#soap sunday

[jolalibrary]

pulse. skin. soap.

soap mactavish x f!reader (call of duty)

you have two things to thank for this: wine + @ghostaholics

IMAGINE stumbling to your room on base. exhausted, banged up. scrapes and bruises protesting something chronic. using the door to lean to capture your breath. dropping your things, one by one. heavy, loud in the quiet of your room—something you should desire, but you don't want silence. you want noisy, busy, limited space to think about how close all of that was.

flipping the light on, only to come face to face with him. soap—mactavish. john.

he's been sat waiting. given a heads-up that it hadn't gone to plan. the term 'gone to shit' was used, and he’s been stewing, fretting. working himself up.

because he should have been there.

and when your eyes land on him, your throat closes—having only wanted to see him. and here he is. and now you’re not sure what it is you want.

soap doesn't allow you to ask, push or talk. just stands, mattress protesting his movements as he closes the gap in three strides. lips latching to yours, kissing you like he's starved—like he hasn't been able to breathe.

there's been a noose around his neck since someone told him—his nails picked, skin raw around the beds.

now though, he just feels you. sliding his head down, kisses left on your chin, jaw and neck, before he takes a moment to press his face into your chest. hearing your pulse, feeling it hammer against his nose as he breathes in the scent of you mixed with the world that tried to take you.

blinking, your hands slide to his neck, fingers tracing around to his chin, lifting him, his tongue warm and heavy in your mouth. desperation beating through you as you take in his calloused palms, all scorching against the bitter cold of your cheeks.

you don't grumble when your back meets the door, barely even a wince—body having been aching for so long, this, with him is minor. then the kiss turns messy, a blend of bitter and sweet as gratitude falls from you in unspoken whispers and apologies fall from his. mixing, merging. falling as quickly as they appear, quickly followed by fabric—the remainder of your clothes hitting the floor with a clunk before its thinner pieces, ones that float and make no noise when they hit the ground. then you just feel him, skin to skin, his gratefulness against your thigh, hard, leaking—desperate.

pulse. skin. soap.

it only dawns then, practically swarming you, that you're safe. a sob threatening to escape. a crack appearing over your wall, but he holds you tighter. more intently. as though feeling the earthquake that runs through you.

he's decided, in the second since he's felt your body against him, that it’s less about being in you, than being against you. more desperate to feel your heart beat, than hear you whisper his name. but you're pulling, tugging, pleading. his lips kissing your collarbone, down your breastbone, feeling you arch into him until he can lay you down in soft, made sheets, the instrumental sound of the bed groaning once more filling the space around your breaths.

it escapes then. runs, flees from his throat. "thought I lost yer, lass."

you can't stop it from wobbling, your bottom lip twitching between you place it between your teeth. your hands finding purpose on him, the back of his neck and waist, not wanting to tell him that at one stage, you thought he had to.

instead, you press your mouth to his. roll your hips. punctuating a few words back with action than comments you can’t mutter.

you know he knows. the two of you are connected, more than just in how you both are between your thighs. but more in a way that’s like an invisible thread. one that hummed when you were on your back, eyes blinking as orange, yellow and red exploded up into the blue, cloud-filled sky.

"eyes on me, lass."

you’re not there now. his words yanking you back. placing you here, with him, on your back in a different way entirely as you dig your nails into his skin. eyes landing on the once-white ceiling above him—just dull yellow light casting shadows over you and him.

"came back for you, mactavish. just you. always for you."

his head dips, and presses to your neck. eyes closing, forcing back tears of worry and dread. because you're here, breathing on his neck.

soap knows he should be focused on making you forget the hell you’ve just survived. knows you need this, that this is who you are. that this is the two of you, a complex array of pulling and tugging before words can be muttered and honesty can respire. because he knows what their job is—what it means. knows each time he waves you off—or you him—that could be it. gone, stolen, vanished as though the other next existed in the desert, greenery or water. which is why he pauses his movements, thumbs brushing over your cheeks, staring into your wide-open eyes.

“shoulda told y'how much y'mean to me,” he whispers.

something shattering in you, tears appearing then falling. dashing in a quick flood down your dirt-covered cheeks as he nips at your neck; suspects it’s why your nails dig into his neck, shoulders and scalp. to feel it, how real this is—this thing the two of you have and the dangers you both have to face.

the ones you have to fight through to get back to the other. it against your neck, tongue licking at the sweat at the base. not giving a single fuck that you’ve not showered. barely able to force away the sight of clotted blood just above your knee, on your hip and on your cheek. unable to stop thinking about the swelling of your bruises that are quickly forming.

because soap knows he should be happy, pleased that this is all it is. while you know you should be happy you have him waiting for you.

thankful for the little things, like pulses, skin and each other.

[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.

[brewed-pangolin]

Call him Johnny...he smiles, bright eyes with a glowing aura.

Call him John...he smiles, dark eyes with a growing hard on.

Call him Johnny MacTavish...he smiles, boaring eyes as he cups your face and gifts you a torrid kiss.

Call him John MacTavish...his smile shifts as he bends you over and shows just how much he loves you.

Call him Soap...he'll quickly turn to putty in your hands.

Call him Soap MacTavish...clear out your schedule, you're not escaping him.

Call him John Soap MacTavish...either you won't be able to walk for a week or he's already in the next county because he knows he's done fucked up.

(Call him Johnny Soap MacTavish...and he'll immediately come in his pants)

[no-one-fights-alone]

[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!!!

[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.”

[jolalibrary]

adjusting.

soap mactavish x f!reader (squid!reader)

summary: soap has also seen cuddly you, arms wrapped all around him, keeping him as close as humanly possible. Even when the two of you were just friends. so, this is something else. 

an: set after yours to keep, but can be read as a standalone | established relationship, adjusting to going from friends to lovers. wordcount: 2.9k

soap mactavish masterlist

Soap hears, before he sees you.

Entering the briefing room expecting your face to meet his, finding everyone sent on the operation except you. 

It’s Ghost who crosses the room. Gently nodding at him to go to the side, mask still in place—arms folded across his chest as he explains. 

—But, she’s fine. Just twisted her ankle, badly. After we'd got out.

Deep down, Soap knew you had come up against worse—handled and grunted your teeth through things worse than even those. 

However, when he saw you hobbling awkwardly down the corridor—most likely against medical advice—something knotted inside of him. Because it’s different seeing it again.

Temporarily forgetting times when you’re hurt or injured, as he assumes you do with him. 

Like anyone who was dating someone, he hated seeing you in pain, wishing to forget it as soon as you were better. So, having to watch you try to push through it, stings. 

How? How’d she twist her ankle, Lt? Tripped on a tree root on her way to the heli. 

If you weren’t currently being seen to, and were with them all, he’d have laughed. Likely jabbed a finger into your side as Ghost filled them all in on the successful, but eventful mission. Instead, the first sight of you back on base was that of you limping and hissing in pain. 

“Y’shouldnt be walking on tha’—which, I imagine y’know.”

The way you pause, shoulders sinking as your head dips tells him all he needs to know. That you’ve sunk your pearly whites into your cheek, biting back a retort that would have been flung at him if he wasn’t… well him. 

He watches as your fingers curl into the wall, its crevices between each brick trying to carve under your nails. You’re still in your gear, likely not even having the chance to run fresh, clean water over your hands. 

Stopping just behind you, he places a comforting hand on your hip—feeling the heat from your body, even through the layers. Can even feel the grimace, the pain and annoyance bubbling furiously under the surface. Even if you try to hide it, he knows it’s there. 

He’s come well versed in Squid. 

“Mari—“

“Shut up, Soap.”

He does. 

Even if your voice is more exasperated than bossy or sharp. It’s tinged with heaviness, likely guilt too knowing you—probably already wrapping its way around you, pleading with you to apologise. 

“C’mere—“

“I’m fine, Johnny. Just…need to get to my room.”

“Lemme help.”

“No.” 

It comes out sharp. Sharper than he’s heard you be in a while.

You look over your shoulder at him, sighing heavily. "I've been shot. Stabbed. Fuckin... I'm so mad at myself."

Your words are all words and no air, and you almost look as though you’ll shoot him an apology. Almost—

He steals the words as he lifts you. One arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, the smallest oof leaving your mouth as he holds you close, floor coming away from your feet. 

“Steamin’ Jesus, yer stubborn.”

You glare, slowly weaving your hand around his neck. 

He’s missed it, your touch. 

Three days is barely anything after he's put up with longer, but it was only supposed to be one night instead of two. 

You shift in his hold, and he adjusts your knees in his arm. Wondering how much you’re hating that you’re enjoying it, that the pressure off your body is welcomed—

“Be careful of doorways.”

“If that’s a dig at me being clumsy, lass. Yer should rethink it. I’m not the one wit’ a twisted ankle.” 

“I’m not bridal picking up colleagues.”

“Colleagues, aye?” 

He watches it flash across your face—the guilt again. The adjustment harder than the two of you’d banked on, the settling now the two of you are something far more than friends.

“You… you know what I mean?” 

“I’ll let yer off—cause of the pain.” 

“How generous of you.” 

He leans close to you, contemplating something snarky back, but instead, he kisses your cheek. Pretty sure it means more than any quip could. 

He’s seen many sides of you. 

The frustrated, gnawing at your lip side. The funny, energetic side where your words are sharp and your middle finger is present.

Soap has also seen cuddly you, arms wrapped all around him, keeping him as close as humanly possible. Even when the two of you were just friends. 

So, this is something else. 

It’s like all of the versions of you are fighting to be at the front.

You smile, and then it’s robbed by frustration, and then you’re sharp and funny—making a joke about him being your bitch until you can walk. The jokes don’t land, because the light in your eyes isn’t there. 

He watches you struggle for far longer than he’d have liked, but he knows when to pick his battles. Once he’d gotten you to his room—not yours, like you’d said—he’d placed you on the bed and let you unknot your emotions. 

And Johnny hates it.

Nothing more that winds him up and creates an internal storm than being on the other side of the room, not able to help you. He’s leaning, purposefully digging his shoulder into the wall to keep him rooted; his arms folded as he watches you try and stuff elements of how you feel into various boxes. 

You need to do this—it’s something you always do. Behind the jokes, the smiles and the occasional middle-fingers, you’re always processing—stuffing and stifling things just so you can keep your head up and your shoulders from around your ears. 

So, as much as he hates it, he lets you do it. Doesn’t bother to move until you attempt to remove your boot, and then he’s across the short space in three strides.

Your eyes cut into him, all fuelled with anger and mounting annoyance at yourself. Your pupils attempt to slice through the air, but… they don’t. 

Because he’s not holding back, he’s not throwing up walls to keep you out. You do that enough for the two of them. 

“Want me t’remove yer sock, Mar?” 

You look conflicted, chewing a response before you swallow it—whatever you’d been about to say—and nod. His fingers slide up the back of your ankle gently, each movement so slow and cautious, afraid of spooking you, of brushing over something swollen as he takes hold of the band of your sock. 

It removes with relative ease as it unveils an angry, assorted blue-shaded bruise that’s spreading across your skin and bone. It takes all of him not to hiss, to not want to rub his own ankle in sympathy. 

“Looks worse than it is.” 

The purpling of your skin said otherwise. The angry swelling that shifted like jelly under your skin when he brushed his fingers over it. 

You meet his gaze then, no walls, no shields to keep him out—just pain flooding the space where there had been anger. And then, if something hadn’t already twisted his insides, your eyes filled with tears, one’s which stung and burned him as much as they did your cheeks. 

“Liar.”

You smirk, the smallest slither of the usual Squid. 

“We should ice it, Mari.” 

His eyes look up, seeing the signs of defeat beginning to spread over your features. Your eyes continue to shimmer, lips no longer curled up, and tiredness slowly kissing the skin under your eyes. 

“Hey… it’s alright, yer man-bitch is ‘ere.” 

For a second, you just stare, no smile, no smirk. And then, you’re burying your face in his neck, and his hand rises to cup the back of your neck. 

It’s natural, almost on-demand, that he begins to knead the skin with his fingers—circle those spots on your neck with his calloused touch. The ones that can either relax you or make you moan. His body uncomfortably leaning over yours, rather wishing he could lie you back, bring you over him, hold you as close as he normally would. 

“Can we just... cuddle?” 

Great minds… he thinks to himself. “Course we can, Mar. Don’t ‘ave t’ask me twice.” 

He brushes his lips against your forehead, feeling you soften against him as he eases you back, moving you with far more ease than you can manage. 

“I can handle a shower,” you had said, pausing at his bathroom door, clutching the handle in your hand as he watched you. 

Your weight all on your other leg, barely letting the sole of your foot meet the bare floor as you smiled as sweetly as you could. 

“You sure? Y’don’t need some soap with y’soap?”

You smirk, and it warmed him like the fucking sun. “I can’t wait to tell Ghost you just said that.”

Once the door shut, his smile faded. 

Body moving around his room, pulling out clothing you’d left—some purposeful, and some accidental. He found a t-shirt, shorts and some underwear, making a small pile on the edge of his unmade sheets as he listened to the spray of the water. 

He should be on the other side. His hands holding you up, taking the weight from your ankle. It’s what he’d suggested, offered. Your eyes looking at him, a little brighter thanks to your nap and some more pills. 

You haven’t got to always save me, Johnny. 

He knows that. 

Aware that you can more than handle yourself, but isn’t that what you do when you’re in love? Do you not take the burden, carry the weight until the person can lift up their own head? 

The words had almost left his lips to suggest so, but instead, he brushed his fingers over your skin. He felt the mission on your cheek before he kissed an I love you against your lips. 

Go on then, lass. I’ll be ‘ere.

You looked at him like you know. 

Your finger ghosted over your lower lip as though you also couldn’t get over the fact the two of you do that now. As though it hadn’t quite hit you either that the two of you aren’t hiding, aren’t concealing all that lived between you. 

He glances to the clock, threading his fingers together as he sits on the edge of his bed. 

Eventually, he calls out, “Y’alright, lass?” 

Waiting a beat, hearing the water turn off. 

“No. Think I perished down the plug hole,” you comment from behind the door, steam rushing out when you eventually open it. 

“Aye, y’hilarious y’ar—“

He feels them die, his words.

You standing, beads of water dripping down your body—falling down silver scars and toned muscles. Rolling across your hip bones, down your legs and passed your knees. It's your lips curling up, half-smirking as you stare at him with eyes full of flaming determination.

Steamin’ fuck.

His throat is dry, little point in trying to swallow, as he looks at you respectfully. Not that he wants to. 

He wants to take a fucking picture and then carve it into paper with a pencil. He wants to study you, have you stood there so he can draw you until he has to plunge his cock in you to get himself thinking straight. 

He’ll never tire of it—seeing you like this. A prize, one he was gifted and not won. Something he cherished before ever really having it, and now he does, not a soul can yank it from his grip. 

“I’m hungry,” you say, voice full of silk as the syllables bless his ears. “You hungry, baby?” 

Fuck is he. 

And then his eyes land on your ankle, the one twice as big as the other. He tells himself that’s the reason he’s standing, sliding his palms against your bare hips as he tries to keep a level-head. You make it hard—you make him hard. 

“Squid—“

“I’m okay,” you mutter, staring up at him through your lashes. “Promise.” 

“Can we.. can yer, just come over ‘ere—can make you feel good right over here.” 

Your smirk widens, tracing your lower lip with your tongue as you keep yourself stuck, soles glued to the floor. “No. Want it here, want you to fuck me right here, Johnny. Up against the wall, like we did before I left.”

But, it’s not like when you left, though. 

Then you didn’t have an ankle three times its size amassing a colour range close to a craft shop. And it takes every thought of Price’s moustache not to give in.

To not kiss you—not lift your injured leg over his hip and push your other one to the breaking point of holding you up. 

“If y’can just come ova’ ere—“

“Soap MacTavish. Are you fucking rejecting me?” 

He closes his eyes, releasing a sharp breath as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Because he’s not sure how to explain this without it going wrong. 

Without all the words leaving his mouth incorrectly and making you mad. Because technically, he fucking is. And he knows what an idiot that makes him. But also, you're hurt. And the way the two of you fuck, it's guaranteed to make it far worse.

“For now, lass, yes. But, you can’t even imagine how fuckin’ difficult tha’ is right now.” 

Your face shifts. Changes.

He watches as a storm eclipses your eyes—one full of thunder and lightning. One with a purpose to pull him under and drown him, fry the skin from his bones.

Johnny also half expects to be thrown across the room from the look on your face alone. 

But he’s quicker, bigger—stronger. Somewhat moving you before you can root yourself, half carrying and half dragging until you’re perched again, off your feet, on his bed. Him on his knees, right in front of you—staring at you on the same level. 

“I found y’some clothes?”  

You don’t speak. Don’t take them from him either. Your eyes morph into a knife as they try to plunge into him. 

He unfolds the t-shirt—the one from a concert you went to with Gaz. Your voice all animated as you told him about it once, promising him that you’ll show him videos off it on your laptop when you go home. 

Y’inviting me home, Mar? Course. This time mine, next time yours. Y’got it all planned out, aye? Yeah. Will even get you streaky bacon. Yer fuckin' glorious y'are.

You slide your arms through it, begrudgingly so. Your eyes not shifting from before the fabric goes over your face, to after. Just staring, cutting into him as if you’re the reason for all the wrong in the world. 

And he’d take it, even if he doesn’t want to. 

He’ll let you hate him if it means you’ll sit, and rest—like he knows you’ve been told to. That even if the two of you can follow it for tonight, tomorrow he can have your thighs clamping around his head as he makes you forget all about hating him, tree roots and swollen ankles. 

“You’re a bad boyfriend.” 

He smirks, watching your eyes soften. “The fuckin’ worst, lass.”

You just about smile—fighting it, clearly. 

“Wait—Boyfriend again, am I?” 

You shove him lightly, snatching the underwear from beside you to put in his hand. “You know I didn’t mean… just colleagues.” 

I know. His hands guiding your feet through your underwear as he hands it you to pull up. “Aye, we’re jus’ adjusting.” 

You nod, shifting in place as you pull them up onto your hips. Your hand rising to cup his cheek as he presses a kiss to your wrist.

The two of you in time returning to your places on the bed, the scent of his shampoo hitting his nose from your hair—your arm across his chest, fingers dancing on his ribs. 

“I should tell y’, when Lt told me y’were with the medics—“ he whispers, his hand clutches yours, bringing it to his chest, right over where his heart is currently pounding into your palm. “Heart almost stopped.”

You look up at him, almost in disbelief. The look makes him wonder if he’s done a shit job of making you believe he’s all in, or whether—like him—you can’t believe it’s real. 

“I’m not leaving you, Johnny.” 

“Aye, best not. B’ shit of yer to make me fall in love wit’ you, and then y’leave me with those bastards.”

You laugh, it bristling over him. “Gaz isn’t terrible.” 

“He’s not you, though.” 

You roll your eyes, before closing them, burying yourself more into him. “There’s no one like me, Johnny.” 

“Aye. Y’one of a kind, Mar.” 

You sigh, a murmur of a noise leaving you—and he almost asks, almost questions. But decides against it, slowly counting in his head from 1 to 100, unsurprised that he only makes it to 62 before you’re asleep. 

"Night, hen," he whispers into your wet hair.

Slowly closing his eyes, listening to your soft breaths as he lets his muscles relax for the first time since you left.

[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.

[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."

[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.

[brewed-pangolin]

Soap MacTavish has a sweet tooth.

He once mistakenly ate an entire plate of freshly made brownies in one sitting while you were out purchasing a quick grocery list, thinking it was your usual recipe.

As you entered your home, your eyes immediately went to the empty metal tray that sat on your counter as you took in the sight of the crested Scotsman splayed out over your couch.

Quietly, with only the slightest aggravated smirk, you stepped towards him as his glazed eyes mindlessly followed the images of SpongeBob flashing on the expansive TV screen.

"John," you said with a hushed tone. Patrick's voice echoing behind your shoulder as Soap's eyes lazily moved to meet your questioning stare.

"How ya feelin', babe?"

He answered simply with a smile. Unable to speak as the effects of copious amounts of THC coursed through his veins and clouded his mind as you gazed upon him, lovingly rolling your eyes at his mind-numbing state.

"Yeah. That ain't nothing yet."

You sat by his side for the next 10 hours as he rode out the high he had so inadvertently thrown upon himself. Only moving when he muttered 'got'a pee, lass', which was a feat upon itself as you shouldered the inebriated Scotsman ever so carefully down the hall to the bathroom (yes, you helped him because you love him and he's too embarrassed and high to ask)

You vowed never to leave a tray of special brownies unattended if you knew he were to be home alone. The man could not be trusted, especially since he had no discipline around your expert baking.

And you'd hide the newly made gummy bears in an inconspicuous container. Margarine, perhaps. Anything to keep his greedy hands from embarking on yet another cannabis fueled adventure.

Although you'd be lying if you didn't love the dopey smile he gave you as you rode him on the couch. Limp body with a throbbing dick. Accompanied by a dilated stare that melted your heart as you pulled the most delicious moan of your name from between his permanently kissable lips.

Drabbles Masterlist

[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 cut 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 slid it 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 pressing the box 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 reach forward and grasp Soap’s outstretched hand. 

“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's 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 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 rocked though Soap, and he rocked his head to the side to peek out at them with one 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.

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