#cod john mactavish

[nightcrews]

CoD Prompt 6

━━━━━━ ❖ ☁︎ ❖ ━━━━━━

Johnny never goes home on leave.

He’s always coming up with some excuse on why he’s not leaving base. He has to finish up some extra work for Laswell (who tells him it can wait every time), volunteers for the solo ops that pair up with different countries, or picks up grunt work so the rookies can go home to their families.

Ghost only notices because he also floats around base during the holidays, haunting the rec room and gym while they’re cleared out for a week. He doesn’t pay it much thought, not until Johnny gets a call in the middle of the night.

His mother, the only member of his family he ever talked about, has passed. He comes by Ghost’s room before he leaves, with a far away look and stiff shoulders, to tell him he’d be gone for the weekend for her funeral, and would really appreciate it if Ghost could take down any mission notes they go through.

But Ghost can sense something isn’t quite right, past the fact that Johnny had just lost his mother. He offers to go with to the funeral, for moral support. In reality, it’s because Ghost can’t remember a time Johnny’s been this quiet, and wants to comfort him as best he can without giving away how he truly feels about his own Sergeant.

At first Johnny refuses, looks horrified at the idea, but he can’t prevent Ghost from packing a bag and meeting him at the carpool before he can disappear. They fly to Scotland, and Ghost watches Johnny grow more and more quiet with every moment that passes.

“We don’ get along very well.” He says before getting out of the rental at his house, “Jus’…don’ pay em much mind.”

No one greets him when they step into his childhood home, no one offers their condolences, no one even offers him a hug to share in his grief. Instead they give him looks of disdain, whispering under their breath, give him a wide berth.

Turns out, his father and siblings never forgave him for enlisting and leaving the country. For not taking over the family business like they wanted him to. They think he’s a low-level grunt who’s never found himself in any real action. Too lazy to hack a real job. Too stupid to do anything worthwhile. They’d spread it to the rest of the family, poisoning their view of him. Only a few will talk to him.

The homophobic comments start as soon as Ghost stands next to him. Comments about “real men” and what’s “normal”. Johnny holds his head high, jokes about himself with them, lets the comments about his career and love life roll down his back like they’re not the reason he leaves the room when his smile is too strained. Ghost wants to kiss him, to wipe away the self deprecating things he’d said about himself until there was none left. Wants to remind him what his worth really is.

So, he takes every opportunity to have Johnny’s back, putting a firm hand in the crook of his neck, bumping shoulders before going through a doorway, saying a quiet “on you” as they enter a crowd. Just as he would a mission, keeping both their heads clear with focus. On the flip side, he gives cold stares to those he sees whispering, steps in front of Johnny when the sharks start coming up behind him, makes sure to tell everyone how wrong they are about him when he’s not listening.

“Couldn’t find his way out of a wet paper bag.” They snicker, “Better hope he never sees combat. He’d be the next one we put in the ground.”

Ghost puts a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder, squeezing just a bit too harshly, “You do know he’s a Sergeant, right? Works directly under me?”

“I bet he does.”

Ghost hums, squeezing tighter, “You lot don’t know the half of who he is, what he’s seen. I’ve seen men follow him to hell and back because they respect him. Seen him take bullets for his fellow soldiers, and patch up the wounds he didn’t. If you think for one second he’s never been at war, you’re dead wrong. He’s the reason you get to sit here and run your mouths. You should be on your knees thanking him for what he’s done, and apologizing for failing him in the first place.”

He turns away from them, disgusted, to find Johnny watching him from across the room, wide-eyed and grateful. The anger is buzzing under Ghost’s skin, white-hot and stinging, and he can’t help the way he opens the door a little too harshly to leave the room.

Johnny finds him looming in the back bathroom, tucked away and quiet. He also finds his back pressed up against the closed door, and Ghost’s lips on his own, letting out a surprised groan into his mouth.

“So you do like me.” He mumbles against him, reminiscent of a rainy night dodging hostiles, much like their current state.

“I like you a lot.” Ghost says back, kisses him dizzy again, “Don’t listen to these cunts.”

“Told ye not te let them get te ye, sir.” Johnny’s smiling, he can feel it.

“Couldn’t help myself.”

“Crushin’ on me, Lt?”

“Have been for a while, Johnny.” Ghost slips his mask back on, watching the way it makes Johnny pout and deciding he liked that a lot, “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Ye kiddin’?” He opens the bathroom door, grinning, “Gettin’ swooned by the scariest motherfucker in the SAS? Ah’m lettin’ that go te my head more than being in the 141.”

They spend a little longer like that, before Johnny says one more goodbye to his mother. Ghost follows behind him, steps up alone next to her casket, and promises to look after her son.

They disappear without another word, back to the only real family Johnny had ever known.

[mina-org]

Yeti!soap:( he’s big and hairy and heavy footed as he stalks around your campsite, usually he watch, barely hidden from your sight but he stayed behind today . He wanted to discover your comforts he knows humans covert their trinkets and he wishes to turn his den into something you’ll like, a nest you’ll be happy with:) (he can’t help if he slips and steals some clothes.

[kanescrochet]

Under his nose

Soap × Reader

Fluff

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Soap wasn’t nervous often—not during ops, not during interrogations, not even when he was dangling from a chopper over a warzone.

But sneaking down the hallway of the base to your room? That had him breaking a sweat.

Because if Captain Price—your father—caught him? He’d be buried in the woods behind HQ with a cigar jammed somewhere very uncomfortable.

Soap’s boots were silent as he crept into your room, careful not to disturb the others in the hall. You were waiting on your bed, arms folded, one eyebrow raised.

“Took you long enough,” you whispered, smirking. “What’d you do, crawl here?”

“Had to dodge Ghost. He’s already suspicious.” Soap closed the door behind him and locked it with a soft click. “And your dad? Practically sniffed the air when I walked past like he could smell guilt.”

You laughed quietly, standing up and pressing your hands to his chest. “You are guilty.”

He dipped his head to kiss you, soft and familiar. “Damn right I am.”

The room smelled faintly of gun oil and your shampoo—comforting in a way the barracks never were. His arms wrapped around your waist like it was second nature now, pulling you in with a sigh.

“You know,” you murmured against his neck, “we can’t keep doing this forever. He’s going to find out.”

Soap groaned. “Can we deal with that after I get to hold you for five minutes without worrying about Captain Bloody Price bursting through the door?”

You bit your lip, torn between amusement and nerves. “He’s going to kill you. Slowly.”

“Worth it.” He kissed your temple. “Every second.”

There was a pause. Neither of you spoke, just listened to the distant hum of the base.

“…You think he suspects?”

You looked up at him. “He told me if ‘MacTavish even looks at you funny, I’ll send him to Siberia.’”

Soap blinked. “Siberia?”

You nodded. “Siberia.”

“Okay, we really can’t get caught.”

He kissed you again like it might be the last time, filled with urgency and heat and everything he couldn’t say out loud.

And even though your relationship was hidden behind locked doors and stolen glances across briefing rooms, in that moment, none of it mattered. Because you were in his arms—and that was enough.

At least, until your dad found out.

[stargirlstabber]

imagine the task force 141 falsely accusing you of being a traitor to the team. knowing your biggest fear, they use it against you. water. water, where your feet can't touch the ground. water you can't see through. at first it started with waterboarding. then slowly but surely they threatened to drop you into the pool. into the dark, deep pool. even john, who was like a father to you before, didn't help you. no. not at all. actually, he was the one who stepped into the water fully clothed, dragging your crying and squirming form with him into the bloodcurling liquid. your tears blended in with it while you we're screaming, practically begging that you were the wrong one. that you'd never do something like that. but they just stood at the edge of the pool, watching their captain almost drowning your terrified self. how would they react, when they get the information that you really weren't the one...?

[noahdrawsalot]

“THE PINK FROSTING JOHNNY, PINK!”

“I’m TRYING SI-!”

“ARE YOU COLOUR BLIND SERGEANT?”

“HAUD YER WHEESHT-!”

Cue some homoerotic cake making

[pythonmoth]

cw: violence. torture. waterboarding. hurt/no comfort.

> i haven't written in a long time. it's good to be back.

× framed traitor f!reader x lt ghost. poly tf141.

Part 1

Traitor.

That's what Price thinks as Simon and Soap drag you from the table, nearly choking on your food as they give you no time to understand what's going on.

Alarms ring in your ears as you force the piece of stale bread down your throat, trying to stand on your feet but they're taller than you, so your feet end up dangling, useless. You take a deep breath, your voice shaking as much as you are.

"What's going on? Is this some kind of sick joke?", you ask, looking at Simon, desperate to find an explanation for this other than the anger and torment in his eyes.

Simon doesn't answer. Nobody does. Soap's grip tightens, but he doesn't say anything, his expression hard.

No.

No.

You can tell they are not joking when you realize they're taking you downstairs. Sweat rolls down your face, fear creeping from the base of your neck to your toes, making you snap. You beg them to tell you what's going on, to explain why you're being dragged down there. You kick and struggle, a sob ripped deep from your chest as you start screaming, begging for a reaction. And then, pain.

Tears fill your eyes when it's Simon who hits your stomach with his fist, effectively shutting you up. You can smell the blood from past tortures mixed with bleach, and, distantly, the scent of forgotten wet rags. There's something salty in the air, and that's when you freeze, the pain in your stomach becoming nothing compared to the fear that grows in your chest.

They know you.

You've been with them for nine years. They know your fears.

"No. No. Please. Simon, Johnny— Please, please, please" you beg, sobbing as you can't do anything but go limp and heavy in their grip, doing the best you can to keep them from tying you to the chair. But it's useless.

Stars and colors dance behind your eyes as a fist connects with the side of your chin. You wonder if it would be better if they made you pass out right now. Maybe if you bite your tongue, it could—

"Gag her" Price tells them.

He's trained you for nine years.

He knows you.

You try to bite down on Johnny's fingers as he stuffs your mouth with an old rag, but it's difficult when your senses are unfocused after such a hard punch. The rag wet and disgusting, the scent and the taste making you sob again, shaking your head, your eyes big as you look at Simon.

Please.

Then a wet rag is pressed to your face. You inhale sharply as cold buckets of salty water are dropped right on your face, the cloth making it impossible for you to breathe. Salty water fills your lungs, making you choke and cough around the gagging rag.

You can hear questions, accusations, but you're paralized with fear, with pain and grief.

Grief.

They've been your friends, your family for so long. It's impossible to tell if you'll live through this. It's impossible for you to think of them as anything but monsters.

You know they usually did this with traitors, with enemies when it was necessary.

And you know they never enjoy it.

You've scolded Simon for smoking so late at night, you've had so many drinks next to him when he can't even speak. Simon often flinches awake from nightmares, startling you and then sharing quiet nights side to side.

You know this.

But then Simon hits your face again, taking the rag out of your mouth, and you can't find the love you have for him. It's expelled from your body with each hard cough, with each drop of blood falling from your nose.

"Did you not hear me?" Price demands, his arms crossed. "I'll ask one more time, then."

Smack.

Your chest is heaving, the fear so paralizing you can't even feel each punch as much as you should.

"What did you tell them?" Price continues, not looking one bit anxious for you to answer. He stands in front of you, his feet dry despite the salt burning your lungs.

"I don't know what you're talking about" you manage, looking up at Price, your eyes wide and bloodshot.

With a hard yank on your hair until your head is thrown back again, you're gagged once more, and the rag is pressed to your face. The salty water keeps on filling your lungs, unable to breathe, unable to cough around the gag.

You can't say anything. You truly don't know shit.

Hours later, when it becomes clear you won't speak, Price kicks you across the chest, hard, and the chair flips back.

You're tied up to the chair, exhausted and wet, your lungs burning with salt.

Memories of you as a child, nearly drown to death by your cousins, fill your mind. It had been a good day, until it wasn't.

Simon had held you when you told him, kissed you, and tucked you in for a good night sleep.

Johnny managed to make you crackle when you told him, patting your head, and saying your cousin had awful skills.

Now, there's nothing. Nothing but pain, and the burning in your lungs.

The door springs open, and the three men leave.

Only then do you close your eyes, passing out.

Masterlist | Part 2

buy me a coffee

[ghouljams]

Date Needed For Easter Reunion. Desperate.

Rating: E Words: 23.6k Tags: Soap x f!reader, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, unreliable narrator, unstable!reader, self-inflicted brainwashing, gaslighting, manipulation, strangers -> ???, non/dub con, cnc, wrestling, Erectile Dysfunction, Catholicism, biting, marking, non-consensual kissing, non-consensual marriage, religious delusion, oral sex (f and m receiving), piv sex, craigslist meet-cute, dirty talk, implied stalking, mild kidnapping, implied past abuse, on the run!reader, Johnny has a traumatic brain injury, breeding kink, unsafe bdsm dynamics, non-consensual sub training, fingering, cockwarming, hand jobs

Summary: You need an escape plan and respond to an ad online looking for a date. John Mactavish doesn't exactly offer you freedom in exchange.

<-Date needed for Easter reunion. Desperate.

[casual encounters]

“I'm a recently discharged, disabled veteran(medical: TBI) who never had time to date but has a very nosey (very catholic) family that asks a lot of questions. My mam just wants to know someone is taking care of me (can take care of myself) so I may have lied to her and told her I was dating someone. Which is where you come in.

You are:

-single

-willing to lie

-looking for a holiday in Scotland

-able to sit through mass

I will pay you in:

-my mam's cooking (it's good)

-free trip to the highlands

-whatever you want to steal from my sister's closet

Date is needed for my family reunion on Holy Saturday so I can reassure people I’m not going to accidentally die alone in my flat.

*

You stare at the man across the table from you and try to catalogue his features. If you don’t break him down piecemeal then the weight of his good looks might cause you to buckle. Two eyes, electric blue. Staring at them too long forces your gaze to wander away from them to other parts of his face. Two lips, pink and quirked into a crooked smile, showing off slightly discolored teeth. Coffee, you think, glancing down at his steaming cup. Your eyes drift up to his again, and again you find them drifting away. One bold pink scar at his temple, star shaped and cutting through his closely shaved hair in a single jagged slice. Your eyes linger on it until he reaches, almost sheepishly, to touch the thing.

“Aye, let’s get that out of the way first.” John agrees with your silent staring. You shake your head and focus on his eyes again, on the slight crease between his brow that speaks of unease.

“Oh, no it’s-” you hesitate on the words, “You don’t have to explain anything if you don’t want to, we can just ignore it.” He stares at you and you tack on, “I’m sorry for staring.”

“Nae the first person to stare, willnae be the last.” He hums. It feels like a reminder of sorts. For him you’re sure, but the familiarity of his tone makes you feel oddly… included. 

“Does your-” You stop yourself from asking if his family stares, that feels a little too personal in a way that you can’t be with a stranger, “-Does your family already think you have a girlfriend?” You ask instead. John laughs and it’s so deep and throaty that it catches your breath in your chest. 

“Aye, been tellin’ them I had you for a while now.” He nods, “Been dyin’ tae meet ya, but I kept putting it off.”

It’s your turn to nod. You understand that. It’s easier to keep a lie going than have a new one to tie together.

“Y’are a bonnie thing,” John mumbles, his lips catching against each other, his tongue weighted and his brows drawn low, he swallows before enunciating, “so sweet Ah cannae believe someone else hasnae sunk their teeth intae ya.” 

You’ve held his gaze too long, the violent blue shivers and shakes, with the strain of staring back at you. You feel your left eye twitch and jerkingly look down at your folded hands on the table. The color of your knuckles looks thinner, strained by the clench of your fingers against the wood. Anything to keep the anxious shaking at bay. Impatient to get away from the public eye, but grateful for the chance to meet a stranger with so many witnesses.

Your brain tries to latch onto John’s… compliment, and you brush it off. The doctor had said traumatic brain injuries make people impulsive, make it harder for them to police what they’re saying and doing. You can’t hold it against him if his inside thoughts roll off his tongue into the outside.

Actually, you feel sort of bad for taking advantage of the guy. You need him more than he needs you. The quick escape he offers isn’t one you take lightly, and this ruse is more reliable than anything else. It’s just… he seems nice. The way he fusses with his jumper reminds you of a puppy trying to walk with shoes on for the first time. He’s big and uncoordinated in a way that you should find endearing. His hands shake, his fingers plucking at the hem of one of his sleeves as a way to divert the energy. He squeezes his fingers into a tight fist when he notices you staring.

“Another gift from the bullet that had me discharged.” He huffs, “Makes mah mam worry seein’ me shake, made mah captain worry too.” The words are bitter in his mouth and you meet his gaze against your better judgement. “S’why they tossed me, cannae have a trigger finger this itchy.”

“Your mum must love you a lot.” You offer, the words feel hollow in your mouth. What’s that like, you wonder, having a parent that cares enough about you to worry over something like the tremor in your hands? 

John smiles, turns his gaze down to his fist and spreads his fingers out onto the table. It’s warm. The sort of expression that people with normal families have.

“Ah ken,” He shakes his head, “but she’s getting older, cannae have her running down to London for every doctor’s appointment.”

“Oh,” you frown, “that would be annoying.” Though you can’t say you aren’t envious. Had your family ever done the same for you? It was always a fight just to stay home from school, you know wouldn’t drop a thing for a doctor’s appointment much less driven across the country. 

“Ahm a grown man, dinnae need mah mam fer mah PT.” John insists. “Mah sisters are bad enough with all their badgerin’ me.” He sighs. “They mean well, Ah s’ppose, shouldnae fault them tha’.”

“Well,” you falter. It’s more than just taking advantage of one guy, you’re conning an entire family just to get yourself out of a situation of your own making. He should find someone else, someone better suited for dealing with a family that so clearly cares about him. But he’s not going to, you need this. You plaster on a smile and tell him, “It’s good you’ve got me, we’ll convince them you’re doing better than ever.”

John’s eyes flick to yours and you get the distinct impression of someone looking through rather than at you. It sends a shiver down your spine and you scramble to explain yourself before John can call your bluff. “I’ll make sure to tell her how capable you are, I mean.” You supply. John nods, his smile cut by his teeth in a way that feigns sincerity better than your mother ever could. 

“Gonna have to convince more than just mah mam and sisters,” he reminds you, “Plenty of kin for ya tae meet.” You must make a face because his smile grows to a size you’re sure must hurt his cheeks. “Got more than 50 people comin’ tae the reunion, more than that cannae take the time off for travel.”

You sit back in your chair with a rush of breath. Fifty? Fifty people. Fifty strangers you have to lie to for a whole day. Fifty names you’ll have to pretend to remember. Jesus.

“Jesus.” You mumble.

“Aye,” John hums, “it’s His doin’ that Mactavishes are a fertile brood.” The way he purrs it makes your stomach clench. You’re missing the context that haunts his voice, and you shake off the feeling in favor of changing the topic.

“So how long is the reunion?” It’s inelegant but it gets the job done. If John notices he doesn’t show it, immediately humming and bobbing his head like he’s trying to think. He crosses his arms over his chest and you’re struck by how big this guy is. Not uncoordinated then. John’s biceps strain against the bulk of his jumper, his broad chest squeezed between the trunks of his arms in a way that makes him look bulky. His shoulders roll back to a broad, square set that makes his neck seem thicker. You should get the impression that he’s putting on a show for you, but there’s no flex to his musculature, just the unquestionable presence of strength.

Strength that always seemed to haunt the silent wishes of every other man in your life, now personified and stripped of the authority to use it.

You swallow down the interest that slides to settle warm between your legs. 

“I can drive up Friday night, then the reunion is Saturday, and Mass on Sunday.” He counts off eyes roaming around the shop. He- 

Well, you don’t know how to describe it. John’s mood seems to change as quickly as the wind, his bright bubbling air turning teasing then wistful or purring and now this serious tone. Business-like where you would have sworn he was flirting with you. You glance at the scar on his temple, the pink seam of it seeming more obvious with each symptom that adds itself to the list. You wonder if he’s also forgetful, impulsive, if he’s prone to short tempers. You wonder how his vision is, and the thought of him driving suddenly makes you very nervous.

“I can drive.” You tell him quickly. He blinks at you and you find the air changed again, his expressions more open than you’ve seen even in children --perhaps that’s it, perhaps it’s not his mood changing so much as it is an openness that you’re not used to, you tell yourself he wears his heart on his sleeve, and find the thought somewhat relaxes you-- a gentle parting of his lips and soft raise of his brow that says you’ve caught him off guard.

“Ya wouldnae prefer flyin’?” He asks, and you cringe. You had mentioned in your emails that you were looking at flights, and he’d generously offered to compensate you. At the time you’d been eager to snatch up the opportunity, but now? Now the thought of leaving this man alone, with his shaking hands and poor vision, to drive for hours up to Glasgow felt wrong. You were already taking advantage of his need for a body to get yourself out of trouble, you couldn’t let him die in a road accident too. 

“No, I-” You search for an inoffensive answer, something that doesn’t make you sound like the terrible person you are, “I think it would be better if we arrived together, right? Happy and in love?”

John studies you for a moment before pouting his lips briefly and nodding, he hadn’t considered that you suppose.

“Aye,” He says slowly before he tips his head ever so slightly, “an’ we are happy an’ in love people, aren’t we, hen?”

“Oh definitely,” You agree. There’s something nervous and fluttery in your chest at his tone. Something that squeezes tight and fawns before you can chase the feeling down. It makes him smile, and the wide toothy grin he fixes you with crooks your stomach as quickly as it crooks his lips.

“Then we’ll drive up together.” He agrees. 

*

Despite the short notice you manage to get a hotel booked for Easter. It makes you feel a little slimy, squirms in your stomach oddly, but you plan on dipping out right after mass and leaving John with his family. If they’re as doting as he makes them out to be then he’ll have no trouble finding his way home. Besides, he already offered his car for the drive, so it’s not like he’s totally stranded. You made your peace with the sort of person you are long ago, you shouldn’t feel so bad leaving some disabled veteran in better hands. 

It’ll be a nice little vacation in a beautiful place, you’ll do something touristy, and then start figuring out your new life. You don’t deserve the vacation, but you don’t deserve a lot of things. John does though, for all you’re sure he’s been through, so you make yourself happy to play house with him. At least he’s not bad to look at. You could do worse, and you have.

You’re almost surprised by how short the bus ride to his flat is. He’s so close-by but you’ve never run into him. You recognize one of the patisseries you pass and hesitate to continue the rest of your walk at the prospect of getting a slice of cake. You check your time and decide to stop in for a road trip snack. You can give John this kindness at least. You hope he likes sweets.

Of course your detour leaves knocking on John’s door feeling like a herculean task. You raise your fist and hold it there for what feels like ages, your mind running a million miles a minute trying to spin out all the worst case scenarios.

This is insane. Actually insane. You’re running off to Scotland with a man you don’t know to meet a family that might not even exist --though you did spend a good few hours googling the Mactavish clan and what do you know John’s face is front and center, along with his discharge notice (ouch)-- just to get away from- well, you know what you’re running from. No sense dwelling on it when you’re so close to your new life. You learned your lesson with the Austrian, you’ll get away from John as soon as you’re able to and disappear into the highlands. Maybe you’ll herd sheep.

You knock on the door with your confidence renewed and John pulls it open immediately, his eyes wild, his hair disheveled and his shirt on inside out. His breathing is haggard and you watch him quickly end a call with someone marked only by a skull emoji, the tinny voice on the other end sounds rough and unhappy before it’s cut off. John offers you an apologetic smile and scratches the back of his neck.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” He says by way of explanation.

“I, um-” you hold up the bag of biscuits, “I stopped for a snack, for the road.” You check your phone. “I’m only a few minutes late.”

“Right.” John shakes his head, blinking his eyes as his brows draw down, like he’s trying to clear it, “Sorry, that- of course you’re not late, why would you be late?” He trails off, muttering to himself as he turns and stalks back into his flat. He seems to remember you and turns back to the door. “Come in, Ahm just finishin’ packin’ up.”

“It’s just the weekend.” You tell him, shuffling into his flat. You keep close to the wall and try not to look like you’re looking around. It’s sparsely decorated. Honestly it reminds you of those “male living space” memes that float around occasionally. The guy has a folding chair set up at a card table and not much else. You try to tip your head to get a glance at the bedroom and catch the corner of a mattress set on the floor. You grimace at the thought. 

You hear him muttering to himself and do your best not to eavesdrop too much. You’re sure he’s stressed about going to see his family, and you’re even more sure that living like this isn’t helping. Maybe his mum is right and he really does need the help. You feel that ever present pang of guilt start to gnaw at you at the thought. Fuck.

You’d read up a bit more on traumatic brain injuries --always eager to go the extra mile for someone else where you couldn’t for yourself-- and the idea that John had been living with virtually no support, his family a hundred miles away and his house barely fit for habitation, makes you really fucking sad. This guy probably lost everything he’d been working towards in the army, and now he’s living in this shitty flat with nobody around to care about him. And you’re taking advantage of his desperation to prove he isn’t the incapable man his mum is worried about in order to get a free trip and a new life. You’re really despicable.

Looking around though it’s pretty clear he isn’t taking care of himself. You don’t see any PT equipment or pictures, there’s not even a second chair or dishes in the sink. It’s like no one lives here. Even you had keepsakes tucked away in your “weekend” bag. John’s got a whole lot of nothing. 

“Sorry,” John sighs, hefting a packed duffle bag over his shoulder, his entrance jolts you out of your thoughts and you nearly crush your biscuits in surprise, “movin’ y’ken?”

“Sorry?” you blink, “Moving?”

“Aye.” John nods, dropping his bag to rifle through it, he tugs a pillbox free and opens the Friday morning tab, shaking the couple tablets into his waiting palm. He takes the pills dry before zipping the bag. “Back up tae Glasgow, be closer to mah mam an’ all that.”

“Oh.” You feel heat burn your cheeks, that explains the empty apartment. Guilt pokes at you again, you’d put him in the same category as his mum, incapable of taking care of himself. God. Are you a bad person? You are. You know you are, but are you this sort of bad? The “tbi automatically means this guy is dysfunctional” kind of bad?

You didn’t think you were before all of this.

“That’s nice.” You cover. John hums as he stands. 

“Isnae nice, means Ah’ll ‘ave ‘er breathin’ doon mah neck, taggin’ along tae the doctor like she’s ne’er seen mah heid on straight.” There’s no anger in his voice, just a gentle exasperation that reminds you of a pouting puppy. You cover your mouth to hide the smile it inspires. John flashes you a grin and you know you’ve been caught.

“Dunna be blate, laugh if ya want tae.” You let out a short giggle and cover it with a cough.

“Are you going to get less intelligible the closer we get to scotland?” You tease. Another smile, and a roll of John’s eyes.

“Aye ya ken mah mam’s gonna love ya, now yer actin’ out.” John grabs you and pulls you against his chest. The action is so familiar and affectionate that it makes you stiffen. Your stomach drops and you go rigid. Something shifts behind John’s eyes and you have to tighten more to keep tremors from running through you. Those bright blues feel electric, a flash of lightning before thunder, an unstoppable natural force that bears down on you with no warning but that quick burst of light. He doesn’t release you, and you can feel the pop of his shoulders as he rolls them, tipping his head to the side just enough to properly look down on you. He clicks his tongue and a shiver rushes down your spine.

“Relax hen,” it’s an unkind suggestion coated in false charm, “it’ll never fit if you’re wound this tight.”

“What- what?” You stutter, fingers shaking to find the right place to push to get him to let you go.

“Ah thought we were a happy loving couple,” John reminds you, “Cannae flinch like this.”

“Right.” You settle your hands against his chest and push. It’s like trying to move a brick wall. He barely budges, in fact you think his arms might tighten their hold on your waist.

“Got plenty of time tae get ya used tae me, yeah?” He hums, and leans closer. You duck your head to avoid meeting his gaze, or anything else, and feel his nose against your hair. He takes a long inhale and you squeeze your fingers into fists.

Impulsive, you remind yourself, he has a brain injury that makes him unable to control his impulses. That’s all it is. That’s all it can be.

“Do ah scare ya hen?” John’s voice rumbles so low in his chest that you feel it under your fingers. The question startles you enough to jolt you back to his gaze. 

You’re free of his grasp as soon as you look up. John’s bent to grab his duffle off the floor and you have just enough room to catch your breath.

“Of course not.” You lie. You’ve dealt with far worse than an overly touchy man with a brain injury. Overly touchy men giving out brain injuries, for one.

“Good,” John nods, tugging his bag up over his shoulder, “We’ve got a long drive ahead, no sense gettin’ scared now.”

Right, the drive. You’d almost forgotten about it. At least you can rest easier knowing John’s probably not stupid enough to let his impulses take over if you’re driving.

*

John’s hand is on your thigh as soon as you get out of his garage. He barely moves it when you complain about not having room to shift gears. It’s big and warm and entirely too high on your leg to not be distracting. Your traitorous body reacts to it immediately, your pulse quickening as your cunt throbs. It’s been a while, but you still remember what it feels like to have a man touch you, and it feels an awful lot like the wide spread of John’s fingers across your thigh. 

“So um,” You try to think of anything to talk about while John’s thumb rubs hot against your thigh, “we should probably get our story straight.”

“Told everyone the story already.” John says, and you struggle to find what that might mean. Is his hand moving higher on your thigh? You can’t keep your thoughts straight when he’s touching you like this. “Dating for six months, met in a coffee shop, you’ve been wanting to meet mah folks but time’s never been right.”

“Right.” You mumble, “John, um-”

“Johnny.” He cuts you off, “You call me Johnny.”

“Johnny,” You restart, “could you, uh, could you move your hand?” He gives your thigh a squeeze so tight it almost hurts, and slides his fingers up your thigh to rest just at the junction of your hip.

“Already know your lines,” he jokes, you think it’s a joke, God you hope it’s a joke, “Just gotta ask me if ya want somethin’, hen. Ahm a doting boyfriend after all.”

“Right.” You repeat, your knuckles creak with how tightly you grip the steering wheel.

His hand leaves you and your body reacts to the loss almost as violently as it had the initial touch. A chill crowds the space Johnny’s hand used to be, and threatens to wrack through your spine. You squeeze your thighs together quietly. It’s fine, you’re fine. He said he’d start getting you used to being touched, that’s all it is.

“So what are you into?” You change the topic. 

Johnny is silent for a while, so long that you chance a glance over at him. It makes you nervous taking your eyes off the road, but you lose a moment tracing the strong line of his nose as you watch his profile. He glances at you and you lock your eyes on the road again.

“Art.” He says finally. You nod. Art is good, you like art.

“What sort of art?” You prompt. You can’t fault him a stilted conversation you suppose, you did change the subject rather abruptly.

“Sketching,” he tells you, before thinking better of it, “pencils and charcoals. Never got into painting, too hard to take into the field.”

That must be it, it’s a reminder of his time in the military. You’re bringing up bad memories with such a simple question. You must have a talent for sticking your foot in your mouth if it’s this easy for you to stumble upon touchy subjects.

“That makes sense.” You nod and attempt to end the conversation, “You’ll have to show me some of your sketches sometime.”

The shift in the air is immediate. Even in your periphery you can tell Johnny’s perked up at the idea.

“Really? You’d want tae see ‘em?”

“Of course,” You shrug, keeping your eyes forward, “I like art.”

“Maybe ya could pose fer me sometime,” Johnny grins. “Ah’d make sure ya looked as bonnie as ya dae now.”

You laugh at the compliment, a weak attempt at covering your discomfort. You don’t need any buttering up, the false affection of it rings so hollow in your ears that it’s almost painful. It’s an unwanted politeness, an engagement in the conversation that makes you sick at the thought of engaging with. You don’t need to see yourself in graphite, it’s bad enough seeing yourself in the mirror. 

“Or maybe ah’d draw ya nude,” Johnny muses and you shut your mouth hard enough to hear your teeth click. “That’d be braw.” He hums, looking out the window, “Could have ya spread those bonnie legs and show me yer cunt. Ah’d make sure tae get real close and get a good look, talk tae ‘er real nice ‘til she’s drippin fer me, no fun drawing’ ‘er dry.”

Your eyes flick to him, your chest tight. He’s looking out the window, his chin cradled in his hand, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. You could almost believe you imagined it, but there were too many words, too detailed, to delude yourself into thinking you’d misheard the rumble of the engine.

You press your thighs together, fix your eyes on the road, try to ignore the man in the seat beside you. What are you supposed to say? Do you say anything? Is he hoping you’ll pull over and open your legs, pull his head between them and let him make good on his desire to talk to your pussy? 

The thought sends a shiver through you. You can’t say if it’s good or bad but it certainly catches Johnny’s attention to see you shudder. His teeth flash in the sun, and you know you’ve been caught.

“Aw hen, ya like when Ah talk like that?” His hand finds your thigh again, too high for you to mistake it as anything but what it is, a promise, “Ya want me tae tell ya how good ah am with mah tongue? Or are ya wet just thinkin’ about it?” He’s leaned closer, his hand squeezing your thigh so tightly it hurts, his shadow taking up too much of your periphery. “Fuck ah can smell it on ya-” His hand jumps to cup your cunt, and you freeze, “-warm, wet, little cunt. Stupid little girl. Should’ve worn a skirt so Ah could stick mah fingers in that pussy of yers and have a taste.” 

Your heart is beating out of your chest, your face burning as hot as the rest of your skin. He’s right, fuck he’s right. You’re aching, barely holding back from shifting in your seat and rocking against his searching fingers, all from a little dirty talk. You can’t open your mouth, can’t turn, can’t even move from the rigid position you’ve found yourself in, too scared that the barest twitch will make Johnny pounce,

And make the car crash.

You can’t be responsible for another death.

Johnny’s mouth opens, his body leaned far over the center console of the car (too far to survive a crash) and you feel his teeth scrape your neck.

Your body moves on its own, your shoulder jerks and you loosen your hand from the steering wheel to push him away. He goes willingly, laughing as he falls back into his seat and his hands leave you.

“Are you trying to kill us?” You demand, you can barely catch your breath, barely hold onto the boiling heat in the pit of your stomach.

“Ach, just havin’ some fun with ya hen,” He placates, “won’t it be easier holdin’ mah hand now that we’ve got that over with?”

You glare at the road and tamp down the heated humiliation that threatens to rise over you. No, you don’t think it will be. Especially not when you catch Johnny palming himself, and just know that’s the hand he’ll grab you with.

You can read the full fic here

[skauni]

Can’t stop thinking about Soap calling himself ‘Uncle Johnny’ around your kids but they consider him a dad because that’s how he acts:

When your friend John MacTavish found out that your boyfriend dumped you after you got pregnant, he was right by your side for all of it. Saying “Dunnae worry, Bonny. Uncle Johnny’s gonna help with the wee bairns.”

And he did. He was there the whole pregnancy, even went as far as moving in so you could rest and he could keep an eye on you.

When you went into labor, he was there. He was there for everything. From the birth of your twins, Aster and Cody, to the sleepless nights after, he was there. You even heard him in the middle of the night telling them “Dunnae worry wee ones, Uncle Johnny’s here. Nothin’ t’fear.” And you loved how dedicated he was to helping you.

When the boys got old enough to talk, you were unfortunate enough to witness the fact that they spoke their first words in Scottish accents. Just like John. It wasn’t bad, it just meant you had a hard time understanding them is all.

When you couldn’t watch them, he would. Saying “Let Uncle Johnny watch the wee lads.”

But, as soon as the boys called him ‘Dad’ for the first time, he looked at you eagerly and said “I suppose Uncle Johnny is becoming the Papa of these wee lads, aye Bonny?” He said to you. You blushed at the comment and looked away in flustered embarrassment.

[tobascoart]

“Don’t gi’me that look”

It started with this tweet XD:

https://x.com/soapuppies/status/1795182967498723802?s=46&t=ulZ-Zqeg5QL1-mmPvsK4bg

[girl-lostconnection]

Little continuation to this because I can’t help it

Seal Soap that gets along with seal Reader better than anyone else: better than Price, better than Kyle, better than Ghost.

Drives the latter one a little mad that his boy is so fucking whipped.

That his boy can’t help but stick with you and smooch you like there is no tomorrow. Like that’s a perfectly regular thing to do.

And while Kyle (who came back flustered and smitten) tried to explain the delicacies of seal to seal communications, Simon doesn’t fucking buy it. There is no such thing as wordless communication, there are scents of course, there are signals and sounds. But completely silent talk initiated by kisses? No, that’s bullshit if you ask him.

Unfortunately, no one fucking does.

Johnny walks you to breakfast and lunch and dinner. Johnny jogs to yours side as soon as you enter the gym, Johnny rolls over so you can have a spot next to him when he’s sunbathing (and bastard never rolls over, he’s greedy fuck who doesn’t like sharing his warm sunny place).

Johnny twitches his upper lip to show off sharp teeth when someone else gets too close to you, guarding new seal on his team like a bloody treasure.

And you don’t seem to mind all the attention.

No, you hum pleased when Soap shares his fish with you, you give him back scratches and quietly groom him in the rec room, you share parcels from home with him.

Simon doesn’t like that you get so quickly acquainted with his boy. Simon doesn’t like that you seem not interested much in whether or not he likes things.

Simon is used to be the biggest meanest dog in the compound, but when he presses you don’t back down and don’t cower. Seems like he isn’t the biggest one anymore.

You smile at him, sharp points of your teeth peeking from under your upper lip but your eyes are cool and it takes him every ounce of willpower not to growl in your face.

Slippery fucking seal, he hates that he doesn’t have grounds for being a bigger dick to you than he already is.

He hates that both Kyle and Johnny seem to disapprove that.

But you aren’t going anywhere.

You chuckle when Gaz shows off his sharpshooting skills, you patiently watch their eagle’s training routine and offer to spot him. You pretend not to notice the way sergeant Garrick stares unblinking at the sliver of skin that shows when you stretch your hands above your head and your T-shirt rides up a little.

You kiss Soap whenever and wherever you feel like, not paying any mind whether or not someone might see it.

You press a short smooch to Soap’s lips during the drills and missions — getting returned one as quickly as yours was given, because Johnny is whipped and “it helps to calm the nerves”. Because apparently you can’t just communicate with words like the rest of them and need to have this secret third thing.

You catch Johnny’s lips routinely, biting his lower lip, rubbing against his stubble like it really can give you some information that you can’t get otherwise. You kiss him after swimming, getting salt off his lips, getting his spirits so high a little more and sergeant is gonna become a bloody kite.

You cup Johnny’s face and press your lips to his — slow and gentle, tongue already sliding between his lips, Soap’s hands holding onto your hips — fingers sinking into the fatty tissue of your ass. It’s not rushed in the slightest, your cool lips meeting his, Soap thumbing the dimples on your lower back so you arch into him. So he has a “just” reason to get handfuls of your ass.

Simon accidentally walks in onto one of these sessions and like a bloody creeper stays in the shadowed corner because the two of you seem a bit preoccupied with whatever “conversation” you have been having.

But to give you two your due — the make out session is indeed silent. There are no whispers, no exchanged sweet nothings, no secret confessions. Nothing.

Like you two can actually talk like that.

Like it is an actual thing.

Simon doesn’t want to admit that it unnerves him ever more. A fling, a moment of passion added to urge to mess with the team he could understand. This? Whatever this is, he can’t. He doesn’t know how.

There is a quiet soft intimacy in the way you hold each other, in the way your kiss seems never ending, in the way you two break it only to rub cheeks or noses. It’s intimacy Ghost hasn’t seen before and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Not like he can ask, right?

Simon leaves as quietly as he came, trying to mull it over, trying to come up with something — anything — that would fill in the gaps he can feel under his ribs.

He is all heavy bulk and heavy boots and heavy glares, but it doesn’t seem to phase you when you finally corner him in the gym.

Eyes so calm it drives him up the wall, eyes so gentle he feels like wrestling you to the floor so you finally get the point and stay the fuck away from him.

But you just angle his face to you and tap the hem of his mask silently. Eyes calm and chest pressing into his, pressing him into the wall so he can’t run and hide. Slippery fucking seal, he should teach you some fucking manners so you don’t get too cocky around your superiors.

And maybe if you said a single thing he’d push you away. Maybe if you asked him for something, he’d bristle and growl and sneer. But you don’t so Simon is not sure what to make of it.

He just pulls balaclava just above his lips, scar crossing them, part of his upper lip gnarly ugly thing that healed a little too high and left him with perpetual snarl. It’s not pretty.

He isn’t pretty.

Not like Johnny with his shiny eyes and wide smiles, not like Kyle with his full lips and proud slope of the nose.

He knows he isn’t pretty but the wolf in him still gets ready to snap jaws on your neck the moment you mention it. Simon knows he is nothing special, he’d rather a pretty seal didn’t comment on his appearances.

You don’t know his story and he prefers it stays that way.

The feel of cool fingers on his jaw snaps Ghost out of it, your eyes still calm and endless, your breathing ghosting over his lips — you are close enough to drink into his every breath. Close enough to taste desperation rolling off him in waves.

Close enough for him to get handfuls of your ass and pull you flush against him.

Got you, slippery seal. He caught you. He won.

But you don’t seem to mind it, your nose just pressing to his cheek — slowly, like you aren’t sure how much you can do before Simon loses his mind and either mounts or mauls you right on the floor of this gym.

Simon isn’t sure himself what he’d like to do more.

Your breathing on his cheek is feather-soft when you gently rub on his stubble. The same way you did with Johnny just a few days prior. The seal greeting you two do tirelessly.

Ghost hums quietly and tilts his head to the side, so you can reach better, his hands no longer gripping but slowly groping your bum now. Like he is finally letting himself savor it without the fear of your slipping right through his fingers.

There is a beat after which you finally press your lips to his, catching them like he’s an old friend you are happy to see — your tongue asking for permission like Simon isn’t pushing his in your mouth the moment you kissed him.

Simon is all hunger and sharp teeth and heavy glares, but you kiss him and he melts. You open the soft wet heat of your mouth and be pushes his tongue inside, finally tasting for himself salt on your tongue and points of your canines and the gurgly needy sounds your throat makes when he devours your mouth.

When his fingers get to underside of your ass and inner side of your thighs.

Slippery seal, don’t you know that he is the biggest meanest dog in this compound?

But your palms slide under waist of his pants, your nails digging into his lower back so he can’t help but arch into you.

Well, not anymore, he is not.

Ghost grins in your mouth and licks the grin off the tips of your teeth, hoping to poke himself too hard and finally bleed in the chatty mouth of yours.

Seal to wolf communication, eh? That’s something he can understand.

That’s something he’d like to become proficient in.

The next time you press a kiss to Johnny’s lips is during brief and no one spares you a second glance.

By this point, it’s a routine and you two never lose too much time doing this so if seals need to communicate, the rest are going to leave you to it.

Only this time you don’t limit yourself with just Johnny, reaching out to Simon right after — pulling him in by the scruff of his neck and giving him a short smooch as well. Like it’s a completely normal thing too.

Price pauses mid sentence, giving you a long unreadable stare before finally arching his brow, thick cigar between his lips heating up when he pulls air in.

Komodo dragons thrive on hierarchy and you are starting to push it. Thin ice there.

“Seal to wolf communication, sir.”, your grin is wide enough to show off tips of your canines, eyes crinkling when Kyle looks at Ghost with the look of utter betrayal on his face.

Yeah, you will need to come up with something to sweeten it for pretty eagle sergeant as well.

“Didn’t know it was a thing. Can he talk with seals too?”, Price looks utterly unimpressed, eyes heavy with something you can’t quite make out.

“No, sir.”, the answer is as honest as they get, your grin only widening when Ghost slowly licks his lips, lieutenant’s eyes heavy in a way that unrolls a sweet aching in your belly.

Big mean bastard he is. Big bad wolf.

“But he can feel the vibes. Right, L.T.?”, you turn to him and Simon tilts his head to the side, his tail wagging behind him, his tail smacking your thigh every time it moves.

Price looks at Ghost with the look of exasperated parent but lieutenant seems to be finally content with the way things are.

Lieutenant finally doesn’t mind the seal to seal communication.

Not when he has his own now.

Big bad wolf just wanted to be included, didn’t he?

“Yeah. I sure can.”, he finally huffs out and leans on you, corner of his lips twitching when you have to steady yourself not to tip over. Big mean bastard.

Simon tilts his head to the side, like never before reminding you of his animal side — deep seated eyes of his glimmering from underneath the dark hover of his brows.

“Though I feel like the first check was too hasty”, he muses words slowly, syllables rolling on his tongue, accent thickening. There is laughter simmering on the bottom of his irises, the heated sort of fun.

“Mind givin’ it another go, luv?”

Next one>>

[pettysreverie]

Kinda really obsessed with the idea of him becoming super obsessed with you after fucking you…

CW: AFAB!Reader, stalking, obsessive behavior, yandere-esque behavior (if I missed something, pls kindly let me know!)

Like, I imagine that maybe he’s just come back from deployment? Would explain why he’s so starved for a good fuck, ya know?

Probably meets you in a pub (bc duh) and after a few drinks between the two of you, you both decide to go back to his place.

He figures it’s gonna be nothing too big of a deal. Certainly nothing he hasn’t done before.

Who hasn’t taken a bird back from the pub for a good fuck?

But the moment he slides into your cunt, he knows that he’d been wrong.

Whatever he’d been doing before was not fucking. Was not having sex. Because sex with you—with your slutty cunt and those heavenly sounds you make—is bewitching.

As if your cunt is putting him deeper and deeper under a spell with every twitch and clench.

A spell he gladly welcomes.

Your body is so soft and beautiful. And you…you’re so pliant and willing—batting those pretty lashes at him with that dazed, fucked out look in your eyes.

And that’s when the spell cements.

When a flip switches inside of him.

When something…changes.

He grips your ankles and hoists your legs over his shoulders to drive his cock even deeper inside of your quivering heat.

Your back bows off the bed and your hands grapple the sheets, moans tumbling from your kiss swollen lips as your eyes nearly roll all the way back.

“Yer mine. All mine.”And there’s a stutter in his breath as he moans, his hips momentarily stuttering in their otherwise relentless movements. “Say it fer me, love.”

But with the way he’s got you practically folded in half—knees all but bent to your chest with your legs draped over his back—replying to him is the furthest thing from your mind right now.

He angles his hips, driving long and deliciously thick cock directly into your sweet spot over and over again—seemingly determined to drive you insane with pleasure.

Seemingly determined to fuck you positively dumb.

“Say. It.”He grits out, his voice taking on an almost animalistic, growling tone.

There is something so primal about his command. Something about it brings out such a fundamental instinct in you that you cannot help but to comply—to submit.

“Y-Yours…”You manage to utter amongst your incoherent babbling and moaning.

One word.

You only speak one word.

But one word is all he needed to hear.

He fucks you well into the morning. The sun rises, its light shining through the cracks in the curtains by the time he turns you loose and allows you to rest.

And rest you do.

When you wake up, it’s practically evening!

You’re quite embarrassed. But like the gentleman he is, he assures you that he does not mind. In fact, he even offers to pay for your transportation home.

You decline, too embarrassed about your faux pas.

And for you? You assume that, while this was an amazing experience, it was a one time thing. You don’t expect to see him again.

But you do.

You run into him again and again and again.

At the market. At the park. At the coffee shop.

It’s fate! It’s the universe! It’s gotta be something, right?

It’s…him.

You really thought he was going to let you go after that world altering fuck? The way you blew his mind? The way your cunt hypnotized him?

Silly, beautiful, stupid woman.

Just the thought of someone else having you like that…no, he doesn’t even want to think about it.

How could he let you get away?

No, he had to hack your phone.

Not like it was hard…sure he’s more of a “field” agent. More used to having a gun in his hand and his boots on the ground, but he’s no stranger to some lines of spyware code.

Besides, you made it quite easy for him by sleeping in as long as you did…not that he minded of course!

You look so peaceful while you sleep. So beautiful, actually.

And really, he was so very glad he’d hacked your phone. How else was he supposed to know where you lived when you rejected his offer to pay for your transportation home?

But now that he’s in your phone, he’s practically in your life already.

Every contact you have saved, he knows.

Every place you go, he knows and can go there too. (How do you think your two have been running into each other so often?)

Every post you like. Every pin you save. Every song you playlist. He knows it all.

Not that you know it…not that you ever will.

He’ll let you believe it’s fate. Or the universe. Or whatever. Doesn’t matter to him, really.

Besides, you’re already his.

You even said so yourself…remember?

(Oh you don’t? Then why doesn’t he just remind you?)

[nightcrews]

CoD Prompt 7

NSFW

━━━━━━ ❖ ☁︎ ❖ ━━━━━━

You and Soap are sent in on an undercover infiltration to catch the head of a sex trafficking ring. The kicker? The place you’re infiltrating is an exclusive BDSM club, the only place the target is known to routinely frequent. The club only admits verified dom/sub pairs, and you’re the two with the most chemistry, and the good looks to get noticed.

Naturally, you go into this with Soap being the Dom and you his Sub, suffering through his cocky grins and puffed chest for the weeks of training you go through.

“Jus’ follow my lead, bonnie.” He says smoothly, with a smug smirk and a wink, “We’ll have ‘im fooled from the get go.”

He spends the next week insisting he can play the part better than any he ever has. That he’s basically Casanova in tactical gear. He hypes up how he was born for this, he’ll be a natural, that you’ll fall for him for real, just wait and see.

As if you hadn’t already.

But the club gets the registration wrong. When you arrive, mouth dry and practically shaking in your heels, you find out that, in some cruel twist of fate, they have you marked down as the Dom, and Soap as your Sub.

Soap’s face goes blank, and yours goes red, but the only way to not blow the mission completely, is to go along with it. And right off the bat, you’re the talk of the club. The pretty newcomers.

The head of the ring catches interest just as fast, and requests a demonstration of your dynamic, eyes on Soap the entire time.

“The fuck am I supposed to do?” You hiss through your teeth.

“Whatever it is,” Soap says in your ear so no one can hear, “jus’ sell it.”

Cut to him on his knees in front of you, shirtless, gazing up at you with wide, dopey eyes. His face is flushed down to his chest, his arms bound to his ankles behind him in a velvet rope. The target is watching intently from a booth, so you have to sell it, and Soap is making it so easy to.

His head falls back when your run your fingers through his mohawk, down the back of his head, then along his jaw. A riding crop is propped up on your shoulder, and you guide his cheek to rest against your bare thigh, making him keep his eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“You’re doing so well for me, Johnny. I’m so proud of you.” You say softly, despite the way your heart is hammering in your chest as dozens of eyes in the room watch, “And good boys get rewards don’t they?”

Johnny only stares, caught off guard by the confidence in your every step, every word. Like he was intoxicated by it.

You slap the crop against one of his nipples, pressing your foot down against the growing bulge between his legs, and he jumps, whimpering out a, “Yes ma’am.”

And that’s when something sharp and hot pools in your stomach, between your legs, and you decide that, yeah, you think you could get used to seeing John MacTavish on his knees for you.

The room lets out a soft, collective laugh, some moans and coos audible through the music and chatter. Between that and the way the target is watching you, you feel yourself settling in nicely to the role you weren’t supposed to play.

Soap is hard and twitching under your foot, letting out a heavy breath when you press harder against his cock to lean down and say, “Color, Johnny.”

“Green.” He breathes out before you can even finish asking, pressing his face back to the inside of your thigh, cerulean eyes tipping back up to yours, “Fuckin’ green, lass.”

“Good boy.” You say reverently, holding his chin in the palm of your hand. You lean down to whisper in his ear, so only he can hear, “Didn’t peg you as a softie, Sergeant.”

“Aye, cause ye haven’t pegged me yet, darlin’.”

You feel your lips curl in a stupid grin, joking, “Is that you asking me to?”

He breathes out a laugh, his lips skimming along your thigh, to the juncture of your hip, “Ask me again when yer not crushin’ my cock ‘n balls so I can think straight.”

And when the op is done, when the target is in custody, you spend the last night in a hotel before heading back to base. Soap catches you in the doorway, gazing down at you with half-lidded eyes, stepping in close, pressing pleading lips down your neck.

And he begs you to do it all over again.

✦ (This can also be changed to Ghost x Soap, where Ghost ends up being Soap’s sub in the mix-up 🤗)

✦ (Quick note: I am still learning BDSM culture for another fic I’m loosely working on. If any terminology or depictions here are incorrect, please let me know. I do not want to offend anyone, and I want to learn out of respect!)

✦ (Ok one more note! I KNOW the 141 probably doesn’t do undercover work a lot, but do I love the trope and will I continue to use it? YES AND NO ONE WILL STOP ME!)

[mina-org]

part one - part two (youre here) - part three - part four - part five- six

warning for smut, 141 are panty sniffers! and more yanderery than the last! I have another part written but I just felt like was already dragged a lil so lmk if you want the next part! also not edited bc im lazy

“The birds just not fuckin’ into ya johnny. She never took this long to respond to me.” Simon smirks, truthfully he didn’t really remember but he was fucked off with this entire thing, not only was Johnny after his bird but texting you became a group sport, even the double text.

Simon seethes, usually you would've crawled back to him by now, you'd get drunk and call him sobbing from whatever pub you were at and you'd owe him, rinse and repeat.

At least if you were into Johnny he'd know what you were doing but now your absence started to eat at him, he just wondered your were like a deer fresh out the womb, learning to walk, how would you survive when Simon wasn't there to pick up your the pieces when you inevitably fell apart again.

simon couldnt take them fawning over you anymore so he returned to his bedroom, he had a little secret that he had to keep from those closest to him, your underwear. A collection really.

to start with, they were just tucked in his bag for when he was deployed, he’d push a pair around his cock, satin felt nice but the cream pair with little berries on? they were too cute and so you. He’d pump his cock until they were stick with his cum.

then when he was home more often and you were fucked too dumb to bounce on his cock, neglecting him after hes giving you so many? he'll remember that for next time. and really left him no choice but to scout out your discarded panties, maybe a fresh pair if you packed them, and he'd finish himself off before tugging them up your legs, his cum from earlier still leaking out your pretty pussy. something about you walking home in shame, carrying him with you, a sense of ownership simon loved.

now these panties were all he had, and he wasn't gonna share them. maybe with Johnny, if he was good.

after a week it just wasnt doing it for him anymore, he needed to see his girl but all his texts weren't sending:( and he hadn't seen you at the gym or the pilates class you spent so much money on. almost like your little temper tantrum was serious this time.

okay so it took simon a week or two to turn up begging, well demanding your forgiveness.

or he would've, if you answered the fucking door? after coming over and almost fighting your door guy a few times, he gets the hint, stealth is wealth and all that.

now here he is, staring at you through binoculars, on the rooftop opposite your building, like he's gathering intel or some shit. originally he was gonna keep this to himself, threes a crowd after all but it was chilly on the rooftop and simon is all about efficiency and your safety of course!

thing is, that pesky door man knows who simon is, and its doubtful a stick on moustache and boiler suit is gonna convince him that simon is also the buildings engineer!

through this process they've found out your building has a lot of security issues, nobody even thought about cyber security so when gaz sends out an email with a list of apartment numbers and a time, stating some maintenance was needed, no one bats an eye.

and of course you dont want any awkward conversations, like offering them tea or coffee 50 times while they try to focus but they'd think you rude if you dont and you can't ignore them, thats rude too. so you have to go out and stay out.

so you go shopping, you've been needing more underwear anyway!

soon enough John and gaz are in your apartment, putting up hidden cameras, slipping trackers into the linings of your most worn clothes, rifling through your belongings and testing out your perfume, trying to figure out which one you use daily from the memories of your scent lingering on simon and around the flat.

however gold is struck when they come across your laundry basket! feral is the best fitting word, Johnny will froth at the mouth once they tell him and of course share the bounty of their conquest.

taglist: @skeletonsucker @supernova2205 @wh0re4-alexademi @grr457

[mctvsh]

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gn!reader x johnny soap mactavish

you explaining your insecurities to johnny and he just grabs your hand and puts it against the growing bulge beneath his pants. he blinks his baby blues at you like he hasn't done a thing wrong, but says some shit like, "naw you're beautiful bon, look how hes growin'" with a shit eating grin.

[guppybibi]

thinking about johnny who just like–loses a part of himself after he got shot in the head, yes because he totally survived that. i don't know how to describe it, and neither does he.

he just spends a lot of his time disassociating, it creeps you out honestly. oftentimes you find him staring at the wall, the ceiling, and you. he doesn't speak as much as he used to as well, so you're still growing used to the silence.

then one day, johnny just goes missing. he's nowhere to be found, so you go out to try and find him hopefully. along the way, passing by the flower shop you coincidentally meet simon who was just getting out of the shop, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

with your voice still shaky, you ask him if he has seen johnny at all today. and to your surprise he replies with "what do you mean, luv? it's johnny's death anniversary today?"

...who the fuck was in your house..for practically a whole year?

[aennasan]

You always caught yourself staring at Johnny's behind. He always teases you about it. Always encourages you to touch it with that thick scottish accent of his. As a reply, you just roll your eyes and tell him to get over himself. He just chuckles and tells you that the offer still stands whenever.

Little did he know that it wasn't his ass you were looking at, partly yes, but you just noticed that Johnny has dimples on his back at the bottom of his spine. And you always catch a glimpse of it whenever he wears low rise jeans.

You're not a perv but you wonder how good it would look while you peg him. You wonder how hot it would feel to put your hands on it while you rail his back.

But of course, you keep it to yourself.

Knowing Johnny, he will take your perverted thoughts as a compliment. You had enough of his cockiness.

But.....maybe someday.