#captain soap mactavish

[foap-enjoyer]

Price VS Soap (OG)

Captain Price: Recruits! As part of your training you can pick your Captain who will be leading you through said training here at 141. Make your selections now, please. Recruits: ... Captain Price: Don't be scared now, kids. It's pathetic. Go stand by whichever Captain you want. Recruits: *Scrambling towards Captain Mactavish* Captain Price: Are you fucking kidding me. Captain Mactavish: *Fucking crying with laughter* Captain Price: Well at least I've got.. one. One recruit. Captain Mactavish: Hey, kid! You can hop off his dick, it's alright, it's pretty much dust anyway. Pick who you really want! Recruit: ... Recruit: *Scrambles over to Soap* Captain Price: FUCKS SAKE JOHN! Captain Mactavish: RIGHT BACK AT YA JOHN!

[soitgoesanonymous]

hey man….. post the drafts….. (manipulatively) (it wont let me vote in ur poll)

i got self conscious and immediately deleted the poll which is why you couldn’t vote in it. here’s a draft i ended up not publishing (because i reworked it all into other works). i put my little annotations in blue if that’s okay :)

draft no. whatever (i don’t label these things), 2374 words.

(no content warnings)

In his life, MacTavish never thought he’d be in a position where his dreams were dangerous.

“Mm— mhm,” Ghost hummed into the kiss, unable to stop talking, even for a moment, “yeah, like that.”

The details of the dream changed each time; sometimes, in his peripheries, they swam and shifted, so that he’d start in one place and end in another. There were always constants, though— the heat Ghost radiated, the scent of his shampoo, the way his lips would press against his, and occasionally, lower— in the present moment, though, he recognised the hot warmth of morning sunlight flooding through the dusty windows of his flat, the scent of cooking eggs, the countertops he had him pressed against as he wrapped steady hands around his waist to keep him close—

“You’re gonna burn the eggs again,” Ghost reminded him, smiling against his lips. He was pressed against the countertop, nearly chest to chest so that he had to tilt his head up to kiss him—

“To hell with the eggs,” he grumbled, as Ghost pulled back again to smile wider, looking up at him.

“Lady’ll eat ‘em out the rubbish,” Ghost replied, eyes dilated and catching the morning light, aglow. “She’ll get fat.”

“Fatter, you mean,” MacTavish corrected, and when Ghost opened his mouth to reply again, kissed it to keep him quiet. “Jesus, Simon, quit running your mouth.”

“You like my mouth.”

He knew, by the silence outside, that it was a Sunday morning— lazy, and slow, and quiet. He also knew that if he looked down, the fur slinking between their legs would glare reproachfully at the attention.

It was dangerous to be dreaming that way in the field. Dangerous to do it around his men, dangerous to do it at all— but he was half awake, half asleep, and couldn’t help the way he lifted a hand to the back of Ghost’s head to tangle his hair in golden blond strands—

“C’mon, Johnny— mmph,” Ghost huffed, as he pressed their lips together again, before putting a hand on his chest to push him back, “eggs’re gonna be well done by now— mm—”

“Fuckin’ hell, Simon,” MacTavish complained, and dragged his tongue across the ridge of his teeth, “you’re stuck on these eggs. It’s always about the bloody food with you.”

“Fastest way to a man’s heart,” Ghost hummed, shrugging carelessly as his tongue slid across his— the eggs sizzled and popped, and somewhere by his head, Sandman’s foot kicked dangerously close.

“Aye,” he agreed, and Simon’s hand drifted higher up his chest, nails raking soft paths up. “Through the ribs is more efficient, though.”

The laugh bubbled up against his lips, and when Ghost smiled next, his teeth bumped up against his. It was swelteringly warm, warmth curling up the back of his neck, more so when Ghost threw an arm around his neck to followed the sunlight up— vaguely, he knew he had fallen asleep on his stomach, the polyester of the sleeping back crunching under his cheek, but then the hand on his chest trailed up to feel around his collar, and Ghost was taking a fist of his tags around his collar.

“Where’re you going, huh?”

“Got to go,” he replied, and he was almost sure the sound of eggs popping in oil wasn’t entirely in his imagination, “you know I’ve got to go.”

“You’re always doing this,” Ghost grumbled, and the hand up the back of his neck reached up to the back of his head, tugging gently on the mohawk— “c’mon, we’ve not even had the eggs yet.”

“I know,” MacTavish agreed, and the ring of blue around Ghost’s pupils was outright dangerous, “I know.”

“Not even got time for a goodbye kiss?” Ghost asked, half teasing as he looked down at him— the morning light only caught half his face, the freckles dotting across his cheeks and nose. His hair was falling into his eyes, eyelashes caught gold in the sunlight; flushed pink, his lips were the same colour as his cheeks, pressed pink and spit slick. MacTavish sighed, all too aware of the consciousness encroaching on the corners of his vision, and pulled back— but the fist on his tags pulled tight, pulling him back, and—

“You’re so bleedin’ stubborn, Simon,” MacTavish laughed, lips inches from Ghost’s.

“You’re so cruel,” Ghost shot back, pulling on the tags like a leash. “I’m going to have to eat these eggs alone, you know?”

“I know,” MacTavish nodded, and leaned closer, trying to keep the genuine pain out of his voice, “I’m sorry.”

Ghost laughed again, but didn’t move any closer, as if he was savouring the moment.

There was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep himself there. He knew it, Ghost knew it, but he couldn’t stay there, and he knew that too—

“Come on, Johnny,” Simon whispered, [sentence i never finished], “one more? For good luck?”

Anything, anything he asked for, any time he asked for it— but he didn’t say that. His cupid’s bow caught the morning sunlight, and the ridges of the Glasgow smile, keloided over his skin, shone when he lifted his hands and dragged a thumb across them; Ghost’s cheeks folded with the smile as MacTavish leaned in, eyes closing as he hummed happily, and—

The safehouse was small enough that even the sound of eggs cracking into a bowl in the kitchen was loud enough to wake MacTavish up.

“Sky.”

“No,” Ghost was saying from the kitchen of the safehouse, frown audible in his voice.

“Sun.”

“No.”

“I— Jesus,” Roach sighed, and there was the sound of spitting eggs again, as MacTavish blinked gritty eyes, “I dunno, uh— sandwich? Sandwiches?”

“Bloody hell— where the fuck’re you seeing a sandwich, Bug?” Ghost demanded incredulously, simultaneously quiet and annoyed— there was another hiss, as if someone had flipped the eggs, and when Ghost spoke next, it was with the distinct tone of someone pinching the bridge of their nose—

“Let’s just— forget I Spy for a second, how many words starting with S do you actually know, Sanderson?”

“Sanderson, for one.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ghost mumbled, as MacTavish listened to the distinct sound of another egg cracking— sunlight, hot and warm, sifted through the dirt on the window and onto the floor of the living room that the eight of them were sleeping on. Besides him, the empty spot Ghost had left when he must have woken up was steadily being encroached upon by Meat, an arm and leg thrown over the indent in the sleeping bags, and Roach’s pack had been rummaged through. The room was filled with the sound of heavy breaths and snores, and was distinctly warm in the way sleep seemed to make it; MacTavish turned over, blinking at the ceiling before scrubbing at his hair as he listened.

“Give me another egg.”

“Can’t we make omelettes?”

“With what, exactly? We’re making ‘em scrambled. There’s an S word— scrambled.”

“Oh. I mean, can’t we—”

“Scrambled, and that’s an order, sergeant. It’s s’posed to be morale boost, we’re not depressing everyone with limp omelettes.”

“Hm,” Roach agreed, sounding disappointed, before— “wait, is scrambled the word?”

“For fuck’s sake— no.”

The safehouse was practically a cabin, and they were crammed in like sardines between the eight of them. The bedroom had a hole in it, and the last week of storms had meant it was off-limits— all eight of them, then, slept in the living room, with the exception of Ghost, who had fallen asleep half the nights on night sentry, and MacTavish, who had stayed up with him, watching the rolling farmland flood with the rain. Morale had been running low for several days, between the storm, dwindling meal rations, and the way they were crammed together— the sunlight was a good sign, though, and he knew if he opened his eyes and glanced to the sky, it would be the clear blue that only followed storms. Yawning again, he turned over on his sleeping bag and kicked the blanket off of him, scrubbing his hand through the mohawk as he listened to the movement in the kitchen.

(there was supposed to be something connecting these parts that i never wrote :c)

“Go see if anyone’s awake,” Ghost ordered, and there was the hiss of a pan as more eggs were poured into it. A moment later, Roach appeared around the doorway; the angle hid him from MacTavish, so he went to Decker first, sleeping closest to the kitchen door.

“Hey—,” he listened to Roach lean down and whisper, “Decker. Wake up.”

There was no answer; MacTavish leant over, and shoved into Meat to try and get him up, who only rolled over.

“Decker,” Roach whispered again, “come on, get up.”

“Jesus,” Ghost appeared by his side a moment later, “the fuck’re you being so gentle for? Oi! Decker!”

“Mm— wha’sit?” Decker replied blearily,

“Eggs. Wake up and eat them or I’ll throw them out.”

“M’kay,” Decker nodded, “‘ll wake up the others.”

“Easy,” Ghost told Roach, before glancing over at him. “Morning, captain.”

“Riley,” MacTavish acknowledged, propping himself up on an elbow. He was wearing an older skull mask, design chipping off around his eyes, and MacTavish noted, with endearment that physically ached, the way the sun had made his cheeks pinker, exactly as in the dream— Ghost smiled, still holding a spatula, the hoodie rucked up to his elbows despite the fact his gloves were still on.

“Where have you got eggs from, then?” He asked, scrubbing at his eyes again— Ghost beamed wider, and clapped Roach on the back hard enough to make him stumble.

“Our resident infiltration expert stole from a farm!”

“I didn’t— I didn’t steal,” Roach corrected hurriedly, “there was just— a chicken farm, a mike west of here— I left some over for the farmers, it’s not like—!”

“There’s another S word for you,” Ghost cut across him happily, “steal. Shame thief doesn’t start with S, huh?”

“I’m not a thief!”

“Mm—” Sandman, from somewhere besides MacTavish, stirred— “why’s Roach yelling about being a thief, sir?”

“I’m not a thief!” Roach bellowed defensively— several people blinked themselves awake at the sudden volume, and Meat flopped over.

“You kill people for a living,” Ghost pointed out, crossing his arms, “stealing is where you draw the line?”

“Why am I smelling eggs?” Archer asked, wiping his hair out of his face. “Oh— for fuck’s sake, Adams, is that you?”

“Why would it be me?” Adams grumbled, “Royce is right there!”

“It’s never Royce,” Sandman told him. “Royce smells like an English garden.”

“It’s my aftershave,” Royce agreed sagely, before blinking up at the ceiling. “Oh, I smell eggs, too.”

“Ghost’s making everyone scrambled eggs!” Roach declared, with all the indignation of a child tattling on another.

Meat finally snorted awake, to nine pairs of surprised looks, all at Ghost.

“You want an S word, Bug?” Ghost glared venomously at Roach, rounding on him. “Suicidal. Because that’s what you must be.”

“He’s holding a spatula,” Roach added into the silence, despite the way his hands flew up in surrender and he took a step back over Decker, “I’m not lying.”

In the kitchen, the eggs kept spitting in the pan. MacTavish shot Ghost a look, which he returned with a glare— apparently cautious, Roach took another little step back.

It was Meat who broke the silence, sitting up.

“You’re making us breakfast, Ghost?” He asked, grinning.

“Making myself breakfast,” Ghost snapped back. “The rest of you get my leftovers.”

“No, he’s not!”

“Shut it.”

“He got bread for toast,” Roach added, lifting his hands higher in surrender. “I didn’t rob anyone!”

“You’ve only worked here for what— year, year and a half?” Sandman sat up too, scratching at his stubble— “and it only took that long for you to finally soften up on us?”

The spatula was thrown at his head with deadly accuracy, and only missed because of the speed at which Sandman ducked.

“Oi!”

“I’m eating your breakfast,” Ghost snarled, ignoring the barely stifled laughter around the room.

“No!”

“I’m eating your breakfast too,” he added, jabbing a finger towards Roach.

“You can’t eat six eggs in one sitting,” Roach replied, bewildered.

“Try me.”

“I’m smelling burning eggs now,” Archer provided, flopping back down on his sleeping bag. Ghost shot Roach a pointed glare, and with a little sigh, Roach stepped carefully over five sets of legs to take the spatula off Sandman, who snatched it from the ground to hand to him.

“All of you need to wake up before they’re done, or I’m binning them all,” Ghost glowered at them all, before turning on his heel and stalking to the kitchen. He disappeared through the door, before sticking his head out to scowl at Roach—

“And the kitchen’s off-limits for you now.”

“What— I stole eggs for you!”

“You’re getting the burned ones,” Ghost shot back, before disappearing back into the kitchen. MacTavish yawned again, and shot a sidelong look at Sandman—

“He’s a sweetheart, really.”

“Through and through,” Sandman agreed, rolling his eyes as he got up, Roach taking a defeated seat on the sofa. “Come on sir, ranks say you get the bathroom first. Maybe exfil’ll take us out this shithole before Ghost has to start cooking us dinner, too.”

Getting the bathroom first meant that he was out of it first, and had to push past Roach, standing in the doorway, to get through to the kitchen.

“Spatula!”

“No. Piss off.”

“Saucepan?”

“I’ll lob it at your head, Roach, don’t test me.”

“Come on,” Roach was beginning to sound a little desperate, and stepped to one side to let MacTavish through— “Ghost, it’s got to be something— give me a hint!”

“You want the answer, Bug?” Ghost, standing over the stovetop, turned over his shoulder to glare. “Stab wound.”

“What— what?” Roach blinked, bewildered— “But there aren’t any stab wounds near us!”

“Not yet,” Ghost agreed, eyes narrowed. “You’re on the right track, though.”

Half for Roach’s sake, and half because it was really too early for it, MacTavish closed the door on Roach before he could splutter out a reply.

“You ever get worried that you threaten people too much, they won’t take you seriously?”

“Roach knows I’m not kidding,” Ghost muttered, turning back to the stove to angrily poke at the eggs.

[i ended up abandoning this, half because i felt the dream thing was overused and half because i couldn’t figure out how i wanted it to end - i think it was just more devastating pining. the dreams thing got worked into my most recent work, the cooking eggs w roach thing got put into ‘spilled all over me’, and i’m still looking for an excuse to write more tf141 stuff cause i love them :3 but i don’t think i’ll finish it]

thank you for reading :)

[waves-against-a-cliff]

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?"

[eleu22]

guess who im obsessed with now

[waltyamart]

captain soap mactavish come back home the kids miss u

[fludderpy]

Imagine Lieutenant Ghost had to work together with Captain MacTavish… oh no…. I don’t think they would like each other (but they would kiss aggressively after arguing)

On the other hand '22Soap and '09Ghost would be besties heheheh

[the-californicationist]

when guys flex their cocks to make them bounce up and down to make it feel like a heartbeat?

gaz does it on purpose. he'll be spooning you in bed, naked and pressed up against your back, and he'll wake you up with it, making his cock throb and pump against your thighs like he's knocking on the door. something something "lemme in, babes..." when he's finally inside of you, he'll keep the head right at your rim, flexing his cock there, taunting you until you're desperate enough to rock yourself back against him, needing him. and he'll rib you for it, calling you such a dirty fuckin' slag, and saying "i knew you wanted this cock. all you had to do was ask me, baby..."

simon does it exclusively to torture you. right before he slips inside of your hole, he'll clench his muscles and pop himself out of alignment, making you squirm and beg and cry for it. chuckling and chiding you, laughing and saying shit like "oops, sorry, love. got too bloody eager, dinnit i?" or when you've got your hands tied behind your back and he's put you on your knees, his favorite way to have you, he'll make you chase him with your mouth, frustrating you beyond measure. or maybe, when you finally catch him, he'll pump it again, choking you deep inside your throat.

soap can't help it. and it happens all the time. coming home from the shops late at night, last train home, hiding in the back car together, he grabs your hand and puts it on his crotch so you can feel how hard he is. as soon as you touch him, even through the layers of fabric, he'll pulse beneath your touch, breathing hard and sighing in a high-pitched whine. grabbing your hair and dragging you closer so he can whisper in your ear, "holy shite, bonnie. cannae wait til we get home. need ya now, lass. please, please, please." all the while, his cock is leaping up at you like a rabid dog, trying to get a bite.

john doesn't even know he's doing it. while you're trapped in his grip, being made to sit on his bearded face, your hole absolutely tongue-fucked out of your mind, you get to watch it. his cock will throb, hard and heavy, slapping the hairy skin of his belly, pulsing every time you grind out another orgasm on his lips. and when he's finally deep inside of you, stretching you in ways that you're not entirely sure are even possible, filling you up to a concerning degree, and he starts to come, he goes absolutely stock-still. then, the only thing moving is his prick. you can actually feel his girth pounding inside of you, banging against your fucked out hole like a hammer, dumping hot, sticky loads of his cream deep inside of your body.

[feralgoblinqueen]

At the rehearsal dinner, the night before your wedding, your bridesmaids have prepared a presentation for you. They laugh conspiratorially before pulling the slide show up on the projector. The title is: Y/N Being Feral for Her Future Husband. Each slide has a photo and beneath is the unhinged text you sent with it. All the photos are sneaky pics you took while working with them.

Slide one: A slightly blurry image of him sitting on a bench at the gym.

The caption: “Sitting on his lap would probably fix me.”

Slide two: Picture is of him sipping his morning coffee or tea, disheveled.

The caption: “I’m jealous of a mug.”

Slide three: It looks like a selfie at first but you’re in the bottom corner and he’s in the background in full tactical gear.

The caption: “Love a man that uses protection.”

Slide four: Another blurry image obviously taken on a drunken night out with the rest of the team. There’s a tipped over shot glass and he’s licking the liquor off the bar. He’s got a big, goofy grin, being egged on by those around him.

The caption: “How many shots do you think it would take for him to want to lick me like that?”

Slide five: It’s a picture of his bicep flexed and the corded muscle on display, a slight sheen of sweat glistening in the light.

The caption: “I want to gnaw on him like a chew toy.”

Slide six: This is, much to your relief, the last picture. It’s of him sitting across from you at a dining table, dressed in nicer civilian clothes. Your first official date.

The caption: “Please, whatever deity is out there, don’t let me fuck this up.”

__________

A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for ages. I don’t even know if anyone else will find it as funny as I do.

[konigsblog]

TW: NON-CON, STEPCEST. MDNI 18+

Stepdad!Price excuses your stepbrothers behaviour because, “Boys will be boys.”

It doesn't matter if Simon, Kyle, and Johnny are all becoming extremely pushy and controlling, demanding you give a helping hand for their painful, stiff boners—they’re probably just looking out for their little stepsister. Don't you want them to care for you? Protect you? Sure, they're forcing their way inside your many holes after intoxicating you, but they're just making sure you know who you belong to—that you're their silly little plaything.

They deserve compensation for always being there for you, don't you agree? Perhaps after they use your limp, numb body for their own sexual gratification and to relieve themselves, it'll open your eyes and show you how helpless and defenceless you truly are.

[siriussimon]

no warnings: kinda a prompt i’m working on. 141 x reader, price x reader. john’s controlling and has a raging daddy kink.

john price always knows. of course, he knows what’s best for his team. he oozes authority, carries himself with ease, all tasks made with precision. everything’s calculated in his head, he knows exactly what he wants— what you need. can see it as clear as day. ever since you joined his brigade, he could see it written over your face. you needed guidance and he gave you just that.

you’re different than everyone else but that doesn’t take away from the fact that you’re an astounding addition to the team, the missing piece to their puzzle, the cherry on top.

you’re quite like simon. quiet, trouble with social cues, sensitivity to certain textures or noises. just like his simon, he knows exactly what you need to ease your anxious mind. he’s just gotta take it slow, ease his way into your space, not only as your captain— but more.

john has to know the whereabouts of his team so he makes it a habit of learning your schedule to a t. right about this time when hours were winding down he’d see you in the mess hall. a snack set off to the side untouched as you fiddled with a hand gun, dismantling it piece by piece to clean it throughly.

“It’s late, sergeant. PT is at 0500.” His voice echoed throughout the empty room. You flinched a bit but your shoulders relaxed when you registered who was speaking to you.

“I’m almost done..” You murmured, lost in thought, fingers connecting pieces together now.

Hm. That won’t do.

He takes a couple steps forward, peering over your shoulder, hands still at work. You’d never disobey him but sometimes your mind gets fixated on one thing— he understands, you have no idea how much. Sometimes you need a little nudge in the right direction. That’s what he’s for, right?

His right hand comes up to gently grasp the nape of your neck, almost like scuffing a dog, and you instantly halted.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” His thumb gently caressing your pulse point, a shiver running up your spine. You looked at the table, realizing you got so caught up on cleaning your hand gun you never ate like you were supposed to. Making it so tedious that you completely forgot about the time. It’s like your brain woke up from his touch. Your face felt warm and you thanked the low lighting in the cafeteria.

“N-No, Captain.”

Still a shy thing. He’ll break you in, just like he did with the rest of the boys. Make you his at last. Make it known that you belong here, that you deserve to feel taken care of. That you’re right where you’re supposed to be. And he’ll lead you just as he’s done these past couple of months. He’ll make it stick.

His hand released your neck, fingers lightly grazing down your pony tail, before it backs in his front pocket. You immediately stand, holstering your gun, and bagging away your uneaten food. Now fully turned, facing him, his eyes trained on your every move. You stood still for a moment, waiting for dismal, waiting for another command. Something you always relied on, deep down, your body buzzed with every order given to you,

“You’re dismissed, love. And good job on your field strip.” He said, a small smirk gracing his face, eyes crinkling, the pit of your stomach felt warm at the praise.

“Yes, Captain. Thank you..” Voice perked up, a curt nod and you were on your way.

One of these days he’d like to finally hear you say John. But he knows he’s got to take his time with you.

When you got back to your room, Johnny was up still, the light of his phone illuminating his face.

You sighed, feeling your body relax as you sat down on your bed. Your hands clasping to your face, the palms of your hands feeling cool on top of your cheeks. You body couldn’t help reacting this way with him. It always happened—

“Yer blushin’ like a wee school girl, dove.” Johnny laughed, which made you throw a pillow at his face.

“If you say a word to anyone I’ll stab you.” You grumble, which only made him chuckle again.

“Och Relax. Yer naught the first person to git the hots for the Captain. Trust meh.” He smiled, and you don’t know if that’s supposed to make you feel better or just intrigued on who else feels the same about him the way you do.

[rainyramblesscramble]

Hehehe DOODLE PAGE BE UPON YE 🫶

includes past and current suggestions/requests by @lialucis @thatoneautisticshark and @ghostmoon1 …as well as two requesters from discord whose tumblr tags I unfortunately do not know :(

Thanks everybody for getting me to 350! I have had so much fun thus far and I hope to see y’all through many more ups and downs 🫶

[inkarmatqq]

this is old one

[blingblong55]

Simon I don’t care if you didn’t shave let me eat you out Riley

Kyle I just want to bury my face between your thighs so you can suffocate me Garrick

John I don’t care if it’s the 3rd I want to make you cum before I do Price

John It doesn’t matter if we’re in public let me finger you so they can hear your pretty moans MacTavish

[mactavishenjoyer]

Mactavish, about ghost: "there are so many things I wonder about that man."

Roach: "oh he's a bottom."

Mactavish: "what?"

Roach: "all blondes are bottoms that's how you can tell."

Mactavish:"he's not blonde..."

Roach:"not upstairs"

Mactavish:

Mactavish: "you are...fired. Yeah, you're fired."

[soitgoesanonymous]

also in a similar vein to my last post

i think captain mactavish is secretly very sentimental about everything and just has no room to be. he keeps a journal, he cares about everything, he knows his men, he keeps price's gun for 5 years and takes it with him on missions, he keeps track of everything because he wants to keep it. he enlisted at 17, he's the youngest person in the SAS, he's everyone's junior and can't show weakness— but he does care, very much.

this next part goes more into the yours-to-keep-verse (lol) but that's why he always keeps favourites of things, always cares about everything enough to break himself to fix it, why he never really moved out of his childhood flat and told everyone it was just more convenient than looking for a new place. all the faces go in his journal because he can't bear to lose them or forget

(which might be why him and ghost implicitly match each other— ghost lives to be forgotten, and captain mactavish can’t bring himself to let go)

[nightcrews]

Thinking of this screencap of Captain MacTavish a little extra today 😮‍💨😩💥