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idk-i-just-write-tings · 2 months ago

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Unnamed 09 Ghoap thing:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was like the world froze.

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

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

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

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

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

#09 soapghost #09 ghoap #ghostsoap #ghoap #call of duty #captain mactavish #john soap mactavish #09 ghost #simon ghost riley #soapghost

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ceilidho · 2 years ago

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prompt: Soap being a funny, goofy flirt with his barista whenever he's on leave back home….super cocky and charming, then a couple months go by …. and he comes back sort of rougher around the edges after Las Almas. less trusting. a bit meaner when he talks to her….. [soap/reader] 2.5k; nsfw (on ao3)

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

He’s back again. It’s not a usual occurrence, but when it happens your heart kicks into overdrive. He appears like clockwork every couple of months, and then back to back over a quick succession of days. Like he’s in town one week and then gone the next.

You look up from where you’re organizing the muffins in the display case to find him grinning down at you from the other side. His hair is freshly shorn on both sides, the stripe of hair down the middle likely barely long enough for him to work his thick fingers through it. He’s got a cocksure grin spread across his lips. A fresh cut over his right eyebrow, a butterfly bandage over it.

“Hi John,” you say. It’s almost a struggle to say the words. Your hands shake a bit where they’re extended out amongst the pastries, fingers pressing into a carrot muffin a bit too hard. It dents beneath your fingers. You pull them out, rest the tongs behind you on the countertop.

“Hi kitty cat,” he purrs, folding his arms over the pastry case, leaning as close to you as he can. If it were anyone else, you might be tempted to scold them for smudging the glass. It’s you that’ll have to clean that up later. “Not Johnny anymore? Have I been gone for too long?”

Charm like butter spread thick over freshly toasted sourdough, already melting into the bread, dripping onto the plate between the pockets of air. You know he could ruin you if he wanted to, if you let him in.

You know it won’t be long until you fold. He hasn’t been subtle about it. “Sorry, Johnny, we’re all out of scones.”

“Aw, that’s how you apologize for tossing up my morning?”

You twiddle your thumbs. “Sorry.”

“‘Have to do better than tha’, kitty cat,” Johnny says, lips drawn into a faux pout that has your heart skittering in your chest like it’s been let loose from the stables for once. “I was waiting for those scones for near a month."

“We have cream buns,” you offer. He snorts.

“Not in the mood for anything cream filled just yet.”

There isn’t a shade of red deep enough to describe your face. “Pardon?”

“Ye fancy going for a bevvy tonight?” Johnny asks instead, evading the question.

You probably look as gobsmacked as you feel. It’s not like you haven’t been asked out on dates before, but Johnny is leagues away from any of the men you’ve dated. He’s cockier, back straight and chest out, flaunting the muscles strapped across his chest and arms. You think it’s reasonable that you’ve chalked his flirting up to habit, something he does with everyone; whatever distance you’ve put between yourself and your inevitable nervous breakdown has been built on assuring yourself that Johnny surely didn’t mean for you to take his flirting seriously.

Apparently, you were wrong.

“You want to take me out?” you ask, sounding a bit dumb.

“‘Course I do.” He cocks an eyebrow, leveling you with an obvious look. “Haven’t been shy about it; s’a bit tough when I’m all over the place these days, but I’m in town for the next two weeks, so we’ve got some time. When you getting off today, kitty cat?”

Johnny leans farther over the countertop, towering over you now that you aren’t standing on the raised platform by the pastry case. Palms spread wide over the granite; when your eyes flit down, you can’t help the way they’re drawn to the dark, livid tattoos crawling up his forearms. Dark ink like they’re new trophies on his skin.

His attention is always like the sun; your whole body burns under his gaze. There’s something about being stared at so intensely, blue eyes raking down the front of you, that makes you unsure.

He buys a croissant instead, tenner pressed gently into the palm of your hand. You're tempted to deflect, tell him you aren't interested.

“Seven,” you whisper instead, hands shaking when you hand him his change.

His hand closes around yours, callused fingers rough against your skin. “Got it. Pick you up seven sharp.”

When he leaves, you barely hear the jingle behind him, the blood pounding in your ears. You have a date.

Your chest is tight for hours, thinking about your date later that evening. He picks you up after your shift, just as you’re locking up; you thought you’d have a couple minutes to head back to your apartment and freshen up, but you find him waiting outside the coffee shop for you, clad in a black hoodie and the same jeans as earlier.

He’s as slick and gentlemanly as you might’ve anticipated, walking you to the pub with a hand nestled against your low back. You talk for what seems like hours tucked away in the corner. Johnny makes good conversation, but sometimes it feels a bit like an interrogation. He’s talkative, but there’s a faint edge underlying everything he does; he makes you wait for him at your table while he orders for the two of you at the bar, taking the seat facing you so you’re ensconced in his shadow, hidden from anyone else in the pub.

He insists on walking you back to your place, boots splattering through the puddles accumulating between the cobblestones. He makes sure you walk on the dry side. Every light you pass under sweeps across his face in a golden arc, illuminating the corner edge of his jawline, the plush spread of his lips, the furl of his ear like a nautilus shell. Brows that slope over deep set eyes.

When he leaves you off at the door, Johnny’s hand curls in the hairs at the back of your neck and tugs you up for a kiss that goes scorching hot. Fingers tangled in your hair, other hand coming up to cup your cheek, holding you in place. You feel trapped, helpless against the onslaught of him; a hot tongue flicks into your mouth and he groans, making your head spin. You feel it resonate through you.

“Johnny—” you mumble when he pulls away for a second, cut off when he leans back in to suckle at your bottom lip. His beard is bristly against the soft skin around your mouth.

You feel him smirk against your lips. He nips at the lower one. “I’ll see ya tomorrow, a’right, kitty cat?”

Johnny only looks the slightest bit disheveled when he pulls away. A thumb traces your lower lip. He briefly looks regretful, like he wants to bend down again for another one—you feel the intention when he presses his thumb ever so slightly past your lips—but then he pulls back, walking backwards down the street away from you. A hand raised in goodbye.

Then the next day, he’s gone. Vanished into thin air. You glance up whenever the wind chimes over the door jingle, but it’s never him, always someone with a different hat, a different face.

You thought he promised you two weeks this time. Your chest collapses when the door opens and someone else walks in. Apparently he spoke too soon.

Two days go by; you’re fighting the desperation to know. It oddly never crosses your mind to think that he’s ghosting you. Maybe it should. You hardly know him outside of the brief interactions you have every other month when he’s back from wherever he works (and you know that it’s all top secret, hush hush, you’ve seen the military tattoos and kept your questions to yourself), but it doesn’t feel—and you think this with no small degree of irony—like something he’d do.

On the walk home, you often catch yourself looking for the familiar shape of him. Wandering past the shops closing up for the night, people piling into the bars, raucous voices tumbling up into the smoky sky; you stand on your tiptoes on the other side of the street and peer in, looking for the broad shape of his back.

You never spot him. There is a cold gap in your life that goes unfilled. It smarts at the root of you; you didn’t think you could miss Johnny. You thought you could feel a twinge of regret every now and then for not indulging his flirting a bit more, but you had honestly shelved him higher than you could reach in your desires. Until he took you out and listened to you ramble on, listened deeply with his attention rapt, his cheek pressed into his fist as he leaned against the table towards you. Until he whisked you safely back home and held you in place while he sipped kisses from your mouth until your lips were swollen.

It’s months later when you hear it.

“Hi kitty.”

Your blood goes hot at the sound of his voice. When you whip around, Johnny’s on the other side of the counter like he never left. Black shirt that clings to the curve of his biceps, old jeans with fades around the knees and thighs stretched around his thighs.

When you meet his eyes, they seem charged, steadier than usual. Flat lips turned up just at the corner, one side only. Johnny’s not usually so still, so grounded on his feet; there’s usually a frenetic undercurrent to him, like catching a live wire. You don’t know what he’s like out in the real world, but in your world he looks like he paces and runs to work himself free of all the extra energy. Maybe other forms of cardio.

“Johnny, you’re—” You catch yourself before the words tumble out, before you make it known that you’ve been tossing and turning late at night wondering where he went. Blue eyes sparkle like they hear it anyway, the faint note of desperation seeping into your voice like a hoarseness.

“Fancy going for a bevvy tonight?” he asks you again. Less of a question this time.

You feel pulled to him on a string. He doesn’t leave you in peace this time. He waits you out, sits at a table in the coffee shop facing you. Customers you’ve known for years seem entranced by him, and how could they not? They don’t make them like him often—tall and blue eyed, roguish; ruggedly handsome when the mood strikes. Pretty boy until he turns the full weight of his stare on you and you’re forced to contend with the fact that he is, in fact, all man.

Your amity turns to enmity when someone stares at him for too long. Placated only because Johnny never so much as turns their way.

Dinner is a long, drawn out affair. His conversation is rougher than usual, punctuated by bouts of silence. His eyes are murky waters. Something’s changed, you think, salad speared on your fork, hovering just in front of your mouth, studying him. Something happened in the months that he was away. Whatever it was, it’s left Johnny a bit more calculating, less trusting. He sits facing the door this time, eyes flicking up whenever it opens on the other side of the restaurant.

“Sorry, angel, don’t have it in me to be sweet and gentle anymore,” Johnny says when he walks you to your doorstep. “‘Fraid it’s gonna be rough for you from now on.”

His words make you tremble.

The kiss at your doorstep doesn’t end there this time. Maybe this is all an extension of that moment months ago, the natural endpoint. You were never going to end up anywhere else but flat on your back under him.

“Pure gaggin' fer it, aren’t ya, kitty?”

Johnny’s voice is rough, barely a rumble over the sound of your own keening. Your whole body slides up the bed every time he ruts into you, thick cock spearing you open. Your hands slip over his shoulders where a layer of sweat has built up; your bodies slide together like you’ve been at it for hours, rather than just the thirty minutes since Johnny bodied his way into your place and made you guide him to the bedroom, shucking his clothes the whole way there.

“No, I would’ve—” You gasp on a particularly rough thrust, teeth clenching together, “—I would’ve w-waited. Oh god, oh god.”

“Haud yer' wheesht, bonnie, quit whining,” he grunts. “Dinnae act like you weren’t asking for a big cock in this cunt. Could hear her purring behind the counter. Needed it for months, didn’t ya?”

You knew this was in him somehow, this penchant for dirty talk. He’s always moved like it was in him. You feel swept away by it, scorching under his hands and tongue and dick. Tightly wound. Only capable of holding on, one hand clenched now in the lowest part of his mohawk while he ducks his head to suck your nipple into his mouth. When he gives it a mean bite, you squirm and cry out.

“Never thought you were s-serious,” you admit, whimpering when he nips again at the tender spot there.

Johnny draws back onto his haunches, still deep in you. There are scars across his chest that you didn’t notice before. New skin frosted over, deep gouges across his arms; what you think looks like a bullet wound. Your eyes go wide. It’s impossible to think what he must have been through.

He looms over you, hand coming up to curl delicately around your throat. Just enough to let you know that he’s there, that he’s got you right where he wants. Johnny smiles wide, wicked, white teeth stark in the darkness of your room.

“Oh, I’m very serious, kitty,” he laughs, deep and throaty. He thrusts languidly into your heat now, drawing it out.

He makes a show of it when he comes, fingers tightening around your neck. Your breath hitches in your throat. It strikes you in the moment that you let him in bare, trusted him despite months of absence and no real excuse for it. When he pulls out, you feel it leak from you. Frustration boils under your skin because you haven’t come yet; you feel almost betrayed, a whiplash reaction that has tears welling up in your ears.

“Don’t worry,” Johnny coos at the sight of your pinched face, “you’ll get yours, bonnie. Gonna treat this kitty real nice.”

You struggle against his hold when he forces your legs wide and slots himself between them, making his way down the bed. He tongues deep into your cunt to lick his own spend out. Your thoughts dribble out of you, head empty; there’s nothing left in you except bone-deep exhaustion and the feel of his bearded cheeks scraping against your inner thighs.

You flinch like you’ve been shocked when he sucks at your clit, hypersensitive. He laughs when you do, doubling his efforts. His hot mouth on the place where he still drips from you might make you lose it completely. The most wounded sound bubbles out of you. Your hand trembles in his hair, torn between pulling his mouth closer and pushing him away.

He doesn’t relent until you’ve come twice, your face flush with blood. When his tongue flicks over your clit again, it’s for the pleasure of seeing your legs spasm.

“Johnny, please—can’t anymore,” you beg, trying to press your foot against his shoulder to push him away.

His chin glistens with your juices. When he runs his tongue across his bottom lip, plump and swollen, you drag in a harsh breath. Maybe you could go again.

“Kitty, I’ve had a rough couple weeks,” he says, voice light but for where it descends into a memory, deep and dark. “Just let me eat your cunt and we’ll talk about everything later, okay?”

Your fingers tingle like they’ve fallen asleep in his hair. When you give in, it feels inevitable.

#cod mw2 #ceil writing #cod soap #johnny soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #johnny mactavish x reader #soap x reader #soap/reader #soap mw2 #soap cod #cod x reader #soap call of duty #soap mactavish

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gumbootillustrations · 3 months ago

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HAPPY CRATE DAY FELLOW BOGANS

may the bevvies be cheap and the yarns Legendary

anyway. have some of the fuckers getting up to crate day shenanigans as a treat.

plus what the gc woke up to the next morning lmao

uhh yeah. all three of the ro'bros r such fucking lightweights i'm sorry i don't make the rules

also im my rewrite lilly is aaron's sister now (no there isn't any weird sibling stuff its more "my brother is my best friend and i'm terrified that if he has any other friends i'll no longer have anyone who understands me" sorta thing. idk i hope that makes sense it makes more sense to me n is far more interesting than "rahhh jealous ex gf trope" hrnghgnggg) (she n aph r Absolutely the sils who catch up for coffee n talk shit abt their extended family (mostly derek) lmao)

#note that garroth n laurance arent dating at this point #also yeah laur is trans but like. hed totally try to knock garroth up purely for the shits n giggles #yes nether pizza is a reference to hell pizza #this is my au n i make the rules #and i say that everything is a reference to what its like living in nz #aphblr #aphmau #minecraft diaries #aphverse #mystreet #mystreet rewrite #mystreet ensemble #we can all be heroes mys

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maxybabyy · 1 year ago

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It’s barely noon.

Daniel has only been back in Monaco for a handful of hours, burnt out from flying commercial and dressed obnoxiously in bright orange, and still, he’s here.

He pulls up Max’s text one more time and stares sceptically at the building in front of him. But he’s in the right spot, the tiny guy on the map right on top of the address Max had sent.

The lady behind the reception desk looks up when he enters, a polite smile on her lips as she comes forward to greet him, “Bonjour monsieur, comment ca va?”

Daniel’s been here for too long for his French to be as bad as it is, stutters out a, “Ca va bien,” before he switches to English. “Uh, I’m here for my cats?”

“Certainly,” she says, her accent even less pronounced than Charles’. She goes back behind the desk, points out the small bevvy station on her way there. Daniel’s been in formula one for over ten years, has lived in Monaco for most of that, but this fucking cat hotel may still be the fanciest shit he’s been to. “May I ask what cats you are here for?”

Daniel jiggles the handle of the coffeemaker, watches what he hopes is coffee drip into the branded to-go cup. “Uh, Jimmy and Sassy? They’re like, Bengals, with the stripes and shit? If you have two cats that look the same, I reckon it’s probably them,” he says, searches and fails to locate a lid.

The lady coughs, and Daniel decisively doesn’t look at her, cannot – knows she has to be laughing at him. Fucking, disaster step-cat dad that he is; Max would already have them loaded up in the car and be on his way.

“The cats are registered with internal ID numbers, monsieur. I cannot tell you if we have your cats otherwise, my apologies,” she tells him, not unkind.

“Right, yeah. Let me get those for you then,” he says, chuckles. He scrolls back to the cursed message that had started it all, rattles off the IDs for both cats to the lady’s mild surprise.

‘you of course don’t have to, but always the cats like it better when they can be at home.’ He reads back now, wishes he had never ventured into the world of cat sitting and long-term pet boarding.

“I will have someone come out with your cats right away, monsieur Verstappen,” she says, taps away at the computer for a moment before the printer starts to spit out a stack of papers. “If I can just have you sign here, you will be all set.”

Daniel swallows down half of the coffee, scrapes his teeth over his tongue to mask the burn. “’course, I’m not Max, though. Just for filing purposes, I guess.” He says, scribbles his signature on the dotted line. It’s the same fucking signature that he would do on a hat or whatever the fans put in front of him, and it shouldn’t make him feel embarrassed, but it does. “My name’s Daniel. Ricciardo, I should be on the list though.”

The lady smiles, licks her finger to flick a page. “Certainly, monsieur Ricciardo.”

A man in his early twenties comes out, a cat carrier in each arm. He puts the cats on the desk and rattles off a report of their stay these past weeks, the meals they had, how they behaved, their moods.

Daniel tries to listen, makes himself remember enough that Max will be satisfied even if they didn’t also send out an update by mail every three days. The guy doesn’t stop talking, so Daniel nods along, pokes his finger through the grid and watches Sassy swat at it; Jimmy who gives him a polite lick.

Even if their names weren’t printed on the carrier, this would give them away. That at least he knows.

“Great, yeah. Thanks mate,” Daniel says and moves them down to rest by his feet. “Do I need to pay something, or will we get an invoice, or like?”

“Monsieur Verstappen has an account with us, so there is no need for that. He will be notified by mail. But I can offer you a receipt?” She says, and even she sounds unsure about the offer.

“Yeah, that would be good, cheers.”

The printer makes another noise, and one of the cats meows in response, the other quick to echo. She hands it over with a smile, and Daniel stuffs it into his pocket with a quick ‘thanks’ and picks up his cats to leave.

He’s lying on the couch later, Jimmy on his chest and Max’s latest voice message playing over the phone when he finally pulls out the receipt.

“You’re such a fucking spoilt cat, Jims.” He says, kisses his head.

Jimmy meows softly, bumps his chin with his head, so Daniel kisses him again, watches his tail flick in the air.

Yeah, alright, he thinks, maybe they do deserve it.

#max said cats were at a cat hotel on the team red line stream #and this was the only thing I could think of ...#maxiel #maxiel fic #my fic #my writing #fic

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italiansteebie · 2 years ago

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i desperately crave non american steve.

gimme italian stephano

french stephen

damn even Australian steve like can you imagine??

them moving to hawkins steve's freshman year and eddie immediately following steve being all like "oi, im gonna head to the servo for a bevvie. can ah get ya somethin?"

and eddie just... blubbering. "uh- i. im, gnarly. dude."

cut to a few years later steve meets the kids and by that time steve's accent has cut away significantly, and they don't notice until eddie wakes up in the hospital bed high off his ass from morphine asking steve to "talk austria" to him and everyone is highly confused and steve only makes it worse.

"right babe. as soon as we shoot through here we can get you right. maybe stop by maccas. good on ya almost dyin' babe."

"what the fuck was that."

"that was worse than when max first showed up from california."

"you can do an australian accent?"

steve scoffs. "gimme a pash and go back to sleep. you must be rooted, love."

their audience is still standing in confusion and steve pays them no mind, waiting for eddie to fall back asleep.

"steve." robin hisses once eddie's eye flutter closed. "explain."

they're all looking at him expectantly.

"i was born in australia. a real true blue. freshman year as youse call it."

he can almost see the moment it clicks for robin.

"oh my god! you're the australian guy everyone was freaking out over in 8th grade? shit. i was wondering what happened to him. that makes so much sense."

there's a grimace on little wheelers face.

"what pissed in your cheerios, mate?"

the grimace worsens.

"my sister talked about you ALL the time. it was gross when i didn't know it was YOU. now it's even worse."

"oh piss off, wheeler."

the rest of the group giggles, quietly launching into questions about australia, like can he surf? is everyone really always drunk? does the toilet actually flush backwards? what's the outback like?

steve sighs. thanks a lot, eddie.

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the-oasiris · 7 months ago

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Alpha and Omega Earth Sova Dynamic + Sova Lore Yap Session B)

Saw a post floating around talking about the dynamic between Alpha and Omega agents and how omega agents being labelled automatically evil is kinda stupid. Because no, they're NOT evil. They're Omega's Earth's last hope of survival. They're the heroes, much like how our Alpha agents are the heroes of Alpha Earth for standing up to this bizarre threat. It leads to a fun grey area that is not explored at all. I hope it gets some love in the future, but for now, character development is more important for the game.

That post got me thinking about my own HCs and interpretations of A and O Sova. I rly got into exploring elements of the Alpha and Omega aspects of the game's story due to me shipping Owling (Sova/Sova) but it suddenly became a really fun thing to dive into. It's going to be a long post, so for those who kinda want the TLDR, the img below has a summarized ver of my HCs for A and O Sova's dynamic. Also, these are just my personal thoughts on the character and it's definitely not me trying to sell these HCs as canon or the closest truth we can get to on Sova's lore. Riot please write more shit for this guy I'm begging you. At least explain his stupid eye or his old alias I'm on my hands and knees bros.

Grab some snacks and bevvies for the big wall of unedited hyperfixation fueled yap under the cut. I'll also include my thoughts on ASova/OSova, but I will mostly be discussing their dynamics and stuff outside of the topic of shipping.

Initially, Owling started as a fun indulgent cloneship that had no rhyme or reason, but the literal next thought I had was treating the ship like some kind of character study based off my HCs of him. The then evolved to become a journey of Sova learning to love himself, literally and metaphorically, however incomplete he may be.

As mentioned in my chart, the Sovas are true clones of each other, mirrors. Their major life events are similar but the outcomes are different as well as the way they choose to interact with the people in their lives and the world. This therefore creates small differences in their 'perfect mirror-like' likenesses.

Sova Lore + HCs in General

My ASova headcanons are as described in my little chart. I feel like the Sova we get presented is very work-oriented whose past was shaped by his time in the military. It may very well be all he had had when he was younger. Perhaps it was what he turned to for direction in his life. I don't really have a solid headcanon for his upbringing, I'm mostly tossing several ideas around because they all seem very possible depending on how I want to picture Sova. Currently I lean more towards his parents being too busy to raise their son and therefore handed him over to his babushka to be cared for and raised. They still exist in his life, but their absences had made a significant impact on his psyche. He believes if he becomes someone useful, someone whose work was meaningful and worthy of praise, perhaps his parents would regard him more tenderly, their visits would be more purposeful, there would be reason to see their son other than obligation. He wishes to be useful not just for the sake of his parents, but for his babushka who is old and frail but has taken great pains and burdens to raise him to the best of her ability. Sova turned to the military for it was a respectable line of work. You serve the country and therefore its people, it seems a perfect fit for him who had much affinity for physical skills (hunting and general fitness). Not only that, the military would be good for him, for he need not think about his pains and troubles. The strict drills and constant orders would give him little time to dwell on his sorrows or whatever ails him. Even if his heart is lost, at the very least he has orders to follow, his path would straighten out for him as long as someone was telling him what he should be doing. In regards to his old callsign 'Filin', I'm sticking to the generally accepted HC that it's his old callsign from whatever military company he was in before Valo. As for his experiences then, my thoughts aren't too lengthy. It was a normal job experience, but he was very much just a machine there. A good obedient soldier. However, a mishap in one of his missions cost him his right eye. He continued to serve despite the injury and forced himself to remain useful to the company.

As a result of such life experiences, the Sova we see today can easily be described as a straight-laced man with strict morals who works to live. From what little trivia we have of him, he definitely has hobbies and interests outside of work. He likes hunting, photography that leans towards nature as it's focus. From his voicelines, we can gather that Sova is actually a really friendly and loving guy. He is vocal about his love for his babushka, he praises his teammates often, and he always seems ready to jump in the line of fire for his teammates if it means saving them (and by proxy, the mission). This kindness extends even to those he shouldn't extend it to, namely OSova, who is the enemy. Can you imagine sparing the guy who is invading your earth? Giving them a second chance? I feel like it's more than just some good samaritan thing/altruism, but there is unfortunately no reason given from Riot so far.

With all that knowledge of him, I interpret Sova as a person who is kind, friendly and full of desire to do good. But he has a lot of personal struggles under the hood that he pushes away in order to service others, in order to continue to be seen as a 'good soldier', to be seen as useful. His life outside of work is lackluster, his personality centered around being an asset. He struggles to properly care for himself mentally and emotionally, but is very good at sweeping everything under the rug and calling on his 'work mode' to 'solve' these issues. They don't exist now that a gun's in his hands and his boots on the field. His personal troubles will leave him, like the arrows that fly from his bow, like the bullets that race towards his target's head. The only grounding things in his life are: - His babushka loves him - He's a damn good shot with the gun and the bow - He's an excellent soldier, amazing at his job

Sova, you are miserable in your excellence.

For all his amicable nature and good intentions for others, he hardly shows the same courtesy to himself.

And finally, I yap about OSova.

Omega Sova

OSova is almost everything ASova isn't. - He is less of a workaholic (he very much works to live, but not as intensely as ASova). - He is more open to others and therefore his relationships with the Valo protocol and others in general are much more intimate and closer. As a result, his dynamic with his Cypher is also a lot less charged and they actually get along. - He is more in touch with his emotions and is tackling his fears and problems. Very unlike ASova who is avoidant.

I like to think of OSova as a representation of what a slightly healthier Sova would be. A version of Sova who is trying to improve his mental health and his relationships. He's not the 'Perfect' version of Sova, he too, is still very flawed. But he is happier, is mentally healthier and lives a generally more fulfilling life because he is actually putting effort into himself, trying to be whole.

Personal HCs on their first encounter

When ASova meets OSova for the first time, obviously nothing meaningful goes down because they gotta kill each other. But personally, I think on one occasion, ASova gets curious about his mirror self. He wonders if their lives are truly mirror-perfect reflections of each other. And he steals OSova's eye. He cuts along the familiar eye scar but cuts an additional line for he dislikes that they look exactly alike and the scar mysteriously remains permanent (this is just for my enjoyment and definitely has no real supporting rhyme or reason lol). He doesn't give the eye to KJ despite her expressing interest in it, for this is a personal selfish matter. What he finds shocks him, for OSova lives a very different life from him. And he grows angry for he is... jealous. His mirror self seemed to be living a beautiful life as compared to him and he wants to know why. He needs to learn more, needs to collect more intel. There has to be a reason his mirror self is enjoying things he doesn't seem to have himself despite being a good and useful person on his earth. Therefore, in addition to being his enemy at work, he cannot spare OSova ever again. He needs his eye. He needs to know.

AOSova Interactions HCs

It is natural that the Sovas are hostile to each other, for they are enemies. But OSova is surprised at how vicious and almost predator-fierce his mirror is with hunting him down and killing him. Sometimes it feels like ASova kills him with more brutality than necessary for whatever reason. When OSova is cornered and most definitely dead, it seems like ASova seems to go out on a limb to kill him in a more vicious way or uses excess effort to take his mirror out. OSova, being Sova, who has a soft heart and an inherent sense of kindness, tries to speak to ASova before he is killed again. But of course, ASova, who is blinded by his envy and hard driven by his soldier's duty to kill his enemy, doesn't let him talk. But eventually, one day, he does. And OSova questions their likenesses. Are they truly clones? He didn't know he was quite so fearsome, quite so merciless and cold. ASova finally allows OSova to speak, and suddenly, he realizes that they are so much more different than what he has seen. ASova also comes to realize that perhaps, in this big wide world and beyond, maybe his enemy, his 'evil' self, is the only one who can truly help him understand his pain.

It is not a pleasant thought, but that thought will soon disappear when his hunting knife goes through OSova's heart.

Sova Learns To Love Himself + Owling (Sova/Sova) Elements (Cont. from AOSova Interactions)

Teehee my fav part... If you so desire, this can be read as platonic as I've removed romantic elements.

The sauce for Owling in this sense comes from the fact that ASova believes that OSova is the only one in the world, this universe, that will understand his pain and accept him no matter what. Because they're Sova. They're supposed to be one and the same, right? Also because OSova has extended an extremely kind hand towards him over and over despite ASova mercilessly killing him time and time again without allowing him to even get a word or so in. OSova forgives this, for they both know they're 'both good soldiers who carry out orders no matter what'. And the orders are obviously to eliminate their enemies, their mirrors. ASova was just doing as he was told, and OSova holds no grudge. Hell, he probably even respects him for staying so loyal.

After OSova finally gets a word in, the pair often try to meet up secretly whenever they encounter each other on a mission to talk. It's mostly ASova talking, sharing his burdens with his copy, hoping to learn what the hell is he not doing right that OSova is. He too, wishes to live happily, much like how OSova seems to be living. OSova comforts his mirror. It is awkward initially, for what does one do when you enemy and mirror self comes at you, killing you viciously one day and then crying into your shoulder the next? But as they chat, OSova feels much pity for his copy. He wishes he could be happy, too. As much happiness their current situation allows. I'll skip over a lot of the story I've thought of for the both of them because this textpost is an ungodly length already. But, the most important interaction they will have, is that, one day, OSova reassures ASova that no matter what happens, no matter what becomes of them both, that he accepts him as he is. For they both deserve it. And if no one else will, it's ok. OSova will love ASova instead. Unfortunately, for it is still a time of war between Alpha and Omega earth, they can't both leave the field alive. And so, for now, one of them will have to go. Until their next encounter, then. But at least this time, ASova leaves with the reassurance that he can be loved. Even if it's only love from himself, he has it.

Ok I'm Done Now

And that's the end of the yap sesh phew LOL. I've left out a billion things but it's like 3am and I can't be here forever... I hope my point came across clearly enough and that any weird inconsistencies or holes in my thinking aren't too nasty because my ass aint gonna beta/edit this shit. If you read this all the way thru, thanks for braving through this behemoth of a post U_U)9 Also I hope this creates more Owling fans or at least some interest in the ship somewhat HAHA

#valorant #sova #valorant sova #text

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