people simp for this man.

sure, He makes booktok people horny af for his mask and deep British accent, his tattoos, the fact he could break their neck in one morsel of strength but would decide not to if he knew them, etc etc.

but that’s most likely from trauma, both unresolved and buried down or spoken about like jokes but gets angered when someone jokes about it. (Both is me. I’m those examples. Yippeee ‼️)

breakfast. He isn’t picky but he is. Beans? Fuck that shit, Burn. BURN. However, the most darkest and traumatic tasting coffee ever grounded from the pits of hell itself just made for the traumatized Masked man? Sure. Call it a cup of FUCKING JOE.

Though he doesn’t sneeze or cough like Price does, He sleeps dying influenza patient Victorian man style. First time he and Soap were forced to sleep together, Soap woke up miraculously early, thought he died and cried there for 20 minutes before Ghost woke up all tired like he was hibernating.

I think he loves Riley for not only is she just adorable and a great dog, She is the best thing to have when dealing with snakes.

He was fixated on one animal when he was younger. Motherfucking Raccoons. He found them so hilarious and goofy as a kid, he now fell in love with a man who is the human embodiment and reincarnation of the raccoon king.

One pet peeve Ghost has is when someone smacks their lips. No matter what, you smack your lips, he smacks you too. He’s that badass mum that goes “Keep smacking them lips, I’ll smack you.” While cracking his knuckles viscously.

Traumatized gay man. 😔💪

John “Soap” Mactavish :

Listen, He likes bubble baths. That’s a pretty well known fact. But.. Have you ever considered.. He may try doing Romantic dates in a bath tub? He’ll do those corny but sweet rose petal trails to a bathtub filled with bubbles and rubber ducks with a goddamn rose in his mouth seductively.

anyways, hope your happy with that visual. He most definitely does the continuous bumping his wrists together, not knowing he’s saying ‘hard sex’ in ASL. (I did this multiple times, both before and after. It’s unconsciously stuck to me. I fear myself only.)

If he ever visited England to see his boyfriend Lieutenant, Ghost, nobody could fucking understand him. But when Ghost visits Soap, Everybody sounds so fucking confusing to Ghost that he just walked out into a forest for a lap. Like when people read a cringy sentence and have to put their phones down, walk around their house two or three times, before going back.

He makes fun of Kyle whenever Helicopters are mentioned in a convo, just like making puns to piss him off.

“ Oi Gaz, do ye like the band ‘The fall out boys’? ” while giggling like a mean middle school girl. 😔✊

He likes frogs. Did as a kid, still does now. But the catch is, He cannot go towards one if his entire life was on the line. Like, He finds them cute but nearly pisses himself when They jump towards him.

silly little bisexual ‼️😊

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

So. You wanna hear my head canons of my Husband? /Jkjk—

I could imagine this dude was judgmental as a kid, full on mama’s Boy conversation with his mama like “ Let me guess, Aunt Stephanie said this! She is always talking crap about you, Mama, but I don’t see dad coming home with a new hickey every weekend. “

when someone goes low, he goes the lowEST.

I like to think he has a sister or two who influenced him on skincare, periods (for if he pulls anyone with period hauntings), and how to style various hairstyles just so his sisters didn’t have to pay a shit ton of money for the same hairstyle.

Do any of you guys just.. think this man bakes? Just baking when he’s bored or stressed. No thoughts. Just cookies.

He loved otters as a kid, but now finds Pallas cats better.

trust that he has heard tea from nearly every country that even agents don’t know about.

Bisexual. Leaning more towards mlm but nonetheless free-styling .

Kate Laswell :

the queen. The majesty. The LESBIAN MUM.

I like to imagine her wife is the ultimate mastermind, Like Kate is just the boss of tf141 but instantly does any bidding her wife asks her to do.

She’d be a great aunt, Mum would be even better.

I bet she met her wife in either a serene area like a flower shop or a bloodlust filled chaos like the battlefield. Two ways this could go. No in-between. Retired lesbian medic, Or Flowershop owner.

Kate seemed like the girl to like Penguins for not only their cuteness but their habitats , their diet, their life, and everything about them.

Would I be wrong to say that she most definitely got a piercing when she was a teen but took it out some time later?

She’d be a great friend to have, she’d be the one who’d order for you if you’re nervous.

You cannot FUCKING. DENY. That she has a border collie with a sweet name like Dolly

She has a wide range of music, but Music from Dolly Parton inspires her. Just imagine it.

a canonical lesbian with immense sarcasm.

Alex Keller :

Mmm the white man. /jk

He seems like he’d be the average uncle. I actually have an uncle that looks sorta like him, but balding brown hair and is named Corey.

He most definitely had a golden retriever or Siberian husky as a kid, some dog breed that’s hella energetic.

i can imagine how Any dog interaction he has now, they always try at least once to steal his leg like fetch.

He regretfully wore old spice when he was a teen but thankfully stopped after smelling himself.

He seemed to have played baseball as a kid. He just gives off that vibe.

He most definitely mispronounces easy af words on accident when distracted.

speaking of that, he seems to be a baking when stress kind of dude but also, if he did that, he’d pause halfway through cause he got distracted then forgets what he was doing. The only reminder being the burning kitchen after thirty minutes of distractions.

Silly little pansexual ‼️💕

Farah Karim

would i be wrong to headcannon that she would be the best muffin maker? Like even better than Gaz and Laswell.

She is so pretty ‼️

her favorite animal once was hedgehogs but now it’s lionesses. A massive change but both great animals.

I bet when she was a kid that she would threaten to bite people, and when in fights, actually did bite people. Worth it. (i have done this before as a kid. Proud af)

She would rock those black a leopard print sunglasses mums wear to beaches. Just think of it.

I wanna think that she had once owned those rabid chihuahuas and called the dog something sweet and unsuspecting like “Mr. sprinkles” for the fun and hell of it.

silly little demiromantic bisexual 🫶💕‼️

#call of duty #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #farah karim #alex keller #kyle gaz garrick #kate laswell #headcanon #headcannons #my headcanons #silly stuff #silly post

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