#but a SCOTSMAN is something else entirely

[quotidianish]

Poor heavy weapons guy. If I had to start learning English from somecunt with an absolute beast of an accent I’d have went back 

#tf2 #art #tf2 fanart #tf2 demoman #tf2 heavy #heavy drinking #quotidianish #personal information dump time now mdr #i did learn English from somecunt with an absolute beast of an accent #kind Russian lady. Her accent was THICK #but a SCOTSMAN is something else entirely

[cloudypariah]

How to perpetrate and sabotage your own kidnapping: A guide for dummies.

- The creation of the board (and its subsequent discovery)

Summary: Step One: host a brainstorming session with your teammates on how best to kidnap your future abductee. Step Two: have said abductee show up half an hour into the session and begin correcting your entire plan. Step Three: realise at the beginning of their impromptu presentation the target has absolutely no idea that they’re the target. Step Four: fail anyway.

Pairing: Dark!Poly!Task Force 141 x fem!Reader

Word count: 1.8k

Content tags: Dark content - Discussions around kidnapping, tense situations. If this is not your cup of tea, please go and find something different might better suited your palate. This is an 18+ fic meaning minors do not interact with this work. No one has permission from me to repost, copy or translate my work. No one has my permission to put my work into any AI source.

Notes: This is my first foray into the COD fandom and will be the first part in a dark comedy series. Please let me know what you think. Not proofread very well, sorry for any mistakes! Thanks for the motivation @live-love-be-unique !

Link to Task Force 141 masterlist / Link to COD masterlist

Captain John Price likes to think he knows his men well enough to trust them when his back is turned. Now that itself doesn’t necessarily mean knowing each and every one of their dirty secrets - he definitely wouldn’t come out smelling like fresh daisies if any number of his were revealed - but it does mean that he has the awareness to recognise that they all share one particular secret.

He sees it in the way Lieutenant Riley’s body language shifts when you give him his medical forms to look over, your consideration at offering him the option to disclose only certain personal information making the reserved soldier relax just enough to offer you a low thanks, accompanied with a stare that stretches on for a few moments longer than considered socially polite.

It’s also so amazingly obvious with Sergeant MacTavish. John’s surprised everyone else misses the way Soap’s smile takes a little longer to fade after departing for yet another mission, your swift congratulations on completing yet another physiotherapy appointment - “ Keep it up the good work big guy” - leaving the Scotsman floating on cloud nine damn near until the plane lands.

And how could he forget Sergeant Garrick? The man’s quick to change his tune and focus up, but the captain has observed Kyle absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder, thumb gingerly stroking the spot where your palm was only moments before, your figure long gone as you retreat down the corridor to where you came from.

No, Jonathan Price doesn’t miss a thing about his men. And it only takes two weeks and a long chat in the corner booth of the bar one quiet night - sans you or Laswell - before somehow his place becomes the meeting point for an unusual, though not unwelcome, topic - you.

More specifically, how to keep you.

The wooden shit box of a sports bar was where the first two facts were confirmed amongst them: 1. Every single one of the 141 men wanted you for themselves, but they weren’t above sharing. 2. You weren’t worth killing each other over, not when there was a much easier solution staring them in the face.

John’s house became the go-to place to discuss fact number three - They needed a plan.

It was Gaz who initially suggested the whiteboard after numerous interjections from Ghost and John; from everything to how to keep this from Laswell, to deciding which of your usual hangouts would provide them with the best opportunity to commence your “relocation”, to how to delicately but firmly explain said "relocation" to you once it was complete. Kyle loves his brothers in arms and never regrets a moment where his life is on the line if it means saving any one of them, but his patience began to wear thin when Soap got bored and started using goddamn paper planes instead of words to get his point across. At that Price finally relented and bought the damn thing.

Now, John was expecting you to pop by his place on Wednesday night to drop some papers off. A perfect opportunity, were it not for the fact that the gentlemen were still disagreeing on where to relocate you. However, it’ll allow you to grow more comfortable with him while he has some alone time with you, your presence like a balm on a wound - soothing and necessary (at least to him).

He had been looking forward to seeing you… tomorrow. So when you turn up not just on the doorstep but in the middle of the bloody hallway in his own bloody home halfway through the 141 “guys night”, his secondary action of shitting bricks quickly overrides his primary instinct to eliminate the threat.

He’s on his way back from the bathroom when he sees you standing, familiar folders firm in your grasp - fucking hell, is that his spare key too? - and a sour expression on your pretty face.

Your eyes narrow further when you spot him, striding over with fury rolling off you in small waves. “Captain Price, I know you did not leave these dossiers on my desk just before the end of my work day with a note stating they all need to be completed by the end of the work day.”

John’s senses are briefly overwhelmed by you being so close to him, the sight of you angry having a different effect on him than what you had originally intended. He’s never seen it before, and his hand twitches when you’re less than a foot away - fluctuating adrenaline or the desire to reach out and hold you, he’s not sure which is more prevalent. 

He always forgets to not be so obvious around you, but it isn’t as though you usually notice. (He’s not sure if the thought should make him feel sad or grateful.)

The sounds of his men arguing in the background, merely the next room over, are enough to bring reality crashing down hard.

His voice is deliberately loud and stalwart when replies. “You can’t be here.”

“Tough shit. Your lads night can wait.” You lean past him to the origin of what your gut was telling you was the sounds of the remaining 141 members quarreling. It’s easy to slip past Captain Price once your mind is set, the push of files against his chest preventing him from reacting for a few seconds - all the time you need to move down the hallway to where everyone else is bound to be.

John is quick to rush behind you, the arguing noises having swiftly changed to near cartoon-like crashes just moments before you enter the room. 

Ghost has migrated to the corner of the sitting area, standing as stiff as a fucking nutcracker, a mountain of crumpled notes and paper planes spilling out from between his arms. (His mask is still on thank god because it’ll hide exactly how caught out he feels, and if there’s one thing Simon Riley cannot stand it’s feeling like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar). His eyes instinctually watch your every move, waiting for your reaction.

Both of your gazes drift to the other side of the room, with neither of you failing to notice how the couch cushions are strewn widely across the space, (with one being stuck on top of a bookshelf for some odd reason) to find not one, but two soldiers gecko’d to the standing whiteboard.

Their demolitions expert is currently splayed out on the left side of the board and desperately grabbing the top of its metal frame, his stomach pressed into the cold porcelain and a left leg hitched up in a poor attempt to conceal the incriminating writing.

Price’s protégé is in a similar state. Dear Gaz has his back against the right side, with his arms outstretched to - much like Johnny - cover as much of their group planning as possible, a coloured marker clasped in each fist.

Two deers in headlights.

The sight of his task force is enough to bring back flashbacks of his original conversation with Kate about bringing these men together because Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck was he thinking?

There are a few moments when nobody moves or dares to breathe…

… except for you, of course.

You waste no time walking over to the two youngest members of the 141 as you attempt to shove them off the board. “Move,” you demand, palms pushing firmly against their sides. “I want to know what’s so important to everyone.” When they refuse, you do your best to stare at them, pleading with a pleasantly soft, “Please.”

Yeah, they both do what you say with ease when they hear that, giving you enough space to take in the somewhat smudged scribbles.

You miss the signal John gives Simon, the Ghost moving closer to your position as John quietly locks the door, and when your attention is drawn back to the board after the other two move you also miss all of the knowing looks shared behind your back. This was very far from ideal, but how can they recover from this?

They hope you understand that whatever comes next, they didn’t plan for it to start this way.

Kyle and John call your name but you ignore them, still processing the information written in front of you.

Johnny flexes his hands, preparing for the worst as you step back and say, “This is… bullshit.”

Every single member stops. That was not the reaction they were expecting.

Turning to face the group, you scoff. “I’m not even kidding. Firstly, you’re using guys' night to work, which is horrible for your mental and emotional health. And you should all know better.”

Four sets of brows furrow in united confusion. You don’t let that deter you from continuing, your arms gesturing haphazardly at the whiteboard. “Secondly, this is hands-down one of the worst brainstorms I have ever seen. This is not cohesive in the fucking slightest. Garrick, mark me.”

Kyle chokes on his spit, his brain short-circuiting before he sees your fingers wiggling at one of the markers he’s holding. The sergeant promptly gives it to you.

Your free hand takes turns pointing at everyone else in the room, a verbal command of, “sit down” directed at each man also. Dumbly and cautiously they all do. Ghost places himself at the end of the couch nearest the entrance, John strategically chooses a spot between yourself and the kitchen, and Soap and Gaz sit closest to you, where the two of them can hear you muttering under your breath as you draw what appears to be a massive cloud shape in the middle of the board.

Once completed, you fill your shape in with the word ‘TARGET’ and slam your free hand against the board. No one flinches, but if one were to look closely there would be some eyes widening in response. Johnny swears he sees one of your eyelids twitch.

“So,” you call out, “what do we know about the target?”

There are not only wide eyes looking at you, there are full glances exchanged between your audience.

“Seeing as you had the nerve to not invite me in your little meeting while keeping me on overtime” - Kyle and John squirm at that, and your finger makes a little circle - “we are going to be working on this project together. With all due respect, I’m not asking.”

Surely not…

And it’s when Captain John Price reviews the writing left over from the others that he realises Kyle and Johnny did one thing right during their clusterfuck of a coverup.

They managed to erase your name.

… you have absolutely no idea you are the target.

 A piece of writing far in the coroner catches your attention, and your shoulders slump. “The target likes knitting and ‘The Karate Kid’. In another life we would have been the best of friends.” A dramatic sigh leaves you, “Oh well, at least I’ll be able to give you some insight into the mindset of this individual. Any questions?”

Four hands shoot up.

Rubbing your hands together with glee, a maniac smile grows on your face. “Excellent.”

#dark!141 #poly 141 #darkfic #task force 141 x reader #dark task force 141 x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john price x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #sergeant kyle gaz garrick x reader #cod x female reader #female reader #cloudypariah writes

[sprout-fics]

I'm having a soft spot for werewolf soap. He isnsuch a puppy for you, full of joy and jumping around and playfull and loves yo wrap himself arround you and suffocate you with his thick fur

And then turns around andis absolutely feral , growling and staking his claims and will rip someone to shreds if needed.

Also just the imagie of a large wolf basically smirking is just to adorkable

I'm so here for bouncy enthusiastic puppy Soap who turns feral as soon as you're in danger.

It’s from one moment to the next that it happens

You’re clearing the route through the jungle with Soap at your side, a routine patrol on the outer perimeter of the temporary camp you and the team have set up in the days-long pursuit of the Narco cell that was responsible for the assassination of a politician. They’d fled into the thick foliage of the dense underbrush, and you and the team had quickly moved to follow, Los Vaqueros alongside you. 

If Soap loved his job on a regular mission, this now seems to be the epitome of excitement for him. Besides having the pleasure to work alongside Ale and Rudy again, the thrill of the hunt itself is addictive to the shifter’s senses. The hum of life in the canopy, the lush scent of greenery, the spongy earth under his feet make the Scotsman practically bounce beside you, eyes glimmering and voice a vibrant cheer. 

He bumps up against you, overexcited, nose brushing under your jaw, fangs just barely poking out in his enthusiasm. He’s paying less attention to the perimeter around you both and more to you, affectionate and adoring with his mate. 

“Down, puppy.” You try for the third time, hands raising to gently push him off of you, and Soap whines at that, big beautiful blue eyes pouting. 

“Only for a few minutes.” He pleads again. “Just a little jog cannae hurt, we won’t be long. Promise.”

“We have to finish our patrol first.” You chide not for the first time, and he grumbles at you in disappointment. Yet he doesn’t argue, knows that the job always comes first and foremost. Work before play. 

He opens his mouth to say something else- likely to snark at you, but then he pauses. You see it in his eyes, the way his pupils dilate as his super-human hearing picks up on something distant. 

“Soap?” You ask, quieter, concerned. Yet he doesn’t answer, not as his head whips towards the direction of the jungle and he doesn’t even breathe.

“Down!” He bellows, voice thunderous just as gunfire explodes from the ferns, and you yelp as suddenly his form barrels into yours, pressing you down into the soft dirt as bullets fly overhead. 

You curse, try and twist from under him to return fire but Soap suddenly snarls, loud enough to make your heart stammer. His form hovers over you, braced on his elbows with his face just millimeters from your own.

It’s always his eyes that change first when Johnny shifts, going from baby blue to yellow in a matter of seconds as his body begins to transform- broadening, widening, bones cracking as they break and reform in the span of only seconds. You don’t understand how he manages the pain of his entire body re-writing itself, and now with his face contorted into something no less than fury, you remember at once just how deadly the werewolf above you truly is. 

Mere moments, before Soap’s muzzle elongates and his fangs drip with pooling, hungry saliva onto your face, his shoulders drawing close, growing to accommodate his massive size, claws forming from his fingernails near your head. His gear and clothes shred as he shifts, ribboned into rags by his towering form. 

“Stay.” Is all he tells you, his voice ringing clear in your mind as a trembling growl drops deep from the hollow of his chest. It’s the only warning you get before he launches himself in the direction of your attackers, and there’s screams at the sudden massive form that snarls and hurdles towards them with the intent of utter destruction. 

It’s only when you try to shift and follow that you notice the bloody gash in your leg, rendered by a bullet that you couldn’t quite miss. You hiss at the pain, draw the leg up to your chest even as blood stains the fabric of your pants, pools across your gloved fingertips. It’s enough to distract you even as the radio erupts with chatter from Price and the others, pounding in your ears as you attempt to press down on the wound. 

You don’t even notice the rest of the jungle go quiet until a looming shadow falls across you. You look up to see Soap’s huge yellow eyes, the blood caking his maw as he nudges at you, scruff still bristled with a still coiled energy from his carnage. You raise a bloody hand to the side of his face, and your wolf makes a little whine at the touch, concerned, upset, frenetic. 

When there’s a rustle from the bushes, Soap snarls, the sound entirely feral, animalistic like the untamed creature that he is. Paws plant on either side of your form, shielding you from view as he turns in the direction of those that dare approach. Head hanging low in warning, blood dripping from his fangs, Soap issues only one, savage warning to those that venture too close to his injured mate. 

“Mine.”

#john soap mactavish #soap x reader #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #werewolf soap #drabbles #requests

[south-of-heaven]

Drew Mcintyre x Fem!Reader with “ you wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid.” ?

Stupid || Drew McIntyre x Reader

Summary: Ever since getting put in a tag team together, you and Drew have made it your mission to make each others life a living hell.

The animosity between you and Drew had been brewing ever since you were unexpectedly paired up as a tag team. Both of you were strong-willed, stubborn, and fiercely competitive. It was a recipe for disaster, or so it seemed.

Your tag team matches were filled with banter and one-upmanship. You tried to outdo each other at every turn, and it often led to chaotic situations in the ring. It was a strange dynamic that seemed to define your partnership.

Tonight, however, something felt different. The match had been hard-fought, and in the end, you secured the victory for your team. As the referee counted to three and the bell rang, an exhilarating rush of triumph coursed through you.

But as you stood in the center of the ring, celebrating with the fans, you couldn't help but notice Drew's intense gaze on you. He was watching you with an intensity that you'd never seen before. The look on his face was a strange mix of admiration, respect, and something else you couldn't quite put your finger on.

Feeling mischievous, you decided to seize the moment. You grabbed a microphone, bringing it to your lips so that the whole arena could hear.

"You know, Drew," you began, your voice confident and dripping with playful sarcasm, "You want to kiss me so badly it makes you look stupid."

The crowd erupted in laughter, but Drew's expression didn't change. If anything, it became more resolute. Without a word, he dropped the microphone, stepped through the ropes, and made his way toward you.

You thought for a moment that he might try to attack you, but instead, he closed the distance between you and did something entirely unexpected. Drew McIntrye, the fierce Scotsman, pressed his lips to yours in a passionate kiss.

The crowd's reaction was immediate. Cheers, gasps, and whistles filled the arena. You were taken aback for a split second, but then you found yourself responding to the kiss, wrapping your arms around Drew's neck as the moment lingered.

When you finally broke the kiss, you were both a little breathless and more than a little stunned. The rivalry that had defined your partnership had taken an unexpected turn. It was clear that there was something more between you than just animosity.

Drew chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. "Who's the stupid looking one now, huh?"

You couldn't help but laugh, and the tension that had defined your relationship seemed to dissipate. Maybe this partnership had more potential than you'd originally thought.

#drew mcintyre x reader #drew mcintyre #the scottish warrior #the scottish psychopath #wwe fanfiction #wwe x reader #pro wrestling #wrestling #wwe

[lieutenantfloyd]

Last Minute - Alejandro Vargas

Alejandro Vargas x Reader

Summary: Moments before heading out on a major mission, Alejandro realizes now might be his last chance to confess the feeling’s he’s been harboring for years.

Author’s Note: This game (and Alejandro in particular) has me in a chokehold.

Shifting your weight from foot to foot, you finished assembling your weapons. Sliding your handgun into its holster, you noticed how the entire team was in your vicinity, preparing their own weapons for what lay ahead. Your eyes quickly met Soap’s who made his way over and patted you on the back with a smile.

“I guess this is it, huh?” The Scotsman asked.

“I think so.” You answered matter of factly.

Both you and Soap stood in silence, wrestling with the gravity of what you were preparing to do. Moments passed before Soap sent you a confident nod and headed over to the armory.

It was only due to your eyes following Soap as he left that you noticed Alejandro standing far off from everyone else. Even from his position on the farthest end of the room, he was painfully, earth-shatteringly handsome, and he’d clearly been watching you for a while. Your heart leaped at the thought. He made quick work of crossing the prep room and was soon standing in front of you. Instantly you could tell something had caused his usual calm and confident demeanor had cracked. His deep brown eyes locked with yours, and you saw the tormented swirl of internal struggle before he steeled his gaze.

“Can I speak to you… In private?” He asked in an almost wavering voice.

“Of course.” You replied as confidently as you could. Still trying to figure out what had him so rattled.

He simply nodded at your response and turned to move. His pace had you nearly jogging as he led you away from the others.

Less than 60 seconds later, he ushered you into a small room and pushed you against the wall to the right of the door. He closed the door just as quickly as he’d entered the room, slightly dampening the sounds of helicopters and countless soldiers preparing to deploy. He settled into staring down at you, one hand on the wall above your head while the other rested on your shoulder. Your breathing became uneven having him this close to you, yet even in this position, there wasn’t a flicker of fear in your body. You knew without a doubt that Alejandro would never lay a malicious finger on you, let alone hurt you, but that didn’t quell the question floating around in your mind.

What did he bring you in here for?

The room was cramped and somewhat dark, but you could still make out his features with the help of the orange-hued light coming through the window. His voice, low and hurried, pulled your focus onto him and him alone.

“We don’t have much time, but I need you to listen to me, okay? Whatever happens out there today, I need you to know I am so very in love with you. I’ve been this way for years, and as much as I try mi amor, I cannot stop loving you.” His gaze dropped and he shakes his head, trying to collect his thoughts. A beat of silence passes. The words he’s already spoken linger heavily in the air.

You were supposed to be a war-hardened soldier. Cold, calculated, and loyal to no one but your own squadron. Yet his eyes held a softness that completely shattered the illusion you’d spent years so carefully building. Just then you heard Rudy calling Alejandro’s name from beyond the door, and you knew that your moment to confess had passed. He softly slammed his hand into the wall above your head, before pushing away from you and running his fingers through his dark hair. With one last look, he exited the room. Leaving you in an all-encompassing silence. Now alone, you sunk into the wall pressing against your back. The conversation had left you rattled, not because you didn’t share his feelings, but because of how dire your current situation really was. Here all of you were, moments before being shipped out to battle, and all you That’s ignoring the reality that the chances of all of you returning home were dwindling by the second. Steadying your breath, you left the room and headed off to join the rest of the task force. 

As Ghost directed everyone to their assigned vehicle, Instead searching for a glimpse of Alejandro’s dark hair. By sheer luck, he was standing guard by the main truck. You waited anxiously for Ghost to give you your orders, praying that Alejandro wouldn’t leave before you got the chance to tell him how you really feel. Minutes stretched on until Ghost pointed to you and the rest of 141 and directed you toward the main truck. Pushing past your fellow soldiers, you fell in step with the task force. You let everyone enter the truck before you, hoping to get one last second with Alejandro. Your hand had just touched the door handle when you spotted your chance. Still holding it, you shifted to the side and tapped his arm with your free hand. He turned to you curiously, as if he didn’t just confess his love to you less than 10 minutes ago. Suppressing a smile you leaned in close enough so only he could hear your words. Relishing the hint of his cologne the position offered.

 “We have even less time now, but I need you to know the feeling is very mutual.”

#a.vargas #alejandro vargas #alejandro vargas x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #cod x you #alejandro x reader #mw2 #cod mw2 #call of duty

[lovethetasteofnothing]

like a bull in a china shop² | ghostsoap

or another drabble to continue good parenting, bad timing...

part 1 | part 2

if you had asked singleparent!simon a few years ago and even now, he wouldn't have moved out of his dingy apartment in that shitty area. the rent was cheap; he had a bed and a bathroom, and that really was everything he needed. but he couldn't keep it up when he got a girlfriend and, as a follow-up, a kid. he couldn't let the little girl live in those conditions; he just wouldn't forgive himself, knowing he had the possibility of offering her a better environment to grow up in.

so now he's stuck in his current apartment, decorated by his ex in its entirety, because he had no interior designer flare to his persona (and also didn't care enough to pay attention to the subtle decor she went crazy over). he wasn't complaining, the place was nice, he had moved in a few years ago; he still believed his random smoker's cough eased away because there was no mold in here, so that was a bonus. he didn't mind how light and "airy" it was arranged, sure, he preferred the gloom of his old place, but this wasn't half bad, and he had grown accustomed to it.

but there was still a pestering presence in the apartment, at least momentarily. Sergeant John Mactavish, or, well, Soap. the new sergeant in the task force was really something he hoped not to see in his apartment anytime soon, but he couldn't deny his precious daughter a play date, and sadly, the man had to come too.

that would probably explain his current situation: leaning against the windowsill, blowing the smoke of his cigarette out of the window as he tried to think of something to break the awkward silence in between the two of them. the laughter of the girls was a vague and distant noise, catching his attention every once in a while. his eyes were scanning over the kids every now and then to make sure they were safe and playing nicely (since he knew his daughter had it in her to accidentally break a piece of furniture or trip and fall off of something and injure someone else in the process).

"two goldfish are in a tank..." he starts off. he didn't mind the silence all that much, but he knew if he kept quiet, the sergeant would start talking, and there was no way out of that. he had barely spent a few days on the same team with him, and he was already craving to shut him up, violently or not.

"go on..." the scotsman prompted him. the back of his chair was leaning dangerously, the hind legs of the piece of furniture barely balancing enough to keep him steady as he teetered.

"one turns to the other and says, you know how to drive this thing?" his face didn't change in the slightest with the same usual frown and bitter look adorning his features. in all honesty, it was hard to even tell what he was trying to express right now because of that damn balaclava. "bit of army humor" he finished it off dryly as if the whole thing even needed a conclusion, throwing the butt of his cigarette out of the window afterward.

"very little" soap bit back a smile. he was better than this, he wouldn't laugh at the lamest joke he had heard in his entire life, but it was so bad it was good, and he couldn't help it when the slightest grin and chuckle slipped past him. he also couldn't aid the fact that he had lost his balance in the spur of the moment, the chair slipping awkwardly against the floorboards, an alarming creaking breaking through the air as he felt himself lose stability.

by instict, he braced himself for impact, praying to whoever was listening that he wouldn't break his lieutenant's chair; his back, a minor problem right now. but surprisingly (luckily?) he didn't feel the harsh slam of the floor against his body, the chair breaking into splinters and pieces underneath his weight. no, instead, a hand gripped the back of the chair, keeping him in one piece as all four of the legs returned to their proper position on the floor.

"easy, mactavish. i don't need another one of your messes to clean up" the involuntary sigh, the trademark of his lieutenant whenever soap was around him. yet there wasn't enough time to apologize or feel ashamed about the whole mishap.

a thud, a moment of silence, and a loud cry were all it took for singleparent!simon to rush back to the living room. because when you have to take care of both a 26-year-old child and a 6-year-old toddler, you should know that neither of them can leave your sight for even a split second. for a moment, only for one, it felt like soap and his daughter were more related than he was to her.

they both had that dumb smile, cute on her, annoying whenever it would appear on his lips; the weird comments they'd make at inappropriate times, to be fair, he smiled every time he heard them; and now, the clumsiness that came with them, a danger mostly to themselves but also to others at times.

he walked into the scene of the accident, assessing the damage done as if he were on mission again, trying to figure out which of his soldiers had fallen in the battle. his daughter was sniffling softly, her knee cradled in her hands as johnny's girl was holding her gingerly, brushing her hair out of her eyes. he couldn't help but drop his serious demeanor, kneeling in front of the two of them, his rough hands grabbing his little princess and kissing her forehead.

singleparent!soap who was quick behind him, recovering from the mortifying accident and following along to make sure his daughter was alright, his heart melting a little bit at how proud he was of his girl. he knew in that moment that he had done something right, he had raised her to always look out for others and his hard efforts were paying off.

"what happened here, hm?" soap was glad to hear the gentleness of his voice and the loss of his harsh and cold tone. but he'd never admit to himself that the shift in the dynamic made him just a little weak in the knees, his heart picking up just the tiniest bit, and for the shortest moment, another kid didn't sound all that bad.

the ghostsoap brainrot continues <3

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

#ghostsoap #soapghost #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #soap x ghost #ghost x soap #cod modern warfare #cod mw 2 #ghost drabble #ghost call of duty #ghost mw2 #cod mw2 #ghost cod #simon riley #simon riley x john mactavish #simon ghost riley x john soap mactavish #ghost riley #call of duty #cod #cod drabble #call of duty drabble #simon ghost riley drabble #john soap mactavish #soap mw2 #soap mactavish #soap cod #soap call of duty #modern warfare 2 #call of duty mw2 #cod mwii

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Lately I've been thinking about modern day Napolington dealing with murder fairies. They're just two bickering ambassadors or some such then oops horrific murders happen.

I had a long running modern day AU head canon thing wherein Arthur was in Paris representing the UK on some matter or another (his actual position, and what he was there for, is irrelevant) and Napoleon was a member of the French government (which ministry he'd be in changes for me on the regular since he'd be a good fit for a few of them - regardless, he's in a very senior position) and due to Shenanigans and Situations and a bit of a rooftop drunken party they end up shacking up and Arthur's family is shocked and appalled and Napoleon's siblings are all like "god you're a mess, Napoleone, and really? an Englishman?" though his mother would be Very Catholic(tm) about it all. His father wouldn't care because Carlo was a bit of a chaotic lush.

(I have it that he was married to Josephine but she died within the last two to three years of something unexpected and he's now single-dad-ing it with their kids.)

Murat is all, 'Welcome to the family. They're going to give you a really hard time for the next ten years then they might accept you. Maybe. Though as an Englishman, maybe not.' Turns to Napoleon, 'Really?? An Englishman?? The least you could have done was date a Scotsman or something. The only reason my kids are learning English is because I believe in knowing thy enemy.' (Napoleon, sotto voce: it's not the one hundred years war anymore. christ.)

Arthur is like, 'See, at least people talk about things in this family. If in a sort of terribly Corsican, over the top, wow-that-didn't-need-to-be-put-quite-like-that fashion. My mother texted me: You shall arrive promptly for Christmas dinner. You know the size of the family dining table and so therefore there's only one spot being set for you. And that's literally all the communication I've received about the entire matter.'

Murat: Holy shit. Savage.

Arthur, 'Napoleon, meanwhile, had fifteen family conference calls about it. There was some yelling. My Italian isn't very good, but I think he was called a Little Slut by Jerome then your wife said "at least he's not Austrian like that one mistake you dated".'

Murat, 'I know, I was on them.'

Arthur, 'You should do family zoom calls. Then you can see the facial expressions he's making through it all.'

Pauline and Elise are the only nice, normal ones (aside from Hortense and Eugene and the younger generation more broadly). Caroline just thinks it's hilarious. Joseph is nice by dint of not really caring. He's just like, 'mama, we all saw what he was like in university.' and Letizia is like, 'at least he married and had children before going all peculiar. At least I have grandchildren. Even if he was married to a woman I didn't approve of.'

Joseph:

Joseph: you have so many grandchildren.

Joseph: also you approve of almost no one's spouse.

Lucien, like Murat, is appalled that it's an Englishman. He's like, 'brother, brother, I know some very nice French artists and writers. Let me introduce you to them.' and Napoleon is like, 'your friends are all pretentious freaks, Lucien, you know that right?'

-----

sorry the entire thing becomes a comedy of errors almost immediately

-----

anyway! Murder fairies! I love the idea of a modern AU with murder fairies. OOooooooh, they're visiting England because Napoleon wants to go on a walking tour because he's outdoorsy like that and enjoys walks and nature.

Queue some fucked up murders.

Also Arthur's family being Posh(tm) and English(tm). (Anne is like: I'm trying to accept this. I'm trying to be good about this. Arthur is all: can you try harder? Granted, you're doing better than literally everyone else. Gerald just lectured me about God.)

Napoleon: not sure what i'm scared more of: the murder fairies or your mother.

Richard: at least I'm not the one with the fucked up love life for ten minutes!

Arthur: Richard, you are not helping.

OR

it's in Paris, there's political stuff happening in the background and then people start experiencing some weird things. Reflections in the mirrors are blurry about the edges. People think they see things then turn around and there's nothing behind them. Bumps in the night.

There's something about making big cities super claustrophobic that I like. Atmospheric countryside is really fun, and I love the ease in which it allows you to drop into the gothic, but there's something especially horrifying in being in a busy place full of people and still the creatures can get you.

Also, the fact that the murder fairies access our realm via mirrors and dreams means there's no real escape.

With modernity, well, we're all carrying mirrors at any given moment since cellphones are reflective surfaces. Also something with the selfie camera would be hell of a lot of fun.

Also the murder fairies wear people's skin as their glamour so you never actually know if who you're talking to is the person or the fairy.

But there's so much potential with modern technology.

Murder fairies infest the metro. You descend down to get on the metro at Rennes or whatever and when the train pulls up the reflection in the windows as they pass by shows a murder fairy behind you and when you turn around it's just the crowd.

Fun fun fun!! Fun for the whole family!

-----

excerpt from my own murder fairy story that has yet to see the light of day:

The other fairies move forward, two already have swords drawn. The king holds up a hand and they stop their advance. A smile full of teeth. I see what your plan is. The king steps forward. Napoleon does his best to look down at the king whilst looking up. I had hoped you would be willing as Peredur was willing. Magic is stronger when the healing gift is freely given, but I will take what I need. 'How will this work?' Napoleon asks, sweating. The heat overwhelms. Sharp cracks of rock splitting slice air. 'If it is me you need, my own leg never fully healed, just as yours doesn't seem to want to heal. Mapping mine over yours won’t make it better. And your wound doesn’t mean your kingdom is wounded or must suffer. I believe that some power of kingship comes embodied in the person himself, but much of it extends beyond the mere physical form. Yes, the monarch represents the land and the people, but if you are wounded, and you allow that to determine the quality of your kingship, to control your actions, dictate and consume your leadership, you were never fit to rule in the first place. That right belongs to someone else.' This is not your world and it does not operate by your rules. My land is bound to my body. If I am wasted away, so is my land. You have seen where it is barren. 'Even if that is so, I can't heal you. My body, my skin, will not heal you. No one's body can heal you. Didn't you remain wounded when you took Arthur's appearance? Percival’s? If so, that was no healing. It was applying a bandage to something requiring stiches.' You cannot know that. ‘I am not your Percival. You are not my fisher king.' The king shakes his head in a pitying manner. Reaching forward, he wraps a clawed hand around Napoleon's neck and lifts him up as if he were nothing but a rag doll. [...] The fisher king was healed by the Grail question. But that is legend, and this is real life. Real life where a woman is on fire, ripping apart a bridge. Real life where a fairy is strangling him. Real life where he dangles two feet off the ground fast heading towards unconsciousness. Napoleon tries for air, tries for the question, 'what is it that troubles—' Searing pain across stomach. Everything is stars, blurred shapes, sharp colours. He thinks he might be screaming. Movement. He is aware of being thrown. Hard rock. Searing hot rock. He feels it through clothes. His hands hold coiled intestines. He thinks he should ask for opium. He thinks it fitting he'd die on a bridge with stomach cut open. It’s poetic and his life has always been something of a romance.

Napoleon is having a great time, everyone!

#it works that they disappear people and then use their skin #if the faie take you you're basically dead #they send you to avalon and that's not a good thing #you've been skinned #you're dead #there's no coming bacl #back* #the fisher king just wants a new meat suit! #writing #napoleon bonaparte #napoleon #napoleon: what is it that wounds you? #fisher king: first person who has asked correctly in a thousand years. #arthur wellesley #napolington #murder fairies #pale before the fall #nox #sort of

[imagineredwood]

"Is...is that a ring?"

Request: Juice Ortiz, maybe one just where he asks the reader to marry him alongside the help of Chibs

Pairing: Juice Ortiz x female reader 

Warnings: None 

Word count: 1k

A/N: I could’ve sworn I already wrote something about this very idea but I can’t find it anywhere so  🤷🏻‍♀️😂 Here’s this one 

"What's on your mind, boy?"

Juice jumped, startled as he heard Chibs' voice so close. Looking to his right, he found the older Son standing there, one brow arched as he looked at Juice. Clearing his throat and brushing the awkward moment off with a laugh, he waved his hand dismissively from his spot at the bar counter. 

"Oh, it's nothing. Just spaced out, that's all."

"Mhmm."

Chibs was sitting down beside the younger Son then, not an ounce of belief on his face. Juice chuckled again, and so did Juice.

"Let's try again, and this time, ya won't lie to me." 

Juice nodded and looked back at the man who had become like a father to him. 

"I want to marry her." 

It took a moment, and then the older man grinned, slapping Juice on the back. 

"Took ya fuckin' long enough." 

The two laughed, Juice shaking his head. 

"I know, I know. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't rushing it or being too impulsive. I didn't want to fuck things up with her, but I feel like now is good. I just don't know how to ask her. Like how to bring it up. If I should ask her when we're alone or with the club, if I should make it random or plan it out. I'm struggling here, brother." 

The Scotsman smiled nostalgically, thinking back to a younger version of himself having those same flip-flopping thoughts when he was planning on proposing to Fiona. Shrugging, Chibs pushed his shoulder into Juice's. 

"You're the one that knows her best. You would know better than anyone else what would make her happier. So do that. An old man like me, I say do it privately, maybe after a nice date. But you do what you think is best." 

Juice nodded before responding, a twinkle starting to show in his eyes. 

"I think that's a good idea. Something more personal. How though? I want it to be romanic." 

Chibs grinned as he looked at his younger counterpart. 

"I know just the thing." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You smiled as you walked with Juice, a pit of nervousness in your stomach as you worried you would fall. He had a blindfold tied lightly over your eyes, his hands in yours to help guide you as you walked blindly. 

"Almost there, baby. I won't let you fall. I promise. Just a little bit further." Soon enough, he had you stop, his hands leaving yours only to reach behind your head, undoing the tie that had the blindfold secured to your eyes. 

"You can look now." 

It took a moment for your eyes to adjust, your vision spotty for a second or two until it cleared up, your jaw falling slack.

Then entire back yard was decorated, string lights drapped across illuminating the rose petal trail from your feet to the table in the middle of the yard, plates and champagne flutes already in place beside the ice bucket. You turned to look at him, a small sheepish smile on the Son's face. 

"Like it?"

You didn't answer him with words, simply throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. It wasn't often that the two of you could get away and have a date night, especially not one this planned out and romantic. The sound of the sliding door opening again caught your attention and there was Chibs, oven mitts on his hands as he held a steaming pot. 

"I cooked for you two lovebirds. Go on and have a seat."

You and Juice obliged, walking over to the table and sitting down as Chibs began to serve. Once he was finished, he leaned down and left a kiss to your hair before doing the same to Juice. 

"I'll be on my way now. Enjoy the night." 

He threw a wink and a wave, and then he was gone, leaving just the two of you. You ate comfortably, enjoying the dish that Chibs had made, your flute never running dry as Juice refilled it every time. It was calm and relaxed, the two of you joking and laughing and enjoying each others company. It wasn't until the street lights flickered on that you realized how long you had been sitting there, the plates long empty. Juice realized how much time had passed as well and felt his stomach drop, nervousness taking hold as remembered where Chibs had put the ring. He opened his mouth to ask if you wanted dessert now but was cut off by you, your hands grabbing for the dirty plates. 

"We should wash these, start cleaning up." 

Juice nodded, you already standing and out of your seat. He cursed under his breath as you began walking away with a smile, oblivious. He followed you in, helping to carry the remainder of dirty dishes and place them into the sink. Your hand reached for the faucet, and Juice quickly, but awkwardly, stopped you. He chuckled nervously at the look on your face and segwayed into it. 

"Let's have dessert first. Then we can wash the dishes. So you don't have to do them twice you know?"

You simply nodded and agreed, smile returning to your face at the mention of dessert. 

"What'd you get?" "Your favorite." 

He didn't miss the way your eyes lit up, and he quickly went into the fridge, grabbing the cake and taking it out, placing it onto the counter in front of you. You happily opened the box and took it out, placing the cake on the counter to look it over. It was then that your eyes caught the twinkle of the diamond, your smile falling as your heart picked up. 

"Is...is that a ring?"

Juice nodded, his nerves suddenly calming as he looked at you. 

"Yeah. It is." 

With a shaky hand, you reached forward and grabbed it, pulling it free of the icing before looking back over at Juice, eyes wide. 

"Are you..." "I want you to marry me." 

He nodded confidently, your eyes locked on his for a few moments before you nodded, a breathless laugh falling from your lips as all of the pieces suddenly fell together. 

"I want you to marry me too."

General taglist

@piccasoe @ateliefloresdaprimavera @gemini0410 @woahitslucyylu @my-rosegold-soul @that-chick212 @everyhowlmarksthedead @glimmerglittergirl @elcococruz @fanaticfangurl21 @encounterthepast @iambabyharry @svintsandghosts @starrynite7114 @saturnsaree @multiyfandomgirl40 @destynelseclipsa @sadeyesgf @queenbeered @iamthegraham @emoengelfurleben @all-the-boys-to-the-yard @otomefromtheheart @rosieposie0624 @papa-geralt-of-cirilla @beeroses @weirdosandhopelessromantics @kola95 @black-repunzel99 @xonickibaby

@cruzwalters @myakai13 @mrsstevenbuchananstark @lyly00 @kaystacks17 @cole-winchester  @alexxavicry

SAMCRO taglist 

@irenne-stans @emoengelfurleben @kola95 @xonickibaby @mrsstevenbuchananstark @im-just-a-mississippi-girl

Juice taglist 

@kchavez666​ @emoengelfurleben​ @maciiiofficial​  @xonickibaby​

#juice ortiz #juice ortiz imagine #juice ortiz x reader #SAMCRO #imagines #imagine #sons of anarchy #sons of anarchy imagine

[drbased]

Ok, let's have a bit of fun tearing something apart:

The first paragraph is entirely circular reasoning, and I'm going to explain why. Let's pick this apart:

So, transness brings to the equation 'a liberal individualism that assumes a singular, internally autonomous subject'? Really? A liberal individualism is what we want in discussing oppression, is it? No consciousness raising, no recognition of what binds us as a class, no finding self-determination through our relationship with the collective? Nope, 'liberal individualism': two words put together which genuinely sound like a parody of what lefties think like. Furthermore, I don't think transness, trans studies etc. really is something that assumes a singular, internally autonomous subject. If gender is both cultural and innate, then the subject cannot be truly internally autonomous, certainly not entirely. And even if you disagree with that assertion, there's no reason to assume that anyone needs a gender to be internally autonomous. You don't need a 'race gender' to find autonomy as a person of colour, you don't need an 'ability gender' to find autonomy as disabled person. As for me, right now I laugh, I can play video games, I can type dumb shit on the internet, I can wear t-shirts, I can do all the things I would do anyway, I can excercise my autonomy to the fullest without needing to apply a label of gender to any of it. Exactly what freedom is brough to light by having/expressing a gender is never really explained.

Meanwhile, feminism seems to bring... everyhing else to the table. Feminism brings the class consciousness, the political action, the actual recognition of how power operates - expressed in needlessly verbose terms. These two paragraphs are absolutely terribly written, by the way: they swing back and forth from overly simplistic to excessively verbose, and it's very clear that it's for rhetorical purposes. In this case, the description of how feminism recognises and analyses power dynamics is described in such a way that feminism is made to seem impersonal and highly theoretical to the point of it being a primarily academic tool; as opposed to the down to earth trans studies, which recognises the individual human at the center. How... ironic.

And it is here where the overly wordy prose goes off the rails. A lot of words are used for 'feminism was transphobic in the past, so now it needs transness... because.' Yeah, that's the circular reasoning. No real reason is given why feminism needs transness. It lacked it before, and I've implied feminism doesn't recognise the internally autonomous subject, so that's why it needs transgenderism. And there is, of course, the obligatory implication that feminists are the real bad guys who hate deviation from the gender binary. When feminists recognise that men took away women's right to vote, they failed to recognise that by pointing out that men did it to women means they're actually supporting men doing it to women. In actuality, we should all just plug our ears and go 'lalala' at oppression, that's what makes it go away. Christ, what bizarrely conservative rhetoric from such a fan of 'liberal individualism'.

This last bit really makes me mad: 'Feminism needs transness/trans studies in order to deliver on its claim of radical inclusivity'. Yeah, nah. Feminism has never, does not and will never, claim 'radical inclusivity'. You just made that up. Idk, maybe some people IDing as feminists in the past twenty years want to claim radical inclusivity. But at the risk of no true scotsmanning - no real-world radical politics (that is, politics that actually aims to disrupt power systems) aims to be 'radically inclusive'. In fact, I would almost say the opposite is true: if something is radically inclusive, then that means the oppressor class gets to sit at the table with the people they oppress, they get to disrupt the conversation and no real action is ever really achieved. So those with political aims tend to be radically exclusive, so that the voices who would normally be drowned out finally get a chance to be heard. Sure, you might consider it a bit single-issue, but that's not a bad thing, and is often the way shit actually gets done in the real world. Being radically inclusive is a way to dilute the conversation and spy on the people you're oppressing, narc

So the first paragraph was a real nothing-burger topped with circular reasoning, but the second one is where it goes from surreal to anger-inducing:

'Instead of a focus on patriachy understood through a rigid male oppression of women...' How dare you. You know literally jack shit about what you're talking about. All the books, all the feminist theory, all feminists have talked about, all our personal experiences, all we have done, all we have achieved. ALL of it was built on the understanding of what patriarchy is. How could patriarchy be done any other way? The use of the word 'rigid' here is really what gets my goat. Because without it, that phrase is going to read as perfectly reasonable to any feminist worth her salt. The word 'rigid' is purely rhetorical, attempting to slide in a judgment where it isn't needed. This writing is so bad, we've swung right back to the dry prose, and prose that serves as a real head-scratcher to anyone who isn't already part of the choir.

But don't you worry, we are reassured that instead of a basic analysis of the patriarchy that has been the backbone of feminist (and non-feminist general female organising) since forever, '... trans feminists took aim at the gender binary as a more fundamental and robust bedrock for the gendered ills that plague us.' Hmm, do they? I've not really seen any evidence for that. I would say that it's actually very hard to organise towards any societal change without the recognition of who power serves and why. If gendered ills 'plague us', then who benefits from the gender binary, exactly, and how? Considering how gender identity is pretty nebulous and hard to grasp, it seems hard to directly exploit anyone for it, or even realistically discriminate against anyone for it. I could explain in more detail, but I've done that elsewhere. Here, I'm going to finish this point with asserting that no, I do not think that 'taking aim at the gender binary' is a robust bedrock for anything.

So the next part, now bolded, is simply an overly verbose rehash of what was said before about how feminism recognises and analyses how power is wielded by men against women. And jesus, when I say verbose, I fucking mean it. Absolutely nothing of real value is said here, so let's move on.

And then we get a rehash saying, once again, the trans feminism wants to smash the gender binary. Once again, I'd like to see some evidence of what that looks like in practice. Because anyone who pays attention to this topic has seen time and time again that in reality, trans people end up reinforcing the gender binary quite a lot. As I've said before, if the only way to express your gender is through cultural signifiers, and those cultural signifiers are built by sexism, then you're going to be supporting sexism. It is unavoidable, no matter how good your intentions are.

#radical feminism #my writing

[e11evenfiftyseven]

Rothmans Blue

One

"Do ye want a cigarette?"

My eyes snap open as consciousness seems to choke me awake. An all too familiar scotsman leans over me, dog tags dangling in my face.

Light pours into the otherwise dark room through the door he left ajar. I can barley make out his features, but his bright blue eyes are unmistakable in any conditions.

An effortless smirk graces his divinely blessed face. He nods to the door, a beat looking cigarette balancing precariously on his lip.

I blink the blur out of my eyes and click on my phone screen.

"Damn near four in the mornin', Soap," I tell him, moving to put on some sweat pants regardless.

He sits now on my bed, and though his expression looks the same, I can tell it now comes from a place of victory, his smile just a touch wider.

I slide on my slip ons and shrug on a jacket, and the two of us pad silently down the barracks hall to the court yard. Soap props the door open with a rock and the cool air chills my bone almost immediately.

I roll my eyes as Soap walks back over to me, unaffected by the weather in his shorts and sweatshirt. He had a bad habit of smoking more frequently when the weather turned. When chill started to hang in the air, and the leaves started changing, he would drag me out of bed at odd

hours to smoke a cigarette and stare up the sky.

It was different every time. Sometimes he would say nothing and walk me back to my room, and thank me, and that would be it. Sometimes, he would get halfway through the bleached paper and then words would tumble out of his mouth until the sky turned into water color, pink red and orange tinting his face as he spoke.

Then too, he would walk me back to my room and thank me. I'd see him in the morning, at breakfast with the entire company. There would be no verbage of the previous cigarette's discussion, but conversation ensued, with child like games of pointed glances and casual double entendres.

Tonight, he and I lay out in the browning grass. Slightly dewey in the late night-early morning atmosphere, the grass provided little cushioning from the cold ground underneath. The morning was hinting at its arrival, light peeking into the edges of the star dappled sky.

Soap lays with his arms behind his head and he stares up to the sky. He looks in deep thought, as he usually is on these evenings. He inhales deeply, the cherry of his cigarette flaring brightly. He pauses. Exhales. I watch the smoke flourish into the sky, and he turns to me.

"You know what I think?"

I search his face for a minute, trying to detect where the conversation is going to go. Soap quite often threw me the ball, just to see what I would do.

"What's that," I ask, throwing the ball right back.

He turns and his hand extends to me, after he takes a drag off the cigarette.

I take it from him, taking a puff myself and putting it back in his fingers. I didn't really smoke, but obliged every now and then.

Soap seems to divert from his original path. His tone is different now, shifting to something that reads less serious. "I'm thinking that Gary's goin' to lose that wager tomorrow," he says plaintively.

Something in me flatlines. Often I forget about the lesser, but not entirely uncommon third route for our cigarette smokes: Sometimes, Soap would try to say something, then nothing, falling back to some baseless or nonsensical quip. I never pushed him further though, finding that route would land me without a late night smoke for a few days.

"Oh really?" I hide my disappointment, though I could practically already hear him thanking me and me and leaving me at my door.

"Mhhm-hmmm," He says into another drag. "He hasn't been keepin' up with everyone else." He nudges me, referencing Gary's falling back in training. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed," he looks over at me.

I sit up a little, propping myself up on my elbows. Dew stains my sleeves now, and a purple pink hue sits on the horizon. "Yeah, I've seen. I've actually been meaning to help him with that. I've got extra PT with him Tuesday and Thursday evenings."

Soap's look hardens for a moment before he corrects that. "What?"

I quirk a grow at him, "what'd you mean what? I'm running extra PT with Roach."

"Mhhhm," he says, meaning for me to think he misheard me. "Oh that's nice of ye," he stands up, wedging the cigarette into the pavement. He offers his hand to help me up, and then throws the cigarette out, walks me to my room, and says,

"Thank you."

#john mactavish #modern warfare #soap mactavish #call of duty #john soap mactavish #soap mw2 #cod mwii #mw2 #modern warfare x you #soap x you #soap x reader #modern warfare two #modern warfare fanfiction #Spotify

[garebearandnan]

NEW CHAPTER OUT! S2 DAY 13, 'A Bit of Me"

EP17 Pt1 A Weird Vibe

SUMMARY: Our Islanders are making the most of their unforgettable summer in paradise. But while the sun keeps on shining, the twists and turns just keep on coming… A recoupling has been announced for tonight! How does everyone feel about it?

FULL CHAP. READ ON:

EXCERPT: Terrace scene with Marisol and Bobby.

Marisol sighed, looking uncertain. “I really don't know where my head is at.” 

Bobby asked, “I guess the question is, who do you want to snuggle up with?”

The law student explained, “I know, but I don't wanna snuggle anyone here. That's the problem.” She took another sip of her coffee. Marisol asked, “Do you feel there’s a bit of a weird vibe today, Bobby?” Maybe I’m just imagining it.

“There does seem to be sort of a weird atmosphere today.” Bobby considered the possibility. “People get nervous about recouplings, you know?”

“True,” Marisol nodded, “but there's something else. I can feel it.”

Bobby furrowed his brow. “Like what?”

“I don't know... maybe someone's not being entirely honest with their feelings, or maybe there's some drama brewing beneath the surface,” Marisol speculated.

“It’s Love Island, Mar-Mar. Drama’s practically a requirement.” Bobby gave her a teasing grin.

She practically choked on her coffee. Marisol raises an eyebrow at the Scotsman. “Mate, what the fuck?”

Bobby chuckled. Bobby and Marisol couldn’t ignore the weird vibe, wondering what surprises the day had in store for them and the rest of the islanders.

Narrator: Guys, if you spend all morning hanging out on the roof terrace, you’re going to feel a little disconnected from things.

#litg #loveislandgame #loveislandthegame #abitofme #loveisland #litg s2 #litgs2 #love island game

[espionisms]

* / TASK 001 — EMINE BULUT.

@theopulenthq — the confessions, or lackthereof, of a turkish bookkeeper spying for ethiopia. her mood is rather subdued, all things considering, her thoughts running all amok in her head. but her answers will be relatively clear, and calculated. she is nervous beneath the pressure of the confrontation, or what it feels to be as one; yet she is determined to not disappoint anybody, nor herself.

"hello. can you please tell me your name, country, and what role you provide your court?"

"lady emine bulut." the title is still foreign to her. "i am the bookkeeper for the sultans and sultanas of the turkish court." and that truly is how it began. she is heavily aware of her book on her person, albeit hidden entirely from even these pervasive eyes. this time. "like a glorified historian and accountant."

"and who do you believe to be your closest allies, either nations or individuals? do you trust your allies?"

"in my line of work, alliances and friendships are not the same. i do trust my allies to an extent, but may or may not consider them friends. whomever the turkish court aligns with, i interact with, as is natural in my position." it is an answer with an answer left out, of course. her true friends are across all countries, and her alliances have switched to the kingdom of ethiopia, the family she considers as her own. "i do hate to be disappointed, so i leave my belief for after the proof." she becomes keenly aware of this being a game, in the midst of this answer. it reminds her of the dance between herself and kamal — but with a worse undertone. "it comes and it goes."

"ah, yes, i see... how about your enemies, then? who do you not align yourself with, and why?"

"this is a simple answer, isn't it? those who threaten death, those who are senseless, those who think themself above the end result." she stills herself. she mustn't let her emotions get the better of her. she releases her breath. "i don't align myself with anybody who assigns themself an ego they don't deserve."

"interesting. do you have a personal vendetta against any of the courts, or even individuals, here?"

against her own country, for what it didn't do. outwardly, she scoffs. "what on earth is this?" ( queen malaika's eloquence spills out with that statement. ) "is this a gossip booth or a set-up for a public guillotine later on? no, i have no such a personal vendetta, regardless of my country's loyalties."

"what are your thoughts on the mysterious deaths in so many royal families?"

"someone, somewhere, is doing something." her fist finds the swollen silk of her ballgown and begins to twist it. "it's concerning to me, of course. it means no one is safe." and that carries heavy meaning. "not from anything."

"how do you feel about the system of the monarchy as a whole?"

abolish it. the need to say such a thing springs to her tongue, highly reminiscent of a certain conversation she carried with a scotsman in their cups. but then, she would not know her king and queen; she would not be writing lettres to an unseen friend, she wouldn't be emine bulut. she would be that dead girl left in her village, burnt to the ground. "... it's here."

"so, what would be your best theory as to what is going on, then?"

"that someone, somewhere... is doing something." and there is a pleasant smile, as though emine has provided them a great deal of intel. "and that's the nature of these things. i've been in the courts since i came of age, and it's the same thing, over and over again. until something gives."

"thank you for your time. is there anything else you'd like to add, anything else that would be useful to the investigation?"

keep this between us, the sultan had told her. yourself and kamal. for a moment, she debates on sharing it, throwing a wrench into the whole thing. just to see what would happen — just to protect ethiopia, cause more shadows to be thrown over turkey and these empires. a greatest, sleekest revenge. but the taste of the threat unsaid ( and the potential for it to be true, fraternal concern ) drives emine into silence. "not this time. my nose is always in a book, after all." repeating prince angelo's words to her at the bar. "i scarcely see a thing that could be helpful."

#emine bulut : about . #theopulent.task

[ff7-has-taken-me-over]

I’m bad with more prompts I have just been in different fandoms (1 being Hannibal’s they are very gay i say that) so I have unfortunately neglecting COD a bit 😔 But I’m back here two prompts that once again keep awake this whole thing https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRTfbakF/ graves felt something for soap fr ghost was punching the air hearing them speak and the second one would be soap x Rudy they just seem so cute together very soft also blushy ghost makes me so happy he gets so shy after soap kisses him that’s all :p loved hearing all your thoughts on my prompts <3

You and me both buddy, I’ve been hanging out in Resident Evil and Honkai 😂 also i love receiving all your prompts, they’re heaps of fun to write/think about

It still catches me so off guard when i see things where Graves genuinely cares for Soap, but its also so funny cause every time i try and think of that man trying to rizz Soap up, all i can think of is that scene where he sucks his teeth and shit before telling Ale his men have been detained.

And the thought of him being so bad at flirting but Soap either being that oblivious or finding it too fuckin funny that he just lets it continue is amazing to me. Especially when Simon’s listening into all of it and is absolutely losing his mind over these horrible fuckin pick up lines and hearing Soap laughing in response. Its just *chefs kiss*

Omfg Rudy and Soap? They’re so bloody cute. Those two would take over the world with how adorably soft and badass they’d be as a couple. Its like the polar opposite of Alejandro and Valeria as a couple and I love it.

Rudy would be the softest fuckin lover and would balance out Soap’s chaotic energy but he’d also subtly endorse that shit if he saw fit. He would be giving out affection and gifts like he was getting paid to do it and he wouldn’t give one single shit if you didn’t like it.

Soap would be so blushy and giggly when Rudy kissed him on the cheek in the middle of a pub, heedless of anybody else because if he wanted to show affection to his boyfriend he’ll damn well do it.

Johnny’s just so used to being the one to initiate any and most physical affection/pda that when its done to him he isn’t entirely sure how to react to it. He loves it to bits but he’s also so shy about it and its adorable to see.

And last but not least! Our poor Ghost and his affection starved self. Simon absolutely adores getting kisses from Johnny because they’re always so soft and gentle.

They never ask for anything in return or leave him feeling icky and grossed out. It’s just Johnny’s way of showing him affection and Simon loves it so damn much.

He can’t help but blush to the tip of his ears when Johnny mindlessly kisses his cheek before leaving for his duties, the Scotsman smiling brilliantly before he leaves. His heart warms when the sergeant, without fail, kisses him goodnight, regardless of whether their sharing the same bunk or not.

Johnny will quite literally track him down across the base just so he can kiss him goodnight and its so unbelievably heartwarming and it makes him blush something stupid whenever it happens. But he wouldn’t change for the world.

#fic prompt #ghost x soap #fuck off haters #i’m looking at you die hard cod players #johnny ‘soap’ mctavish #prompt #call of duty #fic #simon ‘ghost’ riley #ghost #rudy x soap #onesided graves x soap #graves is bad at flirting #graves got no rizz #rudy x soap are so cute #soft rudy #adorable soap #ghost is losing his mind #soft ghost #response #reply #anonymous

[bridgertonbabe]

Do you think Michael wears kilts?

 😈 😈 😈 It's Michael Stirling, of course he does! And as a "true Scotsman", naturally he wouldn't be wearing anything underneath 😏

I like to think in a modern au for his and Francesca's wedding he'd insist that the Bridgerton brothers adhere to Scottish tradition and wear kilts, something which ABC aren't keen on but after Francesca comes to them and says it would be a nice way to welcome her fiance into the family, they acquiesce - and you know what, fuck it, here’s a little drabble covering the horny consequences of Michael’s plotting;

"Well don't you lads scrub up well!" Michael boomed when he catches sight of ABC decked out in the traditional formalwear at the church. "I'll make honorary Scotsmen of you all by the end of the night!"

"Will all due respect, Stirling, I think I speak on behalf of my brothers when I say I can't wait to get this thing off after the reception." Anthony said.

"Is it not freeing though? Letting your laddies be free and unrestrained?"

"Our laddies?" Colin snorted immaturely, catching his sister's fiance's drift, though Michael chose to interpret Colin's question as one of incomprehension.

"Aye, your cocks."

"Would you keep your voice down!" Anthony hissed at Michael, while Benedict face-palmed and Colin brought a hand to his mouth to stop himself from laughing. "You can't be saying that in a church!" He insisted, darting his eyes around them nervously, even though nobody else in the surrounding area seemed to notice nor care.

"Now you've all done as the groom's requested, right? All commando?" Michael grinned.

"I don't get why of all the things you could have requested as the groom you chose that," Anthony tutted.

"It's my special day; I can request whatever I want. Now; have ya done as I've asked?"

"Yes." Benedict groaned. "We're all... liberated, as per your request."

"I swear to god, Stirling, if there's even so much as a breeze when we take the photos outside," Anthony snarled through gritted teeth.

"Well if there is, we'll all be brothers in arms, won't we? And besides, it'll make a lovely treat for the girls and the gays if there is a gust of wind." Michael nudged Anthony with a wink and a shit-eating grin, something which the eldest Bridgerton didn't care for in the slightest. "And you all remembered to wear the garters too, right?"

"Can confirm." Colin nodded. "I never knew garters were a thing with kilts."

"Aye, they sure are. Noble tradition and all that." Michael said - however the garters he had told the Bridgerton brothers to wear were not the typical ones worn with the attire. No, Michael had decided to be a little dastardly, and had purchased his brothers-in-law tartan patterned garters meant for brides, and had told them to slip one onto their thigh. There was one reason for his trickery and one reason alone; to give his sisters-in-law a treat. "What did your wives have to say about your new look, anyway?" he enquired.

And that was the thing that had puzzled ABC the most. Each one had expected their respective wife to take great amusement in their attire. Colin thought Penelope would have a quip ready and waiting, Benedict had expected Sophie to giggle at the sight, and Anthony was sure Kate would have a permanent smirk on her lips. However, their wives hadn't reacted in that way at all. All three of them had regarded their husbands with a strange look, something indiscernible flashing across their faces. The brothers figured their wives would simply have a delayed reaction and laugh at them later on, or perhaps they didn't want to be rude about the traditional formalwear while they were around Michael.

But on the contrary, Kate, Sophie, and Penelope all had very strong feelings on their husbands attire for the wedding - and the strong feelings entirely pertained to lust.

"I can’t stop staring." Kate said as she sat with her two sisters-in-law in their pew on the other side of the church, staring as their husbands chatted with the groom. "Anthony in a kilt is doing things for me that I never could have imagined..."

"Am I the only one who's foaming at the mouth at the knee-high socks?" Penelope asked, her eyes round as she ogled her husband's sock-clad calves.

"Do you know what? It's the easy access for me." Sophie whispered as her eyes raked over her husband.

"God bless Michael Stirling, is all I can say." Kate breathed.

And it wouldn't be until later on at the reception that ABC realised exactly how their wives felt about the kilts they were wearing.

"Pen!" Colin quietly gasped after his wife groped his arse in the middle of the dancefloor as they slow-danced amongst other couples.

"God, I love knowing you're commando." she whispered, her eyes twinkling with mischief up into his.

Colin stared at her, shocked by her words. "Really?"

"Mmhm." she hummed and brought her lips to his ear. "I think I need you wearing skirts and knee-high socks more often."

Colin truly hadn’t expected such a reaction from his wife but a grin tugged at his lips at the thought that this specific outfit was turning Penelope on so much. 

Meanwhile sat at their table, Anthony's knee bucked up suddenly and shook the table, causing the glasses and plates to tremble momentarily. Anthony apologised to those around the table before his eyes turned to Kate, who had caused such a reaction after sliding her hand up his kilt and up his thigh.

"Kate." he warned under his breath. "What are you doing?"

She leaned in closer until nobody else could hear her say; "I was just thinking of dropping to my knees under this table and sucking you off."

"Kate!" he hissed incredulously. "What on earth has gotten into you?!"

"You wearing this kilt is what's gotten into me." she purred back. "I can’t wait to get you back to our room. I’m itching to get my hands on you.” 

Anthony gulped, taken aback by his wife’s heated words, as she began trailing her finger nails up his thigh once more.

At the same time, another Bridgerton wife couldn’t put off scratching her itch any longer as Benedict was hurled into the disabled toilet, barely having a second to breathe as his wife shoved him up against the wall and began kissing him hungrily. 

“Soph.” he groaned in between kisses, perplexed by her sudden eagerness though he wasn’t complaining. “Why don’t we just take this back to our - Soph!” he squealed as suddenly he was manhandled by his petite but deceptively strong wife, who had grabbed him by the back of the thighs and had deposited him to perch on the sink. “What are you -” but her lips had collided with his. 

She had stepped between his legs, the heat between them intensifying, and then her hand snuck up his kilt and grabbed a hold of him, eliciting a gasp from Benedict right into her mouth. 

“Jesus Christ, Soph.” he cried out. 

“God, you’re hot. You’re so fucking hot in your kilt, Ben.” she growled against his lips, barely giving him any time to react to her words as instead she prompted a more vocal reaction from him due to her actions. 

And later on that night the three Mrs Bridgertons hauled their respective husbands back into their rooms, their men being pushed down onto the bed, sock-clad calves being draped over their wives shoulders as their garters were removed from their thighs by their wives teeth, before the rest of their nights continued into the wee hours. 

The next morning at breakfast Michael was surrounded by Kate, Sophie, and Penelope, the three women thanking him profusely for his efforts to the cause as he was pulled into a four-way hug. “And getting them to wear those garters? An absolute stroke of fucking genius, Michael.” Penelope added. 

And just before he and Francesca left for their honeymoon, Michael was pulled aside by the three Bridgerton brothers, the trio practically glowing with satisfaction. 

“It was a wonderful wedding, Stirling.” Anthony chirped.

“Such a wonderful wedding.” Colin chimed in.

“It was such a wonderful wedding that you know, I could see you and Fran celebrating your one year anniversary with a vow renewal.” Benedict suggested brightly. 

“Absolutely! You should totally do this again!” Colin nodded keenly. 

“You should do it every year!” Anthony enthused, his eyes dancing with hope.

Michael grinned triumphantly, thoroughly pleased with himself for achieving his goal of making honorary Scotsmen of the Bridgerton brothers.  

#asks #bridgerton drabble #i mean michael also succeeded in making them all honorary babygirls but that's beside the point #michael stirling #kanthony #benophie #polin #abc

[circular-bircular]

the problem with the term sysmed and people who say "i have DID and it's disordered" is that many who say that… aren't JUST saying that.

they're often saying "DID (being a system) is inherently trauma related and you cannot be more than one person without DID/OSDD" and similar. sometimes even going as far to say "i think MAYBE u could be expeirencing something similar but it's also entirely separate and you don't deserve to compare your multiple-selves to anyhting DID/OSDD" even when there ARE many similarities to the "having multiple people in your mind".

ofc, there's a difference between a system who has parts of a whole / identifies more with the "dissociated parts" ideas, and systems who are separate beings entirely and wish to stay that way, but that's also not exclusive to "traumagens vs endogens", some traumagenic systems may want final fusion and some others might want healthy multiplicity.

but to claim that having more than one consciousness is inherently only a trait of a trauma-based disorder is just... incorrect. and very sysmedicalist. that's where that concept comes from.

at least, that's how we use it when we call someone a sysmed. we're acknowledging that they may not see non-DID/OSDD systems as equal to DID/OSDD systems, or may invalidate because "i'm a real system and you've got whatever else, don't use our terms"

“They’re often saying this!”

No. No they are not.

The example I used, the very specific example, was a system saying “I have DID and it is disordered.” What, about that statement, is that system going on to claim that only DID causes systems?

There is an assumption made by many that, when a system claims DID is trauma based, or simply talks about how DID is a disorder, they are actually making a statement about Endogenics. And yes - it does occur sometimes that those who say DID is trauma based also coincidentally happen to be anti-endo.

But I was specifically talking about MY experiences. And the experiences of countless others. Who have been called a fucking sysmed so many times, despite fully believing in endogenic systems, simply because we try to explain OUR disorder.

“At least, that’s how WE mean it when we call someone sysmed.”

It’s not how everyone means it. It’s not even how the majority means it. So please, don’t no-true-Scotsman my ask box. I’m not in a good place today and don’t need this bullshit clogging my inbox.

#syscourse #sysmed mention #the problem with the word sysmed isn’t that people don’t believe in endos #the problem with the word sysmed is that it’s the word sysmed

[ceasarslegion]

Whenever people disparage an entire genre, franchise, mode, etc of media as unilaterally, unequivocally bad or unworthy, I think of my cult film professor from last semester who, when another student brought up a Scorsese article about how the MCU isnt cinema, he said "well, it is. Because they're movies, aren't they? How else are you defining cinema but as a film on a screen?"

You can play the artistically superior all you want, but most likely whatever you're painting with such a widely negative brush is just... a film on a screen. And no amount of claiming it doesn't belong among other movies on screens will change the fact that it's getting screened. You can't no true scotsman away something's existence because you personally don't think it should exist

#this topic really is my doctors are the worst patients area #shut up dames