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daydreamsareallineed · 2 days ago

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Ah shit-

still wakes the deep au | soap x f!reader

Installment 4/?: Something in the Water

prompt: You're an environmental scientist conducting research on an off-shore oil rig with only a few days left before you're slated to leave. The eldritch creature they accidentally awaken throws a wrench in the works. masterlist

There’s something in the water.

The numbers that stare back at you might as well be flashing red and sounding sirens. Your hands shake—like glass with too many cracks, you feel as if you’re standing on the edge of something but can’t look forward. Not because the abyss is too dark to see, but because someone is deliberately covering your eyes as you teeter along some uneven cliff.

This is the second time you’ve done the analysis. The first time, you were careful, but when you saw the results, you panicked. Maybe you forgot to calibrate the machine. Maybe the glass wasn’t cleaned properly, and all of your samples were therefore contaminated. Maybe you were just negligent, had done this sort of thing too many times, that you must have forgot some crucial step that skewed your numbers so terribly, there was no way to conclude anything but that your analysis was too poor to record.

You did it again this time. You had the manual out, and you crossed off the steps as you did them. Your math is correct. You’ve done it more than once, used a calculator for the basic algebra, in the event that perhaps your brain could not remember how to multiply, but the numbers stay the same. You shakily bring over the report you wrote the night before and compare them. The report looks worse. Something is changing, at a rapid pace, and you feel sick.

The rig groans, and you stand up abruptly from your seat. The chair you were seated in falls onto its side behind you, and you step backwards, until you hit the wall behind you, and you cover your face with your hands.

There’s something in the water.

As a scientist, your thoughts immediately try to come up with practical assumptions. From how you’ve observed the men on this rig, they try their best, but management is poor—perhaps they’ve let something slip through the cracks. Quality control declining, safety checks abandoned, perhaps in an effort to increase production, they’ve forgone proper training, and now there are men unknowingly wreaking havoc.

The thing is—you know what you saw. Oil and water do not mix; they are immiscible liquids that, because of their innate properties, separate and pull away from one another. What you saw was not a separation, and it wasn’t something else bridging the layer between oil and water—what you saw was something you have never seen before.

It glitters, shines. You saw it move, a very mind of its own, something microscopic almost and tentacle-like attaching to the edges of the glass sample. When you shook it, it hadn’t moved, just glittered, just stared.

No eyes, and yet you could feel it looking back at you. Something alive. Something not real and yet, you see it, just there—

As a scientist, you tell yourself that the ocean is vast. The ocean is unpredictable. What you see can be explained, but you just need a few books to look through, and this rig is not a fine collector of those kinds of things.

As someone who wants to get the fuck out of here, you know that something is wrong.

There’s something in the water.

You cannot sleep. You usually don’t anyways, but your work keeps you up now, keeps your eyes glued to the water-stained ceiling. You feel suffocated here. The four walls that surround you are tiny, and the ocean is so loud outside of your window. She never shuts up—she screams, pounding on the thick glass, pulling on the rivets and digging her nails into the metal so that you know of her disdain, her displeasure.

She doesn’t want you here. You are somewhere that you don’t belong. Manmade claws dug into her very skin, and she throws it back at you as a warning because she wants you to leave. You’re not supposed to be here. You didn’t ask her for permission, and now she’s telling you to go, but you know already that no one will listen.

When you send these reports, they won’t believe you. They’ll suspect contaminated samples, and they’ll ask you do it again, and when you come back to them with the same numbers, they’ll say you don’t know how to do your job.

You’ll warn them. You’ll scream. Maybe you’ll cry—maybe you’ll beg. When they realize you’re telling the truth, you know already that it’ll be too late.

It’s in the water. It’s in the water. It’s in the water.

You shake your flashlight, hitting the side of it until the yellow bulb flickers and turns on. You grab the knob of your door, unlocking it and pushing it open, and your feet carry you down the hall. There’s a satellite phone that you can use to call someone. You want to explain yourself, you want to tell them that you tried again, and that you didn’t fail. You know what you’re doing. There is science, there is knowing, but there is also instinct.

You pick up the satellite phone from its box in accommodations. You shake it, watching it come to life, and you take a seat on the floor as you spread your reports out in front of you and dial. It takes a few tries before anyone picks up, and even then, it’s difficult to hear them. The connection is noisy, but it’s enough.

“You cannot be serious.”

That’s what they tell you. Wrong, you’re wrong, it can’t be right, there was no need to waste an expensive phone call on an analysis that was simple and easily performed. Your lip trembles, and you try to find your voice, but it escapes you.

“No,” you whisper. “I swear. I swear. Something’s not right—we need to—”

One more time. You have to do it one more time. You toss the phone, clutching your head. Your hands tangle into your hair, and you pull, just to feel something. You need to make sure this is real. Your toes curl in your shoes, and when you feel the floor of the rig resist you, you know you’re not dreaming. You’re in the middle of the fucking ocean, and there’s—

The satellite phone crackles. The speaker enables, loud, and you flinch when the screen flashes, on and off, crackling with static. You hear distant laughter through the speaker, and you crawl to the phone to pick it up.

“Hello? Hello, who’s there?”

There’s a low chuckle on the other end. You recognize it. You can practically see his smile, pearly whites all too happy, innocent, masking the nasty thing it hides under the surface. You’d liken him to the ocean, but she doesn’t keep secrets the way he does. He hides everything he really is under a pretty face. He lures you in, takes a bite, and he swallows before anyone sees the chunk he takes out of you.

“S-Soap?”

The phone crackles, and when the screen fades out, and the speaker still sounds, your body goes cold.

“You didnae hear? ‘s in the water, bonnie.”

You’ve never been to his room. You know where it is; every time you walk past him here, he reminds you. He points at the door, his name scribbled on the plaque to the side, and he tells you this is where he is, if ye ever need me ta lend ye some soap. You usually tiptoe past it; even though there’s carpet throughout the accommodations section, you fear he has memorized how your footsteps sound, and you never have wanted to give him a reason to seek you out again, but now you’re standing here, in the middle of the night, frantically knocking.

The door swings open. The look on his face, though only there for a second, is nothing but pure disgust, anger, a dullness and a depth to those baby blues that you’ve never seen when you’ve ever looked into them. At the sight of you, his entire body relaxes.

He’s shirtless. Thick, pronounced pecs that your eyes fail to look away from that follow a solid middle. He’s hairy, a nice trail that lines his chest and falls under the band of his boxers, and they hug his thighs much too well, so much so that you can see him chub up just at the sight of you at his door. He smiles.

In just a moment, the depth of his ire disappears, like he flipped a switch as soon as he noticed it was you.

“Och…’n ta what do ah owe the pleasure? Had a nightmare, luvvie? ‘s nice ‘n warm ‘n my bed.”

“Why were you on the sat phone?” You snap. It’s the angriest you’ve ever been, you think. Your eyes are watery. Your anger is a defense for all the fear that lays just under the surface. “I heard your voice. What the hell did you mean? What did—”

“As much as ah’wud like ta spend all night listenin’ ta yer pretty voice, bonnie, ah’ve no idea what yer on about.” Soap leans against the doorway, raising a brow, and while he’s trying to be coy, you’re not having it.

“Why did you say that?” Your voice shakes this time. “W-What did you mean?”

“Bonnie—”

“It’s n-not right,” you spill. You hold up the papers in your hand, and Soap stands up straight when he notices the way your hands are trembling. He steps closer, into your space, and you stay there, rooted to your spot. You look up at him, pointing to the bottom of your reports where your math and algebra sit, and you shake your head. “Something’s wrong. I know it. I know this doesn’t mean a-anything to you, but no one is listening to me, there’s something wrong, there’s something—”

His kiss is wet. He swallows your words, tongue in your mouth, and you whine instinctively when he pinches your chin between two big fingers and tilts your head to the side so he can devour. His mouth is filled with saliva, as if he was drooling for you, and you open your mouth to taste him, leaning just that much closer so that the only air you breathe is each other’s. You open your mouth again to protest, getting just a whiff of clarity, but then those hands are on your ass, and he’s squeezing the fat of it in two hands and dragging you closer to him. Your palms move to brace yourself against his chest, and you note how warm he is. He radiates heat, and the muscle does not give, and if you were somewhere else, you would lower yourself and get your lips on the skin, suckle and bite and mark him. He’d look so pretty. He is so pretty. He’s fogging your head—his kiss distracts you. You wish you had more bite, but you do not. When he spits into your mouth, you swallow it, and that simple fact makes your eyes water with shame at how easy you let him have you.

“Shhh—shh…” Rough palms spread along your cheeks, thumbs fitting just under the curve and teasing the seam of your cunt, and you let out a strangled cry when you shake your head again and try to pull away.

“Please listen to me—!”

“Ah’m listening—”

“No, you’re not! There’s something in the water!”

When you are back in your bed, Soap is the one to tuck you in. He brushes the hair off of your face, cooing as he kneels beside the bed, and you’re staring at him through wet eyes. You are so sleep-deprived—you haven’t slept a full night in days, and you must look it. You feel it, because you’re letting Soap this close to you. You’re letting him drag his lips across your skin, letting his hands under your blanket, ignoring the way he thumbs just over your breast, your nipples pebbling at the slight tease of attention.

“Ye need some rest,” Soap murmurs. You sniffle, clutching the edge of the blanket, and when his hand draws back, you reach for it, holding it tight. He scrunches his nose just a little when your nails dig into his skin.

“You believe me, right?” You whisper. “P-Please say you believe me.”

“Ah believe ye,” Soap nods, “sure. Ah ken.”

You sit up a little, getting closer, and you squeeze his hand.

“Then why…you’re not scared.”

“Ah’m no’afraid of what isnae there,” he soothes you. Soap sits up on his knees, and you try not to think too hard about how large he looks leaning over you. He presses on your shoulders, until you lay back again, and he smiles down at you. It’s softer this time. He’s trying to relax you, and it’s working, just a little. “Ah’ve been out there, bonnie. Been workin’. She moans and groans real scary like, but dinnae worry—” He touches your cheek again, and you give him those eyes. Fuck, those eyes. “Ah’ll find ye if somethin’ ‘s off, bonnie. Yer safe.”

Safe.

When you’re alone again, another wet kiss drying against your lips, you feel anything but safe.

You would be more upset if you felt like he didn’t mean what he said—but he does, you know he does. Soap is like you in a way—practical. If while he was working, he noticed something off, he would know. He’s worked rigs like this before, he’d told you so, and you’ve worked with him long enough to know that Soap isn’t stupid. In fact, he’s the most competent person on the rig, maybe, and you’ve stared at his arms long enough to know that there is nothing half-assed or improper about the way he works. He is methodical, careful, and he knows the job well. Sometimes you see him press a big hand against one of the walls of the rig and close his eyes to listen. Like the ocean speaks to you, the rivets speak to Soap.

So why are they telling us different stories?

Opposites, just like yourself. You try to put distance between you and him, and you try to hate him. You tell yourself he’s been borderline harassing you, but then why is it that your feet gravitate towards him? Even when you don’t mean to, you’re in his proximity. You never go looking for him, and yet he is there. Your thoughts are filled with it, filled with him, and even when he goes, you can’t stop thinking about him.

Those eyes. Those hands. So much of him, that you want him between your teeth, and you know if you bit down, you’d meet delicious resistance, and in the face of panic and fear, his voice—like some lilt you must know, your heartbeat slows. What he says must be truth, even if it isn’t one you want to hear. Even if it’s something disgusting and terrible and obnoxious, Soap would never lie to you.

You’re so tender. When your fingers slip under the band of your sleep shorts, you find yourself so willing. You part your thighs a little, and you clamp a hand over your mouth to keep quiet when you feel how soaked you are. Your panties are ruined—so slick, sticking to your skin, and you peek it back to run two fingers between your folds and shake from how nice it feels.

When you close your eyes, you think of him.

You think about the oil under his fingernails. You think about what it might taste like if he stuck those big fingers into your mouth and pet your tongue with them—how bitter and foul the oil would be. You wonder if the salt of his skin would cancel it out or if he’d pity you and feed you his cock instead. When your fingertips slide and circle your clit, your back arches, and you think about what he would’ve done if instead of berate him, you simply had pushed him into his room a few hours ago and tested how quiet his mattress springs could be.

You’re ashamed, you think. Ashamed that someone like him could have you so out of sorts. So many different jobs, so many different men, but this one has you breathless. When you wet your fingers with your own cum, you remember the only thing in your head is him telling you that everything is okay. His unforgiving chest muscle under the palm of your hand, leaning over you to whisper in your ear, to kiss just where your jaw meets your throat.

Nothing amiss, bonnie. Ah’ave ye.

It isn’t the morning sun that wakes you.

Bleary, you sit up onto your elbows. You hear voices outside your room. Lots of footsteps. You get yourself out of bed, haphazardly slipping into clothes before opening the door and stepping out.

It’s eerily quiet in the hallway. You hear a heavy door shut in the distance, but then there is nothing. You flinch when something cold and wet hits your forehead, and when you look up, the ceiling is leaking. Water damage bleeds throughout the material there, more pronounced than before. You wipe the glob off your forehead, looking down at your hand, and your stomach drops when you see something sparkle. You cringe, shaking your hand, wiping it against your pants to dry them before moving again.

The air is too humid. The salt of the ocean tastes rancid. There is some meter somewhere, you think, that has hit its limit. What it measures, you’re not sure, but something is standing too close to an edge. It will either fall over or right itself, but there is no predictability and no balance in the middle of the ocean.

She will turn it which way she wants it to go, and today, you fear it won’t be in your favor.

You see it before you feel it. You make your way to a window on the far side of accommodations, one that looks out towards the rest of the rig. You can see sparks where men are working, large towers with cranes that are swinging. The fog is dense—you can’t see anything past the rig, just clouds that make the world around the rig seem small and void. You narrow your eyes when you see something shaking. You’re convinced that you’re off balance, that maybe it’s your knees shaking and not the metal cage you currently reside on.

It takes your breath away, the first blast. Something in the distance erupts just after a bright flashing light, and you feel it in your toes. You cry out when the force of it reaches where you are and throws you backwards, enough that you hit the wall behind you and crumple into a heap onto the floor. Something incredible must have broken apart—you can feel how heavy of a break just gave out underneath you, somewhere deep within the rig, suspiciously close to where the drill rests at the deep center of it all.

Your vision spots. Metal creaks and bends, giving out under some other kind of force, and you cower and cover your head with your arms when you hear a plethora of terrible, carrying screeches. Something surrounds you now. There’s air coming out of the ducts that smells off, and at the distance of it all, you hear the ocean.

She’s not sorry. She told you to leave. No one believed her, no one believed you.

When you finally uncover your face, you look around. Everything looks somewhat normal, but off kilter. You stand on shaky legs, continuing towards the kitchen, but just as you make it to the staircase, something blocks your way.

The walls have been broken through. Metal is shredded and bent backwards, giving way to something you can only describe as bizarre. Inhuman. Not of any kind.

Thick strands of pulsating flesh take up the stairway. In brilliant, large swirls, they come from somewhere outside, twisting and moving until they break through another wall and continue where you can’t follow. The sound of it—something sticky, wet, gooey with a pearl-like substance that drips. It shines, and you blink when you realize that you recognize the way it glitters, the way it catches the light.

There is something in the water.

It draws you closer. You can hear something from inside of it. The soft flesh of it, pink and fat with something you can’t decipher, beats to a rhythm that squeezes the organs inside of you. Your feet move without you telling them to, but just as you are about to get near it, a stringy arm of flesh breaks off from the pillar of it towards you.

You scream as you fly back from it, falling onto your back as you crawl away. The sticky end of it misses you just by an inch, landing and suctioning to the floor just beside your foot. You kick your feet, crawling away from it on your elbows, and you do the only thing you’ve thought about doing since you arrived—you run.

You see spots. Something glittery protrudes what you see, but you wipe the water out of your eyes and keep running. You’re losing it—this isn’t real. You’re in a dream, and all you have to do is wake up. You’re having a nightmare. When you wake up, you’ll run your analysis again with new samples, and the numbers will read normal, and you’ll pack your bags in preparation to leave, and you’ll do just that in such little time.

You won’t have to worry about the open waters, or the ocean that won’t forgive you. You’ll realize she can’t speak to you, and that it is all in your head. There is no angry woman under the surface. There is nothing throwing off the samples. There is no flesh breaking through the rig and trying to devour you. There is only you and the terrible things the mind can do.

You scream again when something grabs you. Flesh, warm, wrapping around you and holding you solid, breaking your run and forcing you against them. You scream and thrash, trying to break free, but then flesh speaks.

“‘s me! Christ, ‘s me, bonnie!”

A hand clamps over your mouth, and you stop. You blink through wet eyes, and when you can finally focus, you see him. When he knows you won’t scream, he lowers his hand.

“S-Soap?”

“Aye. Now quiet.”

“Soap…Soap, I saw—”

He puts a finger up to his lips, and your lips close. Your eyes widen when the rig groans, something breaking under your feet, glass and metal and the crack of destruction echoing against the fog.

In the distance, you hear a cry. It isn’t a cry you recognize. It gurgles, and it echoes, and something about it is just off enough that you know it can’t be explained. When you meet Soap’s eyes, you see the same conclusion in them. Finally, you see in them what you saw in yourself, what you could read on paper and see in the water and feel just under your ribs, making your heart beat against its cage like a frantic drum.

There was something in the water—and now it has come out.

#soap x reader #cod x reader #soap/reader #soap x you #john soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader

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ch3rrybbie · 1 day ago

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Get free

Ghoap x reader oneshot

Warnings: angst, death, smut allusions.

Summary: out of the black into the blue.

The jeep shook you as it sped down the dirt road.

A hot summers night, somewhere.

It didn’t matter where. What mattered was that this was where you were slipping.

The stench of dust and iron lay taught in the air as you were tossed between Soap and Ghost.

A rock and a hard place.

Your fingers were all you could focus on, ignoring Price and Gaz in the front checking on you every so often.

Ignoring that was all any of them could do.

Fingers numb and dulling, you felt barely able to feel the wound in your side.

You start to sag further in your seat, only to be dragged up by your tactical jacket.

Ghost.

“You’re fine, sit up straight” he commands fear tinging his bite.

You laugh delirious, he sure did pick his moments to show he cared.

He did’t show you he cared when he made you run 50 laps for laughing. He didn’t show he cared when he asked Price to bar you from a mission for carelessness. He didn’t show he cared all those times you were in the med bay. He didn’t show he cared when he slipped from your room underthe crest of night. Leaving you sweat licked and teary.

It was your turn to leave him.

Soap licks your wounds, stroking your matted hair. At least there would be comfort in these last moments.

Soap always showed he cared.

It was like he couldn’t help it.

Always five paces behind. Hand always a caress apart. Always running beside you. Always shouting for you.

Lips pressed tight to you, swallowing doubts.

You were floating, light as air. Head swimming in delirium. Thick chuckles vibrate through you.

They all turn to stare each wearing an expression worse than the last.

A nymph amongst the dammed. A saint amongst sinners. The dead were always the holiest. You would be martyred.

Being the only woman in 141 had never given you any grace. Never meant differential treatment in the wounds shared. If it’d been anyone else in your seat the same glances would be shared.

But this meant you would be absolved of the awful things you all did.

Where would you go? What world awaited you?

Sleep nudged at your heavy soul.

You were a child again, sleeping softly against your mother. A drama playing on the TV, lulling you into the quiet.

What did Ghost care anyways, you tired of this back and forth. Of this life. Missions and gore and blood and running and killing.

For what?

You let your hand slip from you wound. Spite taking your hand and kissing it in praise.

Fuck Ghost.

You didn’t need to say anything, any goodbyes or I love yous could be imagined or there.

What did you care.

They knew you.

So you lean against Johnny, allowing yourself this small comfort. Hand, bloodied and limp falling against Simon’s thigh.

He grips it harshly and attempts to stem the wild blood flow running from you.

You can’t hear his barks anymore.

Eyes closed you tune into the soft strokes of Johnny’s hand. His soft touch calls you in the way he does, soft pats of ‘lassie’ and ‘Bonnie’ soothe false fears once again.

———

Johnny does what Simon never could, accept.

You can’t breathe life into a wilting flower as his mother would say. She would’ve loved you, he thinks.

He knows.

Johnny was selfless as always he would give comfort to you, no matter how much it hurt. He feels you soften and still, not daring to check,he looks to Simon’s frantic movements.

———

Simon was selfish in his wanting. Hands bloodied he attempts to animate you. Perhaps his pushing and pulling will respark your heart and put wind in your lungs. Perhaps not, and yet he persists. He wants you come come back and kill him, to drown him in your blood and drag him with you like some wrathful harpy.

Come back and hate me. Come back and kill me.

———

Ch3rrybbie says: sorry the ghoap x reader fixation made me write this will try get requests out asap, this got me out of the writing slump lol.

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itacats · 3 days ago

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In His Steady Hands

FT: Soap x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of medical conditions (dystonia), vulnerability, and emotional breakthroughs. Light anxiety themes, but overall a comforting narrative.

SUM: After an emotional turning point, Soap commits to understanding the intricacies of your condition, weaving trust and care into every interaction. Together, you begin rebuilding a connection rooted in mutual respect and understanding. From quiet nights to shared laughter at the park, your bond deepens, creating a space where vulnerability becomes strength and trust blossoms naturally.

A/N: Ah, this one gave me all the warm and fuzzy feels! 🥰 Thank you for reading, and remember: small acts of love can move mountains. Stay cozy, lovelies! 🌟

In His Steady Hands Masterlist

Part 7: Rebuilding Together

The days following your emotional breakthrough with Soap were different—unfamiliar in the best way. There was a quiet shift in the air between you two, an unspoken understanding that had begun to take root, like the first tendrils of a vine winding its way upward. Soap didn’t shy away from the things that made you vulnerable. He leaned in closer, his curiosity genuine and his intent pure.

He asked questions—not just the casual, surface-level inquiries people might make when they wanted to be polite. No, Soap's questions were thoughtful, probing, always looking to understand the nuances of your condition. What triggered it? How did it feel when it happened? What made it better, or worse? He asked about your daily routines, about what helped you cope with the physical and mental toll. He listened closely, taking in every detail you shared, and never once made you feel like it was too much.

The first time you realized the depth of his commitment, it was something small—insignificant, even. You’d been talking about how stress affected your symptoms, and he, without hesitation, suggested ways to help you manage it. He had done some research, read up on the techniques that might offer relief. At first, you were taken aback. It wasn’t that you doubted his kindness; it was the sheer effort he was putting in. He was actively learning about your condition—researching, questioning, finding ways to be better for you. It didn’t feel like pity, or a sense of obligation. It felt like care, genuine care, without any expectation or reservation.

It was astonishing, really. You had never imagined anyone would be so thorough in their desire to understand. People, in your experience, often “tolerated” your condition, or offered half-hearted sympathy with a questioning glare, but Soap was different. He didn’t simply accept it; he sought to be part of the solution, to shoulder the weight with you rather than leave you to carry it alone.

At times, it felt overwhelming. You found yourself on the edge of speechless gratitude and frustration—grateful that someone cared this much, but frustrated at how much you had to explain, how much of your life had to be laid bare just to get to a place of mutual understanding. And yet, every time you hesitated to share, his calm, patient demeanor gave you the space to speak, without judgment. There was no rush. No hurry. Just a steady presence that made it easier to open up, to offer a little more of yourself each day.

One evening, as you sat on the couch, your legs curled beneath you, Soap was beside you, a notebook in hand. You were on the subject of how your condition impacted your sleep, how it often kept you awake through the night, and how it affected your energy levels during the day. Soap jotted notes, nodding as you spoke, completely absorbed in the conversation. The look of concentration on his face was so intense, so thoughtful, that it sent a wave of warmth rushing through you. Here was someone who wasn’t just asking questions for his own benefit but was truly committed to making a difference in your life.

It was in that moment you realized that your connection with Soap had evolved into something deeper. The small gaps that once separated you—those invisible walls of fear, of not wanting to burden anyone—were slowly closing. You could see that, despite the difficult moments, the pain, and the isolation your condition sometimes brought, you were no longer shouldering it alone.

And Soap wasn’t just absorbing information for the sake of knowledge. His new understanding of your condition didn’t feel like a textbook answer. It was applied. When you were feeling particularly tense or exhausted, he would offer to help you with relaxation exercises, his voice calm and reassuring as he guided you through the steps. When he noticed you were trying to hide your symptoms, he would gently remind you that it was okay, that you didn’t need to push through it alone. His understanding wasn’t academic—it was practical, woven into the way he treated you every day.

You found yourself allowing him closer, more comfortable with the idea of trusting him more and more. You’d begun to rely on him in ways you hadn’t with anyone else—asking for his support during a flare-up, seeking his company when the anxiety became too much. And with each step, with each shared moment of vulnerability, the bond between you grew stronger.

This new connection, built on trust and mutual respect, was fragile yet resilient, a delicate thread woven through shared knowledge and experience. Soap’s determination to understand wasn’t just a bridge to help him reach you—it was also a bridge that brought you closer to yourself.

For the first time in a long while, you felt like you weren’t just surviving; you were learning, together, how to live.

The path to rebuilding trust, once frail and uncertain, begins to solidify, like a garden growing slowly beneath careful hands. Each step forward feels like a delicate yet steady progression, a process neither rushed nor forced, but organic in its unfolding. The more you open up, the more your walls crumble, not all at once, but with time and patience. It’s as if the very act of sharing pieces of yourself with Soap nurtures something in both of you, a connection that blossoms quietly in the spaces between words.

One of the first signs of change comes during a small outing at the park—a simple, almost ordinary outing, but to you, it’s anything but. The sun is warm on your face, and the breeze carries the faint scent of blooming flowers. The sound of birds chirping fills the air, a reminder of the small, beautiful things in life. Soap, ever the playful one, has brought a blanket and a basket, filled with an assortment of sandwiches and fruits. You spread the blanket together, the action somehow grounding, the tactile feel of grass beneath your fingers a reminder that there is still peace in the world, even in the midst of your internal chaos.

Laughter bubbles between you as you both dive into stories—some funny, some trivial, but all meaningful in their own way. Soap shares a ridiculous story from his childhood, one that has you doubled over with laughter. The sound is foreign, at first—genuine laughter that doesn’t feel forced, that doesn’t come with the weight of worry. The laughter escapes into the sky, mingling with the air around you, and for that fleeting moment, it’s as if everything else disappears. It’s just the two of you, the world outside this small corner of the park irrelevant to the simple joy of being together.

With each story exchanged, each new fact shared, the connection between you strengthens. You find yourself leaning in, your guard slipping just a little further with every word that passes between you. The vulnerability that once terrified you begins to feel less like a threat and more like an invitation. Soap doesn’t press for more than you’re willing to give; instead, he creates space for you to offer what you feel comfortable with, when you feel ready. It’s an unspoken pact, this understanding, one that builds the foundation of trust between you—a trust that is not based on promises of perfection, but rather on the recognition of each other’s humanity.

On quieter nights, the ones spent in the comfort of his apartment, the dynamic shifts again. The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a table lamp and the flickering screen of a movie playing in the background. You both curl up on the couch, a blanket thrown over your legs, the comfort of his presence surrounding you like a soft, safe cocoon. There’s no rush. No expectations. Just the quiet, gentle rhythm of conversation, broken only by the occasional pause as you both listen to the hum of the world outside, each lost in your thoughts. In these moments, the connection feels seamless, as if you don’t need words to fill the space between you. The simple act of being together—of existing in this shared moment—is enough.

But it’s in these conversations, these slow, unhurried exchanges, that you begin to notice something else: the subtle way Soap listens. The way his attention never wavers when you speak, his eyes aren’t just focused on you, but looking into you—seeing more than what you say, understanding more than what you show. It’s a feeling you’ve rarely experienced, the sense that someone truly hears you, that they’re not just waiting for their turn to speak, but that they’re invested in what you’re sharing. It’s a quiet reassurance, a reminder that trust is built not only through grand gestures but through the small, everyday acts of connection.

Each shared moment feels like a thread in a tapestry, intricate and beautiful in its simplicity. They are moments you treasure, moments that stitch your hearts together, little by little, until what was once a fragile bond feels stronger than you ever imagined possible.

And in the stillness of those quiet nights, the connection between you is no longer something to be feared or doubted. It has become something you trust, something that has woven its way into the very fabric of your existence. With Soap by your side, the idea of vulnerability transforms, not as a burden, but as an opportunity for growth, for closeness, and for the deepening of a bond that neither of you thought could be possible.

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#bt extra #call of duty #cod #fanfic #cod fic #gn reader #soap x you #soap #soap x reader #soap cod #john soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #dystonia #civilian au #in his steady hands

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msilwrites · 3 days ago

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More Trouble (Johnny 'Soap' Fic) - Two

Whatever size/colour/ethnicity you are, you are hot in Johnny's Eyes! Reader, Soap is smitten with you! Reader, Agent! Reader, Reboot! Johnny, Reboot! Soap, but he is Captain! Soap (Now!!), Captain! Johnny, Captain! Soap, Fuckboi! Soap, Manwhore! Soap, Judgemental! Johnny, Judgemental! Soap, Shameless! Soap, Cocky! Soap, Bastard! Soap

Soap x Reader , Soap x Y/N , Click here for Part 1 | This is Part 2 | Part 3 ( In Progress)

NSFW

Genre: Drama/Comedy/ with some Smut MDNI Summary:

After you disappeared on Johnny following that passionate night, you quickly realized you had forgotten your bracelet at his place. A few hours later, you called him to retrieve it, but Johnny had other plans. He playfully suggested that he would hold onto the bracelet until you met him again, turning the situation into a flirtatious game.

Despite your initial resistance, you found yourself falling back into his arms. What started as a simple arrangement to get your bracelet back evolved into a weekend ritual where you and Johnny would meet, the passion between you undeniable. However, as the weeks turned into months, the relationship became more complicated. Pregnancy scares and arguments began to surface, and you realized that you wanted more than just a physical connection.

You found yourself falling in love with Johnny, but you knew he wouldn't take you seriously. The emotional turmoil and the realization that you deserved more led you to decide to move on. Unfortunately, Johnny refused to let you go, his obsession growing more intense with each passing day. Good luck escaping him, Birdie—because he won’t let you slip away so easily! In fact, he won't let you escape at all.

A/N:

This is the continuation of Trouble, featuring our sunshine Captain Johnny Soap MacTavish—who just so happens to be a little obsessed with you! Buckle up for the whirlwind, the chaos, and the sizzling tension. Enjoy! 💙

----------

Johnny's lounging at home, the bracelet dangling from his fingers, when his phone rings. The caller ID shows an unknown number, piquing his curiosity. He answers, his voice casual but guarded.

"Hello?"

It's you—your voice cool and businesslike, but he can sense the underlying tension.

"Hey, it’s me. I need my bracelet back."

Johnny's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He smirks, leaning back in his chair, the realization dawning on him that it's you on the other end of the line. "Oh, now you remember me, Birdie. Thought you’d flown off for good."

You sigh softly, trying to keep your composure. "Look, I spent a lot on that bracelet. It’s not sentimental—it’s expensive. Just... I need it back."

Johnny's grin widens, a mix of amusement and satisfaction playing on his lips. "Expensive, eh? Then I reckon I’m holdin’ onto it ‘til you meet me again. Fair trade, don’t you think?"

There's a pause as you bite your lip, trying to think of a way out. "Can’t you just mail it to me? Or drop it off somewhere neutral?"

Johnny's tone turns playful but firm, hinting at his hurt pride. "You disappeared on me, lass. Think I’m lettin’ you off that easy? Not a chance. You want it, you come get it."

----------

Reluctantly, you agree to meet at a quiet café. As you walk in, Johnny's cheeky grin throws you off. He's leaning back in his chair, the bracelet dangling teasingly from his fingers.

"There’s my runaway Birdie. Fancy seein’ you again."

You roll your eyes, trying to keep your cool. "I’m just here for the bracelet, MacTavish."

Johnny's grin widens. "And here I thought you missed me."

The banter escalates, the chemistry sparking just as strong as before. You reach for the bracelet, but Johnny pulls it back, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Not so fast," he says, his voice low and commanding. Before you can react, he grabs your wrist and pulls you onto his lap, his strong arms wrapping around you. You can feel the heat of his body, the firmness of his muscles, and the unmistakable bulge pressing against you. "You can’t just waltz back in, get what you want, and leave. What’s the rush, eh? Sit with me a while."

Your breath hitches as you feel his breath on your neck, his lips brushing against your ear. The sensation sends shivers down your spine, and you can't help but melt into his embrace. The chemistry between you is undeniable, and you know you're in for more than just a simple meeting.

Reluctantly, you agree to stay. The conversation flows, and before you know it, you're back at Johnny's place. The passion reignites, and this time, Johnny is determined not to let you slip away.

----------

"You think you can keep runnin’, but I’ve got news for you, Birdie. You’re not just walkin’ out on me this time."

The air between you is electric as Johnny's words hang heavy with promise. His eyes lock onto yours, a mix of determination and desire burning in their depths. You can feel the tug of his strong arms, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, and the unmistakable connection that pulls you closer.

As you find yourselves back at Johnny's place, the tension that had been building all day finally snaps. His hands roam over your body, both gentle and demanding, exploring every curve and contour. You can feel his breath hot on your skin, his lips trailing kisses that leave you breathless and wanting more.

"You drive me crazy, Birdie," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "I can't get enough of you."

You smile, your fingers tracing the muscles of his chest. "You're not so bad yourself, MacTavish."

His eyes darken with desire as he begins to undress you, his touch deliberate and teasing. You help him, your hands trembling with anticipation. His shirt comes off next, revealing his sculpted body, and you can't help but admire how sexy he looks.

"Like what you see?" he asks, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Very much," you reply, your voice barely a whisper.

With a swift movement, Johnny scoops you up, swinging you effortlessly onto his broad shoulders. You let out a surprised laugh as he carries you to the bedroom, his strong arms holding you securely. He throws you onto the bed, and before you can react, he's on top of you, using his strength and weight to pin you down.

"You're not going anywhere, Birdie," he growls, his voice thick with desire. "Not this time."

Your breath hitches as you feel his body press against yours, the heat between you intensifying. His lips find yours in a passionate kiss, and you lose yourself in the sensation, the world outside fading away. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word feels like a claim, a promise that this time, things will be different.

The passion between you is intense, a dance of give and take, of pleasure and need. His hands explore your body, his touch both gentle and demanding, driving you wild with desire. You arch against him, your body responding to his every touch, your moans filling the room.

Afterward, as you lie tangled together, Johnny reaches for the bracelet. His fingers brush against your skin as he carefully places it back on your wrist. The gesture feels intimate, almost like a claim, solidifying your connection even if neither of you admits it yet.

"There you go, Bonnie," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "This belongs on you. Just like you belong here with me."

You tease him about finally giving it back, but the smile on his lips and the warmth in his eyes tell a different story. "You just can't resist keeping me close, can you?" you whisper, your voice soft with contentment.

Johnny's grin widens, and he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you tightly. "Never, Bonnie. You're mine now."

And as you drift off to sleep in his arms, a mix of emotions swirls within you. You feel safe, protected by his strong embrace, yet there's a lingering uncertainty. You wonder if Johnny will take you seriously, if this connection is more than just physical. His presence is comforting, his touch electrifying, but the future feels uncertain, leaving you with a sense of both belonging and fear.

----------

The Weekend 'Tradition'

From that night on, you both fell into an unspoken routine. You’d show up at his place on Fridays, and by Saturday morning, Johnny would be in the kitchen cooking breakfast with a self-satisfied smirk.

Your weekends were a heady mix of passion and playful arguments. He’d tease you about your high-maintenance tastes, calling you “Princess” just to watch you scowl, while you rolled your eyes at his cocky charm.

“You think you’re God’s gift, don’t you?” you muttered one morning, pulling the sheet up around your bare chest.

Johnny, still shirtless and looking entirely too smug, leaned back against the headboard. “Aye. And judging by last night, I’d say I’m right.”

You threw a pillow at him, which he caught effortlessly, laughing.

But it wasn’t just the physical chemistry that kept you coming back to each other. You texted during the week—playful, flirty exchanges that Johnny looked forward to more than he cared to admit. Sometimes, you’d send him a picture of your lunch, and he’d reply with something ridiculous like, “Ye know that’s not real food, right? Come over, and I’ll make you a proper meal.”

It was easy, fun, and thrillingly uncomplicated. At least, that’s what Johnny thought.

----------

The Pregnancy Scare

One weekend, you didn’t show up on time. Johnny waited, pacing his flat, his phone clutched in his hand as he debated whether to call you.

When you finally texted, it wasn’t your usual sarcastic remark or teasing quip. It was a simple, cryptic message: We need to talk.

Johnny’s heart sank. Never good, that.

When you arrived, you looked unusually tense, your arms wrapped protectively around yourself. Johnny greeted you with his usual cheeky grin, but it faltered when you didn’t immediately snap back at him.

“Alright, Birdie?” he asked, his tone softening.

You hesitated, then blurted it out: “I might be pregnant.”

Johnny froze. For a moment, the words didn’t register. Then his brain caught up, and he blinked at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“You... what?”

“I’m late,” you said quickly, your voice uncharacteristically quiet. “It’s probably nothing, but I thought you should know.”

Johnny stared at you, his mind racing. Then, to your utter shock, he grinned. “Well, I guess I’d better brush up on my lullabies.”

You gawked at him. “Johnny, this isn’t a joke—”

“I’m not jokin’,” he interrupted, his tone sincere. He reached out, taking your hand in his. “Birdie, whatever happens, I’ve got you, alright? We’ll figure it out.”

For once, you didn’t have a snarky response. You just stared at him, a mix of disbelief and something softer in your eyes.

----------

Making Johnny Jealous

Johnny lay sprawled on the bed, his chest rising and falling with slow breaths, a lazy grin on his face. The sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting soft golden streaks across his skin. He watched you from where he lay, his head propped up on one arm.

You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your dress—simple, elegant, and far too classy for someone who had just spent the night tangled in his sheets. You smoothed your hair, adding a touch of lipstick to your already swollen lips.

Johnny smirked, his voice rough with the remnants of sleep. “What’s the rush, Birdie? Cannae stay for breakfast? I make a mean fry-up.”

You didn’t even glance at him, focused on slipping your earrings in. “Tempting, but I’ve got somewhere to be.”

Johnny’s grin faltered, a faint furrow forming between his brows. “Somewhere more important than me?”

Finally, you turned to look at him, your tone casual—too casual. “I’ve got a date. Don’t want to be late.”

For a moment, Johnny froze. His brain scrambled to process your words, replaying them like a scratched record. “A... a date?” His voice cracked slightly at the word.

You nodded, your expression calm, like you hadn’t just dropped a bombshell on him. “Yeah, you know, dinner, conversation, maybe something long-term if it works out. People do that, Johnny.”

Johnny sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist, his hands bracing on the mattress as if to steady himself. “Wait a minute. You’re tellin’ me you’re goin’ on a bloody date right after... after—” He gestured wildly to the bed, his face a mix of disbelief and irritation.

You shrugged, picking up your clutch. “We’re not in a relationship. You said it yourself—we’re just having fun, right? No strings.”

Johnny’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with possessiveness. “Aye, I said no strings, but that was before I claimed you as mine. You think you can just walk away from that? From us?”

Your brow arched, defiant. “Johnny, this isn’t about ownership. I’m looking for stability, for something serious. You’re... well...” You gestured to him—shirtless, rumpled, and indignant in his bed. “You’re great in bed, but this? This isn’t long-term material.”

Johnny let out a sharp laugh, though it lacked any humor. “So what? You’re just gonna find some rich tosser to settle down with? That’s your plan?”

You crossed your arms, your tone firm. “If he’s stable and can offer me the kind of life I want, then yes. That’s the plan.”

Johnny swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing in one fluid motion. His broad frame towered over you, his frustration palpable. “Stable? Birdie, you think I cannae give you that? What, you think I’m just some daft squaddie who can’t keep up with you?”

You tilted your chin up, meeting his fiery gaze with your own. “Johnny, I don’t even know what you do. You disappear for weeks without a word, you show up out of nowhere, and you expect me to believe you can offer stability?”

His lips twitched into a smirk, despite the tension. “Maybe I like keepin’ you on your toes. Keeps things excitin’, eh? But that doesn’t mean you can just go shaggin’ whoever you want. We had an arrangement, Birdie. You’re mine, and that means something.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing past him to grab your coat. “This is exactly what I mean. You’re not serious, Johnny. And I don’t have time to wait for you to figure out what you want. You can’t have it both ways—claiming me as yours and then acting like I’m just some casual fling.”

As you headed for the door, Johnny caught your wrist, his grip firm but not harsh. His voice softened, the anger giving way to something more vulnerable. “Birdie... you cannae just leave. Not like this. Not after...” He trailed off, searching your face for any sign of hesitation.

You looked at him, your resolve unwavering. “I’m not leaving, Johnny. I’m just... moving on.”

As much as you hated to admit it, the date was actually just with your girl friends. You were spending time with them, and you were pissed with Johnny and the way he treats you sometimes—claiming and being possessive, but acting casual with your relationship. You just wanted to piss him off, to make him feel a fraction of the frustration you felt. You think of this as you walk out of his house, your heels clicking sharply on the pavement, your mind a whirlwind of anger and determination.

He let you go, watching as you walked out the door, the sound of your heels echoing down the hall. For a moment, he stood there, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Then, with a determined glint in his eye, he muttered to himself, “We’ll see about that, Birdie. You can run, but I’m not lettin’ you go that easy.”

----------

An Unexpected Return

It was a Saturday morning, and Johnny was sprawled on the bed, a cocky grin plastered across his face as you slipped into your jeans. The sheets were tangled around his waist, and he looked entirely too pleased with himself, his bare chest rising and falling lazily.

Much to Johnny's delight, you had come back after your last heated exchange. Despite your initial anger and frustration, you found yourself drawn back to him, unable to resist the magnetic pull between you. You had resumed your weekend sex sessions, each encounter more intense and passionate than the last.

“So, Birdie,” he drawled, propping himself up on an elbow, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief. “How’d that wee date of yours go, then? Hope the poor lad didn’t bore you to death.”

You shot him a sharp look over your shoulder as you zipped up your jeans. “None of your business.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he teased, his grin widening. “You’re not gonna tell me he didn’t measure up, are you? Not everyone can, y’know.” His voice dropped an octave, dripping with smug confidence.

Your lips curled into a smirk as you sauntered back toward the bed, leaning down just enough to grab your shirt from the floor. “Let’s just say,” you murmured, your tone sweet as honey, “you’re a lot better at talking than you are at listening, Johnny.”

Before he could fire back, you tugged your shirt over your head and turned to leave. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head, entirely unaware of the storm brewing inside you.

----------

A Dance of Tension

The weekends continued as usual, your "situationship" a tangled web of passion and unspoken tension. Every time Johnny teased you about your "dates," you put him firmly back in his place—often quite literally. The truth was, it wasn't a real date; it was just a simple outing with friends, meant to make Johnny jealous. And while it had worked, his teasing only increased, fueling the fire between you.

Despite your search for a man who could offer stability, you found yourself continually drawn back to Johnny. The magnetic pull between you was undeniable, and the passion you shared was intoxicating.

“Tell me, Birdie,” Johnny groaned one night, his hands gripping your hips as you rode him with deliberate, punishing control. “Did he kiss you like this?”

You rolled your eyes, smirking as you leaned forward, your hands splayed against his chest. “No,” you whispered against his ear, your voice laced with mockery. “He was a gentleman. Something you’ll never be.”

“Good,” Johnny rasped, his grip tightening. “’Cause I’d hate to have to ruin him for you.”

You laughed, low and wicked, but your heart wasn’t in it. “Don’t worry, Johnny. Once I find the right guy, someone stable who can give me the life I want, I’ll stop coming back to you.”

Johnny's eyes flashed with anger, and he gripped your waist tighter, pistoning his pelvis up roughly. “You think you can just walk away from this?” he growled, his voice thick with desire and frustration. “You think any other man can make you feel like this?”

You laughed again, your head tilted back as you reveled in the sensation. “Maybe not,” you admitted, your voice breathy. “But I need more than just passion, Johnny. I need stability.”

Johnny's grip on your waist became almost bruising, his movements more urgent. “You’re mine, Bonnie,” he rasped, his voice dark and possessive. “No other man is going to have you. You’ll always come back to me, no matter how hard you try to fight it.”

The intensity of his words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn't help but feel a mix of fear and exhilaration. The line between passion and pain was blurring, and you weren't sure how much longer you could keep up the facade. You were falling for him, and it terrified you.

----------

End of the Line

One night, it all comes to a head.

Your chest aches as you watch Johnny stride out of the bathroom, his damp hair sticking to his forehead and a towel slung low on his hips. It's impossible not to take in the sight of him, all taut muscle and raw masculinity, the very image of temptation. For a split second, you waver, your mind screaming at you to rethink everything.

You're sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. Johnny, fresh out of the shower, runs a towel through his damp hair as he walks into the room. He frowns when he sees your expression.

“Birdie?” he asks, his voice softer than usual. “What’s wrong?”

You take a deep breath, refusing to meet his eyes. “I can’t do this anymore, Johnny.”

His grin falters. He steps further into the room, water still glistening on his skin. “What are you on about, lass? We’re fine. You were just in my bed an hour ago, screaming my name, far as I recall.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, but you don’t back down. “This isn’t fine. It’s messy and complicated, and it’s not going anywhere.”

Johnny frowns, his hands resting on his hips. The towel shifts slightly, which isn’t helping your focus. “What’s brought this on, then? Thought you were happy.”

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Happy? Johnny, I’m not even sure what this is. We’re not in a relationship, but we’re not just hooking up either. And the pregnancy scare—”

“That turned out to be nothing,” he interrupts quickly, though his tone is softer now, almost pleading.

“It wasn’t ‘nothing’ to me,” you snap, your voice rising. “It made me realize how dangerous this is. I can’t keep doing this with you.”

You steel yourself, gripping the strap of your purse tightly. You aren’t going to let him or your feelings pull you back in. Not this time.

Johnny’s piercing blue eyes lock onto yours, his brows furrowing in anger and confusion. “So that’s it, then?” His voice is sharp, almost accusing. “You’re just walking away like none of this meant anything to you?”

Your heart clenches painfully, but you refuse to show it. “Don’t you dare,” you shoot back, your voice low and trembling. “Don’t you turn this on me. This isn’t about what it meant to me, Johnny. It’s about what it doesn’t mean to you.”

He scoffs, running a hand through his wet hair in frustration. “What the hell are you on about? We were fine, Birdie. You were happy, weren’t you? I mean, we had a good thing going.”

“Good thing?” you echo, your voice breaking with bitter incredulity. “Johnny, this—” you gesture between the two of you, your hand trembling, “—this was never about me. It was about convenience. A convenient warm body on the weekends, someone to text when you were bored. But you don’t know me, not really. And that’s not enough for me. Not anymore.”

He takes a step closer, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “That’s bullshit. You knew what this was, and now you’re acting like I’m some kind of villain for it?”

“No, you’re not a villain,” you say, your voice softening for a brief moment before hardening again. “But you’re not what I need, either. I want stability. Someone who knows me beyond the bedroom, who loves me for more than just... this.” You motion vaguely toward yourself, your voice faltering. “And that’s not you.”

“Why not?” he asks, his voice rising again. “You want stability? Fine. I’ll give you that. Whatever you need, I’ll give it to you. Be my girlfriend.”

You shake your head, your eyes glistening now. “It’s not that simple. You don’t know anything about me beyond what you’ve made up in your head. I can’t live like this—weekend after weekend, never knowing where you stand, what you’re thinking, or even what you do for a living half the time.”

“And whose fault is that?” he shoots back. “You’ve been keeping me at arm’s length since the start. What the hell am I supposed to think?”

He scoffs, his pride prickling. “You’re one to talk. I don’t even know what you do. You flit about in your fancy clothes, disappearing whenever it suits you, acting like a bloody princess or—”

“Or what?” you cut in, your eyes narrowing.

He hesitates, but his temper gets the better of him. “Or like some high-end escort.”

Your lips curl into a wicked smirk, though your heart clenches at the insult. “You really think I’m a princess and an escort? Sounds like I’m doing pretty well for myself, then.”

“Don’t start,” he warns, his tone low and tight.

“Why not?” you shoot back, tilting your head defiantly. “Does it bother you, Johnny? That I might have standards? That I like nice things? God forbid a woman treats herself without a man assuming the worst.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Oh, save it,” you interrupt, holding up a hand. “I know what you think of me, and I’ve let you think it because it doesn’t matter. But now you’re using it against me? Classy, Johnny. Really classy.”

“Think whatever you want,” you say, your voice hardening again. “It doesn’t matter. I’m done, Johnny.”

Johnny’s jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing. “So that’s what this is about? You’ve got some other bloke lined up, some stable life you think’s gonna make you happy?”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral, already tired of this. “It’s not about someone else. It’s about me. I won’t be your convenient distraction forever, Johnny. I can’t.”

His laugh is harsh, bitter. “Aye, sure. You’re so bloody noble, aren’t you? Princess, or whatever you are. Or maybe you’re just a high-end escort who thinks she’s too good for me now, huh?” His words are cutting, his tone venomous. “Who the hell’s gonna love a materialistic, spoiled brat like you? Or a—” he bit back the rest of the sentence, but the damage was already done.

Your chest constricts at his words, the sting of them worse than you had expected. You inhale sharply, trying to hold back tears as you force yourself to look at him. “Thank you,” you say quietly, your voice trembling but steady enough to convey the weight of your decision. “Thank you for helping me solidify my decision, Johnny.”

You grab your purse, pausing only for a moment before shaking your head. “And don’t worry,” you add, your tone soft but firm. “I won’t come crying to you. I’ll be happy somewhere with someone who’ll actually love me.”

Your words hit him like a punch to the gut, but you don’t wait for his response. You turn on your heel, walking out of his flat with your head held high, even as your heart feels like it’s shattering with every step.

Johnny stands there in stunned silence, the tension in the air suffocating. The door clicks shut behind you, leaving him alone in the quiet chaos of his living room. For the first time, he feels the true weight of your absence, and it burns in a way he can’t ignore.

----------

Johnny’s Obsession

Johnny had never felt so restless in his life. He’d called you first, dozens of times, but all he got was the droning, detached tone of your voicemail. He messaged you after that, small apologies mixed with clumsy, rambling texts about how you should talk things through. But all you did was leave him on read. No replies. No acknowledgment. Just silence.

Then one day, when he tried calling you again, the line didn’t even ring. Instead, he was met with a sharp, cold message: The number you have dialed has been blocked or is no longer in service.

“Blocked?” Johnny muttered, staring at his phone in disbelief. His blood boiled, and his chest ached.

Fine. If you didn’t want to talk, he’d find you another way.

----------

Johnny Tracks You

Using what little intel he had, Johnny began digging. He didn’t need much—a phone number, a sliver of information, and the skills drilled into him from his time in the SAS were enough to get him started. But the deeper he went, the more roadblocks he hit. Your number led him nowhere—it was registered under a nondescript corporate account with no personal ties. No home address. No employment history.

It didn’t make sense.

“Who the hell are you?” he muttered, staring at the screen. His instincts buzzed, a gut feeling that there was more to you than you let on.

Before he could dig deeper, his team was called up for deployment. A quick, high-priority mission that demanded all his focus. But even in the thick of the action, during quiet moments between the chaos, his thoughts drifted back to you. To the way you smirked at him. The way you felt in his arms. The way you walked out of his life.

When Johnny finally returned, worn but eager to resume his search, he tried everything—new tactics, calling in favors—but came up empty again. It was as if your entire life had been scrubbed clean.

And that only made him more suspicious.

----------

The Briefing Begins

Roach’s palms were sweaty as he glanced around the room, double-checking every detail of the briefing materials. He straightened the projector slide one last time before glancing nervously at the glass window of the door.

“Relax, mate,” one of his teammates chuckled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

If only, Roach thought bitterly. He wasn’t worried about a ghost—he was worried about Johnny.

The undercover agent, the one briefing the team today, was none other than Johnny’s “birdie.” Or, ex-birdie, technically. Roach had heard all about your situationship—the whirlwind sex, the late-night phone calls, and then the crash-and-burn breakup. Johnny had been moody ever since, which was saying something for the usually upbeat captain.

Now you were here, standing at the front of the room in a smart casual suit that hugged your figure in all the right places. You exuded confidence, your sharp eyes scanning the room as you prepared to deliver your findings. Roach could barely look at you without cringing.

“Let’s just get through this without any incidents,” Roach muttered under his breath.

It didn’t help that their Lieutenant Colonel, Ghost, had mentioned General MacMillan was visiting today. The brass was here, watching their every move, which meant the team had to be on their best behavior. And if Johnny showed up and saw you? Roach didn’t even want to imagine the chaos that would ensue.

----------

Tension in the Room

The briefing began without a hitch, much to Roach’s relief. Johnny was nowhere to be seen, and you were professional, concise, and sharp as ever. Still, Roach couldn’t help sneaking glances at the door every few minutes, half-expecting Johnny to burst in.

But the door stayed shut.

After the briefing, Roach offered to walk you to your car, hoping to usher you out before Johnny caught wind of your presence. You smiled, grateful for the gesture, and began packing up your things.

That’s when the door creaked open.

Roach froze, his stomach sinking as Johnny leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed and his blue eyes locked on you like a hawk spotting prey. He wore his casual gear, a simple black t-shirt clinging to his chest, his dog tags glinting faintly under the harsh lighting.

“Well, well,” Johnny drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What’ve we got here, Roach? Thought I wasn’t needed for this one.”

Your hands froze mid-motion, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. Slowly, you turned to face him, your expression a mix of shock and wariness.

“Johnny?,” you said, your voice steady despite the tension crackling in the room.

“Birdie,” Johnny shot back, the nickname a loaded reminder of what you once had.

Roach gulped, glancing between the two of you like a trapped animal. “Uh, I was just—”

“Leavin’,” Johnny cut in, his gaze never leaving yours.

Roach hesitated, but the intensity in Johnny’s eyes made it clear that sticking around wasn’t an option. With a sheepish nod, he mumbled something about catching up later and bolted for the door.

Now it was just the two of you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Johnny said, his tone casual, but his eyes betrayed him. There was a storm brewing behind them, a mix of hurt, anger, and something deeper he wasn’t ready to name.

“I could say the same,” you replied, squaring your shoulders. You refused to let him intimidate you, even as your heart pounded in your chest.

Johnny stepped closer, the space between you shrinking. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you? Blocking me. Wiping your tracks clean. You’re real good at disappearing, I’ll give you that.”

Your jaw tightened, but you kept your voice calm. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” he challenged, his voice dropping lower, almost a growl. “You think you can just walk out of my life and act like none of it mattered? Like I don’t matter?”

“It’s not about that,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “This is my job, Johnny. My life. And you don’t get to interfere with it.”

“Your job,” he repeated bitterly. “And what job is that exactly? Playing dress-up? Whispering secrets to the lads? Or are you still trying to convince me you’re just some posh bird who likes slumming it with soldiers?”

Your eyes flashed with anger, but you bit back your retort, unwilling to let him bait you.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” you said quietly, brushing past him toward the door.

But before you could leave, his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist—not forcefully, but enough to stop you in your tracks. The air between you was electric, charged with unspoken words and unresolved emotions.

“You think you can just walk away from this?” he asked, his voice rough with emotion.

You looked up at him, your gaze steady despite the tears threatening to form. “I already did.”

The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife as Johnny’s hand tightened on your wrist, pulling you back just enough to stop you from leaving. You froze, your lips pressed into a thin line as you turned to face him again.

“Johnny,” you warned, your voice low.

But he didn’t back down. His blue eyes were blazing, frustration and hurt pouring out of him in waves. “You’re not just walking out of here. Not like this.”

“Oh, like you get a say in it now?” you shot back, your tone sharp. You tried to pull your wrist free, but he held firm—not hurting you, just making it clear he wasn’t letting go.

“You didn’t even tell me, did you?” Johnny said, his voice rising slightly. “What you do. What you really are.”

Your jaw clenched, and you rolled your eyes, letting out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, now you care? It didn’t matter before, did it? Whether I was some spoiled brat, a high-end escort, or just your convenient shag. You never took me seriously anyway.”

“That’s not true,” he snapped, his Scottish accent thick with emotion. “Don’t twist this, Birdie. It does matter—because it’s you.”

You laughed again, bitter and humorless, and reached for your bag. “Well, congratulations, Johnny. Now you know I’m not some high-end prostitute. Feel better about yourself? Good. Now I have to go.”

But before you could take a step, Johnny grabbed your other arm, holding you in place. “You’re not walking out on me again!”

“Oi, mate—don’t!” Roach’s voice broke through the tension as he stepped forward, hands raised cautiously. “She’s a bloody agent, Johnny. You can’t just grab her like that.”

Johnny shot him a glare that could have turned stone to dust. “Stay out of it, Roach.”

Roach hesitated, his eyes darting between the two of you and the door. His heart was racing. If anyone else—especially Ghost or General MacMillan—walked in now, you were all screwed.

“I’m just saying, maybe don’t manhandle the lady in front of the brass!” Roach pleaded.

You looked between Johnny and Roach, your expression one of equal parts disbelief and fury. “Let me go, Johnny,” you said firmly, your voice quieter but no less intense.

He didn’t let go. “Not until we sort this.”

“Sort what?” you hissed, your voice rising now. “There’s nothing to sort, Johnny. I told you what I wanted. Stability. A partner. Someone who could love me for who I am—not just what I can give them. And you—you made it bloody clear that you weren’t that man!”

Johnny’s face twisted, his grip loosening just slightly. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, it’s not fair?” you spat, your eyes flashing with anger. “You called me a materialistic brat! A spoiled princess! You assumed the worst of me at every turn. And now, what? Now it’s not fair because you’re realizing you might have been wrong? Too little, too late, Johnny!”

His voice dropped, quieter but no less intense. “You don’t get it. It’s you. None of that other crap matters—it’s just you.”

You stared at him, your chest heaving, your own emotions threatening to spill over. For a moment, it looked like you might say something, but then you shook your head, pulling your arms free.

“No,” you said, your voice trembling but steady. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to chase me now that I’m gone. You had your chance, Johnny. And you blew it.”

You turned to leave, but Johnny’s voice stopped you in your tracks.

“You think I don’t care?” he called after you. “You think I don’t bloody care about you? You’re in my head, Birdie. Every damn day. Every damn night. You’ve been there since the moment I met you, and you’re still there now, even when I try to bloody forget you.”

You froze, your back still to him, your fingers clutching the strap of your bag tightly.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” Johnny admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “With you. With how I feel. But don’t you dare tell me I don’t care.”

For a moment, the room was completely silent. Even the lads watching from a distance—wide-eyed and barely breathing—didn’t dare move. Roach was sweating bullets, praying to every deity he could think of that Ghost and General MacMillan wouldn’t come around the corner.

Finally, you turned to face him, your expression unreadable. “You need to figure out what you want, Johnny,” you said softly. “But don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself.”

And with that, you walked past him, your heels clicking against the floor, leaving Johnny standing there, staring after you like a man who’d just lost the only thing that mattered.

You barely made it two steps before Johnny grabbed your arm again, this time more firmly, spinning you back toward him. His grip wasn’t rough, but it was resolute, his determination blazing in those blue eyes of his.

“No, you’re not walking away from me again,” he said, his voice low but sharp with emotion. “We’re not done.”

Your chest heaved as you stared at him, your lips parting in shock and frustration. “Johnny, let go of me,” you said, your tone icy.

“Not until we talk about this,” he shot back, his accent thick with frustration. “You don’t get to just walk out and decide what this is without giving me a bloody say!”

“This?” You laughed bitterly, throwing your free hand toward him in a dramatic gesture. “You didn’t care about ‘this’ when you were calling me names! When you assumed the worst of me, when you made me feel like I was nothing more than a warm body to keep your bed warm!”

“I never thought that!” he snapped, stepping closer, his grip still firm on your arm. “And I never said you were nothin’, Birdie. I never meant—”

“Oh, don’t you dare backtrack now!” you interrupted, your voice rising. “You made it clear what you thought of me. Some spoiled princess, some materialistic brat, some… high-end escort, as you so eloquently put it!” Your words dripped with venom, and Johnny winced as if each one was a physical blow.

“I was angry!” he said, his voice louder now. “I said shite I didn’t mean, alright? But you—” He stopped, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “You drive me mad! You make me feel things I can’t bloody make sense of, and I don’t know how to handle it!”

You yanked your arm free, glaring at him, your chest rising and falling as your emotions boiled over. “So you insult me instead? You reduce me to a caricature of everything I’m not because you can’t figure out your own damn feelings?”

His hands balled into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening. “Because I didn’t think you’d bloody stay!”

That stopped you. You blinked, your brows furrowing as his words hung in the air between you.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw the vulnerability in his eyes, the cracks in his armor that he was finally letting you see.

“But you stayed,” he continued, his voice almost a whisper. “And I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know how to keep you, so I unknowingly pushed you away.”

Your throat tightened, and you had to fight back the sting of tears. “Johnny…”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry for every bloody thing I said, for every way I hurt you. But don’t walk away from me now. Don’t leave me like this, Birdie. Please.”

For a moment, you faltered. The sincerity in his voice, the raw emotion in his eyes—it was everything you’d wanted from him, everything you’d begged for silently in your head.

But before you could respond, there was a loud ahem behind you.

Both of you froze, slowly turning your heads toward the sound. Standing just a few feet away, with arms crossed and brows raised, was Ghost. Beside him stood General MacMillan, looking equally bewildered. And flanking them? Ghost’s two teenage daughters, Tommy and Bubby.

The room fell utterly silent except for the muffled sound of someone snickering in the background.

Roach, standing off to the side, looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. His face was pale, beads of sweat forming on his temple as he glanced nervously between Ghost and the arguing pair.

“Oh no,” Roach mumbled under his breath.

Ghost cleared his throat again, slower this time. “I think,” he said, his tone clipped but calm, “you two need to get a room.”

A/N: Well, folks, it seems Johnny and his Birdie (You, Y/N) turned their lives into Soap’s very own 'soap opera' (PUN INTENDED!!)—and they performed it live for the brass, Ghost’s teenage daughters (one of whom now has the receipts), and a very flustered Roach, who looked like he might just melt into a puddle of secondhand embarrassment. General MacMillan? He was just trying to enjoy the drama without choking on the tension.

Stay tuned for Part 3, where we’ll see if Johnny can salvage his soap opera debut… or if Ghost locks him in a cupboard to rethink all his life choices. 👀

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amaryllis-3 · 5 hours ago

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unhinged fem reader × unhinged task force 141

WARNINGS: MDNI, dark themes, stalker! reader

"Don't you have the feeling of being watched?"

It was a hunch, nothing more, but after all those years of having to keep his guard up, Kyle was painfully aware of his surroundings. Even with his back to them, the man could perceive someone's intense gaze piercing him, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing up slightly. For a moment he almost felt in danger, as if a predator was about to pounce on him and tear him to shreds, before he forced himself to rationalise the situation.

He was in a pub, at home, not in some war theatre putting his life at risk for international security. Most of those present were so drunk they were struggling to stand; they could hardly have posed a threat. Besides, with the military background he and his teammates, who were sitting in the booth around him, had, the most dangerous ones there would have been them.

Perhaps it was the duty's mindset talking: his body might have been in Britain, but his mind was still stuck in some scorching desert of the Middle East. After the long deployment that had kept him busy over the last few months, getting back into his everyday routine had proved difficult. Having a pint with his best mates should have been the right opportunity for that, and he didn't need to ruin it with his paranoia.

He almost regretted bringing it up, noticing how relaxed his comrades were. Had anything really been out of the ordinary, they would have noticed it too.

Yes, it had merely been a poor trick of his consciousness, nothing serious. He could have ignored the unsettling sensation that had begun to simmer under his skin; it was just for a night at the end.

Notwithstanding his good intentions, Gaz's eyes ended up moving subtly around the room, his body remaining motionless as they scanned every nook and cranny they had access to for explanations.

There didn't seem to be anything relevant to report.

Kyle almost breathed a sigh of relief, once, to his extreme horror, he identified the source of his discomfort. His heart slowed its pace for a fraction of a second before resuming beating at double speed.

You had the most bloody chilling stare he'd encountered in a long time, and that was already saying a lot. It appeared capable of delving into his soul, but not in the pleasant, clichéd way one would have found exclusively in a romance novel.

No, yours was ruthless.

It clung tooth and nail to the walls of his being without regard for what his reaction may have been. It was greedy and insistent, driven by an insatiable hunger that nearly bordered on desperation; the kind of expression that should have belonged to a raving lunatic, not someone like you.

Despite having been caught red-handed, you hadn't even bothered to look away. You'd met him head-on, as if you wanted to make your presence known to him, wanted him to realise that from the moment he'd set foot in that place, your full attention had been uniquely on him. Hell, he wasn't even sure he'd seen you blink since he'd initiated eye contact.

There was something extremely wrong with you, something that he wouldn't usually prefer to meddle with outside of work, but which simultaneously drew him like a moth to the flame. You were simply captivating, in a psychotic way, but equally so.

"That's the bird." Gaz's head turned quickly towards Ghost, who hadn't dwelled to articulate more. As though that was a well-known notion. The comment was followed by Johnny's big laugh and a grunt of approval from Price, knowing glances exchanged between the three able to convey more than a thousand words.

Was he the sole one in the dark about the whole affair?

Kyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Your existence was still a steady constant in his brain from which it was practically impossible to escape, but he was stubborn about discovering the truth. His eyes moved around his companions, trying to interpret the mystery you were. He wanted to be part of it, wanted to have access to what could only be a dirty little secret he'd been excluded from for no apparent reason.

"The bird?" He asked in a hushed whisper that had a reverential tinge to it. His focus was locked on the man who had dangled the forbidden fruit in front of him just to deny it right when he was about to grab it. His lieutenant was a mask of austere silence, the balaclava he wore making it difficult to comprehend what Simon Riley was thinking. Gaz, however, swore he saw the corners of his lips lifting barely from beneath the fabric, brown irises flashing with a mirth he didn't believe he'd ever witnessed on him.

The answer, however, didn't come from him, but rather from the Scot, who was far too excited to share the news with him. "The bonnie thing has been stalkin' us for a while noo." The casualness in his tone would normally have made Kyle frown, but with you involved, he didn't feel like opening his mouth. Ah, pretending nothing was going on when a stranger was actually hounding his mates purely because you had made the butterflies in his stomach flutter in a manner he couldn't define? What on earth was happening to him? To them?

"And she's quite dedicated," Ghost added, "she sneaked into Price's house the other day." At that the captain let out a small chuckle, lips stretched into an affectionate smile, which clashed considerably with the talk the group was having. "She surely did. (Gaz didn't mean to be mistaken but was that a hint of admiration seeping out of his superior's words?) Was naive to assume I wouldn't notice, though."

How strange life was. If anything like that had happened a few days earlier — no scratch that! if that had happened merely a few hours earlier, he would have taken them for crazy. Yet now... Now he was somewhat envious that you hadn't attempted to break into his residence.

"Seems she's startin' to fancy Garrick as well, innit ?". Only then did Kyle notice how none of the three were really looking at him. Their faces might have been facing in his direction, but their equally intense eyes were passing through him, trying to catch a glimpse of what was behind, trying to catch a glimpse of you. "Och, ye bet. Ah could ken that wild stare anywhere," Johnny confirmed, hardly suppressing the excitement he was experiencing.

As if drawn by theirs, Gaz's gaze returned to you, finding you in the same position he'd left you. No noticeable changes were present, but now that all four of them were acknowledging your presence, he was pretty certain he saw your pupils dilate. His rational side would have considered it simply a play of the lights; after all, his eyesight wasn't sharp enough to pick up those small details from his position. And nonetheless he sensed that this was the case, that you thrived a little more under their attention.

He had to see it, witness for himself how that strange dynamic between the five of you would evolve. He was sure you would disrupt their lives, but they would absolutely return the favour.

"So you'll be on board too, sergeant?" Kyle didn't even need to ponder much the instant the proposal left John's mouth, mind and soul already strangely in agreement about his next course of action. "Yeah, I think I will, Cap."

Just a silly thought I've had lately instead of behaving like a productive human being. May add more in the future.

➮ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

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sprout-fics · 2 months ago

Text

Soap being bitten by a weird looking attack dog on mission and does the usual rabies shots treatment/whatever. All his tests came back fine so he's not really worried about it.

It's just that....

Was he always this hairy? Like yeah sure he's never been sleek exactly, always had a dense bit of hair across his arms, legs, and torso. But recently it feels thicker, coarser.

Did you start wearing a new perfume? Weird he didn't notice until now. It smells amazing on you, he can't help but bury his face in your neck given any chance to do so, nibbles at your neck as you giggle and swat at him.

Everything's louder now. He mentions to Price that he can hear conversations from three offices over, and Price just shrugs and asks why he's complaining- his hearing has been damaged by so many close proximity explosions. Maybe it's just healed on its own somehow.

He keeps having to trim his nails for some reason, and doesn't miss Ghost's weird, observant stare as he sits next to the trash bin for the third time that week trimming his toenails. "Giving yerself a pedicure, Johnny?"

He's so hungry all the time. Gaz jokes he's going through a growth spurt the way he devours his meals, piles on the protein and craves red meat. Soap tells himself he was planning on going on a high-protein diet anyways so he can bulk out a little, so it's not really an issue.

You complain about the love bites he gives you, how he's biting harder than he should, and Soap swears up and down he isn't. The welts on your neck and shoulders tell a different story though, and when you frown at him Soap whines, wanting to tuck a tail he doesn't have under him in apology.

It's weird, but it's mostly explainable.

That is, until the next full moon, when you wake in the darkness of your bedroom to the low, dangerous growl of something wild and feral as he slowly creeps up your body and lets instinct take root.

#soap x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader #soap x you #johnny soap mactavish x reader #idk what this is #just take it #werewolf au

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beloveds-embrace · 14 hours ago

Note

The potential for Yandere Dukedom au has me rattling the bars of my enclosure! Begging on my hands and knees for it!!?

I gotchu anon 🫡 dukedom au masterlist (hasn’t been fully updated yet)

You had always been told that marriage was a duty, not a dream. Love is for poets and fools, your mother had said. You’d grown up knowing that your life was a delicate dance on high society’s tightrope, and failure would mean a fall that could ruin your family’s name forever. And if the failure itself was not your end, you family's response would be.

So, when the proposal came from Duke John Price- an older, respectable man with no scandal to his name- you accepted it with quiet resignation. A Duchess, at least, would hold some measure of authority, and John Price was no cruel man. It certainly quietened your parents' frantic mumbling of why no one was asking for your hand, stopped them from accusing you of doing anything inappropriate under their noses.

You expected a lonely life, but hopefully a painless one.

What you didn’t expect was the warmth.

The household welcomed you as if you were a long-lost treasure. The head butler, Kyle, was a marvel, guiding you through your new responsibilities with patience and quiet charm. The estate’s chef, Johnny, fed you meals so exquisite you sometimes wondered if you’d been starved your whole life. And the Duke’s closest friend, Simon, treated you with a quiet protectiveness that was as comforting as it was unnerving.

John himself was kind, though reserved. He assured you on your wedding night that there was no rush for an heir, blue eyes soft yet unreadable. You’d been grateful for his restraint, retreating to the safety of your role as Duchess while leaving love to the poets and fools just as your mother had said.

But the warmth never waned.

Kyle’s attentiveness went beyond what was required of a butler, beyond even that of a friend though you'd never admit that to yourself. He always seemed to know when you needed a shawl before you felt the chill, when you needed a quiet walk in the garden instead of a crowded ballroom, his arm looped with yours pressing you almost fully against the warmth of his body. Dark eyes followed you with something almost reverent, though you dismissed it as your mind straying from you.

Johnny’s meals grew more tailored to your tastes with each passing day. He’d tease you as he presented your plate, a boyish grin on his face as he watched you savor every bite. “You're too good for this kitchen, lass.” He’d joke, though his tone carried an edge of sincerity that made your cheeks warm. "Though I would nae want you anywhere else."

Simon was the hardest to read. He rarely spoke to you, but his presence was a constant shadow. He would escort you to galas when John could not join, his broad frame a silent barrier between you and prying eyes, and he'd be your sole dance partner throughout the night. His gaze lingered a little too long when you danced with your husband, too, though you never noticed how it darkened when anyone else dared to approach you.

And then there was John.

The Duke had a way of watching you that made your skin tingle. At first, you thought it was scrutiny, a husband assessing his new wife. But as the months passed, his gaze softened. He began joining you for tea in the afternoons, his deep voice rumbling as he asked about your day. His hand would brush against yours as he handed you a cup, lingering just a moment too long, and only pulling away when he'd notice you flustering.

Eventually, you grew accustomed to the quiet intensity of your household, never once suspecting the storm that brewed beneath the surface like a raging beast.

It wasn’t until a year into your marriage that the cracks began to fully show.

It started with a simple comment at another gala. Lady Fitzgerald, a sharp-tongued widow with too much time on her hands, had leaned in close, whispered, and tsked. “Still no heir, my dear? One wonders if the Duke regrets his choice.”

You had smiled politely, excusing yourself before the tears could spill- because she was not the first, nor will be the last, and she despised your mother and you knew she would hear of this, as well. But the moment you returned to John’s side, he knew. His hand tightened around yours, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on Lady Fitzgerald tittering with some other ladies. He hadn't said much, but he kept you close to his side after that and you had no protests.

The next morning, you learned that Lady Fitzgerald had decided to leave town for an indefinite period- her son was found dead early in the morning, and by the time he was found by his wife, the rainy weather had washed away all traces that could be used to identify the murderer.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Kyle had remarked, though his tone suggested it was anything but. You hadn't noticed at that time, and then forgot about when Johnny and Kyle worked so hard to remove that furrow in your brows until you were smiling once more. And you did not ask Simon where he was taking the newspaper when he asked for it, nor did you wonder why John held the air of a particularly satisfied cat.

From then on, the protectiveness of your household grew more palpable. Kyle began shadowing you more closely, always within arm’s reach. Johnny’s playful teasing took on an edge, his jokes about locking you in the kitchen too pointed to be entirely humorous. Simon’s presence became impossibly more imposing, his silent stares daring anyone to look at you the wrong way.

And John… John grew possessive, and you noticed all of it.

He began escorting you to every event, his arm a constant weight around your waist. He dismissed servants who so much as looked at you the wrong way, their replacements carefully vetted. His touch grew bolder, his kisses lingering on your forehead, your hand, your neck.

You didn’t notice how often he murmured, “My Duchess.” as if to remind you- and everyone else- of who you belonged to.

One evening, as you sat by the fire with John, the warmth of the room making you drowsy, he spoke.

“Do you love me, wife?”

The question startled you, your eyes snapping open to meet his. His expression was unreadable, blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your heart race within your chest like a hummingbird.

“I… Of course, John. You’re my husband.”

He hummed, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “That’s not what I asked.”

You hesitated, unsure of what he wanted to hear. “I… I care for you deeply.”

His grip tightened, just enough to make you notice. “That’s not enough, my Duchess."

Before you could respond, the door opened, and Kyle entered with a tray of tea. He set it down with practiced ease, eyes flicking to you before settling on John.

“Will there be anything else?”

John’s gaze didn’t leave yours. “Yes. Stay.”

Kyle’s brow lifted slightly, but he obeyed, taking a seat across from you. The tension in the room was suffocating, though neither man seemed bothered, and you couldn't yet bring yourself to speak or pull your hand away.

It was Johnny who entered next, his usual grin replaced by something far more subdued. He took his place by the fire, his eyes darting between you and John, and something satisfied flickered in his gaze.

Finally, Simon appeared, towering frame filling the doorway. He said nothing as he entered, yet his presence was a silent command. You've been here long enough to know that there is something between all of them, but you hadn't dared bring it up in fear of breaking what could be a very fragile... thing.

You looked at each of them in turn, your confusion mounting. “What’s going on?”

John leaned closer, his lips brushing against the back of your hand. “We’ve been patient, my Duchess. But I think it’s time you understood.”

“Understood what?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Johnny’s grin returned, sharp and wolfish. “That you are ours, lass. Always have been.”

Kyle nodded, softening. “We’ve loved you long before you even knew our names.”

Simon’s hand rested on your shoulder- when did he get so close?- and his touch was gentle. “And we’ll make sure you never forget it.”

John’s other hand cupped your cheek, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You’re not just my wife, darling. You’re ours. And we’ll do whatever it takes to keep you that way.”

The fire crackled in the silence that followed, its warmth nothing compared to the way they peered at you, and the firelight cast flickering shadows across the room, wrapping the four men in a golden glow that only heightened the weight of their presence. You swallowed thickly, your gaze darting between them, searching for some explanation, some reassurance, that this was all a misunderstanding. But deep down, the way their words wrapped around you like ropes and chains, the fierce devotion in their eyes that you'd seen only in the most devoted of the churches, sparked something you weren’t ready to name.

“I-I don’t understand,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. “What do you mean, you’ve always loved me? We… we only met after the marriage proposal…”

Johnny let out a low chuckle, his accent thick and his grin sharp enough to cut. “Oh, lass, you really think that? That our John just happened upon you like some fairytale?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. A little closer, and he would be able to kneel in front of you. “We’ve been watchin’ you for years.”

“For years?” The room spun for a moment, and you grasped the armrest of your chair. “What do you mean? Why would you- ”

Kyle leaned forward, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you shiver. “Because you’ve always been ours, my lady. From the first moment we saw you. We knew it then, and John sealed it the day he put that ring on your finger.”

Simon’s gloved hand slid from your shoulder to the curve of your neck, his fingers resting lightly against your pulse. “We’ve waited. Played the roles. Watched you be the perfect Duchess for us.”

“Perfect,” Johnny echoed, his grin softening into something dangerously tender. “You were made for us, darling. Couldn't let anyone else have you, our treasure."

John’s grip on your hand was firm, grounding, as if daring you to pull away. “You think I proposed out of convenience, don’t you? Because society demanded it?”

You nodded slowly, words failing you under the weight of their gazes.

His chuckle was low, humorless. “Convenience had nothing to do with it. You were chosen. Handpicked to stand by my side- and by theirs. Did you truly think so little of yourself, that you never wondered why no one was asking for your hand, dearest?"

“I… I never…” Your words faltered as the pieces began to fit together. The strange familiarity in Kyle’s guidance when you first arrived, so easily fitting into the way you worked. Johnny’s uncanny ability to prepare your favorite dishes, even those you hadn’t mentioned. Simon’s quiet, watchful presence that always seemed to know where you were. John’s unyielding devotion to your well-being, even when it bordered on overbearing.

“You’ve all been… orchestrating this?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Why?”

Kyle’s hand rested on your knee, the warmth of his touch seeping through your gown. “Because you’re ours to protect. To love. To cherish. No one else can give you what we can.”

Johnny’s grin widened, though his eyes were soft. “And no one else will, lass. We’ll see to that.”

“Forever.” Simon rumbled, his voice like a promise carved into stone.

John leaned closer, his forehead brushing against yours as his fingers slid under your chin to tilt your face up to his. “You’re not going anywhere, love. You belong to us. And we belong to you.”

The fire crackled again, the sound startling in the heavy silence that followed. Your heart pounded, a mix of fear, confusion, and… something else.

You should have been alarmed- should have pushed them away, demanded they explain themselves further. But you couldn’t deny the truth buried beneath their words. They had woven themselves into your life, wrapped you in their devotion, and with every gesture, every sacrifice, they had proven they would do anything for you. For the first time in your life, you felt truly seen, cared for, and adored. It was overwhelming, suffocating… but not unwelcome.

A shaky breath escaped your lips as you met John’s gaze, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. “You’ve all done so much for me,” you whispered. “You’ve given me more than I ever thought I deserved.”

Kyle’s hand tightened on your knee, his expression softening with something like relief. “Because you deserve the world, my lady.”

Johnny leaned closer, his grin tempered with warmth. “And we’ll give it to you, every last piece of it.”

Simon’s hand on your neck steadied you, his touch grounding in its quiet strength. “You don’t need to fight us. We’ll always take care of you.”

John’s lips brushed against your forehead, his voice low and certain. “We’ll never let you feel unloved again. You’re ours, darling. And you always will be. Don't fight against this, please."

The room seemed to exhale with you, the tension melting into something else entirely. They weren’t letting go- and, if you were honest with yourself...

You didn’t want them to.

(And even if you wanted them to, they would have not. Never, ever.)

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luminni · 10 days ago

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This is some shit Johnny would say, it just is I'm sorry.

Johnny hates your new boyfriend. It burns in his loins every time you come over and complain about something stupid the git said. So often that now when you take a particularly large sigh, he's immediately asking "fuckin' 'ell, what he do this time eh?"

It hurts even more when you gush about something "good" your boyfriend did, even when it's just the bare minimum. Yeah he open the door for you on a date? Did you know that Johnny would have lifted up the globe had you asked him? Do you have any idea the things he would do if you so much as asked? No you didn't, because he was fairly certain you only saw him as your good friend, as you had been for years.

And Jesus did it infuriate him when you "laughed" your boyfriend's pitiful excuses for a joke. It wasn't your real laughter, it was a kind of controlled giggle. Johnny knew a couple words from him could have you full on belly laughing, gripping onto the nearest surface (usually his arm) to steady yourself. The worst part of it was, the sorry excuse of a man that had wormed his way into your life looked so proud of himself when you gave that fake laugh. Johnny wanted to wipe that grin off his face so bad. But he behaved himself, for you...most of the time, but this is Johnny we're talking about, he's nothing if not petty.

He pretends to like your sorry excuse of a boyfriend in front of you so that you invite him on your dates because you hope they can be friends. Johnny just wants to ruin things

When you make food, Johnny is there. Reminding your boyfriend he would never be the first person to try your recipes.

"Added some pepper since las' time aye lass?"

He then proceeds to taste test form the same spoon as you, side eyeing your "man".

And when you do serve the food, he eats 10x more than he usually does which is saying a lot for him. Just has to mention how many calories he's been burning at the gym lately. Does your boyfriend work out? Oh he doesn't? Hm, interesting.

Also the king of flirty jokes but turns it to 100 when he's around your new boyfriend.

"Jesus, you eat like a horse"

"Aye 's not the only thing about me thas' like a horse"

All said with that shit eating grin he knows pisses your boyfriend off.

Johnny knows this "relationship" (he refuses to believe you actually like the tadger) isn't going to last long anyway. He's the only person who could ever make you truly happy. The only person you'd wait for at the airport every time he got back from deployment. The only person you'd text out of no where at 3am to tell him you were hungry. He just had to help you see it was all and scare off your pathetic partner. If he couldn't manage it, he knew a couple big scary guys that could follow him home at night.

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metallictastinglifesupportliquid · 1 month ago

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Ghost, calling Y/N: Hey, sweetheart Y/N: Jail or hospital? Soap: How could you make such accusations when we are merely trying to greet the love of our life?! Y/N: Jail or hospital? Ghost: Do you really have such little faith in us? Y/N: Jail. Or. Hospital Soap: ...jail. AND WE LOVE YOU! Y/N: *hangs up*

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waves-against-a-cliff · 3 months ago

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Soap putting you in a headlock when fucking you into the mattress, his chest against your back as his hips snap against the fat of your ass. You're clawing against his forearm which only makes him chuckle and comment about how feisty you are while he hits so deep inside you that you damn near scream.

Biting down hard enough to leave indents on his bicep and not letting go until he uses his other hand to wrench your head away by your hair with a snarl. Snapping your jaw at him while he stares down with feral blue eyes, "Ye wannae play rough?"

#captain soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #soap mw2 #john mactavish imagine #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #soap x you #john mactavish x reader #cod mw #mw2 soap #mw2 smut #cod smut

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nighttimealone · 4 months ago

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Cw: Nsfw (Humping, Simon and Johnny. please see reblog for Kyle, Price and König)

Simon loves dry humping, you lie on the bed, eyes droopy as you let his pin your thighs against your breast, your panties and his boxers still on as he grinds his bulge slowly against your clothed core. You both don’t say a word, looking into each other’s eyes with affection and increasing desires, only soft moans and occasional grunts ringing in the air. He won’t stop—nor that you want to—until your panties is all soaked, fabric darkened by your juices and stick to your pussy, showing the outline of your mounds and perked clit, and you’re whining pleadingly whenever he pokes his red tip against your entrance, let the wet fabric gets pushed in a bit before he pulls back, taps his hard cock on your clit and huff out a laughter. “All whiny and moaning now. Need this cock so bad, princess?”

Johnny’s always a bit kinky, so you’re not even surprised when he starts grinding his leaking dick against your foot like a horny dog. You’re on a call with your friend, and he was sitting beside you and scrolling his phone normally minutes ago. God knows what did he see that got him humping your foot right now. You’re wearing socks because it’s a bit cold, but it’s now stain with his precums because he shamelessly fished his cock out so it would feel better without barrier. You fake a cough when he groans out loudly, not caring if your friend will hear him through the phone.

“Johnny, what the hell?” Excusing yourself and mute the mic, looking down at him rolling his hips and meet your eyes “Need that pussy of yers now, please, lassie…” His voice low but begging you like a lost puppy, and you can feel arousal pooling in your panties too. Well, guess you don’t have any choice other than apologizing to your friend and hang up the phone, letting Johnny fuck you brainless and walk wobbly tomorrow.

#ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley smut #john soap mctavish x you #john soap mctavish x reader #soap x you #soap x reader #cod x reader #cod x you #female reader

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writersdrug · 4 months ago

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Someone sent an anonymous ask about Soap being all whiny and jealous, complaining to Simon about how lucky he is to have such a pretty, curvy girl and Tumblr swallowed it 😫 (This is gonna be a 2 parter)

Warnings: nsfw, threesome, sub soap and reader, dom ghost, training, voyeurism

But I can imagine Ghost would be so sick and tired of it. Johnny's constantly yapping like the mutt he truly is: "Yer a lucky man, LT. Findin' a pretty bird like that." "Where'd ye get her? Need to find one for myself." "She as soft as she sounds?"

Ghost wants to snap at him for talking about you like that - he shouldn't be talking about you at all. But he knows the poor man is just lonely, aching to have something soft and supple like you. Your smiling face smushed between Ghost's fingers when you come to drop off the lunch he forgot. The jeans that fit snuggly around your ass and thighs, the shirt that hugs the swell of your breasts, stretched thin as it barely contains them... poor Johnny boy can't help but whine at the sight of something so appetizing, so soft and warm right there - he's jealous of his LT. How did someone so hard around the edges pluck something so sweet?

Simon hates to see him so upset, pouting in the corner like a scolded puppy as you stare at your boyfriend with stars in your eyes. Johnny could have a girl, but he gets overeager: fucking them on the first date, leaving them sore and bitten and tearful. He's too rough, and they're quick to excuse themselves, fleeing the next morning and blocking him from all social media.

Johnny needs to learn to be patient and gentle with his toys. He's nice enough to let the sergeant practice with his own pretty girl, and you're more than happy to assist Soap with his green-eyed monster.

After a nice dinner at his LT's house, served by you - along with some bronze, liquid courage - Johnny sits on the recliner, chatting with Ghost, who's relaxed on the sofa. You enter the living room and stand next to Simon, biting your lip excitedly and staring between the two of them. Simon wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you to sit on the arm of the sofa.

"Y' think she's pretty?" He asks Johnny, who blinks.

Gorgeous. Comely. Ravishing. "Course I do." He responds plainly, trying not to get worked up over the way you're perched next to his LT so prettily.

"Yea, you do..." Simon mutters, squeezing the flesh at your thigh. "What's it you said? 'She must look nice, spillin' out my hands’?"

Soap is nothing short of mortified. His eyes are wide, staring back at Simon - he doesn't know what to say. He said those things within the secrecy of his conversation with his lieutenant - he didn't expect him to repeat it outside of that bubble, let alone in front of you, the person in question.

"N' what else was it? 'Need t' have a pretty li'l wife with a rack like that to lay my head-"

"Simon!!"

Soap finally glares at his LT, his fingers digging into his own thighs. His heart is pounding in his chest. Is Ghost trying to get you to hate him?

You giggle and stand upright. "It's ok, Johnny." You coo, slowly walking over to him with your hands behind your back. "I like it. It means you like me."

Soap has little time to do anything but grunt when you swing a leg over his thighs and seat yourself in his lap. Your cleavage is right there, just inches from his face, and he can feel the bare skin of your thighs burning through his trousers.

"Help me take this off?" You tug at the skirt of your dress, looking down at him with those innocent, glossy eyes.

He can't breathe. His clothes are too hot and too tight, his cock nearly choking in the confines of his pants. He looks to his lieutenant for help - Ghost just smiles, like he's watching his favorite porn. He might be, depending on how this plays out.

"Go on, Johnny. Slowly."

Johnny wants to be anything but slow, once he realizes his best friend is showing you off like a collectible toy. He looks back up at you, watching the way your plump lip catches between your teeth. He carefully reaches around, grabbing the back of your neckline and tugging the zipper down - slowly, as he was instructed. He can barely focus on the movement with your breasts right there, imagining what they'd taste like between his warm lips. The shoulders of your dress fall away, revealing the lacy bra you're wearing. He looks up at you, drool pooling under his tongue as you slide your hands over his shoulders, one coming around to play with the base of his mohawk.

"You can take it off." You whisper.

He wastes no time, his hands smoothing up your back and unclasping your bra in one motion. He helps you pull it from your shoulders - your breasts, round and full, now pressing against his chest. He wants to touch. He needs to touch.

He shoots a hungry, pleading look to Ghost - he nods back at Soap, which is all the sergeant needs to absolve his filthy behavior. He closes your breast in his palm, eyes hazy as he takes your nipple into his warm mouth. He hardly has to move his head forward because you lean into his mouth, your fingers grasping at his hair and your back arching deliciously. Johnny groans, using one hand to dig his fingers into the thick flesh at your hips, and his other to press his palm against your lower back. He shifts himself down as his tongue swirls around your nipple, groans leaving his throat and reverberating against the bud, quickly hardening from his ministrations. You sound so sweet, high-pitched coos and soft breaths pouring from between your lips as you press your weight against Soap, shoving your breast as far into his mouth as he can take. You kiss the crown of his head, whispering a good boy against his skin.

He practically whines, bucking his hips upwards, relishing in how your body grounds him into the sofa cushions. He releases your breast with a pop and quickly takes the other one into his hand, sealing his lips over it with a hum. He looks up at you through wanting, begging eyes as you toss your head back, squeezing your thighs around his hips. His tongue undulates against your stiffening peak, slobbering around the underside of your breast as he gives you another experimental jerk of his hips. You gasp, rolling your hips back down onto him and staring at him with your lust-blown pupils.

His cock is demanding to be let free. He's going to fuck you hard, he's going to pound you into the chair until you're begging, showing his LT just how much of a good boy he is. He's never felt this blazing forest fire within his veins, setting off nerve after nerve and burning a trail right down to his hard, throbbing member.

He hooks his fingers into the hem of your soaked panties, fully intending to rip them off - but you quickly grab his wrist and yank his hand away. He looks at you, blinking through his trance as a look of confusion settles on his face. "Wha's wrong?"

You giggle his expression - the sound goes straight to his tip with another rush of blood. "These are for Simon." you whisper, slowly pushing yourself off of Soap's lap. He lets his arms fall to his sides with a desperate look, letting you back away, right into Ghost's waiting lap.

"Gonna show ya a thing or two, Johnny." he says, pulling you back to his chest. "Teach ya a few tricks, maybe you'll be able t' keep a woman longer than a day." he pulls a switchblade from his pocket and flicks it open. The blade drags down over your belly - you chew your lip as it electrifies your skin, the tip sliding lower and lower until he's running it over your pussy. The fabric is soaked as he lingers there, the sharp edge barely separated from your cunt by your flimsy, drenched panties.

You stare at Soap, not once breaking eye contact as Ghost slices through the fabric. Soap's mouth is agape in disbelief and lust, enamored by the sight before him. He can't tear his eyes from the view of your sopping, glistening pussy, watching as Simon slides his thick fingers over your folds. He catches his thumb under the hood of your clit and you jolt, shooting a hand down to grab his wrist - but he doesn't stop. You whine and mewl, leaning your head back against his shoulder as he flicks the bud, strumming over it slowly.

He stares Soap in the eyes, watching his reaction. "Alright there, Johnny?"

He's drooling, mouth hung open, hypnotized by the way your muscles clench with each stroke of Simon’s thumb. “… Aye…” he manages to say – his fingers dig into the cushions beneath him as he tries to control the urge to tear across the room and drive his cock into your cunt, fucking you against his lieutenant’s chest the way you deserve: rough and hard. Simon’s been teasing you too long; you need to be ravaged, orgasm after orgasm pulled from you, faster than you can think.

“Let me have a go, yea?” he says boldly, looking at Simon with desperation. “That’s what this is, right? Ye want me to fuck ‘er nice? I’ll do it. I’ll do it, sir – I’ll take good care of her-“

“No you won’t.” Simon interjects before the dog can get too riled up. His fingers are now strumming up and through your folds, and you’re panting and staring at Johnny with needy desire. “’S why you can’t keep anyone. You’re too eager.”

The truth shoots through Soap’s chest like an arrow, and he meets Simon’s gaze. He’s obviously rock-hard in his trousers, he won’t even attempt to hide it. Simon’s got a cocky, knowing smirk on his face, and you… poor you is just wishing Simon would spit out what he wants to say, so the three of you could get on with the show.

“Gonna teach you a few secrets, sergeant.” Simon says, and Soap isn’t sure what to think about having his rank used in this situation. “My girl needs to cum.” He pulls his fingers away from you – you whine in frustration, but are quickly silenced when two, thick digits are stuffed into your mouth. You obediently clean off your own slick with your tongue, looking back down at Johnny with a heavy, lidded stare.

“I’ll make her cum.” Soap says quickly. If this is a matter of whether or not he can make someone cum, he’ll pass that test easily.

“You’ll do it right.” Simon growls. “Need to understand the difference between getting’ your cock wet and pleasuring ‘er. ‘S my girl ‘n I won’t have you roughhousing ‘er. Got it?”

Soap’s throat bobs as he swallows. It was another task, another order from his superior. He clears his mind of any preprogrammed, lustful thoughts, sent straight to his brain from his achingly hard member – this wasn’t about him. It was about following instructions. He was a good soldier, he could do that much.

“Yes sir.”

Simon nods. He shifts hips, pulling his fingers from your lipsand grabbing your hips. You grab his forearms for support as he spreads his muscular thigs, forcing your legs farther apart as they rest on either side of his knees. Slick dribbles down from your pussy and onto Simon’s length, which is about to tear a hole through his pants.

“Then get to it. Sick of hearin’ you yap all day about not bein’ able to keep a girl. Put your mouth to good use – we’re about to fix that.”

#ghost #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x reader x soap #simon x reader x soap #soap #soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #soap x reader #soap x you

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