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killerpancakeburger · 12 hours

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Hi! I got your ask and I'll answer it soon <3 in the meantime, I was curious about

Ka-freaking-boom, baby | Pinning (against a wall) | Renegades

👀👀

The titles/descriptions are a net, and I am but a fish you caught with it

majinbangus 🥛🐟

Hiii! Tysm for the ask! 💕

For the WIP ask game.

Alright, here we gooo *rubbing hands with glee*

Ka-freaking-boom, baby

That line by Soap drove me insane, so I came up with a Reader feeling the same way lol. It's very short so I'll post it entirely here:

“Ka-freaking-boom, baby.”

The perfect mix of rasp and silk in his voice seemed to drain all the blood from your brain and send it rushing south. It was almost worse than having his fingers stroking every inch of your skin.

Before Soap had any chance to react, you dragged him away into the nearest dark alley and kissed him furiously.

A confused moan escaped him under your assault.

Once you’ve had your fill, you withdrew, glaring at him. He was panting, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, torn between bafflement and pleasure, and, a rare occurrence, at a loss for words.

“Fuck, what the fuck… was that!?” you yelled in a whisper. “Do I have to be a freaking bomb for you to talk to me like that!?”

His eyes widened even more before understanding spread across his face. A chuckle left his lips.

“Jealous o’ an explosive, hen? Yer too cute.”

Not in the mood to play around, you grabbed his flak jacket to pull him where you wanted and, lips pressed against his ear, you described all the unspeakable acts you would do to him if he used that voice back at the base.

He let out an agonized sound at that, as if you were torturing him.

“Steamin' Jesus…”

He covered the hand that was holding him in place and took a deep inhale, most likely to keep it together.

“Bonnie, love ye, but the mission…”

You aggressively shoved your index in his sternum, looking him in the eye.

“You're making it up to me later, you hear me?”

His head was swaying with the contrast between your filthy promises and your harsh gestures, but he straightened up, recognizing an order when he heard one.

“Yes Ma'am.”

Pining (against a wall)

I read a fic where in one chapter, Soap and Reader hide from enemies with Reader stuck between the wall and Soap, and our beloved sergeant gets...hum... affected by their proximity lol. So I wanted to do a version where Soap is the one pinned between Reader and the wall. It's also the same vibe as The powder and the fuse, aka Soap sees his gf in action being very badass and finds it hot. It's smut tbh, with their clothes on tho.

WIP:

"At the sight of your enemies getting closer to your location, your bodyguard training takes over. Before you can even think about it, you grab Soap by his flak jacket, drag him into a dark alley and end up half-pining, half-slamming him against the nearest wall without warning, shoving your hand over his mouth for good measure. It's a professional reflex you'll have to apologize for later.

That, and if there's one thing he's never been good at, it's keeping it shut.

Not that he ever gave you a reason to call his skills into question, always proving himself serious and reliable on the job, but missions with only the two of you together are few and far between, and he certainly never stops running his mouth over comms during them.

Wholly focused on your opponents’ behavior, head turned away from him, on the lookout, the hand on his mouth keeping him against the wall, the other by his head, caging him in, you don't pay attention to your newfound proximity. How your faces are barely a centimeter away from each other, how his warm breath strokes your skin with each respiration. You don't notice either how much you’re pressed against his body, how your chests are touching, the contact exacerbated by each inhale, or that one of your legs is nudged between his.

Or the way his cerulean eyes are devouring you, drinking in your every move."

Renegades

It's a retelling of MW2 with Shadow!Reader, from the mission Alone until Graves die. Lots of action.

Reader kills her own coworkers when they go after civilians and deserts the Shadow company. She comes to the rescue of an injured Soap in the hopes that she can ally with the TF to take down Graves.

It's called renegadeS because It's not only about Reader's treason, but also because the TF is considered treators thanks to Shepherd, and that Reader consider that Graves betrayed her for sending her after civilians when she stated from the start she wouldn’t go after unarmed ppl/civilians.

Something about having to betray either your community/organization/group, or your own moral code, but doomed to be a traitor all the same…

WIP:

"Joining the Shadow Company had never been your first choice. Military organizations tended to be bad news, and private ones were even worse. However fate forced your hand. Or, more exactly, capitalism did.

The pay offered by the Private Military Company exceeded your wildest dreams. You've made more in a week than in one year of your regular job as a bodyguard. And you were in desperate need of money; a lot, and fast; it was the only way to afford your sister's cancer treatment.

Things weren't so bad at the start. The commander was a bigmouth, but he was sensible, and he got the job done. At some point, the corporation allied with a special task force, an international group of elite combatants, some sort of legendary military unit. You hadn't paid them much attention, since they weren't the enemy.

Until they were.

Somehow the General that commanded both those guys and the Shadow Company decided to betray his own men, turning them into traitors. At the same time, your orders brutally changed. You were expected to turn the whole town upside down to pinpoint the ex-Special Forces, and if civilians happened to be in the way, well… there was no one to hold you responsible if you put a bullet in them.

You didn’t care about the Task Force. Sucked to be them, but surely they could handle themselves.

However, the moment your coworkers started to execute unarmed civilians right in front of you, you snapped.

The latters’ screams for mercy still resonate in your ears. The racket caused by the bullets you sent through your former companions in arms hadn't been enough to make you forget their bloodcurdling yells.

You hadn't even had time to ponder your actions. Your body acted on its own. You slaughtered them without batting an eye. They probably didn’t even understand what happened to them, not expecting your betrayal. You didn’t regret it.

You hid the bodies to the best of your abilities, and slipped away.

Now here you are, lost in Las Almas, a small city in Mexico, operating in the blind. Between the dark of the night and the rain, your vision is execrable. You have little time before your ex-colleagues’ death and your disappearance get noticed. The clock is ticking, and you can see only two options presenting themselves to you: fight or flight.

You eventually stumble upon a squad of Shadows. You've been monitoring the comms, and your treason hasn’t been noticed yet.

So, in a rush of insane hope, you do the unthinkable and reveal yourself to them.

Maybe, just maybe, not all Shadows are bloodthirsty mercenaries who shoot innocents at the first opportunity. Maybe they can be reasoned with. Maybe you don't need to fight alone. Maybe…

You salute them as you approach, acting with as much natural as you can muster.

One throws one look at you and turns away. The other two stare with curiosity.

“Whattya doing here? This isn’t your area.”

You play dumb. Easy to perform when your interlocutor is already looking down on you. The only perk of being a woman in this field of work is idiots underestimating you.

“Lost my way. The others left me behind. Mind if I join?”

You make your tone as silly and harmless as possible, turning your voice higher pitched than normal. It works like a charm.

You put up with their mockeries that sound a lot like insults and other jeers, keeping a naive smile on your lips.

Following on their heels, it's easy to fall back into the routine that's been yours for the past few weeks, since you became a shadow. But that illusion of normality shatters the moment you come across inhabitants.

“They don't know shit,” grumbles one of the shadows, after barking orders at the civilians only leads to desperate pleas for mercy in spanish. “Might as well get rid of them.”

You stare at him with incredulity, your bewildered expression hidden by your balaclava. How could someone be so callous with human life was beyond you. Yes, you were killers for hire, but between fighting seasoned soldiers on a battlefield and slaughtering unarmed families in their own home, there was a world of difference.

“Sure,” shruggs another.

The third one doesn't even bother answering, already taking aim with his rifle.

You feel trapped in a horror movie, an alternative reality.

“That's not necessary,” you step in, loud enough to be clearly heard, but still attempting to not sound too authoritarian. “Killing them isn’t gonna give us any answer.”

“Who cares?” snarls the first one at you, irritated by your intervention. “We get a bonus for each target, it's all that matters.”

“But they're not targets,” you hiss, getting riled up despite yourself. “Is that what your morals are worth? A bunch of zeroes?”

“For the love of… knew admitting women was a bad idea. You’re too soft-hearted for this job. So either shut the fuck up, or-”

He never gets the chance to finish his sentence, as the bullet you fire lodges itself between his eyebrows.

As the other two squad members let out expletives in shock, you’re already shooting again. The one who was aiming his rifle at the denizens drops dead just as he gets you into his sights. The last one scrapes your side with his handgun before you make him join his teammates.

Panting, you lower your weapon and kick at one of the corpses in rage.

“Fuck! Why did you have to be such a rotten piece of shit!”

From the corner of your eye, you notice the group of civilians nearby shaking with fear, glancing at you with horror and uncomprehension. You sigh and tell them to leave, unable to look them in the eye, ashamed.

Once left to your own devices, you let your fury and your frustration explode.

“Shit, shit, shit! Never should have taken this fucking job!”

Overwhelmed, you crouch, covering your face with your hands, and swear some more.

“Why'd ye do that?”

The hoarse, foreign, barely audible voice coming out of nowhere makes you jump. You point your handgun in multiple directions, in vain.

“What the…?”

You cautiously inspect your surrondings, on your guard, ready to open fire at the first sight of an enemy. Eventually you find the owner of the voice, inside a nearby building, slumped against a crumbled brick wall, and immediately take aim at him.

“Hey there.”

The salute may be casual, but his body language shows nothing but extreme vigilance and sharp suspicion, his own handgun pointed at you. The tone of his voice isn’t exactly warm either.

At the first provokation, he will swiftly end your life without any qualms.

Your eyes roam over him and, as you take in his bare face, the soaking wet blue t-shirt adhering to his skin, and jeans, you realize you're not dealing with one of Graves’ guys. The british flag displayed on his bulletproof vest silently answers your interrogations.

“You're one of those brits,” you sigh in relief.

Well, half-relief. You may not consider them your enemies anymore, but unfortunately, that doesn't mean the opposite is true.

He scoffs at your remark, apparently mildly offended.

“Scottish.”

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esteljune · 1 month

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Johnny "Soap" MacTavish gifs [23/?]

Look at the size of this man

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theywhowriteandknowthings · 1 month

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The fact that your like, comment, and reblog set my post to include 420 is a sign, and I just had to share!!

Cheers to special brownies!! 🍻🍃💛

Ok but that’s fucking beautiful I didn’t realise 😅

The holy trinity of horny, stoned, and hungry 🍻🍃😩

Cheers to special brownies 😘

#soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #soap squad™️#john soap mactavish

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charliemwrites · 3 months

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A Thought™️ that I had yesterday after watching those AITA videos and babbling in the discord:

(This is also babble to be clear. I’ve been writing this throughout the morning so it might be a bit incoherent)

The 141 is shopping for a new team member, someone to round out their four person squad into five. They have a dozen candidates, pick one that looks promising, and transfer him over under the military equivalent of “probationary” status.

Pretty quickly they decide his personality alone might not make him a good fit but whatever, if he’s good at his job, they’ll suck it up. The “alpha male” posturing bullshit is kind of amusing in the meantime at least.

Well, first mission comes and goes. The guy isn’t too bad, honestly — apart from almost picking a fight with Gaz. Skills-wise he’s as advertised, so he gets to stay a bit longer while the 141 decides if they can stand him.

Post successful mission, though, they go out for drinks at the guy’s insistence. He invites his girlfriend — who he dragged along with him — to the bar to meet his new squad. (Because he thinks there’s no way they’re not making him a permanent teammate.)

And the 141 may be barely tolerant of him, but they decide almost instantly that they adore his girlfriend. She’s incredibly charming and bubbly, doesn’t even blink at Ghost’s mask. One of the first things she does is thank them for the opportunity they’re giving her boyfriend and for keeping him alive.

Which is about the time the real issue starts.

The boyfriend says some rubbish about “an alpha doesn’t need protecting, he does the protecting. He looks out for his pack.”

And you smile a bit awkwardly, looking embarrassed, and try to usher the conversation along.

It doesn’t take long for him to quickly fall out of what little favor he accrued. You’re a bright spot in their group, laughing and chatting with them all like you’ve known them for years. Incredibly sensitive to asking any hard questions and sort of forcing the conversation through the weird patches where your boyfriend interjects with some inane comment.

Eventually, your boyfriend gets sick of your chattering and tells you to fetch them more drinks. Soap instantly sits up, saying you don’t have to do that, but you gently wave him off. Chirp that you don’t mind doing it as a thank you for their service, and weave into the crowd.

The table goes uncomfortable quiet — apart from your boyfriend, who makes some ghastly comment about how you have a pretty face but an annoying laugh. When you get back, drinks expertly balanced in your hands, Ghost goes out of his way to drop puns that get you giggling like mad.

As the night ticks later, and your boyfriend gets drunker, he reaches the point you always dread.

“Garrick, le’s arm wrestle.”

“Baby, I don’t think that’s…”

“This is between us men.”

You groan a bit and sit back. Gaz looks befuddled but shrugs and agrees. It’s not even a contest; your boyfriend’s arm is flat to the table in all of ten seconds. Flustered, your boyfriend demands a rematch. And when he loses again, scoffs and demands a go with Soap.

You practically sink deeper and deeper into your seat before the secondhand embarrassment starts to weigh and you have to excuse yourself to the restroom. When you get back, the impromptu arm wrestling seems to be over, though your boyfriend is sulking in his corner of the booth.

When you gingerly slide back in, Price nudges you with his calf.

“Would you like a go, luv?”

You grin and shake your head. “I don’t fancy a broken wrist, Captain.”

“C’mon luv, you might surprise yourself,” he teases and you can’t resist the playful glint in his eye.

So you lock your thumb around his, elbow on the table, and push. And his arm incrementally goes down… down… down…

“Well would you look at that,” he muses.

You burst into laughter, flattered and endeared by his indulgence.

“That tough, eh?” Soap muses, arching an eyebrow. “Let’s see it, then.”

So you roll your eyes, fully expecting to get trounced. But just like with Price, he starts to relent when you put up resistance, making a show of straining and panting as he “loses.” When you’ve won, you finally play into the joke.

“Serves you right,” you tease.

By your side, you hear your boyfriend huff derisively. “Oh, come on.”

Before your fun can be ruined, though, Ghost is offering you his hand, dark eyes sparkling. You bite your lip, but it doesn’t hide your grin as you accept the unspoken challenge. His hand is huge around yours, but shockingly gentle. He goes down easiest of all, whistling in amazement.

“Look’it that, you’re a pro,” he says, “think we should all be buying you a drink.”

“She doesn’t drink,” your boyfriend interjects.

You huff and settle back into the booth. “Maybe some other time, Lieutenant Riley?”

“Count on it.”

You get into an argument with your boyfriend that night. He thinks you were “challenging his dominance” and “stirring the pot,” trying to sew discord and strife amongst the men to get them fighting over you. He says something about being the alpha of the group and that he would win but it’s insulting to him as your “provider” that you would question his authority.

He’s tipsy as he says it though, working himself up. You just follow the usual routine of soothing, reassuring, simpering — and then considering leaving when he’s finally asleep. But you’re far from home, don’t have the means to leave, and besides, you won’t be finding any support from your family on this front so…

Well, it’s not so bad, you remind yourself. He can be an asshole, but so can you and it takes two to fight. Besides, he only gets really bad when he’s been drinking and that’s only once a week? 1 out of 7 isn’t a bad ratio.

—

The 141 pretty much collectively decide that they adore you though. You get regularly invited to team outings, wherein your boyfriend keeps challenging (and losing) arm wrestling, while the boys coax you into “winning.”

They’ve also become rather adamant that you don’t bring them drinks anymore.

“You’re not our personal beer wench, yeah? We’re able to get our own pints,” Gaz soothes.

Your boyfriend chuckles and shakes his head, imparts his “wisdom” that it’s a female’s job to serve her man and his friends. As a sign of respect or something. You know it’s not an argument worth having and just sip at your drink in silence.

But you love going out with them. Love knowing the men keeping your boyfriend alive and they’re a good bunch. Respectful and funny and disciplined — you’re kind of hoping they snap your boyfriend out of this weird “alpha male” phase he’s been going through. On the other hand, you’re thrilled to be making something like friends. Sure, your boyfriend has made it clear that the 141 are his friends, but they’re always so conscious of keeping you involved and comfortable.

Then one night your boyfriend mentions what a “good little cook” you are and that instantly has all the boys perking up. Smiling, you offer to host during the Saturday League matches. They gleefully accept over your boyfriend’s protests about other men in his territory or something like that.

But when they do come over they’re horrified by the unspoken expectations. You tell them to sit, that you’ll bring them all drinks, with snacks on the way. They’ll be having none of it.

Ghost helps you with drinks, Gaz chops the veggies for snacks (and dinner). Soap pops in to keep you company while you babysit simmering pots. Price helps to tidy as you go, despite you’re fussing that he really doesn’t need to, he should be enjoying the games!

They end up spending more time with you in the kitchen than out in the den with their own teammate. You barely notice, swept up in the busy currents of playing hostess. When your boyfriend shouts that he needs another beer, you come back to find Price getting plates and utensils for dinner. It’s so thoughtful you could cry.

Even worse is when they help you clean up afterwards. Each of them taking and clearing their own plates. Soap on washing big dishes, Gaz on drying. Ghost is packing up leftovers. Price is turning over the dishwasher, asking you where dishes go and tutting when you insist you should be helping.

All the while, your boyfriend stands in the doorway telling you all the ways you could improve the meal next time. And how you definitely ate too much for your body size, etc.

He only stops when Price makes a pointed comment about standing around looking pretty.

When they leave, they each sweep you up in a hug and drop a kiss on your cheek, praising your home and cooking and hosting. Soap promises that he’ll get you a little souvenir on their next mission as a thank you.

And sure enough, three weeks later, the boys are coming by. Except your boyfriend is nowhere to be found — out with some other guys from the base that he says he hit it off with. The 141 insist that he agreed to a football watch again, the empty headed muppet.

And of course you’re not going to turn them away! They’ve brought you flowers, a little matryoshka set from their last mission, chocolates and wine. Not one of them is empty handed.

“Do you even like the game?” Gaz asks as you put it on.

“My favorite team isn’t playing until tomorrow but I don’t mind watching,” you answer, shrugging.

But somehow no football is watched at all. Instead they convince you to tell them your top three favorite movies, then claim none of them have ever seen any of them and they have to watch all of them.

Which is how your boyfriend finds his whole team enjoying a little movie marathon with you. You’re on the ground with Johnny (it’s Johnny now, for you) doing his eyebrows. Gaz is braiding your hair. Ghost (Simon) is sharing a bowl of candies with you. You’re sat against Price’s shins, the captain sitting in your boyfriend’s chair, lounging like a king.

When you welcome him back, telling him the boys are staying the night, he tries to throw a fit about it. How dare you let four strange men stay alone with you?! You calmly remind him that he promised he’d be home by 11 and it’s already nearly 1. And besides, he trusts them with his life, you’re allowed to trust them to be polite in your own home.

With all four of his teammates watching, tense and nearly hostile, he mutters something about being tired and storms off to bed. You end up falling asleep on the couch with ghost despite yourself.

And your boyfriend becomes absolutely haunted by his team’s (is it even his team? It feels more like yours!) affection for you.

They always invite you out even if he doesn’t plan to invite you. (When did you get any of their numbers?! Never mind Ghost’s. He doesn’t even have Ghost’s number.)

They stop by the flat constantly, sometimes dropping in. Other times staying for hours. Soap tells him that they’re all one big family; that includes you. (“Alright then why don’t we go hang out with one of your girlfriends?!” He had an actual nightmare about the laughter that gets him.)

And the fucking gifts. It’s not just soap bringing you things anymore. It’s all of them. Magnets, mugs, sweets, pretty rocks. Just garbage to your boyfriend but you treat it all like treasure. They’ve even got you sending them on hunts for specific things. Something blue, something with nuts, something with the flag.

Then there’s the base.

They bring you on one day — Price picks you up, the boys greet you at the barracks with coffee and breakfast. You’re put into a big 141 hoodie that says “Riley” on the back and toured around. You’re supposed to be “surprising” your boyfriend, but he’s busy with recruits and generally seems uninterested in being around you.

Not to worry though, the 141 is happy to show you a good time around base! Gaz and Johnny walk you through one of the obstacle courses, Simon lets you sit on his back for pushups during the last of his workout. Price takes you to the range and shows you the basics of shooting, then lets you catnap through the adrenaline drop in his office.

Your boyfriend only bothers to find you when Johnny and Simon are teaching you basic self-defense. Your boyfriend scoffs that you’re plenty protected by him, but you point out that he’s away too often to be of any real help — at which point Johnny tags you and bolts before your boyfriend can get all up in arms.

You only recognize that this little hurdle in your relationship has become a chasm when something happens. A big argument with your parents over the phone — you barely even remember what about. But instead of calling your boyfriend afterwards, your first call is to Gaz. (Because you know he’s the most likely to be free and paying attention to his phone.) You’re almost shocked when he picks up on the second ring. Your boyfriend has never answered on the first call.

When you try to explain through poorly-restrained tears, he coos at you to find a warm coffee shop and that they’ll be right there. “They” ends up being him and Johnny, since Simon and Price are locked up in an important meeting. They buy you hot chocolate and pastries while you vent to them, and end up leaving feeling better for once.

But you can’t break up with your boyfriend. Because if you do, the 141 will surely stop hanging out with you, and you value their company enough to put up with it.

At least until you come home one day to find all your little gifts gone. When you ask through a tight throat where everything is, your boyfriend says he was just making space. That you’ve been complaining that you two need a bigger flat, but now he’s solved the problem without wasting money.

You actually raise your voice for once, throwing an entire fit because this. This is the last straw. You storm into your bedroom, slam and lock the door, and call the 141.

A small part of you expects they’ll take his side or something. But nope. Simon soothes you on the other end, that the whole squad will be there in fifteen and to pack your stuff.

You do so while Price takes over and keeps you level. Reminds you of essentials to pack and explains that you’ll be coming to stay at his place, since he’s got off-base housing. It’ll be quiet and cozy and safe while you recover.

Five minutes away, they promise to be right there and end the call.

You could absolutely scream when your boyfriend — ex boyfriend — starts banging on the door. Demanding that you open the door to him. That you’re being over dramatic and blowing everything out of proportion. Using the “your emotional and irrational” line that you’ve heard a thousand times and are just about sick of.

Your heart stutters with relief when you hear the knocking at the apartment door, confused silence as your ex goes to see who it is. You take that moment to slip out, packed suitcase in hand.

You startle a bit at some commotion, round the corner to see your ex’s shirt bunched up in Johnny’s fists, looking ready kill him. No one seems inclined to pull him away; neither are you.

“How are you holding up, luv?” Gaz asks gently as Simon takes your bag.

“Been better,” you admit, sniffling as Price wraps you up in a hug.

“It was just things, luv,” he soothes, “we’ll get you a million more, if you like.”

You pull back to give him a miserable look. “But they were my things and they didn’t have to go anywhere. He just threw them out.”

Johnny snarls something out, but Gaz is already ushering you out the door. You tell your family about the break up through text and then shut off your phone, bundled into the backseat of an SUV with Gaz in the backseat. Price is in the front, all of you waiting for Simon and Johnny to come down.

“What now?” you ask quietly.

“Well, about time we cut that knob loose,” Price muses. “But that’s not your problem anymore.”

“Oh…

“And you, luv.” He looks at you through the rear view. “You get whatever you want.”

#cod #thoughts™️#my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #polycule #poly 141 #misters steal your girl #get it? misters plural. because they all steal that girl

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bigdumbbambieyes · 2 years

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i haven’t written anything for my Trauma Blondes™️ in a while so here are some more besties Billy and Chrissy headcanons 🤍 plus their boyfriends obvi

• Chrissy loves going to the Farmer’s Market with Billy every Saturday morning. She’ll put on her favourite outfit and do her hair, looking so fresh-faced and sunny when Billy finally rolls up to her house at 9am. She says a rushed goodbye to her parents before running outside and settling into the passenger seat, smiling knowingly as she shuts the door and eyes Billy. He’s slumped in his seat, aviators on, and dressed in his usual blue jeans but he’s wearing what she called his ‘hangover shirt’, which is an old tour t-shirt for Led Zeppelin. He’s hungover as shit and she laughs at him, runs a manicured hand through his hair, which he scrunches his nose at and swats half-heartedly at her. When they get to the market, she buys him his breakfast as a ‘thank you’: black coffee and a pastry. He follows her around and holds her bags as she shops for fresh garden vegetables and hand-picked fruit, both of them taking turns smelling the homemade soaps and looking at jewelry. Billy may look disinterested or tired but it’s his favourite part of the weekend: to spend his Saturday mornings away from his dad and home and just be soft with his best friend. Chrissy loves it for exactly the same reasons.

• Chrissy’s first memory of Billy is when she and a few girls from the cheer squad were walking outside the school and a blue Camaro revved its engine loudly, on purpose. All the girls including Chrissy either jumped or screamed in surprise (or both). She remembers looking into the window and seeing a smug smile on the new boy’s face, like he was proud of himself for startling them. She and her friends had rushed away and she didn’t expect to see or talk to him ever again.

• Billy’s first memory of Chrissy is seeing her in the hallway during his first week in Hawkins. He thought she was pretty, for a hick, but way too skinny and quiet for his tastes. The day he remembers clearly is when they were walking towards each other in the hall and she glanced up from the floor, her face breaking out into a big smile with slightly crooked teeth that made Billy almost trip over his own feet. But, that smile wasn’t for him - it was for her friend, who had been walking behind him. He couldn’t get that bright smile out of his head for a long time and used to pretend it was for him.

• Chrissy is the first girl his age to respect Billy, in all ways. She is respectful of his physical space, actively listens to him when he speaks, gives advice when he asks, apologizing when she accidentally says something hurtful, looks him in the eye (that took a while but came eventually), she’s discreet when they talk in public, etc. She doesn’t want him for anything except for who he is and it’s refreshing because no one ever has.

• They tried to run away, once. Packed their bags and snuck out on a random night just before their senior year after talking about it for over a week, about how they could start over in California. They got beyond the city limits after midnight and drove and drove until they shared a look. They couldn’t do it. Not yet. They hugged in the Camaro for a very long time, muttering quiet promises to each other before Billy let Chrissy go and she snuck back into her room with her luggage. They didn’t try to run away again.

• Chrissy’s been a vegetarian ever since she went to a butcher shop as a child and accidentally witnessed a chicken’s head get cut off. She’d cried uncontrollably and couldn’t look at raw meat for months, which made her mom angry and her dad confused. But, once they realized that she wouldn’t eat any animal put in front of her, they let her be. Billy’s mom was a vegetarian and had been feeding Billy a similar diet for his whole life, which was something he’d been proud of because he was just like his mom in that sense. But once she left, driven away by Neil, his father had told him to ‘cut that shit out’ and fed Billy meat with every meal. It made him sick and he refused to eat it, which never went over well, so he’d often suffer from terrible stomach pains at school and at bedtime. It got easier after a few years, but when he and Chrissy become close and he finds out that she’s a vegetarian, he cries. She’s not sure why he gets emotional but she holds him tight and tells him that it’s okay. She makes double of her lunches and brings it to school for him every day, loving how touched he looks when he realizes what she’s doing.

• One of their favourite thing to do is sit around a fire in Steve’s backyard with their boyfriends in the summer and early fall. Billy brings the beer, Eddie brings the weed, Chrissy brings snacks and music, all while Steve makes the fire and ensures everyone is comfortable. They all sit around and talk, joke, gossip - whatever. Sometimes they invite others, like Robin or Heather or Tommy and Carol, but usually it’s just the four of them. Those nights always bleed away into the early morning, when the birds begin to sing and the sky turns a soft blue with the rising sun, and Billy squeezes onto one of the pool recliners with Steve and pulls a blanket over them as they cuddle. Chrissy is usually perched in Eddie’s lap by the fire, both of them covered in a blanket as they quietly talk and kiss. Once the fire begins to die, Steve ensures it’s completely out before the four of them go inside to sleep.

#best friends chrissy and billy #harringrove #hellcheer #billy hargrove #chrissy cunningham #steve harrington #eddie munson #headcanons #bambiwrites

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shotmrmiller · 3 months

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I want you to know that because of your genius little mind, I am going to headcanon 4Runner Soap texting reader..

'🛞⭕💢⭕💢🛞'

..when he wants to bone in the backseat.

Thank you very much.

I love you.

-💛

OH hE MAKES ME SO SICK

WTF YOU MEAN YOU HORNY???

do i wear a skirt? no knickers?

how far away are you? do i have time to shave?

you're welcome! i'm just paying my soap squad ™️ taxes ❤️❤️ ily!!!

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itsohh · 1 year

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Ahhhhh!!!! Stay for me!! Does this mean…. 👁️👄👁️…

Does this mean you may in the future take requests for Ghost…

Because I don’t know if I could handle my favorite R6S writer becoming my favorite MW2 writer…

Ok first of all I loved it!! You captured Ghost well, lots try to make him too gruff and not enough soft, there’s a balance between gruff, hard as nails soldier and soft, loving man that a lot of people don’t get right and I believe you nailed it!! Please, i don’t want to pressure you or anything, final decision is totally up to you and what you feel comfortable with but if you start writing for Ghost, even just what you come up with and not taking requests… my little heart will explode with love 💕

In short, I loved it and it was beautiful ❤️ as your writing always is and you hit it out of the park, I hope you have a wonderful day 💕💕💕

Haha I get what you mean tho! Yeah I see Ghost very much as like a guy.

Like he's got his tragic backstory™️ and PTSD and what not but he's not super like overly emo anything. I see him as always caring about his team and ensuring that level of safety. He's def got that more like chill side to him where he jokes about. I think a lot of people write his character wrong because they hadn't actually played or interacted with any of the games. They just play him to that cookie cutter broody type which really sucks.

Also people babify Gaz way too much?? (What's up with that, has anyone else noticed that?) Like sure he's newer to the squad and somewhat younger but that man. Dudes lethal af.

Personally I watched a walkthrough of the game and have a friend that I watch sometimes in PVP. A while ago one of my friends also showed the end of MW2, the original one through discord so I kinda got that feel for the original version of Ghost aswell. He genuinely cares so much for his team, oof that scene with Roach ... Fuck man.

In terms of writing, idk if I will take requests for COD quite yet, I'm quite busy with my housing commissions and I just had a client show interest for me doing another house. Then I also have like I think about 8 requests in my inbox for r6 at the moment. So I certainly have a lot going on.

I do like some of the COD boys a lot. I'm a big fan of Ghost, Soap, Price and Alejandro in terms of romantic parters. Also love some poly Ghost and Soap. So if I were to take requests or write it would be for them. To be honest I've been into it for a long time I just don't really like the COD fandom on Tumblr as it's very... Tiktoky. There's a lot of entitlement and treating writers like a commodity. A lot of people spamming and incorrect tagging and I've heard that some of the 'bigger' writers suck to talk to. So I've been sorta waiting for the hype to die out before I started writing. Waiting for well all the people who are here for 'hot emo man' to move on.

So there's a bit of conflict there but I do eventually plan on writing more COD in the future. I just don't know when.

#ask #anonymous #honestly that fic didnt really go anywhere #I just had that scene stuck in my head and wanted to write it out

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undercoverpena · 1 year

Note

Sundays are now officially

Soap Squad Super Sundays ™️

😏😏 you know it @irnbru32 !! SOAP SQUAD SUNDAYS 🧼

i love that this is catching on. i’m already trying to think of what i can do after this trio — so if you have ideas or things you wanna see, lemme know

#asked and answered #kind souls #irnbru32 #soap squad #soap 🧼

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brewed-pangolin · 1 day

Text

This brain worm has been bugging me all week.

MDNI 18+

Mechanic Soap who you meet at your local body shop in need of a quick repair to your car's door. It's a hefty dint, needing structural repair and a few layers of paint. You know this and are prepared to face the irrefutable mumblings of a man who thinks you to be just some typical dumb blonde.

Mechanic Soap who doesn't beat around the bush, tells you as is that it'll take a few days to repair the inner framework and add the required layers of paint to make it seamless to the rest of the vehicle.

Mechanic Soap already meeting your standards in someone who doesn't see you as just some woman who doesn't know what she's talking about. Willing to go over, in an overly detailed manner, the mechancis and functionality of the repair and necessities to fulfill such a task.

Mechanic Soap who makes you spill out that you have a vintage '68 Shelby Fastback in your garage that you've been painstakingly putting back together. Peaking his interest while he goes over the cost of the door mend, mindlessly mumbling that he'd be willing to assist in said vintage restoration if you'd let him.

Mechanic Soap who starts hanging around your garage all hours of the day as he tends to the intricacies and overly detailed rehabilitation that had taken you years to achieve. Effortlessly bringing the rusted frame of the muscle car to life, the chassis glistening in the afternoon light as you do your best to attend to his needs while not gawking at his expert hand.

Mechanic Soap who asks for nothing in return for working on such a classic in vehicular engineering. Yet you shower him in nothing but your best of culinary skills. Feeding him after a days work with such delicacies that only a skilled baker could attain.

Mechanic Soap who starts staying hours after the sun had set beyond the horizon, making his way into the intimacy of your home as you regularly extended an invitation for him stay for dinner. Infiltrating your daily life in a way you had never dreamed. Pleading for him to keep you company as weeks steadily turned to months of courting.

Mechanic Soap who shows just how eager he is by splaying you out on your bed. Working you into a pleasured mess on his fingers and tongue before tearing his clothes away to finally bestow you a more thorough experience. His unending stamina on full display as he contorts you into every position known to man. And a few you had never even heard of. Using his well-earned physique to his advantage, pushing you to the limits of ecstasy and more than likely earning a fee noise complaints from your neighbors.

Mechanic Soap who finally displays his unending talents as he worked his calloused hands over your voluptuous curves. Kneading into your supple flesh as he spread you open to finally take in the feast he had been so desperate to taste. Lapping his tongue between your folds, focusing on your pulsing bud as you writhe in pleasure beneath his expert grasp.

Mechanic Soap who now makes you breakfast every morning before you go to work. Always has the coffee ready, mixed with your favorite creamer and lunch waiting on the table. Sending you off onto your day with a smile that could light up a whole city, and a peck on the cheek that stays with you for the entirety of your day.

Mechanic Soap who came into your life by accident but has now permanently etched himself into your daily routine. You can't recall what your days were like before him, and you dared not imagine them without him.

Mechanic Soap who doesn't buy you a wedding ring. He forges one from the metal bearings of a camshaft. The sparklng gem at the centerpiece is an expertly crafted piece of iron ore, polished and etched to a glistening surface that shines with an iridescence like no other.

Mechanic Soap who doesn't marry you at the altar. He proclaims his vows at a local pub in Glasgow. Whisking you away for a honeymoon in the Scottish highlands where he treats you like a Scottish queen and worships the very ground you walk on.

A happy accident that turned into a life of unending royalties, and you're in no mind to ever want to remove the crown he so helplessly placed on top of your pretty little head.

This is just a bunch of mumbo jumbo. But I had to get it out. Thanks for reading my mindless rambles.

#soap squad™️#mechanic soap #just a bunch of ramblings #had to get it out #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #john mactavish #soap mactavish headcanons #cod fanfic #call of duty

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killerpancakeburger · 7 days

Text

Another Headache

SUMMARY: You get another one of your chronic headaches, and the meds don't don't work. Soap's by your side though.

PAIRING: Soap x F!Reader (Soap calls Reader "pretty girl" once, that's the only mark of gender)

TAGS: Hurt/Comfort, fluff, suggestive at the end, Soft!Soap, Established relationship, Civilian!Reader, Reader works as Price's assistant.

WARNINGS: The suggestiveness at the end, mention of chronic pain.

WORDS COUNT: 1.8k

A/N: Lots of Soaps I like in there... pouting Soap, drawing Soap, needy Soap, Human calculator Soap (because of that one post that I KNOW I REBLOGGED BUT CANT FIND!! CURSE U TUMBLR!)

“1245.87… minus 56.43… divided by 98.62….” you mumble out loud to yourself, painstakingly inputting each digit into your calculator.

“12.06,” pipes up Soap without missing a beat, not looking up from his sketchbook where he's drawing.

You look up from the device and throw him a mildly annoyed glare, assuming he concocted a random number to confuse you. It's the first explanation that comes to your mind, the most logical one, even though it would be out of character for Johnny to make your work harder, even as a joke.

“Very funny.”

Then you press the result touch and your eyes widen as the machine provides the exact same answer.

“How in the hell…?”

You look at your boyfriend again, irritation gone out the window, replaced by amazement and a dash of admiration.

“Do you have a calculator for brain or something?”

“S'basic stuffs for sniping and demolition works.”

The explanation is way too abrupt for anyone who knows how much Johnny enjoys his job, rambling, and rambling about his job. You raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Can you develop?”

An amused smirk stretches his lips as he still persists in not looking at you.

“Bonnie, ye need tae focus oan yer work, or ye'll git us in trouble.”

You groan in protest. Being lectured about trouble by Soap “Troublemaker” Mactavish out of all people, you couldn’t make it up. That doesn't make him less right unfortunately.

Your supervisor, John Price, only allowed his Sergeant to hang out in your office during his free time on the express condition that it would not impact your tasks. You initially couldn’t imagine that blue-eyed menace sitting still for hours only for your sake; to do your own thing in your own side of the room in silence, without any physical contact, nor any other sign of acknowledgement? That was Ghost's idea of a good time, but Soap's idea of torture.

However, it turned out you underestimated his willpower, and his determination to take advantage of every moment that could be shared with you. The intimate knowledge that he was holding back this whole time, and that the minute the clock would strike the end of your workday, he would be all over you like usual, warmed your heart and sent pleasing tingles everywhere in your body.

Sympathetic to your plight, Johnny adds with indulgence and cheekiness in his tone:

“Ah ken how much ye like mah voice, but we'll make up fur lost time after.”

You roll your eyes at the suggestive taunt, still recognizing the comment for what it is - a consolation to compensate for his refusal to extend earlier. You bite your tongue to keep yourself from retorting about how distracting he's actually being even when drawing in silence, his biceps bulging with his posture, and the mix of concentration and serenity on his face strangely captivating.

The expression he wears when sketching is one you're particularly fond of. It reveals a different kind of intensity than the one he usually displays, when eager for battle or indignant in front of injustice. It is one not many are privy to, since he tends to favor the solitude of his bedroom to scribble, making this scene all the more special and giving it an intimate tone that's enough to make your heart race.

A loving smile on your face, you throw yourself into your work.

You can feel it coming from miles away.

That accursed headache. Pushing behind your forehead, between your eyebrows and sneaking behind your temples.

Its reasons could very well be everything or nothing; the mix of cold weather and your own tiredness, the acute light from the winter sun blinding your eyes in the absence of sunglasses, the long hours spent in front of a screen.

It is light yet harsh all at once. Muffled pain always felt worse than a sharp one. Yet you know from experience it is only going to hurt more from here on.

Gritting your teeth in a grimace of discomfort, you press your hand against your forehead. The coolness of your fingers provides a respite, albeit a short-term one.

Is there even any painkillers left in your bag? You can’t remember the state of your stock-

A familiar box is suddenly moved in your line of sight. Your usual brand of aspirin.

You look up to see Soap staring at you expectingly. You take the medecine with a grateful smile.

“You really are full of surprises today!”

He pouts as he hands you your water bottle.

“Wi’ how often ye git those bloody things, a'd have tae be a bloody eejit for nae knowing how tae deal with ‘em.”

He sounds like your chronic migraines offended him, personally, and it's both adorable and hilarious.

“That's still very sweet,” you insist after swallowing the treatment.

He brings a lock of hair behind your ear before tenderly kissing your forehead.

“That's me, “Sweet Soap” Mactavish.”

That drags a giggle out of you.

An hour later, as the meds miserably failed, you’re not laughing at all anymore.

At least your work is done for the day, granting you the luxury to suffer on the rec room's couch. Laying on your back, head on the armrest, you’re pressing the heels of your hands into your closed eyelids while groaning in agony. Any bright light or screen increases the pain, so keeping your eyes closed is the only protection conceivable.

Seated right by you, your legs laying over his lap, Soap squeezes your tigh in support, itching to bring you relief but unsure how.

“What can I do?”

You remove your hands from your face to peek at him. If the ache behind your temples wasn’t occupying all space in your thoughts, you would have fussed over his chagrined expression that wasn’t without reminding you of a worried puppy. He was torn between concern for you and frustration of not being able to do anything. Johnny absolutely hated not being capable of remedying a problem. It made you want to cover his face in kisses, not only to placate his frustration, but also because you were filled with cute aggression.

“Well, I have this theory that if someone hit me really hard in the head with a baseball bat, it would help…”

“How the bloody ‘ell would it help!?”

“The pain from the blow would replace the headache.”

“How does replacing pain with pain helps…?”

“I prefer the acute pain of a strike than the dull one of a headache. It's way more bearable.”

“M not hitting you with a baseball bat,” he exclaimed, clearly convinced that the pain had made you go insane.

“I'll just ask Simon instead.”

At this point, you’re insisting more to rile him up rather than out of seriousness.

“Nae yer not,” he retorts vehemently, voice bordering on a growl.

You're about to laugh when he suddenly gets up, still taking care to not send your legs flying off the sofa. Worried that you managed to actually piss him off, you half pick yourself up, raising on your forearms, but he exits the room before you can catch his expression, ordering you to not go anywhere. Not like you were planning to anyway.

You flop back on the couch, closing your eyes and massaging your temples. A moment later, deliciously cold fingers rest on your forehead. You hum in appreciation.

“Better?”

“I love you,” you declare boldly.

The husky laughter Soap emits in response is almost as soothing as his touch.

You suddenly open your eyes as a realization dawns on you.

“Johnny, why are your hands fucking freezing?”

“Put ‘em under cold water,” he retorts casually, like it was evident.

You sigh, closing your eyelids, endeared by his behavior but also a bit fed up.

“You're crazy.”

He chuckles again.

“Crazy in love maybe.”

You don't need to look at him to know the smug smirk he's displaying with that comment.

“Wipe that goofy smile off your face, Mactavish.”

“Make me.”

You playfully slap whatever part of his body is nearby, then sigh once more.

“It's only a temporary solution, though. Unless you intend to spend all night turning your hands into ice cubes.”

“Ah could try-”

“Johnny, no.”

“Johnny, yes.”

“Don't be silly.”

“Will have tae be, unless ye've got a better option.”

“Laying in the dark with a wet cloth could help… or at least it's supposed to.”

This is how you ended up in Soap's bedroom with the lights off, both of you laying on his bed, you nuzzled on his torso with his arm around your waist, a washcloth soaked with freezing water on your forehead.

“Is it working?” he asks, barely a few minutes after settling down.

You cannot contain a smile at the impatience in his voice.

“More or less. But what sucks the most with this method is.. “

“Aye?”

“I'm so freaking bored. Cannot read, cannot use my phone, cannot fall asleep either. And with no distraction, I cannot focus on anything but the pain.”

“Ah could distract ye... If ye wanted.” he immediately suggests.

“What are you thinking of, pretty boy? Surely nothing… inappropriate.’

Despite your playful words, your fingers start idly running down his chest, and the shiver that travels his skin in response doesn't leave you indifferent. You hear him suck in a breath, and he grasps your wandering hand only to press it flat against his pectoral, even raising his breast to deepen the contact. Meanwhile the hand holding you tightens its grip on your flesh before traveling lower to grab your ass.

“Now that yer mentioning it, ah read online that it could help wi’ headaches…”

“That what could help, Johnny?”

“An orgasm, bonnie,” he rasps.

You let out an amused sigh at the bold statement, trying to hide how much effect the rasp of his voice has on you.

“Hear me oot-” he pleads, apparently worried that you’re taking him for a perverted loser obsessed with his own pleasure over your comfort. “A'm not bullshitting ye-”

“I know, baby,” you appease him. “I know about the orgasm being a thing.”

“Ye know?... wait, ye knew this whole time? Why didn’t ye say anythin’?”

“Let's just say I'm skeptical of that method.”

“Did ye already try it?”

“Nope. But I'll believe it when I see it.”

“Then let me make ye a believer, pretty girl. Please? Pretty please? Will make ye feel so, so good, promise. Lemme take away yer pain, hen.”

He punctuates his begging by burning kisses, on your temple, your cheek, your jaw, your neck. His fingers sneak under your shirt, tickling your waist. The neediness in his voice and his touch makes you whine his name helplessly.

“Johnny…”

He echoes your whimper with a moan of your name.

“Alright, alright,” you capitulate. “For the sake of experimentation.”

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