#soap sunday

[wrensartstash]

Rising from the inactivity death to say LET THE RECORDS SHOW I LOVED SOAP BEFORE IT WAS COOL!!!!!!!!

[marline524]

I'm Baaaaaaack!!!!

After taking some time off from all fanfic, reading, writing, etc... I decided it's time to come back!! And what better day than on a #SoapSunday! Keep your eyes out for a short little fic sometime today! 🖤

[gofishygo]

no but what if reader sacrifices themself for soap in the tunnel... (implied ghoap, ghoap x reader; mcd, reader has very low self esteem, reader probably has depression, mw3 spoilers)

you know how important he is to ghost. everybody does- it's hard to not notice that they are practically symbiotic- feeding off of each other's laughs, near inseparable. you never see one without the other.

and compared to him, you are nothing more than a burden to the team, you figure. you do not carry soap's explosive force, the intensity in his eyes, nor do you have half of ghost's expertise in sniping, do not carry any of his mystique. you dont- you dont deserve a second glance, much less any of their kindness. your fascination, you like to call it, towards johnny and ghost, it should be hidden under your tongue, clandestine and invisible.

nobody gets a say in how quickly you are to establish yourself as the wallflower of the 1-4-1. and by the time of mw3, nobody gets to intercept how you manage to run solo in a team, no matter how much they try to reach out. they have each other. why would they ever need you?

so in that clammy, chilling tunnel, your reactions to such an ambush are second nature- you shut down the moment johnny's shoulder is shot. tackling the enemy- the movement is so instantaneous and blurry that you do not realise that said enemy is makarov himself-onto the asphalt and plunging your knife in and out of him until the muzzle of a gun presses against your head and it's bullet lodges into the back of your brain. you die instantly, silently, not hearing how johnny screams your name instead of your callsign, how simon, for the first time, seems uncoordinated, desperate like a dog as he fumbles to revive you. you had never thought that they cared, never believed they would look at you with reprocipricated admiration. and moments before you die, you realise that you will never know how much of a presence you were in their lives, and you close your eyes knowing that they will be okay together. but you arent around long enough to see how they crumble, and you die with the belief that in this world, you are none other than a replacement. you never seem to stay around long enough to see how simon, johnny, love you.

and you never will.

[imaginedreamwrite]

Johnny becoming obsessed with his neighbor

Reader was on her balcony, smoking a blunt, Johnny literally staring and BAM he walks right into a lamp post

He had been hit by a freight train, he knew it and so did everyone else around him. The onslaught of obsession started the moment his new neighbour moved in across the hall. The flat had only been empty for weeks after the old neighbour moved out, an older man who had spent most of his time complaining about the weather. And the government, the state of the apartment, the rate of rent for a place like this.

Johnny was sick of that bullshit, coming from deployments to hear his neighbour bitching got old. When the flat was finally vacant, Johnny had almost debated renting it himself for peace and quiet. The thought was there, an internal debate started and yet before he could act it was rented out.

Johnny didn’t have many expectations for the new neighbour but damn was he proven wrong. He saw you for the first time when you were on your balcony smoking a joint, feet propped against your end table. The light from your blunt illuminated your face but his eyes were really drawn to your piercings and tattoos.

The nose piercing glinted under the light overhanging above you, the lines of your tattoos were visible on your bare arms and legs. You were a fucking dream, a gorgeous change from the hell of his previous neighbour.

Johnny was obsessed. He was hit with a freight train of desire that burned like fire in his veins. He was distracted by you, so obtusely in awe of you and your tattoos, that he had walked head first into a telephone pole. The crack of his head against the wood was just enough of a jolt to knock sense into him—and yet that had only deepened the start of his obsession.

“You good?” You leaned over the balcony, yelling down at him as he stumbled back. He was a soldier, a sergeant in the damn 141, and no one would know it based off his idiocy. “You need first aid?”

Johnny’s eyes trailed up the side of the building until he could see you, until he could make out the image of you still smoking that blunt—and holy fuck did he feel the ground shattering need to know your name.

You were a gorgeous woman, damn him he had never seen anyone that beautiful. It was a force that slammed into his chest and stole his ability to breathe, to function without yammering like a child.

“Jus’ a scratch.” Johnny finally managed to respond, his head pounding and a small cut on his forehead was evidence that it wasn’t just a scratch but he couldn’t bring himself to admit he was a fool.

“You sure?” Your laugh, damn your laugh, had sent blood rushing to his dick and he felt like an animal in heat. “Come on up, I’ve got a first aid kit!”

The invitation was given, and Johnny didn’t have the chance to argue before you walked back into your apartment. He felt the rush, the overwhelming urge to use every skill he had to divulge into every facet of your life.

Damn him, he was a man who had fallen in love at first sight.

His legs carried him back toward the building, his mind reeling. Oh he was screwed, he was so fucked over by you and you had no idea.

[no-one-fights-alone]

[hatsbuckets]

Sunday Softies: Cuddle Edition!

My take on how cod mw (reboot) blorbos cuddle

*sighs, because ofc this didn't post when it was scheduled to.* also sorry not sorry but this one has all my fav little ships in it. I may do other characters next week. or a diff mix idk whatever I want oop

Price: Warm and solid, the kind of presence that makes the world feel smaller, quieter. He doesn’t pull someone in so much as he opens up—makes space, shifts just enough to let them settle against him. There’s no hesitation in the way his arm comes around a waist, the way his fingers smooth over a shoulder, slow and steady. He holds like a man who has carried weight before and never minded doing it again. His breathing deepens when he sleeps, chest rising and falling in a way that almost lulls, a slow rhythm that reassures. And in the morning, even before his eyes open, his hand lingers—fingertips brushing against skin, against fabric, as if to make sure no one has gone anywhere.

Gaz: Soft and instinctive, like he was made to be close. He doesn’t just hold—he pulls, tucks someone into his chest, arms wrapped easy and loose but always there. He’s the type to shift in sleep, to press closer without realizing, to run warm enough that the blankets are always kicked halfway off the bed. His hands move, even in the quiet, fingers brushing against the back of a neck, stroking slow lines over a forearm, just feeling. He sleeps deep, steady, and when he wakes, there’s always a slow, lazy hum, a sigh that sounds like contentment.

Ghost: A still sleeper, but when he holds, he holds tight. Not crushing, not overwhelming, just firm—a presence that doesn’t waver, that doesn’t let go. He doesn’t tangle himself up in anyone, doesn’t smother, but there’s a way his arm locks around a waist, a way his fingers stay even when he’s drifting. If it’s a rare, quiet night, he sleeps on his back, someone tucked against his side, an absentminded hand resting against the small of their back. Even in sleep, there’s purpose in the way he holds on, a silent kind of knowing. And if he wakes up before them, he doesn’t move—not yet. Just stays there, fingers tracing slow, idle shapes against skin. A certain mohawked sergeant is the exception. Soap gets everything. A full-body, limbs-entwined kind of hold, strong and certain, like he needs to know he’s there. And when Soap laughs and tries to wiggle free, Ghost only tightens his grip, murmurs a sleep-heavy “Stay, Johnny” like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Soap: A nester. Takes up space, spreads out, clings like it’s second nature. He’s all tangled limbs and absentminded shifts, burying his face into a shoulder, pressing against warmth like he’s charging up for the next day. If he starts as the big spoon, he always wakes up as the little one, pulled into whoever he’s with, grip slack but still there. His hands wander in sleep—not in any purposeful way, just in that mindless, familiar way, fingers splayed across ribs, an arm thrown over a stomach. He’s a soft weight, a solid, easy warmth, and once he’s got his spot, he’s not moving. Ghost is the only one who lets him get away with it. Let’s him burrow against his chest, let’s him tangle their legs together, let’s him press his freezing cold feet against his calves and only sighs about it. And in the morning, when Soap’s trying to sneak away? Ghost hooks an arm around his waist and pulls him back.

Farah: Light at first, distant in a way that’s habit, but there’s a slow softening when she lets herself relax. She doesn’t wrap herself around anyone, doesn’t cling, but she leans in—rests her forehead against a shoulder, tucks her fingers lightly beneath a sleeve, something gentle. When she sleeps, her grip is light, but her presence doesn’t fade. She’s there, quiet and steady, the kind of warmth that lingers even when morning comes. And when it’s Alex? Her fingers trace over his arm, absent and slow, mapping old scars with a touch so careful it’s almost reverent. He doesn’t say anything—just lets her. Just presses closer and smiles against her temple, quiet and warm and hers.

Alex: Loose, easy, like he was meant to do this. Never in a rush, never greedy, just comfortable. He sleeps on his back, an arm slung over someone’s shoulders, fingers trailing slow, lazy patterns against their skin until he drifts off. His breathing is deep, slow and even, the kind of thing that’s easy to match, easy to fall asleep to. He’s got weight to him, but it’s the good kind, the kind that makes everything feel safer. With Farah, he’s different. Softer still. Likes it when she tucks herself into his side, lets himself drift off with his nose buried in her hair, murmuring something inaudible against her skin. If she ever pulls away in sleep, his hand finds her again—thumb sweeping slow across her knuckles, something small.

Laswell: Intentional, never careless, never absent. She’s not one for tangled limbs, not the type to crush or smother, but there’s a firmness to her embrace, a weight in the way she stays. She sleeps still, rarely shifting, rarely moving, just there, just constant. The only real sign of softness is in the way her fingers curl, lightly brushing against a wrist, against fabric, like a silent reminder.

Her wife is the opposite—moves too much, tangles their legs together, shifts and sighs and clings in sleep. Kate never minds. Just hums, tugs her closer without waking fully, and settles again.

Alejandro: All warmth and certainty. He doesn’t just hold—he envelops, wraps arms around a waist, presses close enough that there’s not an inch of space between him and whoever’s lucky enough to be there. His grip is strong, not tight but assured, like he knows exactly what he has and doesn’t plan on letting go. He’s big, broad, but somehow never overbearing—just solid, just safe. He sleeps deep, heavy, and doesn’t stir unless someone does. Then? His fingers flex, grip adjusting, pressing closer like an instinct. And if it’s Rudy shifting beside him, he just huffs a sleepy laugh, hooks an arm around him, and murmurs, "Quédate aquí, cariño,"—stay here, love—voice low, thick with sleep. Rudy doesn’t argue. Never does.

Rudy: Soft in a way that’s not obvious at first. He holds in quiet ways, never forceful, never imposing, just there. The kind of warmth that sneaks up on you, the kind of steadiness that feels like something unshakable. He prefers holding, rather than being held—arms wrapped slow and sure, a hand smoothing over a back, breath steady against hair. He doesn’t move much in sleep, but his grip lingers, fingertips brushing against skin in a way that feels unconscious. And in the morning, when Alejandro tries to untangle himself, Rudy only hums—just a quiet, knowing sound—and tightens his grip right back.

Nikolai: Heavy, weighty, the kind of presence that settles around someone like a thick, warm coat. He’s not restless, not clingy, but he makes it clear that once he’s in a comfortable position, he’s not moving. If someone shifts, he makes a small noise in the back of his throat, barely awake, grip adjusting, resettling against them. A slow inhale, a deep exhale, and then stillness. With the captain, it’s different. He stays awake longer, shifts just slightly to make sure Price is comfortable, presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the back of his shoulder before letting himself relax. And in the morning, before either of them need to be awake, Price reaches back without opening his eyes, fingers curling around Nikolai’s wrist.

Graves: (Claims he's not a cuddler. Liar.) Holds like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. An arm slung over a waist, a hand resting just light enough not to be overbearing. He’s not dramatic about it, doesn’t pull or take, just rests against warmth and lets it happen. Likes to lie on top, face buried in a chest, held and holding. And in sleep? He locks down. His fingers curl tighter, his grip firms, something instinctual, something deep.

Roach: Tucks himself in naturally, curls against warmth with a kind of easy comfort. Light but present, the kind of sleeper that doesn’t smother but doesn’t let go either. He breathes slow and even, lets the weight of another person press against him without shifting away. If his fingers twitch in sleep, if they flex against fabric, it’s not conscious—it’s just the way his body remembers touch.

Valeria: Possessive, but not clingy. She doesn’t grab, doesn’t cling—she just presses close and expects someone to stay. One hand resting firm on a stomach, the other tucked beneath her head, fingers occasionally shifting like she’s checking. If she moves in sleep, she adjusts, keeps hold without gripping too tightly. And if someone pulls away, she notices.

Makarov: Still. A grip that doesn’t waver, doesn’t shift, fingers curled against fabric with a kind of eerie steadiness. There’s no desperation in it, no need—just something deliberate, something intentional. He doesn’t move much in sleep, doesn’t tangle, but his grip? It never really loosens.

[temeyes]

sobbing I LOVE YOUR STYLE One moment it's all serious then we just have it to sweet litol big-eyed babies 😭

I shall ask if i can feast on your art 🥺

oh yes you may feast- doODLEBOB GHOST PUT THE PEWPEW DOWN!!!

[theguyinthemathexamples]

Sunday meeting the Creation while (unknowingly) ascending to Aeonhood !!

A lil' something for y'all after my longlonglonglonggggggg disappearance :3

If the sinners couldn't be rid of by Their divine hand, then he shall do it himself. But his— her God pertains the notion of sparing the evil and giving them a chance to seek solace in THEIR thousand voices, or the ones of the Primaxus Deus.

Sunday wishes to see her vision one last time, to see with his own eyes if these sinners could truly turn back to the right path. He's done this before countless times before— but he wants to put this belief of hers to yet another run. Was it to reminisce on lost time, or run from his own sacred beliefs?

And yet still, he doesn't see nor hear the sounds of the battle, neither could he speak in this newfound space; all he can see was this shining path, a separating rift from the boundless luminescent seas it tore through.

He takes a cautious step forward and all of the nearby stars were already flocking towards his shoes with reverence, whispering things of the comprehensable mortal plane to the maddening knowledge of the divine. Some know of his current predicament, while some predict how his future would be another footnote in history, success or otherwise.

Time seems to slow here, atleast that was how Sunday saw it. His path was solid yet it made ripples with each step he took but, it never splashed water. He had half a mind to keep walking.

The stars do not have eyes— as if it would ever, yet he still feels as if he was being stalked, being followed by a presence. He wants to ask, yell out who it was, but his mouth was sealed shut. With no other choice does he continue walking. Faint cackles, and the sound of distorted heavenly choir whispers could be heard in the distance.

At last he sees something in the distance other than endless starry seas: a large, disembodied arm. Well, it looks that way anyways. The rest of the body looks to be shrouded in darkness.

Sunday got closer and closer to this arm when a sun suddenly rose up just ahead of his path. He can't help but feel familiar with this sun. The ones beside his feet tell him it's the one in his solar system of origin. But... he's seen and looked at countless stars upon the starry skies, how can he remember something that glowed hot and bright on the days when he was trying to keep survival closer with his sister?

The smaller beads of light beneath his legs gently pushed him towards the right direction, humming familiar tunes along the way.

Yet again, it was another long walk to his new destination. Sunday doesn't feel tired, if at all from walking all this way when he'd usually need a break by now. The stars provided decent entertainment along the way, luckily enough.

He carefully approaches this large hand, now as big as one of the walls in the Dewlight Pavilion. Memories of his death resurfaces in his mind. A small curse is stifled under his breath. No matter, he'll get rid of the concept of death in his promised dreamscape soon enough.

And just as he begins to tentatively sit on the beckoning heat of the hand, exactly as the stars excitedly encouraged him so, the space shook harshly and he falls. Sunday looks around in a panicked apprehension, which the beads of stars expressed as much if not more.

The large hand brushes along his figure in an almost comforting way, till it disappears after a few swipes. The stars dissipate as well in fear, leaving him in the neverending darkness.

He clutched his chest, almost in agony, a baffled look on his face when he tried to search for the warmth of the hand. Sunday hadn't asked them his question yet.

"So... Why does life slumber?..." He asks to the dark, not expecting answers. Machine parts clammer along his movements.

"Because... someday..."

"We will wake up from our dreams!"

And so does he, too wake up from his own slumber. And along with his shattered will, the stage beneath him crumbled and fell.

Sunday lets himself drop untowards the Golden Hour, reaching out to the world where he promised an impossible pledge to countless souls, unable to fly back where he wished due to his clipped wings.

The night is still... too short...

Arms cradle his figure and bringing it to a tight hug. This action brought him out of his stupor, embracing his sister in reflex.

He dipped his head low, imminent defeat having already been accepted. Yet again do memories flash his mind, but they were only about his 'dream.' What did it all mean?

"Brother..."

"The dream... is over."

[eternity-death]

Sunday thought of the day:

Sunday likes to leave traces of himself on you.

He’ll adorn your neck with beautiful jewelry, classy and not too gaudy, made with precious stones that were imported from other star systems. Your favorite dress was commissioned by him, hand-made with the softest fabrics and finest stitching (Sunday reviews the stitching himself. The seamsters who worked on the apparel can only stand there with bone-chilling anticipation as Sunday silently— meticulously— scrutinizes the sewing. He only wants the best for his darling, after all). He’s bought some aromatic oils for you too. When you get ready in the morning, he takes his time massaging it into your wrists and the pulse points of your neck (you don’t seem to realize it’s the same scent that he uses).

They are all symbols of affiliation— a claim over you that remains unspoken. Despite this, others are not ignorant to the tacit message that reflects off of the glimmering stones in your necklace, or the luster of the silks that swathe you: you are involved with Sunday, and one should remain circumspect in their interactions with you.

[starsofang]

WIP SUNDAY (because i said so)

Heist AU / Cop!Reader x Criminal!141

The whir of the fluorescent lights did nothing to help the growing headache that crowded your brain. The station was quiet, thankfully, but judging from the sheepish smile on your coworker’s face the moment you walked in, the peace wouldn’t last very long.

“What is it?” you huffed. At your age, you were worried you’d earn wrinkles too early from how much you frowned.

“Got one of ‘em for you,” your coworker boasted, jabbing a thumb in the direction of one of the interrogation rooms. You couldn’t see who was occupying it through the glass, but you had a good idea.

“Alright.” You sighed heavily, giving a thankful nod to your coworker before heading off in the direction of the room. You made sure to stop at your desk to swallow down some Advil before collecting your laptop, continuing your journey.

Stepping into the room, you made sure the door was locked before looking up at the perpetrator you’d have to deal with. Lo and behold, it was one of the four you were expecting.

“Hi, bonnie,” Johnny practically purred, putting on that crooked smile of his. He was seated in one of the chairs, arms still cuffed behind him. He was slippery, that one.

“Second time this month. I’m impressed, honestly.” You sighed again, slinking into the chair across from him. Opening up your laptop to begin a fresh report, you spared him no glance.

“I’m aiming for three, so I guess we’ll be seeing each other often,” Johnny gloated.

Peeking up at him over the screen of your laptop, his smile only grew, and you had half a mind to swat it off.

“Name?” you asked dryly, hands hovering over the keyboard.

“Oh, c’mon, bon, ye know my name,” he huffed.

“I know, Johnny. Name,” you repeated, though more of a statement than a question.

Johnny grinned cheekily, perking up at his name slipping from your lips. “Johnny Mactavish. The one and only.”

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

Entanglement (1/2)

PAIRING: Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x Medic F!Reader 

A/N: my little contribution to the 141 challenge by the amazing @glitterypirateduck || but I was very tipsy when I wrote this and am very tipsy as I post it sO IT DOESNT COUNT DO NOT PERCEIVE ME || I WILL SOBER WRITE A PART 2 PROMISE

Prompts used: Military Base, Dude in Distress, Take care of each other (helping w/bath, stitches, haircut, sickness, etc.),  “Who did this to you?”

Part 1 || Part 2 || 

____

The base is quiet this time of year—it’s nice.  The quiet is obviously preferable to the chaos, and sometimes you like just sitting with your thoughts in your cozy little nook on base.   There are a handful of people around, all of whom you liked, one of whom you really liked, but you’d bite your tongue off before you ever said that out loud.  Especially to him.  

And it’s like you’ve summoned him by just the power of your thoughts, because he walks into your little office with his hand clenched tight over his bleeding arm (that you had just sutured) and a large smile on his face.  His eyes dart around quickly and then come back to yours happily, grin widening from noting that you were the only one in the infirmary at that moment.  

“You’re a fucking idiot.”  You use your chin to point  at the leaking bandage over his arm, and start to gather your supplies.   

But Soap’s never been one to dwell. “Yeah,” he agrees, easily. “Go’ me here though, didn’ it, bonnie?”

“What happened?  Who did this to you?” 

He leans closer and whispers, conspiratorially.  “Very bad men, bonnie. But ah’ll keep them away from you, promise.”

You shake your head and turn away, having to pretend to grab something from behind you so that your charming, gorgeous hunk of a patient doesn’t see your shy smile.  “You’re bleeding out again, MacTavish.  I need to fix this.  Again.”

“Oh, bonnie, y’er the only who can,” he sighs, dramatically, and.  It’s stupid.  It’s such a stupid fucking line but  you still want to find somewhere to hide, your smile finally spilling out into your cheeks.

MacTavish is a shameless flirt.  Everyone knows this, it’s a very ill-kept secret, not that Johnny would want it to be a secret at all.  It comes naturally to him—stupid words spew out of him and suddenly, you want to cover your heated cheeks with your palms and look anywhere but into his bright blue eyes.    

He waits for you to look back at him, and you have to roll your eyes at the giddy grin he wears on his face.  

“Alright then, sergeant, let’s see the damage, shall we?”

“Oh the damage is far too deep t’fix, luv,” he says, but grins and extends his arm for you to look at anyway.

The sight of his blood-covered arm makes you wince in sympathy, and you start to slowly unwrap the gauze and tape around his arm before you clean his wound.   The wound on his arm looks angry and almost pulses in front of your eyes, and he winces and groans as you begin to suture.   You shush him quietly everytime, and try to concentrate—really, you do—but you can feel his eyes on your face.

When you look back up at him, he doesn’t even do you the courtesy of looking away.  No, the man makes eye contact with you, eyes shining.  

It takes you some effort to rearrange your features into the look of mild tiredness that you wear around him often. “Can I help you, MacTavish?”

“‘Fraid I’m beyond y’help, bonnie,” he grins, cocky and sure, and so fucking handsome.  “Though…y’could go out wi’me.  Might make me hurt less.”

“God,” you say, rolling your eyes.  “You know that I can’t.”  His pout makes you laugh, and you stand up to go wash your hands.  Before you get too far away from him, though, you feel warm fingers wrap around your wrist and squeeze gently. 

“MacTavish,” you whisper.  “We can’t.”  The words are insistent, and you put what feels like considerable effort into sounding like you mean them, but your attention is caught by the slow, almost hypnotic motion of his ridiculously pink tongue wetting his lips.  When your eyes finally meet his, you already know what he’s going to say.    ��   

“You could, though, bonnie.  Y’could go out wi’me.”

“Johnny…”  

“Could make it worth y’while,” he whispers, suggestively, and this time it’s his eyes that linger on your lips before they come back up to meet yours.  “Keep the bad men away from ya, if you'd like”  His words are flirty and unserious, as usual, but God, does he manage to look earnest as he says them. 

"All of them?" you wonder out loud.

His eyes shine as you play along. He considers your words for a moment. "No. Not all of 'em."

“We could be caught,” you counter.  “Won’t your Captain have your head for it?”

“‘N I'd happily go out for you, sweet girl.” 

You shake your head as you write him a prescription for the pain.  “You’re incorrigible. I’m not going to be reassigned because you’re horny, Sgt. MacTavish.”

“Horny,” he gasps in mock-horror. “Horny?  Ahm’ here out of m’mind in love, hen!  Horny, she says!”  He shakes his head and his smile dims a little, but only for a second, before his eyes light up, wickedly. “Consider it.  We’d make bonnie children, aye?”

You freeze because…what is there to even say to that. 

When he kisses your cheek and whistles cheerily on his way out, you do find yourself considering it.

[mellowswriting]

Okay okay,

this smutty idea has been plaguing my mind but imagine Ghoap x you but Simon gets a bit frustrated at how noisy you and Johnny are so he roughly grabs your hair and makes you kiss Johnny so you’ll both quiet down (please ignore if you don’t feel comfortable writing!)

content || SMUT, threesome, unprotected p in v sex, oral, multiple orgasms, dom/sub undertones, dom!Simon x sub!reader x sub!Johnny

a/n || no one look at me this is FILTHY lmao

sinful sunday

----------

It’s nearly three in the morning. Simon has been working the two of you over for hours. He couldn’t tell you just how many orgasms he’s put you through, even before he bullied his fat cock into your pussy. At least once with his tongue, maybe two more with his fingers and tongue together. You deserve each and every one of them. You’ve been such a good girl for him, so obedient and patient over the last few days since he’s been able to fuck you silly. 

Johnny, though? He’s been bad, too whiny and desperate. Pawing at him in every waking moment. Begging for the chance to get his cock wet. Trying to lure you into his bad behavior with those begging eyes and his persuasive tongue. 

This is his punishment. Simon made him watch every second of your reward. He snapped at Johnny the moment he palmed himself over his pants, growling at him to keep his hands off of his needy cock. The poor man had to shove his hands beneath his thighs to resist the temptation. Simon doesn’t make it easy for him. He makes the man lay next to you as Simon eats you out. He makes him kneel beside you as you take his cock in your mouth. 

But this… Even Simon has to admit that this is cruel. 

Johnny’s cock leaks against his belly as Simon fucks you, your knees straddling the Scot’s hips and your hands braced on either side of his head. Tempting him with the very thing Simon won’t let him have. Johnny takes his punishment with wide dopey eyes and desperate little groans, but his hand hasn’t wrapped around his cock once. 

Every slow, measured thrust forces broken little sounds from your throat. Those sounds soothe some prowling beast that lingers in his chest. Simon loves just how good you take him, how sweet you cry his name. But the two of you together, his two desperate little sluts, are making too much fucking noise. By now, the entire building knows what's happening in this little room. 

“You two need to shut the fuck up.” He hisses. Simon grabs a fistful of your hair and shoves you down onto your forearms. “Go on, Johnny boy. Shut her up and maybe I’ll let you come.” 

A desperate sound cleaves through Johnny, one that’s quickly muffled by his plush lips. Molten pleasure slithers down his spine at the sight. You cling to him, feeding each other little moans and whimpers. He can’t help but quicken his pace, his hands on your hips as he fucks you in short, brutal strokes. Ever dutiful, Johnny quiets your cries with his lips and tongue. Simon drapes himself over you, his chest flush with your back. 

“Go on, Johnny,” Simon grunts out. “Touch her. Make that pretty pussy come around my cock.” 

Simon can feel the moment Johnny’s nimble fingers find your clit. Your cunt spasms around him, choking his cock until it feels impossible to pull out. It doesn’t matter - he wasn’t planning on it, anyway. Every thrust sends wetness gushing against his thighs until you finally come with a cry that Johnny drinks right from the cup of your mouth. Simon can’t help but follow soon after, his cum adding to the messy mix between your thighs. 

It isn’t until Simon leans back to make good on his promise that he sees Johnny’s stomach covered in his own cum.

[whatev-i-guess]

jealousy

A new recruit, but apparently an old friend of Soap is greeting him in a friendly manner. A close hug, some pats on his back.

Ghost watches.

Sour prickles rise in his stomach as he sees Soap's bright smile getting shared with another soldier.

He never felt this way before. Wondering why not being close to Soap is suddenly a test of endurance. He takes a step up to them, his eyes meeting blue irises. The smile suddenly even brighter than before. He stares, not saying a word.

He steps next to Soap, his hand searching it's way onto the Sergeant's lower back.

"I was about to ask you to join us."

Johnny's voice is music in his ears. He bends down slightly, not able to share a kiss with his balaclava on. His mask gently brushes against Soap's neck as he whispers.

"I was about to ask you to my room."

He never says things like that. Never really does things like that.

But Johnny's blush on his cheeks are worth it and when Ghost's eyes scan over the new recruit he is happy to see that they turn around to give them some space.

Maybe jealousy is something he needs to learn how to deal with.

[pekoehoneyncream]

Ghoaptober # 12

Prompt: Letter

Words: 1200~

TW: None (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

Once again, 'Coinneach John Mactavish' being Soap's full name is a personal headcanon of mine.

Enjoy!

Price walked into the officer’s recreation room that the one-four-one task force had co-opted as their own, after a fancier rec-room had opened for the officers closer to the central hubbub of the base and the original room had been all but forgotten. It had officially become theirs after Ghost had quietly replaced the room's card-reader with a locking knob, and calmly distributed the keys to his teammates without any clarification of what they were for.

Was that completely against regulations? Yes. 

Did he have Captain Price's full -and unspoken- support? Also yes.

“Post’s in, lads.” Price announced, dropping a fat envelope and a medium sized box mummified in packing tape onto the wobbily coffee table that squatted in front of the telly. 

First to come over and investigate, as always, was Gaz. He’d said before that his father, Arthur Garrick, claimed to enjoy the rustic charm of sending handwritten letters rather than texting or calling, but Gaz was fairly certain that the family preference for letters came from the fact that it was nearly impossible to get Gaz and Gaz’s mother, Gemma Garrick, on the same schedule for a family phone call. Gaz was the apple of his parent’s eyes and every letter was at least three pages from each of them, as they caught each other up on the new gossip and Arthur tried to draw his son into debates on various books. Most times when a package came in it was a book for Gaz that his father wanted him to read, so that they could talk about it. 

Pulling out his knife to open the box, Gaz ignored Ghost judging the knife’s maintenance from his perch looming behind Soap on the raggedy two-seater sofa in the corner and cut easily through the tape. Pausing when he found the box filled with an excessive amount of packing materials and cushioning, topped with another letter. 

After rechecking that the name on the thick envelope he’d claimed did read ‘Kyle Garrick’, he closed the box flaps and searched for its shipping label. Finding it addressed to ‘Coinneach MacTavish’, matching the letter in the box. 

“Cap, I think the mail room gave you someone else’s stuff.” Gaz said, sheepishly keeping the box pressed closed, “Is there another MacTavish on base or something?”

“No,” Ghost spoke up, Soap and he watching curiously as Price walked back over to investigate, “There isn’t.”

Gaz pointed to the name on the shipping label, quietly suffering through Price’s slow sans reading-glasses squint. 

“No,” The Captain eventually denied, “They didn’t give me the wrong box, that’s for Soap.”

“Soap?” Gaz exclaimed, “But it says-” 

It was the abrupt pause as Gaz debated his willingness to give reading the addressee’s name aloud a crack that got Soap up and moving. Ghost following along behind him. 

Soap spun the box on the table and checked the name himself. “Aye, it’s fer me,” He confirmed, sliding the box off the table into his arms.

“Since when are you C- Coneech?” Gaz interrogated, pointing accusingly at Soap. 

“Coinneach.” Soap corrected amiably, ignoring Ghost pawing at the box as he tried to uncover the label to take a peek, “An’ since the day I wae born, I recon.” 

“Your name’s not John?” Ghost’s voice carried no inflection at all, and Soap instantly knew he was taking being ignorant of this badly. 

“Nae!” Soap cried, spinning to face Ghost head on, “It is! Mah full name’s Coinneach John.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ghost’s voice remained completely flat, but he allowed himself to grasp the hand Soap stretched out to him. 

“Would ye believe it never occurred tae me?” Soap gave his partner a self-deprecating smile, “Naen bu’ the folk back home call me Coinneach.” 

“They don’t call you Johnny.” Ghost said it as a statement rather than a question, but Soap knew he was searching for reassurance. 

“Nae, jus' you can pull that off, mo chridhe.” Soap squeezed at his hand, and was warmed by Ghost returning the squeeze, “Ma and mah grandparents call me Coinneach, an’ mos’ ae mah siblings call me Kennie. Johnny is jus’ y’urs.” 

Ghost nodded, and by the possessive gleam in his eyes Soap knew he liked that.

“Anyway.” Gaz interjected, jolting them from their doe-eyed staring, “What’s in the package, Tav?” 

“Oh,” Soap startled, looking down at the box tucked under his arm like he’d completely forgotten he was holding it, “Ah dinnae ken. Ah didnae ask fer any’hing.”

Soap plunked the box back down on the table and started tearing out all the cushioning with no aplomb, waving away Gaz’s embarrassed apology for mistakenly opening his package. 

“Aw, fuck,” Soap groaned into his hands when the enough of the packing had been discarded that the shape of the contents had become more clear, “Ah tol’ him no’ tae send it,”

Price came over to join Gaz and Ghost in staring cluelessly at the vaguely teardrop shape still safely ensconced in its plastic prison. 

‘What's it, luvie?” Price spoke after a beat, as Soap seemed content to groan scots gaelic complaints into his palms instead of finishing his unpackaging of the mysterious object.  

“Mo fìdheall.” Soap mumbled, electing to continue hiding his face, but unable to hide the blush that crept up to redden the tips of his ears. 

“English, Johnny,” Ghost chided, coming around to press up against Soap’s back, his eyes crinkling in a fond smile when the Scot immediately turned to bury his face into Ghost’s chest.

“Granda sent me mah fuckin’ fiddle.” Soap whinged, upping his volume to make up for him smothering himself in his partner’s pecs, “I tol’ him nae. When ah’m ah gonnae be fuckin’ playin’ a fuckin’-” the rest of Soap’s grumbles faded into incoherent Scots. 

Ghost’s chest shook with suppressed giggles and he brought a hand up to pet at Johnny’s warhawk, not in the slightest bit interested in dislodging Soap from his hiding spot. 

“Can I open it?” Gaz asked, darting looks between Soap’s back and the mostly opened box, proceeding without hesitation when Soap waved an uncaring hand back at him. The Scot was busy having his brain melted by heavenly head scritches, letting all his weight drop onto an increasingly smug Ghost. 

Discarding an improbable amount of bubble wrap and three quilts, Gaz pulled out and unzipped a case, then lifted free an aged violin. 

“Tav, you play the fiddle?” Gaz asked, holding it up by the neck like it was his prized catch of the day. Price’s eyebrows raised to kiss his hairline as he looked contemplatively between the instrument in question and his hiding Sergeant. 

A huge sigh heaved though Soap, and he rocked his head to the side to peek out at them with one blue eye, a ruddy blush still staining his cheeks, “Aye.” He reluctantly confirmed, “Ah can.”

“Will you play us something?” Price asked, a hidden eagerness colouring his question. 

“Nae,” Soap shook his head back into the crease of Ghost’s pecs, the rest of his answer lost to the plush of Ghost’s chest. 

“He said he needs to tune it and check it wasn’t damaged.” Ghost relayed after clearing what sounded suspiciously like a giggle from his throat. 

“Another time then,” Price permitted with a nod, ignoring the irreverent wave Soap tossed him. 

Gaz packed the fiddle back into its case with gentle hands, by its age he guessed that it probably belonged to someone else before Soap, maybe a parent or a grandparent. He thought of asking, but a glance over dissuaded him. 

Ghost had herded Soap back over to their sofa and had the Scot tucked up securely on his lap with his head pressed into Ghost’s neck as skillful fingers scritched over his scalp, making a mess of his warhawk. Not that Soap seemed to care, if the blissed out hums that he was letting a very self-satisfied Ghost wring from his throat were any indication.

Thank You For Reading!

I know absolutely nothing about playing the fiddle, nor do I have any idea about how'd I go about writing someone playing it. So we just neatly sidestepped that.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

[googaloogagoog]

Not wensday but here is a snippet of the retired!gamer!roommate!soap x reader (eventual poly 141) I really gotta find a name for that.....

Well it's un edited, no beta, literally just wrote it then posted it, didn't even read though it agian. Rawdogging it. Let's go

You look back over your shoulder at the sudden quiet and there Johnny stands, in the middle of the isle, stiff, eyes clouded over as he stares at nothing. Sighing you walk back over to him, your heart stitch in your throat. Remember, you tell yourself, gentle and slow,stay on the side without his wound, brush your fingers against his, DONT grab at him, he will swing. Your touch is feather light on the back of his knuckes. Soft voice, dont let the panic show, “Johnny?, Hun?” your voice is gentle as you slowly increase the pressure of your fingers on his. No response, ok time to hold his hand, slowly slide your hand into his, dont grab too hard, you dont want to be flipped again. He squeezes your hand back slightly. Ok. good sign, now bring your other hand up to his chest, center no shoulder touching, makes him irritated. You bring up said hand and gently press your palm on his chest “Hey, Darlin’ you with me?” you slowly start to rub his chest, he likes that, says it grounds him. Johnnys eyes move to look at you, still glazed over, so you bring the hand that you are holding up to your face, risky, he cound go for the throat, but all signs point to him being lost in his head, not having a flashback. So you gently press your lips to the back of his fingers. He blinks and you smile at him “Hey bud” he blinks a couple more times as his eyes focus back on you. He brings his free hand to grab at the one on his chest and smiles “Hi.” his voice is soft along with his smile as he looks down at you. You feel your smile brighten “Hi” you reply. Johnny pulls you into a hug shoving his face into your neck “Ah wis lost agin wasnt ah” 

“Yeah” you pat his back to ground him more rubbing up and down firmly “sorry” 

“ no need to apologise hun,” you pull back from him to ruffle his hair “just glad i was here”

“Youre th' best, Bee” ne nuzzles into your shoulder then stansd back up, “Richt whaur wur we “

He says with his iconic laugh, now back to his old self.

[hawkeykirsah]

Snippet Sunday

It's been a hot minute since I did Snippet Sunday the last time but here's some Soapgaz I'm working on. I entertained the thought of it becoming Soapgazghost for quite a while but it didn't turn out that way. Another time, then. Either way, I decided to try something different and write in present tense. Not quite sure how I feel about it yet.

“Gaz?” Soap asks, tilting his head to look at him. “You alright, mate?” He undoes the sporran and places it on a shelf, belt neatly coiled up, and takes off his socks, balancing easily on one foot as he does. Kyle swallows, standing a bit awkwardly two steps into the room. He wants to kiss him so badly it’s making his chest ache. His mind is still reeling, trying to reconcile the all new facets of Soap he saw today with the fact that it made him realize he’s apparently slowly been falling in love with his teammate for months. Soap approaches him slowly, a curious look in his eyes. “You’ve been acting strange all day.” “I—” Kyle starts, wondering how to explain the feelings whirling in his chest. “Fuck.” He surges forward, framing Soap’s face with his hands, and brings their lips together, hoping this doesn’t ruin things between them, hoping that Ghost was right and Soap really is interested. He hears the stunned sound ripped from Soap’s throat but he doesn’t pull away. No, his lips move against Kyle’s with ease, returning the kiss. Emboldened, Kyle traces his tongue over the seam of those lips, slipping it inside when he feels them part. He tilts his head slightly to the side to deepen the kiss, the low groan Soap lets out reverberating through him. Slowly, Soap pulls away, his hands resting on Kyle’s chest. He licks his lips, eyes bright. “Not sure what brought this on but I’m no’ complainin’,” he says breathlessly.