#soap MacTavish

[ghouljams]

Soap jerking off with the cease and desist letter the pornstar he's harassing sent him, just so he has a nice little video to send you(and your lawyer)

[thejohnlockedfemboy]

me fr

johnny’s alive and you can’t tell me otherwise :(

//mw3 spoilers

He’s fine, what do you mean? He’s just in recovery

(And I’m still in denial)

[chamomiletealeaf]

how would Simon or Johnny handle a sick, whiny and needy reader? Like having a fever and just feeling fatigued with headaches that pushes the need to be nursed back to health to the forefront, wanting to be close and not feel alone

(I'm sick myself so I thought I'd treat myself to an ask <3 bcs your writing is amazing)

Sorry for responding to this so late anon 😭 I hope you're feeling much better now!

I couldn't decide between Simon or Johnny so here's both!

Simon would come home one day and search the house for you. You were normally on the couch playing a game, watching a movie, reading, something. The house always had some sort of life in it that you brought. But not this time.

He comes home from a meeting or wherever he's been for the day and the lights are off.

"y/n? sweetheart?" Simon calls for you down the hall, his heart racing already fearing the worst. He pulls out the knife he keeps on his ankle and slowly approaches your shared room. He flicks on the light and he sees you. Sleeping with tissues around you, empty soup bowls, and a wet rag on your forehead.

He sighs and places the knife back, quietly walking over to you and turning the light on.

"Hey love." He coos at you, taking the rag off of your head as you stir awake.

"Hm? Simon?" You say, waking up.

"Yes lovie it's me. What's all this?" He asks, cupping your cheek.

"Oh baby you're burning up." He sighs.

You cough and his eyes flicker with pity and a sense of protectiveness.

"When did this happen?" He asks.

"Last night. You were sleeping and I didn't wanna wake you since I knew you had a meeting today. You left while I was still asleep." You muttered.

"Oh sweetheart were you like this all day?" He asks, placing his palm on your forehead.

"mhm" You nod.

"C'mere." Simon demands, climbing up onto the bed with you, brushing away the used tissues, and pulling you into his lap despite your protests of getting him sick.

"Nuh uh, none of that. Did you shower? The steam will help your sinuses."

You shake your head no.

"Was too tired." You say, turning your head to cough.

"Oh honey." Simon coos.

"C'mon, let's get you cleaned up yeah? Don't want you feeling icky." He says.

Simon then picks you up bridal style and brings you to the bathroom where he starts up a shower for you.

"Go on, relax in here for a bit. When you come out I'll have new clothes and sheets and everything for you ok love? You ok to stand?" He asks with his big brown eyes that only soften for you.

"Yes honey thank you." You say with your nasally congested voice.

When you come out of the shower, Simon greets you with a towel and your favorite pajamas. The sheets have been changed, the tissues thrown away as well as a new box of them next to a tiny garbage can to throw them away in, and a bowl of soup and crackers on a tray on the bedside table.

Simon is crouching on the floor plugging in a humidifier when he hears you walk in.

"Ah there she is. You feelin' any better lovey?" He asks walking up to you, feeling your cheeks and forehead for changes in temperature.

"Yes thank you baby." You respond with a smile. Your heart was absolutely melting right now with the way he was treating you.

He leans in and kisses your forehead where you furrow your brows in protest.

"I'm gonna get you sick Si." You pout.

"I've got no where to be for the next two weeks. If I get sick I get sick." He says sternly, and you smile.

"Now get in that bed. I don't wanna see you move a finger unless it's an emergency until my girl's all better yeah? I'll spoon feed ya if I have to." Simon says with a smirk.

You have no idea how you got so lucky.

Johnny would honestly not be too far off except you'd be begging him to give you some space.

He comes home with every soup imaginable, three gallons of orange juice, the entire pharmacy, and every bath bomb he could find.

"Johnny please! I'm gonna get you sick!" You protest pushing his chest away as he cuddles you in a bear hug on the couch.

"None of that lass. I'd rather get sick than watch my bonnie thing suffer." He says, not budging.

"I'm not suffering Johnny I just have a cough." You say, giving up squirming out of his grasp.

"When my girl is uncomfortable, the whole world should stop until she's all better. Now which soup do you want for dinner. I got every one possible."

He won't stop taking your temperature either. He's gripping your jaw forcing you to put the thermometer in your mouth because "what if it was wrong that time?"

"C'mon be a good bonnie lass and open up for me yeah?" You grumble and obey. It's not like you had a choice anyway from how he was holding you in place.

When you refuse to take your medicine he's doing the same thing. Firmly but gently gripping your jaw so he can make you take your cough syrup you refuse to take but he'd be damned if you feel uncomfortable from the sore throat it gives you for a second.

He's waking up every hour to place his hand on your face to see if you still have a fever, and every time you swat his hand away. But to be honest it's kind of cute seeing him so worried about you.

When you shower he'd scratch at the door like a puppy trying to get in.

"C'mon lass let me in. What if you faint from the heat huh? You already got a fever." He whines, and you laugh, eventually letting him in where he washes your hair and body for you, not letting you do a thing.

And he's gonna kiss you all over and snuggle you until you suffocate. It's just a given and there's nothing you can do about it. He just wants you to feel loved and to have your mind taken off the fact you can't speak without having a coughing fit or the cold sweats from the fever. It's what his pretty little lass deserves :)

[beepophobia]

Da boiz at da beach!!!

[mactavishenjoyer]

Riley:"stupid whore."

Roach:"I can't believe you did this to us"

Mactavish:"all I did was tell you to take leave."

Riley:"WOW might as well kill my family again."

Roach:"wow I can't believe you made fun of his face scars"

Mactavish:"what???????"

[skauni]

Masochists. You’re masochists, Ghost.

Ghost: we drew each others blood what are we

(Pirate au p.1)

[dix0nspretty]

Too Quiet

Summary: When cleaning house with Soap, you get stabbed and he disappears.

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish x F!Reader (platonic? ish?), 1.3k words.

Era: First half of MW2

TW: Discussions of fights, stabbing, violent death (not Soap, don't worry), fainting from blood loss. Worried 141 men.

Day 23 of my bastardized version of Russian Roulette Febuwhump/Kinktober for March that I'm affectionately calling Trinket's Cause of Death. It's basically 50/50 whump/kink where I generate a number corresponding to a prompt. This first whump prompt!

Day 23: Missing on the mission with Soap (whump)

Soap’s missing and it just might be your fault.

Soap was assigned to clear the houses to the left of the neighbourhood with you as his backup, something easy and almost mindless. Johnny and you have the highest scores when it comes to cleaning house. It’s nearly effortless as you clean room after room methodically and with a speed that makes rookies shake in their boots.

How you didn’t see the hostile hiding around the corner will piss you off for months- longer if you don’t find your partner in one piece. The hit to your skull dazed you instead of knocking you unconscious, but they’d dragged you into the bathroom’s tub before you could alert Johnny or anyone else.

The bastard tried to stab you to death but only managed to get the blade around your gear once before you disarmed and slaughtered him with his own blade. He’d tried to slip the blade between your ribs, but the fucker misjudged and just gouged right on top of your seventh right rib.

Climbing out of the tub filled with slippery blood with a burning stab wound was no easy feat, but you’d fought through worse. The hall sounds quiet, almost too quiet. Maybe Soap didn’t notice you get snatched.

The entire fight only took 45 seconds, but by the time you emerged into the hallway, breathing raggedly as adrenaline pumps through your veins, Johnny’s disappeared.

“Bravo 7-1?” You pant into the comms line when you don’t immediately see Soap. “Bravo 7-1, how copy?”

“What’s wrong, Bravo 7-2?” There’s Captain Price, ready and listening to comms as always. Always ready to help his team.

“I’m injured, Cap,” you pant out and touch your wound to see how bad it is. That’s a lot of blood. “Hostile got me in the ribs with a KA-BAR, lost track o’… fuck, of Johnny.”

You can almost hear Price bristle over comms at the knowledge that you’re hurt and Soap’s out of sight. “Sitrep, Sergeant. How’s the bleeding?”

You take another moment to consider, using the wall as a crutch while inching towards the direction Johnny went. “I’ll live… probably. Soap, where the fuck are you?”

No answer over the comms system and you can feel the tension building through the line between the rest of the 141.

“Johnny.” Ghost pops in, gruff and demanding an answer. “Report.”

Once again, no response. That’s a problem- Soap never misses a chance to talk to Ghost, even when he’s been injured. So he’s either incapacitated or separated from his comms, both of which are big problems as well.

“What do I do, Cap?” You ask, more worried about keeping your rifle up than applying pressure to the steadily bleeding wound in your side. “House isn’t cleared and there could be more hostiles.”

As Price deliberates, you make it to the left turn in the hallway, slumping against the wall as you peer down. Nothing but a bloody bootprint halfway down. It’s clear that it’s fresh, but how fresh?

The comms crackle and Price speaks up. “Clear the rest of the house. Ghost is repositioning and I’m sending Gaz to assist. If you don’t find Soap, we’ll reevaluate.”

That’s code for ‘go entirely off of Shepherd’s rules and find Johnny because we aren’t going anywhere without him’. Shepherd and the brass might want this mission done, but nothing’s happening without Soap. Each and every member of the 141 has gone against orders from above before and will do it again, especially for their teammates. For Johnny.

You stumble your way through the rest of the first and second floor, doing your best to stay silent and not alert any hostiles that you’re present and severely injured. Each step you feel a little more lightheaded and every second more concerned for Johnny and his uncharacteristic silence. Is he hurt? Is he unconscious? Is he-

The quiet steps behind you make you whirl around with your rifle ready to kill, but you go too far in your dizzy state and collapse forward, vertigo getting the best of you and sending you into someone’s chest with a startled ‘oof’.

“There ye are love, dinnae ken where ye went.”

“Johnny…?” Your voice comes out too dazed for your liking, but all you can think is you’re so lucky it was an ally and not a hostile and especially that it’s Johnny. “Why the fuck aren’t you answering comms? I was looking for… f… for you.”

Johnny shifts his grip on you, easily disarming and shuffling the rifle out of the way to properly keep you upright. He doesn’t feel as warm as normal, you notice almost dazedly. “Got in a wee tussle with some Irish bastard in the kitchen, took a hit an’ shattered my earpiece. The fuck happened tae ye, look like ye lost a fight with a shark.”

Fuck, when did you get so bad off? You didn’t check the fucking kitchen? It’s a miracle you lived long enough to even see the second floor.

That draws a weak laugh and your knees buckle forward, putting your whole weight into his chest and drawing an ‘oof’ of strain. “Jesus, bon. Give a lad some warning. Ye’re fucked, hm?”

You nod, the motion setting off a spinning in your head. “Got dragged into the bathroom, bas… bastard stabbed me. By th’ time I put him down, I couldn’t find you…”

Johnny tuts and eases you down to the floor, leaning you against the wall and arranging you so he can get a good look at your side. “Steamin’ Jesus, bon. Ye were looking for me an’ bleeding tae fucking death. Why didn’t ye put pressure on this, stubborn brat…”

His hand is on your ribs a moment later, the sudden pressure drawing a pained string of curse words that you didn’t even know went together. Johnny laughs and only presses down harder, intent on stemming the excessive bleeding. “Dinnae think I’ve ever heard it put quite that way, birdie.”

Soap’s other hand nonchalantly digs in your ear and plucks your comms free, popping it into his own ear without a care in the world. “Cap, it’s Johnny. Aye, I found 7-2. Lost my comms in a tussle sir, nothing’s wrong. ‘Cept birdie seems intent on bleeding out.”

“Don’t tell him that,” You hiss but Johnny only playfully covers your mouth with his hand, giving you a boyish wink and glancing around to make sure no other hostiles appear while he listens in on a conversation you’re not privy to.

You blink and suddenly Gaz is there as well, patting your cheek and looking down at you with those worried brown eyes. He softens some when you blink up at him, relieved. “There you are, love.”

“When’d you get here…” You mumble, the words slightly slurred. Didn’t you only blink? When did he sneak up? When did Soap move to your side, looking much more like a Sergeant at work than your teammate as both hands keep pressure on your side. His gaze is hard and focused, even as the cut on his eyebrow from his struggle bleeds into his eye.

“You passed out,” Kyle informs you and takes your rifle entirely, passing it to Soap. “Decided to take a nap and scare Johnny half to death. Think it’s time to get you home, hm?”

Johnny gives a scoff in the affirmative and helps Gaz get you up, both men ignoring the way your legs won’t hold your weight or how you curse in pain. “Jesus fuck son of a…. Be gentle.”

“Yes ma’am,” Gaz deadpans as he and Soap each take one side, leading you out of the house and to a waiting Price and Ghost who look entirely unimpressed. Their expressions both shift when they see the state you’re in. It’s easy to see how much they care once you know the men. The way Ghost’s jaw muscles ripple with frustration and worry or how Price immediately lights a new cigar.

You’re going to be in for the lecture your life… once you’re stitched up in the medbay. At least Johnny turned out to be okay.

[call-of-daydreams]

I can't draw very well, but all I keep thinking about is Soap with a grown-out mohawk that he can fit into a man bun and a bit of fat over all of his muscles.

Or Kyle with a little bit more of a beard and a little bit longer hair also with a little bit of fat over his muscles.

I'm sure there is a picture out there of this exact thing, but I can't remember where I saw it or if I've seen it at all. So, if you can draw or have a picture similar to what I'm thinking about please reblog this.

[giotanner]

Tiktok | Instagram

What would Task Force 141 be without Captain John Price’s leadership? In disarray. Great operatives without a guiding hand to stop them at the right moment or unleash them when needed. And when he’s needed the most—when Bravo Six is called—you always know where to find him, because he will always answer

[gazstations]

Thinking about a reader that embroiders little designs on Kyle's hats and sometimes his shirts. Just because they want to make him think about them every time he goes on a deployment. And then, when reader gets to know the team, Price notices one of his hats disappearing and returning with a cute little design. And then Johnny and Simon become victims at one point.

Idk what this idea is, but It’s just a random thought that popped into my head. And i'm totally not projecting because I do embroidery for a living 🤗

[just-student]

I rewatched Hotel Transylvania lately

I see no difference:

[infiiniteazure]

★ . ꜝꜞ ࣪ tft141 messages 📩.•° pt. 2

Soap definitely has a picture of himself as his wallpaper, and he also probably steals other people's chargers because he always loses his own.

[reblog-spam-assassin]

Honestly, I agree with him. Spiders wearing flip flops are really fucking annoying.

Therapist: Do any sounds annoy you?

Soap: Real sounds or imaginary sounds?

Therapist: …

Therapist: Let’s say imaginary.

Soap: Spiders wearing flip-flops.

[cavernsandcod]

BELLADONNA - III

SERIES M.L | AO3 VERSION | PREVIOUS | NEXT CHAPTER

CONTENT WARNINGS: obsession. blood. injury. undertones of violence. medical inaccuracies/oversights, i'm sure. NONCON undressing & bathing. strong language. TBI johnny; a.k.a MWIII spoilers by default. not proofread or edited. (stalker!soap x reader)

WC: 3.3k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: N/A

Ghost arrives faster than he expects.

Headlights flood the cab, forcing Johnny to raise his head from the steering wheel. It’s been pounding the last hour, a thousand knives behind his eyes. 

He gives the rearview mirror one last parting glance. She still hasn’t moved an inch.

He climbs out and shuts the driver's door, kicking up dust as he paces the dirt trail. As Simon’s figure emerged from his vehicle, he cast a shadow on his subordinate. The Jeep idles deep in the woods; the sight on its own is suspicious.

“The fuck is this about, mate?” His voice cut through the crisp air, gravel crunching.

The closer he gets, the more scrutiny his gaze has. Soap had let things bother him more than once. Used a sledgehammer on something that needed a chisel. This felt different.

He’s in his civvie clothes, he looks despondent, and frankly, beat to shit. “That yours?” He gestures to the splotches starting to soak into his gray tee.

“No.” The younger replies, massaging his sore jaw. “No’ all of it.” He spits maroon dots onto the dirt.

The fabric of his black K-95 shifts and his crow's feet wrinkle into what Johnny assumes is a facetious sneer.

“Look— I’ve got no bloody time for your problems, mutt. ‘S bad enough that you ping me all the way out ‘ere for whatever the fuck this is. I’m going.”

When his Lieutenant starts to retreat, Johnny feels his chest strangle with panic. He can’t do this alone.

“Wait, Simon. I need—fuck. I need ye to not judge me right now.” He trails off, placing his palm on the back window, gazing inside despite the tint. Seeing something Ghost couldn’t. He turns to face Simon. “I did something. Somethin’ bad.” His eyes well, voice shaking.

“Promise me ye won’t tell Price.” Ghost freezes, and ticks his head.

He’s seen hell and walked through it. Sent people down there, some more deserving than others. Still, there’s nothing rational running through Simon’s brain. Nothing decent or salvageable to warrant intense secrecy and the sick feeling in his stomach.

“Johnny,” his voice drops low, “what did you do?”

Ghost’s body went rigid as Soap pulled open the car door.

Something mangled—no, someone. A woman sprawled against the back seat, thighs, and arms caked in scratches and minor bruising. Blood matted her hair, dried dark against the upholstery.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Johnny.” He curses, taking a sharp step back.

He’d seen hundreds of bodies, sometimes ones with only bits and pieces left from one of Johnny’s bombs. That’s nothing compared to now.

“I can explain, Lt. She’s— I didnae mean to hurt her. She ran, and I….” He raked his fingers through his greasy mohawk, grey-blue eyes wild. “Help me get her inside, somewhere, and I’ll tell ye everything. I need tae ken she’ll be alright.”

“We can’t do this ‘ere.” His tone is cold and detached, despite the anxiety radiating off Johnny. “Get in the car.”

Ghost gets behind the wheel, refusing to look back at the woman. Johnny isn’t entirely in his seat before he reverses to leave the trail, white knuckles on the wheel.

“What about yours?” Johnny asks from the back, shrugging his jacket off to drape over her torso. Words are coming out of his mouth, but it’s obvious he is a man long gone. May as well be a brick wall while he gazes down at her.

“Worry about yourself.” His teeth grit, head shaking. “I’ll pick it up later. Can handle things like that without killing women in the woods.”

The thought makes his throat dry.

She’s not dead. He’d never forgive himself. As if on cue, Soap puts two fingers on her pulse, even though he’d done it a hundred times.

Still there, but thready.

The vehicle rocks when Simon comes to a complete stop at the exit of the footpath. “Where am I takin’ her?” He looks over his shoulder at Johnny; a deer in the headlights. “Choose quickly. Or I will.”

No doubt that Simon’s ideas involve cinder blocks and the ocean. The flat in the city is soundproofed. Was going to turn it into a home gym. No one would hear her.

No, he needs privacy, time, and plans— Then, the idea seeps in.

His throat bobs with a wet swallow before he can answer. “I have a place, ‘s not far from here, was my gran’s. It’s quiet.”

“Hidden enough?”

Johnny nods.

The drive was tense. Only the rattle of the engine and the occasional rustle when Johnny got restless in the backseat.

She shivers occasionally, fingers twitching. Somewhere, trapped in her horrified shell, she knows this is for the best. Knows not to be so afraid of him. As his blue eyes stay glued to her, he wonders what he’ll have to do to make her see it.

The blood flow stopped at some point, beginning to crust and dry around the crack in her head. Scuffs and pools of the crimson had begun to turn rusty, on his clothes and her skin. A right mess.

He turns his attention out the window. Rural, muddy land with a tight path leading to the cottage he finds familiar. His gran moved out here years ago, further from Glasglow when his grandad was still alive. They were sufficient on their own, raising chickens and planting enough crops for the pair.

She left it to him after he died. Insisted on her favorite grandson having something of hers to remember her by.

It’s a shame he hasn’t been there in years. Left the furniture and a few items of his to rot in there, dusty and forgotten because he can’t ever face his grief head-on.

Rain hits the metal roof the closer they get, hard and fast.

It’s a solid home, intact from the harsh seasons. The gate squeals as the wind blows it open and closed on a loop, in need of oil. Moonlight illuminates the wrap-around porch, the wood splintery and aged. Pearl white paint coats the exterior of all three floors. The fence and garden shed need some work, overgrown with thick brush.

When the car is parked, Simon climbs out with his hood up to keep the rain from his lashes. He opens the back door and begins shifting her without paying any mind to the man at fault. One arm snakes around her tailbone to drag her closer, the other on her arm socket.

Simon bends his knees to avoid hitting her head on the frame. Once she’s out of the car, he lifts her over his shoulder, a palm splayed on her bottom. “Ye don’t want me to—?”

“No.” He bites. “Open the trunk, grab my kit, and get us inside.”

Soap fumbles with the key for a beat too long, unusually clumsy. He only hears it click when Si sighs deeply behind him, acting as if carrying her weight burdened him.

The living room smells faintly of mildew and dust. It’s as nostalgic as it was years ago; couch, armchair, fireplace, crank radio, L-shaped staircase beside the kitchen’s threshold. White sheets cloak the furniture, looking like figures that have caught the two of them in the act.

The elder brushes past him in a huff, intentionally knocking his arm into Johnny. As if there wasn’t more than enough room for him to go around.

Simon does not attempt to be subtle, despite the—sort of—sleeping woman on his shoulder. His boots take every step hard, and Johnny relies on muscle memory to follow behind him like a duckling.

He has to take double the stride to keep up with his purpose walk, fingers shaky on the kit strap. “Lt, I’m real worried,” they reach the top, and Simon opens the first set of double doors, the master, both sets of feet making the floor rattle. “She has no’ made a peep in two hours. What if I…? She’s— Is her neck broken?” Johnny pants. He’s out of fuel, choking on his worry.

“She’s still breathing, you bloody idiot.” Ghost mutters in response.

Metal creaks when Simon lugs her onto the mattress, flicking on the bedside lamp. Yellowish, spotty lighting isn’t ideal, but he’s stitched worse in the dead of night.

“I shouldn’t have,” his voice cracks, accent growing thicker. His eyes were feral with panic, piercing the wide back blocking the view of his bird. Her screams echo in his ears, fusing with the tinnitus. “If she’s— Ah’ll never forgive myself, Si. She just kept fighting, and I couldn’t stop my hands—” 

Ghost doesn’t look back. Doesn’t comfort the only man who knows him better than anyone else. His trained hands tug off her shoes, then the wet socks to ward off frostbitten toes.

“Hush.” He snaps his fingers, pointing to the unoccupied space beside her. Soap rounds the bed in haste, setting the kit down and unzipping it.

Now, they both can truly see what’s been done, one more sickened than the other, which isn’t saying much.

Her clothes were a lost cause, the faded band tee ripped off at the shoulder, sleeve barely hanging on. The sleep shorts had ridden up, smeared with grass and dirt stains. Bruises had formed on the fat of her thighs, kneecaps, her collarbone where he’d grabbed her. Their discolorations varied in stages, some more green than purple yet. Her ankle gave Johnny a phantom pain in his own, how it twisted into the scraped, swollen mess it is now.

Chapped lips parted ever so slightly, her cheek pressed against the pillows. Strands of hair clung to her sweaty forehead like they’d been dipped in honey. Tendrils matted with grime, twigs, and crimson surrounded the head wound, making it impossible for him to gauge it from the right side of the bed.

“Get the fireplace going. She’s ice.” Simon’s calloused fingers prod the bottoms of her feet. His tone is clinical, kicking Soap’s anxiety into overdrive.

Cold. Stiff. Ice means dead, even when her lungs are still functioning.

His eyes zero in on the dusty logs, crossing the room in two strides. Start a fire. Warm and safe. A warm lass, that’s what he needs— By some miracle, it’s still dry enough to ignite. Amber flames bloom quaint at first before they blossom and illuminate the rest of the room, creating a haze of warmth in their vicinity.

“You ‘ave her phone?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Toss it in.”

Johnny, kneeling in front of the fire, clenches his cheeks as he reaches into his shirt pocket.

It’s not contemplation over the morality of the situation. Not second thoughts. Just the feeling of overhauling all his plans, taking a one-eighty in only a few measly hours because of his stubborn girl. He rises once the screen begins to warp and break completely, shifting his focus to what Ghost is doing with her.

Simon digs through the bag without looking; pulling out instruments and supplies from their assigned places.

When Johnny crosses the room again, he’s got a clamp in one hand, and the other gathers through her locks, pulling them apart to tend to the source of all the blood.

“How bad is it?” He probes, rubbing his scar. “When will she…?”

Simon sighs, still refusing to look back as he inspects the laceration. “Have a drink and shut your mouth. Fuckin’ sit down, too, you’re giving me a migraine.”

Clear, antique bottles glimmer from the fire on the chiffonier in the corner, filled with various spirits. It’s not in his nature to question his Luitenant’s word. Supposes he deserves to be barked at right now.

The first toss of whiskey punches his tongue, but he doesn’t grimace. Finishes it in one go to cope with the aftermath of his temper. It’s not quite grief, not quite guilt, either. A feeling he can not make any sense of. After pouring himself another measure, he lowers himself into the chair by the lamp.

“She’s concussed,” Simon finally speaks, peeling open a package of sterile thread and needle. “Gash needs stitches.” He gets to work, the same way Johnny had seen him do in the field a million times. A needledriver held steady, while a tissue clamp manipulates the flesh. Part of him is glad she’s not awake, screaming and tossing around from the agony. Something is bothering him, even though he’s got an intense focus on the state of the sutures. His posture is off, fingers harsh when he tosses excess supplies aside.

Friction stirred in his chest as he examined the rest of her skin, disinfecting each scratch with swabs. “Look, ‘m not going to ask, mate. I don’t want to know. But—”

“Been following her,” Soap professes quietly, watching the brown liquid in his glass rather than holding eye contact. “For weeks now. She… she got scared. Almost called the police. I couldnae let her.”

The occupied hands still momentarily before resuming. Johnny’s always had a few screws loose, often being too much for his partners. Too possessive after a few hours of fun. He’s never gone this far. Watching some woman, obsessing over her until his polluted mind believed she was his.

This wasn’t some date gone wrong, nor a hookup gone sour. It was unbridled violence. Something Simon knew more than the back of his hand, and yet, the taste in his mouth was pungent.

“You’ve gone bloody mental,” Ghost snarls, rounding the bed to stand at her feet. “She’s a civilian, Johnny. Not like us.” With more force than necessary, he tears away a long strip of bandage, the tear accentuating his words.

He fists her calf, raising it as he swirls the synthetic fabric tight around her twisted ankle. “And now, you’ve turned me into a goddamn accomplice.”

“I didnae want to, Lt,” Johnny tiffs, before setting his glass aside and wiping at his lids. “She’s in my head, Sir. All night, all damn day. I tried to stay away. Tried to just… watch.”

“Yeah? And what about her? You think she’ll keep her mouth shut when she wakes up here, with you, of all blokes.”

His head lifts, hand curling into a fist. “I’ll handle it, Sir.”

“That’s what I’m worried about, Johnny.” Simon grabs his kit, taking out a small jar and syringe. “You need to think this through. Soon.” He stabs through the seal and draws a small dosage.

“What are you giving her?”

“Field sedative,” he caps the needle, before gathering the other remnants and zipping up his kit. “It’ll buy you a few hours.”

“You need to clean this place up, and her. Secure all the weapons, or anything she’ll use as one.” Simon’s footsteps retreat toward the bathroom, water running, followed by cabinets opening and closing.

Johnny sucks in a breath, heading toward the wardrobe beside the crackling fire. There are some boxes here, old PT shirts and track pants left in a forgotten go-bag; they’ll do.

With trembling hands, he peels the dirty, torn shirt off her limp form. Liquid sloshes beside him when Simon returns, setting down a small wash basin and cloth on the nightstand.

“Just need to change yer clothes, bonnie. Clean you up.” He mutters tersely as if she was lying there expectantly with her eyes open.

After blindly soaking the washcloth, he drags it along every inch of her skin. First, the rust on her forehead and down the apples of her cheeks. Her neck until he reaches her sternum. Under each breast and armpit, dragging southward to the mossy, cracked knuckles. Until her skin smells of stale soap and something uniquely her, instead of musk and metal.

She slumps when he maneuvers his shirt over her head. It falls mid-thigh, dwarfing her shoulders and torso. The sleep shorts came next, one leg at a time, and extra cautious to not disturb the tight gauze on her foot. He replaces them with baggy sweats after scrubbing her irritated knees, thumbing the waistband when he finishes.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Simon murmurs, noting the linger of his hands on her flesh.

“I can do this.” The whiskey took the feral edge of his voice, but not the rest of him. “When she wakes, I’ll…”

“She’ll have one hell of a headache. Probably disoriented. Might be sick. Might panic.” His voice hardens, “might scream. You ready for that, Johnny? One hiccup and this fantasy of yours is going to get you—get both of you—killed.”

Under scrutiny, he shuts down. Ignores the pungent validity of Simon’s concerns. “I ken, Lt. But she’s worth the risk.”

“If she dies, or if Price gets wind of anything—”

“Ye’d turn me in.” Soap growls, but only with resignation in his tone.

“In a heartbeat.” Simon crosses the room in only a few strides, pulling a bottle of painkillers from one of the pockets. Rattles them before setting them next to the bed. “I’ll be back, Johnny.”

That could mean any frame of time in his language. Days, weeks, months. Maybe an hour.

He’s truly on his own to face the possible consequences. How difficult will it be to make her see clearly? To force her into a mellow mold?

Johnny places a pillow under the bandaged foot to keep it elevated. Gives her head a turn to see if she’s bled through the gauze, but there’s only a few specks. Her skin looks less sickly than before, at least. More like she did.

Following, he begrudgingly shuts the door to the master and heads downstairs. Sorts through all the drawers and cupboards to see what he’s working with. All the canned food is unsalvagable, leaving only his gran’s china plates and mugs. There’s not much in the way of boxes or trash, leaving the place barren when he removes all the sheets off the furniture.

Silence cloaks the room as he sweeps away all the dust and filth. Brings the clutter up to the attic on the third floor and locks it away.

He’ll need a blank slate if there is any chance of this going off without a hitch.

A bead of sweat cascades down his temple when he’s finished with his third trip, morning light coming through the stained windows.

The sound of an engine ebbing in the distance makes him turn solid, hand hovering over his piece. Perhaps someone was watching the place, or Simon had a change of heart to save his skin.

It takes a few moments for him to gather the courage and open the front door. His shoulders drop when nobody is standing there, no armed service police as he was expecting.

Only a box occupies the mat. It’s lidless with handles on the side. Fresh cuts of meat wrapped in paper with dates scribbled on them, a stack of canned vegetables and beans, toothbrushes and paste, and painkillers you can’t get over the counter.

No doubt who brought it without knocking. He said he’d be back, and he’s a man of his word in the strangest of ways.

The stove clicks when he fires it up, channeling the memories of watching his grandmother’s process. All the ingredients begin to simmer in the tall pot, mixing into a perfect meal for someone bedridden and nauseous. Chunks of meat and veg, a carton of broth, and the few seasonings that were still sealed. Once he places the lid on, he takes note of the hours that have passed on his watch.

It’s time for him to get back up there and prepare accordingly for the hell-storm brewing when she opens her eyes.

The steps creak under his feet. All the knives need to be locked away. He’ll probably need to replace the vases and lamps with metal. Everything has to be shatter-proof, all the hard edges of the place need to be soft. Not to mention keeping her here, which will be a task in itself. Based on the very recent past, he’s sure a hurt ankle and head gash isn’t going to prevent her from running.

Unconsciousness begins to fade from her features.

Smaller fingers twitch against his. A raspy exhale comes from her lips. Her eyelids flutter. Johnny goes rigid, scooting closer to prevent any flailing.

Her eyes snap open.

[matchalilly]

The man the legend the urn!

The best part is that he let my buddies join in the picture. (I'm the ghost btw, I saw him two days in a row. Was dressed like I wa going to a Ren fair the 2nd day.)

Yes, he's a sweet heart. Yes, he smells amazing (even gave me the name of the cologne cause ya know I asked like a normal person), yes, he gives compliments and yes he is a chatter. Neil is the 3rd most chatty va I've met, the first one was Aaron Dismuke, and the second was Roger Craig Smith. (I love a chatty va's! Wholesome levels off the chart)

I asked him about places to visit and the best times of year to go to Scottland and of course he gave some stellar recs including a restruant called The Witchery and I def want to check it out after looking at reviews. Plus I want to try haggis and the place he recommend has a really well reviewed haggis.

[lay-z]

LISTEN UP EVERYONE!! TELL ME NOT TO FUCKING BUY THIS RIGHT NOW!!! 🗣🗣🗣

Also... how fucking funny is it that whoever made this might think his surname is "Soap" 😭😂