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#Cod Soap x reader
just-a-sewer-goblin · 3 months
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The way Soap would use military talk to get a reaction from you. He knows you're into it. So you're standing in the kitchen, maybe cooking something and you can hear his raspy voice from behind the corner "Got visuals on the target" and you're already grinning, wisely putting down anything that could make a mess. You hear slight shuffling and a whispered "Nice and stealthy boys", the next thing you know is him tackling you and immediately catching you in his arms, carefully lowering you to the floor. He crawls over you rasping: "Hostage secured", and presses his lips to yours but you both have to laugh. And it ends up being a messy kiss because you both can't stop giggling and grinning into the kiss. And when he breaks away because you're both smiling so wide it's just impossible to properly kiss, you put your hand on his chest and tell him: "You're a goof MacTavish". His smile softens and he replies: "Aye, your goof, that is."
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glossysoap · 1 month
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thigh fixation ; choose your own captain | captain price OR captain mactavish | soap it up
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summary: my headcanons for riding either captain price’s or captain mactavish’s thigh!
tags: 18+, afab and fem nicknames
note: you can interpret/read this imagining either captain! the ending includes dialogue options for both so you can choose your own adventure in a way! inspired by @vgilantee’s ask that i’ll be posting after this! ily ily char mwah <3
this is also using two prompts from @glitterypirateduck’s soap it up challenge! (yes, i will be posting fics for that challenge forever LMAO)
“i’ll take care of you.”
“just a little more.”
🏷️: @divine--serenity @violet-phantoms @ghastlybirdie @jumbojazzcats93 @loveyhoneydovey @vgilantee @stargirlrchive @warenai @viylikescats @lilpothoscuttings @cassiecasluciluce @krakenbabe @bunnyreaper @blackrose4242 @lordlydragon @ansaturn @luvecarson @kenqki @luvmeijii @zittles3000 @theloneshadow24 @moonriseoverkyoto @itzzjxlyn @damnirina @blissful-bunny @wrathofcats @claymorexpunisher @mandalover2023 @undeadsthings @kiroshang @ivymarquis @titaniasfairy
thinking about grinding your dripping cunt down onto his muscular HAIRY thigh. thinking about how your juices would soak his skin and his hair, leaving a wet sheen along the muscle.
thinking about his strong, big hands gripping your hips and guiding you back and forth on his meaty thigh, assisting you in your desperate grinding.
thinking about your head nuzzled in the crook of his neck because the pleasure is so overwhelming, you can’t fathom doing anything else but just hiding your face away.
thinking about how you would grind your puffy lips back and forth on his meaty thigh, giving you that perfect friction that made your head so cloudy.
thinking about your sensitive clit rubbing against his rough, hairy skin so fucking perfectly that it made that knot in your stomach grow tighter and tighter.
thinking about him crooning into your ear and egging you on. thinking about him craning his neck to whisper into your ear, his husky accented voice sending a tingle down your spine.
if you’re imagining captain price, his dialogue would look something like this —
“go on, make yourself feel good. take what you need. grind down on my thigh, doll. grind that needy pussy on my thigh. yeah, that’s it. so good for me. always so fuckin’ good for your captain.” he coos in your ear, voice dripping with honey as he praises you to no end. he knows just how much that turns your brain to mush.
when he feels your hips twitch and hears your breath catch, he knows you’re about to come. “yeah, there you go. almost there, love, c’mon.” he eggs you on, his beard scratching your skin.
“that’s it, that’s it!” he croons into your ear as he feels you drench his thigh and hears you let out a choked cry. “good girl.”
now, if you were imagining captain mactavish, his dialogue would look like this —
“ye’ look so fuckin’ pretty grindin’ on my thigh like that, hen. just soakin me, aren’t ya? pathetic little thing. all needy and whinin’. but don’t ye’ worry, pup. i’ll take care of ye’.” he would all but growl in your ear, hands pressing you down even more on his thigh.
he smirks when he hears you let out a muffled moan into his neck, your hips stuttering as you feel yourself dangerously approaching your own release.
“just a little more, come on. ye’ can do it, ah know ye’ can. give it to me, give me your juices.” he growls into your ear again, husky voice only making your stomach feel tighter and tighter.
“there you go, good fuckin’ girl.”
©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.
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1-ker0sene-1 · 2 months
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Caregiver
MDNI, Straight up smut once again
Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x Reader
Selfish. He's being damn selfish. How can he help it? You were good. Too good for him, he knows that. But you're funny, the kind of funny that full on belly laughs at his jokes and grins at him even when he barely smiles at his worst ones. You're too understanding, he took the job to take care of you- but when his head throbs and burns in pain, when he snaps into a thought of war, you're there with him to keep him centered. Fucks sake are you gorgeous. Beautiful in each sense of the word. Your eyes are burned into his brain. He has to stop himself from gripping on the soft flesh of your hips when he sees you. You're too soft, too warm, for a ruined man like himself.
So when you're sitting across from eachother at a cafe he drove you to, talking about another failed date of yours. It takes everything not to break the mug in his hands. Another idiot, you tell him all about, some dumb bastard that had no idea what he let slip away. Johnny won't let you slip away. No. Not any further. He's not a good man, but he can treat you like he is.
John MacTavish can be a patient man. Not with you.
He wasn't patient enough. Barely enough to get through the front door, cause now he's got you pressed into the mattress. Knees up against your chest, your warm, throbbing cunt squeezing his length. Watching your mouth fall open with babbling moans and gutteral whimpers. He leans down to shush them sweetly, pressing his open mouth to yours. Plunging his tongue into your mouth to claim it, grinding his hips hard into you. The scruff above his cock rubbing against your abused clit, making your pussy flutter on his size.
"Poor fuckin' thing.. poor wee bonnie.."
He coos.
"John-"
You cry into his mouth, he only grins. Kissing on the side of your face down to your neck.
"Aye I'll take care of ye.. Me. I will. Always do. Always fuckin' will."
His dog tags hanging from his neck, dangling down in the valley between your breasts. As they bounce softly from his rough thrusts. He sinks his teeth into the skin of your throat, growling against it.
"My lass. You'll be my lass. I'll provide- I'll take care of ye- I'll love ye- fuck I'm gonna marry ye hen-"
You're gripping him tight, not just your pretty slit either. Your nails drag down his back, tears in your eyes as you shiver from overstimulation. Fuck. You've already came twice since you both started. He needs more, more of you.
"Ye have to tell me. Tell me ye want this. Tell me you'll let me have ye- I need ye-"
John is begging you like a dog, forehead pressed to yours. Tears just barely starting in his own eyes, drunk on the way your walls tighten around him. On the way your skin feels against his. He is not a good man, he can love you like one, but he can't fuck you like one.
"Yes- yes please."
You confirm, nodding instantly. Craning your head up to brush your lips against his, he leans down to meet you half way. He crumples against you with relief, his full weight pressing you down to the bed. Still pounding into you. He presses his lips to your temple, kissing it tenderly as he bullies your cervix with his cock.
"Fuckin' finally."
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ohmygraves · 2 months
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Hello! I've got a little writing idea if you want to do it. Reader and the rest of 141 are at a bar and reader keeps getting hit on throughout the night. Ghost/Soap getting jealous and feeling protective/possessive over reader and intervene. Just a little bit of a guard dog trope really. Scary man privileges. Hope this sounds a little interesting to do, have a good day :)
hello!!! thank you sm for the idea 💖🫶🏻 please enjoy this humble writing, i love the idea 💛 i wasn't sure if i want to do it with ghost or soap so i did both lol have a good day yourself!
scary dog privilege — ghost/reader/soap
warnings: creepy guy being pushy, alcohol mention, swearing
your little outing at the bar tonight seems to be quite unsuccessful.
actually, no, someone else would argue that you had a very successful day at the bar, since you're currently being hit on left and right by the other patrons. that's the purpose of a bar, right? to maybe find someone to kiss or hook up with one night, and hopefully not catch anything along the way.
but no, you're actually getting quite annoyed right now, as you want nothing more than to sit back, relax, and just get a few drinks with your friends from work. that's all. you want nothing to do with these people who want to get into your pants, or even ask you what's under it.
after a job well done, your captain had wanted to treat the team a few drinks to celebrate. this gets everyone excited, especially because he's not giving any price limits, and he's quite generous. besides, who would miss out on getting free drinks?
maybe you, because you're actually thinking if it was better if you'd just stayed behind, maybe read a book or watch some movies. hell, you could've even spent time at the shooting range, which you actually hated! (because ghost would nitpick at every single thing you did wrong when shooting, and he won't leave you alone until you get it right)
poor you, being such a people pleaser, not wanting to offend the person trying to hit on you, giving them a chance to speak and you'd listen attentively before turning them down because you're not here to hook up, you're here for some drinks and maybe to catch up with your friends. work has been so awful lately that the five of you haven't had the chance to even speak about anything other than mission, work, training... it's slowly getting annoying.
unfortunately, it seems like the others are not so interested in catching up, seemingly leaving to do their own thing. gaz went to the bathroom after downing a few pints, captain went out for a smoke as it is a non-smoking bar, and ghost and soap were somewhere near the billiard table, competing for something stupid again likely. and you? you're left alone in the booth the team always sat in, alone, taking sips of your drink waiting for kyle to come back from his pee break.
you've turned down two men so far, who fortunately was smart enough to sense that you're uninterested in their idea of a good time. you have to admit, you felt quite bad turning them down, especially since they seem to be quite courteous.
this fucking bloke, however...
he was very drunk, very pushy when talking to you. you could literally smell the alcohol off of his breath, it was a surprise that no one has tried to kick him out yet. he kept pestering you, trying to sit beside you and touching you, and your politeness is growing thin everytime he tried to get you to drink with him. you tried to tell him you're not interested, but he was too drunk to even register a "no", apparently.
seriously, where the hell is kyle? why does he need to piss out his two pints of beer immediately after drinking them?
you cursed at kyle, wondering which bathroom he went to for his pee break. did he go to the bathroom in the fucking philippines or something, what's taking him so long?
quickly, someone else scooted over beside you, leaning against your shoulder. soap.
"aye, this lad bothering yer, hen?" he asked you, arms slung behind your shoulder. you thanked whatever gods sent him your way.
the man who tried to hit on you seemed offended, was about to give soap a piece of his mind, before he was yanked out of the way by ghost, thrown aside down on the floor. it made a huge commotion, people were now looking at you.
ghost sat down quietly in front of you — where the man just sat after he tried to touch you, "reckon we should give him 'piece o' our mind, johnny?" he asked the scot.
"mmmaybe. what yer think, lt?"
now the man was fuming, being humiliated in front of the bar when he was trying to flirt with someone?
to make matters worse, now soap decided to kiss you!
he gently held your face, pressing his lips against yours, and to make it believable, even slipped his tongue in-between your lips, his eyes glaring at the drunk bloke. the man who tried to flirt with you was dumbfounded, too surprised to even say anything.
soap pulled away from you for a moment, letting you catch your breath. but before you could say anything, ghost pulled you over the table, his hands gripping your collar as he kissed you too, following what soap did, but much more intense. you didn't even see him pulling his mask up.
"see? lass's taken. shoo." soap held you close after you kissed ghost, basically telling the guy to fuck off. somehow, he left, still fuming though at the two guys who claimed you just like that.
you? you were a little dazed. confused. whatever. your two work mates kissed you after saving you from a random bloke who did not know what no means because he was too drunk off his arse. and strangely enough you didn't mind, they were the best kisses you've ever gotten in your life.
"why'd you two kiss me?" you asked, somehow. you felt stupid right after asking, clearly the answer was to help you get away from that creep!
ghost let out a sigh, taking a sip of his own glass of bourbon. "think we did ya a favor there, love."
you thanked both of them, but you still feel soap's hand squeezing your size, pulling you close to him.
"ye see, lass, can't have 'nother blether hittin' on ye."
you didn't seem to mind, you were getting tired and too drunk to even care. at least you're safe with them.
soap lets you lay your head on his shoulder, talking to ghost about something as you three waited for price and gaz to return.
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saturncodedstarlette · 5 months
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Y/N, trying to stop blood flowing out :
Y/N, in a panicked yet comforting tone : I promise, Johnny. I’ll take you home.
Soap, weakly smiling : My love——
Soap, pressing your hand to his heart : I am already home.
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tacticaldiary · 9 months
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Gentle Hands
Request: Hey there! I love your writing so much and I was wondering if you could have some Johnny MacTavish brainrot with me. Johnny comes home from a looooong deployment and he wants to do nothing but collapse on the bed or couch. Until he sees our dear reader, cuddled up in their bed with one of his shirts on a pillow she’s cuddling. He can smell his cologne on the fabric and…whatever happens after that is up to you!
Pairing: Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish x Reader
Genre: Fluff (You deserve it after the marathon of angst I've been feeding you)
"You're sore?" She asks, taking a second to look him over slowly, and goddamn if it doesn't make him shiver.
"Nothing a few days with my girl won't fix." He says, trying to lean up again, groaning when she leans back out of reach. "Bonnie, your killin' me-"
A/N: The way I scrambled to write this the second I could, there's always time for Soap brainrot in this household
Masterlist
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Sometimes he thinks the pinging of bullets ricocheting off of metal follows him out of the battlefield. It's the only explanation for the ever present tension in his shoulder after a long gruelling mission.
Soap sighs, stretching out a shoulder while he digs his house keys out from his duffel bag. The keys feel cool and foreign against his fingers as he clumsily slots them in a turns the lock.
It's been nine weeks since he's unlocked his front door.
Haphazardly pushing off his shoes in the entryway, he throws his bag onto the floor and peers farther into the house. Despite his exhaustion, a smile finds itself on his face at the prospect of seeing her again.
God, he misses her. It was difficult to contact anyone outside of his team when on a mission, even moreso when they were black. The fear of their lines being tapped and tracked is very real, and Soap would rather wait a few weeks to see her than compromise her safety and theirs by allowing himself one fleeting moment with her.
"Bonnie? You there?" He calls out, stepping into the kitchen. Empty. He fights the urge to collapse onto the couch when he checks the living room, the lack of sleep catching up on him.
He's surprised he's still standing, honestly. The OP he'd been on had been in a far mountain range, a lot of trekking and camping out in the middle of a humid, highly vegetated area. Visibility had been rough and they'd taken turns sleeping a couple of hours before they continues trekking towards the enemy safehouse they were aiming to ambush.
He hadn't been able to sleep on the chopper back either, buzzing with the knowledge that he'd finally see her again after months and months.
A damn real bed seemed like heaven after resting on a rough muddy floor for weeks.  
It was the middle of the day, but she was nowhere in the house. Not in her favourite armchair by the fireplace, nor in the garage or any of the bathrooms. He frowns a little. She could be out, then?
It's not until Soap pushes open the door to their bedroom that the next call of her name dies in his throat immediately.
His hand slips off the doorknob, hangs by his side as he takes in the sight, a soft grin on his lips.
There she was, sound asleep, arms cuddled around a pillow that had one of his t-shirts stretched around it. She looked so peaceful, face half obscured by the way she'd nuzzled into the fabric.
Letting out a breathy chuckle, he tries to make minimal noise as he shucks off his shirt and sits on the bed next to her.
Huffing under his breath, he gently tugs the pillow out of her grasp, slides in next to her, adjusting himself until her face is tucked into his neck, not any different from how she was with that pillow.
As if on instinct, her body relaxes, sinking into him and curling closer.
Bliss.
Utter bliss.
A deep, satisfied rumble in his chest as he relaxes, holding the woman he loves so much in their room, their bed, with clean sheets and a heart full of love, is what prompts her to wake up.
With a small groan, she makes a move to pull what she thinks is her pillow closer, but what she grabs isn't a feather-filled soft cushion.
Hard muscle meets her palm, strong and familiar.
"Pawin' at me already, hen?" The deep, tired voice in her ear has a pleased shiver running down her spine, and her eyes fluttering open quickly. "I barely made it through the door."
"Johnny?" She mumbles, eyes widening as the hand around her waist tightens in response. "Johnny!" She pushes herself up on her knees in surprise.
Sure enough, laying right in front of her was the man in the flesh, smiling up lazily, satisfied with her reaction. With a happy squeal, she lunges forward, hugging him tightly. She giggles when he catches her by the waist, sighing into her shoulder and clutching her body to his tightly.
He lets her straddle his waist, looking down at him like she couldn't quite believe it. Her hands roam over his chest as if to assure herself that he was there, actually under her, that he was home.
They lock eyes for a moment, and neither of them knows who moves first but they pull each other into a hard kiss, moving against each other with a practiced familiar ease.
"Missed you," She mumbles against his lips as he runs a hand through her hair. He hums, lets her pull away and cup his jaw. "Missed you so damn much, Johnny."
"I know, baby. Seem like ya had my spot covered though." He grins teasingly, stroking her hair and nodding to the shirt-clad pillow on the ground.
The way she goes red is adorable.
"I told you I missed you." She mumbles. "It just...it still smelled like you, helps me when I miss you more than usual, you know?" She admits. A small pang of sadness hits him at the knowledge that she missed him enough to resort to this...makeshift Soap?
"I missed you too. This is one hell of a welcome." He smiles up at her, squeezing her waist.
She shakes her head but can't chase away the smile on her face. He was home. Johnny, her Johnny.
"Stay around and there'll be much more of that." She teases.
"Minx." He groans, propping himself up on his elbows to bring her into another kiss. As he's doing so, the ache in his shoulder tightens and he winces, a movement not missed by her. She stops him with a hand on his chest.
"You're sore?" She asks, taking a second to look him over slowly, and goddamn if it doesn't make him shiver.
"Nothing a few days with my girl won't fix." He says, trying to lean up again, groaning when she leans back out of reach. "Bonnie, your killin' me-"
"You look like shit, Johnny." She says bluntly, watching him pause to gape at her in mock offense. "You need to rest tonight, okay? Let me take care of you." Much to his dismay, she slides off of him, prods at his shoulder ordering him to flip over.
Too tired to argue, he turns onto his stomach with minimal protest.
Soap truthfully does look like hell; tired, dark circles lining his eyes, but the desire to have her close in any way he can clouds any and all other thoughts. "You know I love ya on top of me, but might I ask what you're doing?"
Johnny presses his cheek to the cool pillow to glance over at her curiously. He watches her straddle his back, her weight tearing a small sigh out of him, his aching muscles relaxing under the soothing weight.
"Nine weeks haven't taken your voice away yet, I see." She rolls her eyes, hands travelling up his bare back to his shoulders. Her eyes linger on those strong muscles she's felt countless times under her hands, her nails, her mouth...
"It takes more than that. Besides, ya love my voice-" She chooses that moment to press into one of the tight knots in his back, red flushing up her neck at the deep, surprised groan Johnny cuts his sentence off with. His head drops into the pillow, his back going up and down with a deep breath.  
Love his voice she does. She certainly does.
Her hands knead at the tension in his back, his shoulders, working out the knots built from weeks of stress.
Here. This moment right here. It makes the weeks of loneliness worth it. Days spent without him, waking up to an empty cold bed with only the remnants of his belongings scattered around the house to occupy her thoughts. It was all worth it when she got to feel the warm press of his skin against hers, when she got to welcome him back like this and spend the rest of her days with him.
Distance makes the heart grow fonder, as they claim.
Her lips press gentle kisses down his spine as she works, soft presses that convey more love than she could ever verbalise.
"I fucking love you." He breathes. Goosebumps flash across his skin when she smiles, kissing the back of his neck. It warms her from the inside out.
"I love you too." She responds quietly, resuming her work. She kisses every mark, every freckle, and blemish, replacing every memory of harsh shoves and painful encounters with a gentle, loving touch. It reminds him that through the horrors he saw every time he strapped his gear on, there would always be people as good as her in the world. Untouched by darkness and willing to love someone like him, someone with so much damn blood on his hands.
Seemingly satisfied by her assurance, he relaxes, relishing the press of her hands against him. The room falls into a comfortable silence, mostly because he's too tired and blissed out to fill it with his usual chatter. A couple of minutes later, he's putty under her hands, languid and relaxed, his shoulders devoid of the tension he came in with.
It's only when his back rises and falls, deep and steady that she slides off of him.
He's fallen asleep, she notes with a smile. At ease, he's a sight to behold. She pulls the warm blanket over both their forms, shuffling close to him.
Johnny's arm comes around her, pulling her close instinctually. His soft mumble is incoherent.
He sought out her nearness, even when unconscious.
The press of his body is familiar, so achingly familiar. The steady beat of his heart and the warmth of his body lull her to sleep, comfortable and relieved.
She drifts off knowing that the next time she woke up it would be in his arms. Loved, protected, and cherished.  
Requests Are Open! Reblog, Comment and Like!
(15/07/2023)
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glitterypirateduck · 2 months
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SOAP IT UP CHALLENGE
GPD'S January CoD Writing Challenge - John "Soap" MacTavish/Captain MacTavish
TIMELINE EXTENDED! January 19-31, 2024
Masterlist
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It's here, the first challenge of 2024! Soap is my favorite Call of Duty character, so I'm especially excited about this one. Details under the cut!
You can write for OG Soap, Reboot Soap, or both! Submit as many works as you like. Headcanons, imagines, drabbles, and artwork are also welcome and encouraged!
Please No: Non-con, Dub-con, SA, Yandere, or major character death. That's right, Soap is alive and well during this challenge! For more information, see Writing Challenge FAQs.
Please tag me @glitterypirateduck and use the tag #SoapItUp. I will put all fics in one masterlist.
If you have any questions, please DM me.
✨️🏴‍☠️🦆
Dialogue Prompts:
Come over here and make me
Do I make you nervous?
Don't ignore me
Don't just stand there, do something!
Don't move
How do you want it
I am yours
I can't remember the last time I did this
I don't want to pretend
I won't let anything happen to you
I'll take care of you
I'm going to marry you
I'm not who you think I am
I've been looking for you
If you don't like my teasing, why are you moaning?
Is now a bad time to tell you...
It doesn't matter what I want
It's more than that
It's not over
Just a little more
Just shut up and listen to me
No one has ever done that to me before
Promise me you won't forget this
Put your hands on the headboard
Say it again
Stay in the car/get in the car
That was very naughty
They don't need to know
Was this your plan the entire time?
Who did this to you?
You deserve so much more
You kissed me first!
You're a bad influence
You're distracting me
You're so hot when you're mad
Want to get an early scoop on upcoming challenges? See my 2024 Writing Challenge page for more details!
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undercoverpena · 1 year
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yours to keep
johnny 'soap' mactavish x f!reader
wordcount: 4.6k || dedicated to @guyfieriii an: teensy smut, fluff, banter, friends-to-lovers babeh summary: You’re in a dress. Your legs are fucking out. His throat all of sudden dry, suddenly unable to focus on anything—hand grasping his glass, the ice clinging and clanging against it. Then your eyes land on him. The rest of the room faded to nothing. He can feel his cheeks warm, his smile beginning to rise—all of it natural, all of it without thought.  other soap work.
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“Why’d they call ya, Squid?” “‘Cause I’m tiny and can swim well.” “Seriously?” You smirked. “No. I kinda… maybe took out a room full of people with a knife. Nothing really. Just… My old Lieutenant said I must have had eight arms or something. So, Squid.” He watches as she looks down. “They tried Octo and Pus for a day, but… realised even within the military, the latter bordered on an HR complaint.” “Steamin’ Jesus.” 
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Soap remembers when the rumours swirled about you and Gaz. 
The two of you were—and are—just good friends. He knows that, believes it, even. He knows there’s nothing but innocence when Gaz’s arm is slung over your shoulders, pulling an easy laugh from you—even if you were bruised and covered in blood, dirt and whatever else. You both knew one another—the only two out of the whole 141 that did—before it was formed. 
It didn't matter how good you were, the whispers still followed. They pricked at you. Soap remembers how you’d dip your head when you passed certain tables in the mess. How you only walked a little taller if you were with him, Ghost or Gaz. 
Now, the rumours were about you and him. 
The two of you having shifted and changed. One minute work colleagues, and then two people who’d needed the other for body heat. He hadn’t meant for the jokes to flow when the only thing that separated the two of you was underwear. But, your eyes had been shimmering, surrounded by snow tinting your lashes. Your beauty was apparent to him before, but harder to ignore when he looked down at you close to him. 
“You d’this with all the boys, lass?”  “No. Just ones from Scotland, it seems.” 
Truthfully, he’d thought you were stunning the moment he first saw you. But, there’s something about seeing the specks in someone’s eyes that makes things feel more intense. Been given the rare chance to study each angle of your cheeks, nose and brows—the way your lips curl when he makes a joke you clearly don’t want to laugh at. Letting him commit you all to memory, in case he never got a moment quite like it again.
Then evac rescued you both, and he half-expected things to go back to how they were. 
But they didn’t. 
The two of you remaining close, flirtatious banter flowing even in a room full of people. He thought you’d be less bothered, but you were more riled by the rumours. Especially at the beginning—when they first began—making your head dip, fists clenching and your eyes struggle to meet his. 
Now, he’s sure you lean into them, practically desperate for someone to dare egg you on so you can tell them he blows your back out. 
Not that he’s had the chance. But, fuck, would he. 
He’d do more than that given half a chance. Not just because you’re beautiful, not just because you make him laugh—but because you make his whole fucking heart soar. You make him better without doing anything, easily able to pull the good parts of him out. 
It had all been gradual, having crept up on him. The way you’ve embedded yourself into his thoughts. 
At first, it was in admiration at your hand-to-hand, the way you use your smaller frame to bend and twist. Then it was because you let your hair down, your head bent back, and your neck all exposed. The dark and dingy inn is full of weightless laughter and thudding music in some country far from home. Gaz pouring a clear bottle directly into your mouth. The way your eyes hit the light and how big your smile was when you stood straight, doing something instantly to him. Making him almost cross the short distance and wipe the vodka from your chin and lips with his tongue. 
Before, you were just Squid. 
Now, you’re more than that. 
You’re paradise and perfect days—and a messy bunch of emotions and snark he hates being away from.
Has been since you let him call you a nickname he’d only ever heard Gaz use and Gaz alone. He’d tried it, tested it, rolled it around on his tongue before he even said it to you. Almost having said it at the inn, when your eyes were glazed and your tongue loose. But, he’d waited—wanting you alone, all to himself so he could watch your reaction. 
See if he’d earnt calling it you. 
“Mari.”
“You know that's not my name, right?”
Your face having turned, the slyest smirk on your face. 
And he had hoped you don’t know he’s been working up to saying it. Almost getting lost in the odd twinkle of your eyes.
He knows, down the path of whatever the two of you become—if anything—this would be the moment he realised he liked you, liked you. That he imagined, for a brief fucking moment, that there could be a future. 
“Oh? Aye? Heard Gaz call it y’… just assumed.”
Shrugging, you stabbed your food again, a soft laugh escaping the air, blessing the space between them. “No, no, no. But it’s okay, you can call it me too. I mean, we did share some floorboards and a ratty blanket, the least I can do to thank you for keeping me warm.” 
He can’t even remember what he wanted to ask. The image of you against him—slightly shivering, eyes staring into his as your hand clutched his back—at the forefront. 
Everything else had vanished, stolen from his mind. Plucked by your beautiful eyes and brain-wiping smile. 
“What is your name?” 
“You know that’s classified, Johnny.”
“You know mine.” 
You had shrugged again, smirking. “If you keep letting me steal your fries, I might let you know.” 
He pushed the rest of his plate towards you, “Y’got it, lass.” 
“Why you want it so bad?” 
He leaned close, even if the rest of the mess hall wasn’t listening—not even paying attention. “Just be nice t’know what t’call y’when I’m fake blowin’ yur back out.” 
Your eyes met his. 
Time all of a sudden frozen. His own flicking from your eyes to the rest of your face, watching, waiting. The two of you have been towing this line so well, recently; dancing on the line of will-they-won’t-they flirtation. And sometimes, he’s not sure if he’s gone too far—if they’ve gone too far. 
So he hopes for a message. One from your face directly—cause it can never lie. 
And he sees it, a twitch of your lips, a slight narrowing of your eyes, before you steal another one of his fries, and bring it to your lips. 
“You’d learn it quicker if you actually blew my back out, Johnny-boy. I’d be like putty in your fuckin’ hands,” you had said, soft, sultry, and so low it took him a moment to realise what you’d just said. 
And then, like all good moments, it broke—Lt appearing, looming over the table. 
Since then—when shit really hits the fan—he seeks you without question. Your eyes land on him, instantly knowing—as if he’s a book and you already know all of his pages. 
When it’s you, he knows from the way your shoulders are sunk, the clear need to be held being written into each muscle. Mostly, it’s the dullness sitting in your eyes. Usually, they sparkle. Not quite a disco ball, but something close to it. When they shine bright, they make the darker days easier and the good days that bit better.   
He won’t admit it to anyone, but he loves having your head on his chest. For a moment able to dream—think—of a time when you’d be here for reasons not so sad. That you’d be here because it’s the two of you, against it all. 
Not just as friends. 
As something so much more. 
Then you leave before he wakes, the reminder it’s not quite that yet, feeling something close to a blade making tiny cuts—not enough to bleed him dry, but enough to make it sting, singe and ache. 
He really does hate the rumours—mainly because he wishes they were true.
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“If you could eat anything for breakfast, what would you choose?”  “Gotta b’ a Scottish brekkie, ain’t it?”  “Streaky bacon?”  “Aye. Not a brekkie without it.”  “I guess.” “Y’not a fan?”  “Prefer cock for breakfast, if I’m honest.” “Fuckin’ hell, Mari.” “What? You forgot for a moment you’ve been stabbed, mission accomplished.” 
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It’s rare. Unusual. 
The whole lot of you crammed in a bar, never mind some small pub in Manchester. Even more unexpected that it was booked out—a specific request for the group of you to bask in the success of the last mission. The one which had taken weeks—stole more from you all than you’d known you could give. 
It had been hard. Long. Difficult. 
So many more words he couldn’t quite think. But in all of it there were moments, tiny fragments he clutched onto. You seek him out, your face sunken and sad, burying your head into his chest as you hold onto him for what felt like hours. Him on a rooftop, staring out into the dark with Ghost, the two mindlessly talking, thinking, and planning, before he asks him where he wishes he could be. 
Now, as he sips his first drink, he replays it. Smiling to himself, because while Lt didn’t say this place, he suspects the name he whispered belonged to the person behind the bar. The one who keeps side-eyeing him, the occasional half-smile gracing their mouth. 
He takes another sip as he thinks of you. 
You who Soap had watched lose sleep. Finding you huddled over a map or screen with Gaz, low whispers, reluctance to rest. Using the few free hours of any given day to train—needing to be better. 
You didn’t ask him—or even Gaz—you’d asked Ghost. 
It ate at him. Chipped away. 
Soap blamed the lack of sleep for where his mind went. Using the same time stuffing down his jealousy over the fact you didn’t ask him. The wallowing peppered with thoughts of being inadequate, making his jaw clench, making him unravel just that bit more. 
In a way, they were all protective of you—not that any of them needed to be. But, it wasn’t something bizarre, out of character. It was something they all felt, tied together by the simple fact they’d come to care for the five-foot-something Squid. 
Even with that, he knows he feels something more. 
It’s been churning, twisting and transforming inside of him for weeks—months. His heart almost leapt from his chest when he thought you were in the building he’d watched being blown up. The compass he relies on to keep him north, disintegrating, dark shadows coming down around his eyes until he sees you emerge from smoke and flames—without your pissing helmet. 
Y’know how to scare me, lass.  Keeping you on your toes, Soapie. 
Now, he’s waiting for you. Paying attention to the hands on his watch—side-eyeing the door until it opens, blasting in cold, Gaz leading you in. 
And—
Fuck. Shit. Bollocks. 
You’re in a dress. 
Your legs are fucking out. 
His throat all of a sudden dry, suddenly unable to focus on anything—hand grasping his glass, the ice clinging and clanging against it. 
Then your eyes land on him. The rest of the room faded to nothing. He can feel his cheeks warm, his smile beginning to rise—all of it natural, all of it without thought. 
Punctuating it all is the soft lulls of Friday I’m In Love playing as he takes the moment to truly drink you in. It feels like minutes, maybe an hour—and he isn’t going to squander it for a second…
And then you blink, stepping up to the bar. 
“Hi, could I order—wait, you are beautiful,” you say to the woman behind the bar—your eyes staring at her. 
Gaz steps in, apologising, but all he’s focusing on is you. 
You’re here. 
Looking every inch radiant from head to fucking toe.  
And he needs another drink. He needs a shot. 
He needs…
A fucking hope and a prayer because he’s not sure if he can pocket his feelings anymore—unsure if stuffing them down will go well with alcohol, bitterness, and the smoothest scotch he’s had in ages. 
So he orders another. 
And three drinks down, and Soap is sitting across from you. A wobbly table between you both, your elbow leaning on it, rocking it from side to side occasionally. 
The scent of fusty ale and brass having faded, swapped for a floral perfume and the elements of his drink. 
You’re focused, even with slightly glazed eyes, on the bar—on the others behind the two of you. Likely on the girl behind the bar, the one you keep staring at—the one who keeps shooting Ghost smiles. 
And he’s jealous. 
He’s jealous because he’s wondering if you’re jealous.
If you want him—your two’s Lieutenant. The one who trained you, sparred with you, and made you go to sleep. 
“C'mon, lass. Desert island, who’d y’want with you?” 
“It’s her.” 
“Wha—?”
You blink, staring at him—your glass in hand as you shake your head. “What?” 
“Who’s ya best friend, lass?”
Your hands play with your glass, spinning it on the wooden table—the one with chipped and glass rings all over its mahogany surface, “From that, I’m guessing you’re hoping it’s you.”
“It’s not?”
“No.”
His throat dries. 
Suddenly realising he shouldn’t have pushed this button. Not sure his frame of mind can even take it. Alcohol bubbling in his stomach, his throat—
“Who then?” 
“Gaz. Obviously.
“Why is tha’obvious?”
“He lives closer.” 
“Is that wha’ makes a friendship, then?”
“Well, my best friend wouldn’t willingly choose to live further away from me, would they?” 
He smiles, realising you’re pulling his leg. Winding him up. Teasing him. 
“Don’t you live closer to, Lt?” 
Leaning closer, you take a purposeful sip, staring him down. Searing down to the core. “Yes, but he can’t be my best friend.” 
Tell me why. Tell me it’s me. 
Choose me. Pick me. 
His heart thumping more, almost in beat with the song. Thump. Thump. Thump. It almost rises up, almost in his throat, pounding against the space he needs to breathe through.
“And, why’s that?” 
You drain your glass, clanking it down. “I can’t be best friends with someone who calls me ‘Squidlet’, Soap. It’s demeaning enough that I let him call me that, never mind rewarding him for it by giving him more of my awesome personality. He can be third in line.” 
And it sinks. 
That feeling. The hope. The want. 
“Well,” he says, quickly. “Ah, I’m glad y’pulled y’self away from Lt to drink with me then, ya fourth.”
“What?”
“Nothin’”
Your hand clutches his arm, stopping him from raising his own glass. “Tell me.” 
“Yur’ always wit ‘im. Before. Could n’va find ya.”
“Who? Gaz?”
“Nah, Lt.”
Inwardly, he cringes. Hating the alcohol, hating how it makes his tongue loose in his head. Letting all of it, each festering feeling, bubble to the surface. 
Because you’re more than his friend. 
You’re so much more. 
“Johnny… it… we were just sparring.”
“Yea, it’s alright—“
“Wait. Are you jealous?”
“No!”
He doesn’t mean to snap. 
Your eyes stare at him, hand dropping from his arm as you slowly reel back. And then you stand, and he inwardly pleads for you to sit. 
Please, Lass. Please. 
Your mouth opening, words all set to be spat, but then you shake your head, walking until you’re out of his sight—the cold draft on his back is enough of an indication of where you've gone. 
Leaving him with a choice. 
One that begins to grow inside of him as the song begins. One he’s heard already, but now it feels different. It’s motivating, it’s making him down his drink, slamming it back down. 
It’s making him stand, turning, watching the other three men staring at him, two with a knowing smile, one with a knowing stare. Even the woman—he doesn’t know the name, who he’s sure is fucking Ghost—leans against the pumps has that look. 
And he knows.
Like they all do. 
His feet move him to the door as Price grabs him around the forearm. “So, the rumours true, or?” 
“Aye, well ther’ about to be, sir.”
“That so?”
“Yeah… I’d apologise, but, excuse me.”
It’s cold. 
That’s what he thinks first when he steps outside. Eyes adapting to the dark, to the mist from the rain—letting the bitter feeling coat his bones. The dread, the fucking ache caused by even letting you go. 
He pleads. 
Hopes, too. 
Please don’t have left, lass. 
Scanning, looking, and then he hears it. Pacing—pacing that he knows so well it’s burned into his brain. Finding you, watching you down the side of the alleyway, turning to face him as you stop, hands flexing at your side as you stare at him. 
“You’re very annoying.” 
“Aye, probably,” he says, stepping closer. “But, that’s cause y’drive me crazy, and I canne’ stop thinkin’ bout ya. And then, your wir’ him and…” 
Your eyes roll, strands of hair sticking to your face. “Oh, shut up. You know it’s you. You know I like you. You have to.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. Because it’s woven neatly between my faux-contempt and sarcasm.”
“Well, y’can probably see how I may have missed that, ay?”
“Not really. I think it’s pretty obvious. Personally. I don’t share a bed with Gaz. And I’m not standing outside as it fucking pelts it down in a ridiculously thin dress because I like British weather. I’m stood out here because the guy who is my best friend, and that I’m pretty sure I could be in love with, is being a dickhead.”
Staring, he steps closer, watching you fold your arms. “Y’in love with me?”
“Of course, that’s the part you heard.”
“Mari—“
You cut him off, not just with your eyes, but with your words. “I mean, as big as Ghost is, it’s not him I ask to lie in bed with after a difficult mission. It’s not him that I go to when I need to smile or laugh. Fuck, I only chose him for sparring because he doesn’t go easy on me, and… and I can’t have you thinking you need to save me.”
“I don’t—“
“—but you do. You practically ripped up Urzikstan to find me.”
“Cause y’were ambushed, lass. Not cause I dunna think y’can handle y’self. Shittin’ Jesus, I know y’can. Y’terrify me because I canne’ lose you. Not cause I dunna think y’can do it.”
It sits there. 
His words. Yours. The two of them ferment, shifting. The space between the two of you gets smaller until his hand is on your cheek, and yours is on his waist, and he wants nothing more than to close the gap. To kiss you. To taste the drinks you’ve been sipping from your lips. 
But he pauses. 
Needing to capture this, the two of you. 
“Soap…”
“Yea’, Mari…” 
He watches you swallow, how your eyes flick from his own to his mouth. “I’d be lost without you, Johnny.” 
He’s not sure who moves first. You, or him. 
But you taste like sweetness and alcohol—your lips cold against him, tinged with the droplets from the sky. Your perfume envelops him, swirling with his, making a concoction of something he thinks he wants to bottle. You and him. A scent he’s both never smelt before and yet had been craving as his hand slides around your cheek—clutching you close as he feels your hands dig into his waist. 
You moan against him, soft, low, almost vibrating through him. Your soft, fucking lips and he slides his tongue against your teeth, and he almost loses his goddamn mind. 
Because it’s happening. 
And he doesn’t want it to slip through his fingers. Not now, not ever. Moving you, as you suddenly begin guiding him, his back against the wall of the pub. 
For a moment, he stops, and then your fingers crack open his belt. The sound loud, so loud, in the silence of the night and the rain making puddles. Your mouth capturing his, your hand sliding down the space and nestle of hair between his stomach and cock. Your hand wraps around him, and it’s…  
More than he thought it could be. 
Even more so when you stroke him, pumping him with your hand, eliciting a groan as he feels your grip tighten, teeth rolling over your bottom lip as you slowly lower to your knees in front of his very eyes. 
“Fuck, Mari. Y’dont even know what y’do to me.” 
“I can feel it, if that helps.”
“Ay, behave.”
Your tongue clicks against the roof of your mouth, lips practically touching the head of his cock as your breath dances over the tip. 
“Make me, Johnny.”
He blinks. 
Stares. 
And then your mouth is around him, taking him into your warm fucking mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip of him. And it’s everything. The image of it alone almost makes him come down your throat until it hits him—
“What the fuc—“ you snap.
His hand dragging you off him, up onto your feet. 
“No girl o’mine is suckin’ me off on her knees in this shite weather.” 
Your lips part, rendered silent as you just stare. “Your girl?”
“Aye, if you want to be?” 
Just the wind blowing down the alleyway, your perfume hitting his nose like it has done all night. Scratching the back of his brain, coaxing him closer with its scent-filled fingers. 
“Did you… did you just stop me from sucking you off?” 
“Aye.” 
“Fuckin’ hell, you love me, you love me back...” 
He runs his tongue over his teeth. Because fuck, he kinda does, but, also, fuck. 
“This fuckin’ dress—“ he groans instead, turning you, pressing your back against brick as you smirk. “—that fuckin’ smile.” 
You clutch his waist as he winds his hand up your thigh, his belt clattering against his legs as his trousers slide down. “All for you, Johnny.” 
“Steamin’ Jesus, Mari. Call me that again,—“
And then you say your name. 
Surrendering it, presenting to him. It’s the best thing he’s ever been given. It almost mingles with your breath, it’s that silent. The only evidence of you speaking it is the wisps of your exhale swirling with the air. 
He rolls it around his mind, as he did with your nickname, and then he says it as he slips his fingers under the band of your lace. Sliding two inside of you, groaning at the feel of you—of how much you want him. Not Simon. Not Gaz. Him. 
“Only you,” you say, all breathy, eyes closed. 
As if you can read his thoughts. Like you’re living in his fucking head. 
“Only ever you.” 
“Fuckin’ hell.” 
Your eyes open, lust boldly staring at him as he finds that spot—the one which makes you grip his shoulder, nails digging in through his shirt. 
And he’s going to ruin you. He’s going to fuck you until neither of you can take anymore. 
He promises it to you with each stroke of his fingers inside you, each ghostly kiss he gives you as you chant his name and he catches each one. 
He will. But not here. 
That’s what hotels are for. 
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“Hey, none of that being cute, shit, today. I’m in enough trouble with Price as it is.” “Ay. Alright. But, y’think I’m cute?” “Shut up, Johnny.” “Got it, lass.” A beat happens, him staying as he watches you. “You don’t have to stay, Soap.” “I want t’.” “Okay.” “Alrighty.” 
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He awakens to a knock. 
It’s not loud, but dull. 
And very bloody insistent. 
Slowly, he opens his eyes, half-hoping his mind hasn't lied to him, before finding your face close to his—turned to him, watching him. 
It’s not a dream. 
“Hi…”
“Hello,” you say, rocking your hips as you smile. 
If you ever try to tell him you don’t look beautiful in the morning, he’d pull up this image of you—right here. 
“Someone’s at the door, Johnny.” 
“Y’got legs, Mari.” 
“No, I don’t, actually,” you say with a smirk. “Someone fucked me to the point they’re broken. I almost knocked myself out getting to the bathroom for a wee an hour ago. You did this, so you go.” 
It blooms in his chest as he stands, throwing on his underwear as he heads to the door. 
The smirk not fading, not just because of the knowledge he’s done that to you—made your legs weak—but that you were staring at him how you just had been doing. The realisation that your body is naked under those expensive, Egyptian bed sheets—the same ones he’d fucked you under, on top of and likely around throughout last night. 
If you’re trying to blow my back out, you’re succeeding.  Y’know I don’t like t’fail missions, hen.  Call me that again. Wha? Hen?
It’s different, unique. 
A look he’s never seen. It’s almost content mixed with adoration, happiness trying to be hidden by disdain—the latter something you’ve perfected over time. 
Am I your best friend now?  No. You’re something else. Oh, upgraded, am I? What is it you say? Aye?
He looks back, finding you watching him, hand up, close to your face, trying to shield your face. Maybe hiding a smile, a devious smirk. But, it’s the look in your eyes he almost can’t place, it almost stops him. Makes him ask what is wrong. 
But they knock, again. Interrupting a moment he’s been wishing for more than he does a shower after being covered in guts and blood. Whoever they are, impatiently bothering them. 
It’s not until he opens the door, the person standing with a cart and metal dishes on it does he realise—
“Room service.” 
The minx. 
The beautiful, fucking minx.
He grins, almost to the point it makes his cheeks ache as he takes it from them. Trying to guide it back into the room with minimal clanging and difficulty. His hands are desperate to pull the lid off, finding your hand on top of his—body covered in pulled sheets from the bed, teeth biting your lips. 
“What’cha done ‘ere then?” 
His hand brushes your cheek, finding it as soft as it always is—your eyes softening, lips widening as you move into him. It’s different, and he’s glad. It’s closer, with no space between the sides of your body, no remaining space left purposefully because of friendship. 
“Streaky bacon…”
“Aye?” 
Lifting the tin, seeing a whole plate full of it. His head turning, looking at you, watching you smile up at him—your hand on his chest, drawing those soft shapes—the same ones you did when the two of you caught your breaths after the third… maybe fourth… time he made you come on his cock. 
“Y’still like t’ same thing for breakfast, Mari?” 
“Only if it’s yours.” 
His cheeks burn—his ears too. “Y’heavenly, you are.” 
“I try” 
You lift the other tray, his eyes finding an array of fruit. Watching you take a piece, popping it in your mouth. His questioning look must be evident, your eyes watching him as you swallow. 
“Ghost once told me sugar is good post-workout—refuels the muscles or something,” you say, swiping your tongue against your bottom lip. “And we still have this room till 11am, don’t we? And I thought, since we’ve already wasted a lot of time—” 
He captures your lips. 
The sheet falling from between the two of you, like paper to the floor—effortless and silent. His body flush against you, feeling your giggle bubble through you to him. All light, airy—and fucking perfection. 
“Mine,” he whispers against your lips as the two of you fall back into bed. 
“Yours,” you whisper back, throwing your leg over him as you straddle him, hovering your lips over his. “All yours, till you’re sick of me.”
He moves your hair from your face, grasping your hip—thump fitting over the growing bruise he’s already left. “‘never be sick of you, Mari.” 
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an: reader is called mari... because of calamari... squid joke ;)
prequel jealous!soap fic here
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siriusleee · 6 months
Text
shot through with gold
“I smashed the whole house to bits,” Johnny keeps going, turning to put the milk in the refrigerator. “Had to get Simon over here to help me put it back together. It was his idea by the way. To get the mug fixed. He said you’d be mad if it was gone when you came home.”
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tags: coming back home, implied torture, capture, smut, riding, reader is afab, mentions of medical procedures, mentions of blood word count: 7.7k author's note: This was a commission by the best and brightest @gazs-blue-hat. If you'd like to commission a fic, visit my ko-fi for more information. Also, I refuse to disgrace the good country of Scotland by attempting to do the full Scottish accent. Readers call sign is Sparrow, but it's only used once.
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The room is heavy with dust; small puffs cloud around Johnny’s boots as he pads across the plush carpet. The summer’s oppressive heat makes the walls sweat - you’d be worrying about the mold forming in the drywall if you could see it. But Johnny doesn’t think of the way his handprints smudge on the paint you spent weeks agonizing over or the way your perfume lingers in the still air even after all this time. 
His singular mission - to grab a few shirts he needs and leave - is the only thought he allows himself to think about, hands combing through the dressers and eyes trained downward, away from all the pictures hanging on the wall. He avoids your side of the dresser, avoids the lace that still peaks out from your top drawer. 
His phone buzzes in his pocket, Johnny ignores it as he pulls the shirts he came to look for out of the dresser drawer, tucking them beneath his arm. He follows his tracks in the dust back out, eyes cast down at the carpet. The whole trip takes less than 10 minutes; he doesn’t let himself look up until he’s slamming the passenger door of Simon’s truck shut behind him. 
“Got everything?” Simon asks, shifting the truck into drive. 
Johnny sits ramrod straight in the seat, eyes avoiding Simon’s as he buckles in. 
“Yeah, got everything.”
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Your fingers trace over the marks you’d carved into the soft stone wall. You’d tried to keep a tally mark of days, but time slipped by in odd increments within your cell. Some days you’d watch the sunrise from the cracks in the ceiling and after just a blink, the inky blackness of night would be seeping in. Sometimes the sun hung in the sky for months before finally falling to the full moon. No matter how hard you tried to decode the pattern,  the moment you had it everything would reset. 
The guards were in on it; they had to be. They’d bring your meals at odd times - sometimes you’d still be full from the moldy slop they shoved in between the cell bars, spilling it out onto the floor like you’re an animal in a cage, and sometimes you’d be so hungry that you could barely crawl to eat. 
It was supposed to be someone else - you were pulled for guard duty after another soldier slogged off and broke his foot doing something stupid while training. You’d finally been pulled to work with Johnny, three days away from being a full transfer to the 141 when your C.O. had appeared at the door of your bunk, new orders in hand.
A simple guard duty: get the guy to where he was supposed to be going, hand him off, and fly home. Your transfer could wait an extra forty-eight hours. But your plane was shot down somewhere over the middle of nowhere - you had told your C.O. that flying that low was a risk, but the desert was empty and the plane was old. They’d been making the flight for weeks, ferrying men back and forth with no hiccups. Your flight should have been no different. 
It should have been someone else. 
You couldn’t remember what had hit your small passenger plane: but the ground was David, and you were Goliath. You’d hit the ground beside the pilot’s head, his mouth formed in a soundless scream, and after a quick flash of black, had woken up to a bucket of water being poured across your face.
Whatever language your captives screamed at you, you didn’t know it. And if they knew any of the ones you screamed back at them: Spanish, Arabic, German, they didn’t let you in on it. You couldn’t figure out what they wanted until they’d ripped the Union Flag from the breast of your vest, a quick picture on a Polaroid camera snapped above you before you realized what they wanted.
Blood dribbled down your chin when you laughed at them: the government didn’t even pay for soldiers who got captured at war. What would they pay for your half-broken body to get shipped back in a wooden box? A simple mistake that could be written off as a plane malfunction. 
The anger had come first, feet and fists slamming into the men when they appeared at the cell doors. Nails ripped from their beds when you tried to claw at the seams in the walls.  It had cost you a few teeth and a pound of flesh. And then, when you were tired of the endless beatings and anger that went nowhere, you begged them to kill you, to do something to end the torment. By the marks on the wall, it took months before you first asked to be killed, and only weeks later for that to end, each request met with silence and a sneer. Now you lay in the corner, waiting for the few moments when they’d let you out to see the sun glinting off of the mountain ranges, the clouds threatening to storm in the distance.
Those quick trips seemed to come with less frequency as time slipped by.
You trace the tattoo on your thigh; they’d cut through it once after you kicked one of them in the chest, his ribs caving beneath your feet, but even beneath the dried viscera and matted dirt that covered your skin, you could still see Johnny’s name there.
You wonder if he’s picked a gravestone for you yet.
The two of you had talked about it, once. It was the nature of your jobs - to be prepared for everything that could come your way. Your wills were done: 75% to Johnny, 15% to your sister’s kids, and the rest to a local charity. Johnny wrote in that you were to get 100% of everything he owned, and you had chided him about it. 
“What about your mom? Your sisters?” You had asked across the steam from your cup of coffee. Johnny had shrugged, dropping the black pen onto the table with finality.
“Already taken care of, birdie.”
After that had come the talk of headstones and burial plots. Of missing bodies and cremation. You had told Johnny that whatever he thought you’d like, to pick out. You weren’t picky about it.
You wonder if the military let him put his last name on the stone.
A decidedly male voice shouts from around the corner, and you pull back into the stone wall. Seconds later, fetid food falls through the bars. The man shouts at you, pointing at the food on the ground. Lazily, you turn your head towards him, watching the way he sneers at you through the bars.
They must be getting angry then. No ransom came through after all these months. 
You bare your teeth at him.
You’d rip his throat out if you had the strength to do so anymore.
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Johnny’s fingers don’t shake like they used to when he buckles the strap of his helmet, the night vision goggles weighing him down. He’s tired - exhausted. The entire convey smells of cigarettes and sweat. Heavy men in heavy gear press around him; across from him Gaz’s eyes shine terribly bright in the darkness. They press in on Johnny, forcing him back into his seat heavily. 
Price’s voice is loud in his comms, intermingling with the sounds of the Marines and the whir of the mechanics beneath his feet. Johnny can’t make out the details over the sound of the truck rumbling beneath him.
“Steady Soap?”
Gaz knows - Johnny doesn’t know how Gaz can do this kind of job with the way he fucking oozes empathy. Or sympathy. Johnny could never remember which one was which, he always had to ask you which one to use.  Gaz had been the only one who’d asked him if he was alright; Simon had lingered at the edges of rooms Johnny was in to keep an eye on him, and Price tried to give him an extended leave. Johnny had refused. 
But Gaz had been waiting until Johnny was sitting outside of some bar a group of Seals had taken them to - a celebration for a job well done months after you were gone, after Johnny's failed attempt to find you. 
“You good?” Gaz had asked, fingers twirling a cigarette he would never light.
“O’course.”
It had made Johnny feel like shit to lie to Gaz, and the same feeling washes over him as Gaz’s eyes linger on Johnny.
The warm summer air washes over them; sweat is starting to coat his lower back, his fatigues keeping him too warm. The smell of the desert, of warmed sand keeps him grounded, reminds him of where he is - what he’s doing here. 
In the glint of the moonlight, the mountaintops shine at him.
The first few missions had been difficult: he’d fought like hell to try to search for you, fuck the regulations. He’d resign if it meant finding you. The rest of the fucking government didn’t care: no one on the plane was as important as anyone else, not to the officials anyway. Johnny had done just that, his resignation had landed heavily on Price’s desk, only to land in the trashcan a moment later.
Gaz volunteered to follow Johnny, but Price had cut that off quickly. It was to be Johnny and Simon only. They had five days, a week at most before they had to be back home.
The farthest they got was the plane wreckage, a little burnt-out village miles away, and sheep that stared at them from the sides of the mountains. But he couldn’t find a trace of you or a singular person who even recognized the photo of you he kept tucked inside his gear. Even after Simon had disobeyed Price’s orders to return home now after weeks had passed. They didn’t find anything.
Johnny knew that’s why Price had volunteered the 141 for this mission - a small-time terrorist cell hiding out in a country they didn’t belong to, a small promise of the bodies of missing soldiers hidden somewhere.
It was something.
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The guards are panicking; the dirt walls shake around you. You can’t guess what it could be: American pilots doing a blind bombing, Russians pretending to send help only to rain down hell on the perceived innocent. Maybe God’s here to level the land and flood it. Try again. Do something different this time.
He could start with your cell, you think, scraping at the dirt on your leg. Underneath the sun-starved skin is paler than it should be. If you ever leave, you think, the first thing you’re going to do is eat a fucking steak in the sunshine. The bones that refused to set correctly ache beneath your bruised flesh.
The sound of gunfire pierces the inescapable silence. Your captors yell, screams punctuating between the bursts of firepower. Good, maybe they’ll tear each other apart and leave you here to die in peace. 
Maybe it was a poker game gone extremely wrong. Someone asked to strip when they should have been ponying up the cash.
Smoke pops in the hallway outside, you don’t run from the white creeping in on you, just pull the rags that were your shirt over your mouth to try and keep breathing. It overtakes your cell; you watch as the smoke creeps through the cracks in the ceiling.
The sounds of war flood the small cell - the taste of blood and gunpowder in the air around you. You can taste the iron when you breathe in. It coats your tongue. You run your teeth across the chipped and broken enamel, mixing the taste of other’s blood with your own.
Someone shouts so close this time you can almost make out the words - American accent thick and heavy in your ears - and it stirs something inside of you. You try to navigate the cell through the smoke, rolling painfully off of the pallets your captors had so kindly turned into a bed for you. Crawling across the excreta and mud you try to make a sound, but you haven’t spoken in months.
Your throat is raw, and the sounds that come from you are barely human. You’ll be surprised the men even hear you, let alone notice you there on the ground. You try to pull yourself up at the bars, but the fracture in your ankle that healed up wrong weeks ago keeps you on your knees.
“Hey-” you finally croak out loud enough for one of the men to cast his eyes down at you. “Please.”
He’s so familiar, the softness in his eyes tugging at something familiar inside of you, the sharpness of his shoulders calling to you. You pull yourself up, leaning heavily on the bars and the one ankle that doesn’t scream at you, hands slipping through the bars to try to reach towards him.
His gun drops, swinging loosely on its strap as he steps towards you. His fatigues are filthy, and his nose wrinkles beneath the cloth mask covering his face. You know you smell terrible, and you want to apologize for it, but you can’t make the words come. He looks so tired as he steps towards you, hands reaching out to grip the bars between the two of you. 
“Sparrow?”
“Johnny?”
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It takes days for you to make it home: IVs from field medics who barely know what they’re doing, anti-viral meds, shots, stitches. They don’t even let you take a real shower until you’ve landed at a base you barely recognize. It’s a painful process, a female nurse wiping at you gently, but still peeling away layers of skin with each pass of the washcloth, your sobs muffled by the shower. 
Johnny waits for you on the fringes of all the people that press around you, poking you, prodding you painfully until finally, you find yourself slammed into a British hospital bed.
Johnny comes in the moment they let him, hands held behind his back in a mock parade rest. You barely recognize him, his mohawk almost completely grown out and bags under his eyes. You know you don’t look much better; you’d caught sight of yourself in a mirror before they’d forced you into bed. Ruined was the only word to describe what you saw. Too thin, too broken. Too torn apart to be stitched back together. At least not without all the types of therapy a military doctor listed out to you: hydro, occupational, physical, mental.
Neither of you know what to say, so you start with the last thing the doctor told you. 
“They’re going to rebreak my ankle tomorrow,” your voice is still thin, full of isolation. You’d tested it out on everyone who’d been in to work on you, but it didn’t sound right at all. Johnny shuffles nervously where he stands, and then rushes forward to sit in the chair beside your bed. He’s moving wrong, you think, like a wind-up doll. Too slow and then all at once, too fast.
“Why?”
“I healed up wrong.”
Johnny’s hands play with the edge of the blanket that dangles off of the bed, eyes trained on the fabric. He’s not going to look at you. At the ruin you’ve become. You press yourself down harder into the thin mattress, hands tucked beneath your thighs to keep them still.
“Is it going to hurt?” 
You can’t help but smile at his question, your toes twitching beneath the blanket that feels so out of place across you. How many months had they had you? A year? No one had told you yet.
“They said I’d be fucked up on medicine. But probably, yeah."
Johnny’s hands aren’t still against the blanket, instead reaching out towards you. The movement startles you, and you jerk to the opposite side, nearly pulling your IVs out. Johnny pulls his hands back, crossing them across his chest.
“When you -” his voice breaks, just a moment before he put it back together, eyes finally meeting yours, “when you come home I’ll bring the bedroom downstairs so that you don’t have to walk far.”
You have the nagging suspicion that he changed what he was going to say at the last moment. 
"Are you going to sleep on the couch with me?" You try to tease, but your voice falls flat, unpracticed. But it still makes Johnny smile, sharp incisors digging into his chapped lips. 
"I'll sleep wherever you tell me."
The two of you are surrounded by the sounds of the hospital: the beeps of the heart rate monitors, the sounds of the nurses' quiet conversation outside of your room. You trace your hands across the blanket, grasping Johnny’s whenever your fingers collide with each other. 
For a moment, neither of you move, just languish in the feeling of each other’s skin; you’re too busy tracing Johnny’s palm to notice him pushing himself closer to you until he kisses you, softly but with a tight undercurrent of desperation, his hand tightening almost painfully on yours.
The feeling of someone touching you so gently after weeks of rage and anger nearly stops your heart. The monitor goes crazy; Johnny pulls back, just the hint of a smile on his lips.
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It takes four weeks for Johnny to get the go ahead to bring you home. Each day you were in the hospital he would come for a quick chat before work,  bringing you breakfast he picked up. Every day after, he would collapse in the chair beside your bed, smelling of sweat and gunpowder. 
The smell made you recoil when he tried to kiss you, and he didn't try again after that, even after you tried to stutter out a why. But the day the doctor tells Johnny that you can go home, you awaken to Johnny outside of the hospital room, arms crossed as he speaks to the head doctor - Johnny looks more serious than you’ve ever seen him off the battlefield. 
Everyone rotates around you as if you’re not there, packing the room up, pulling your IVs out, fingers prodding and poking you until a nurse aide wheels a wheelchair into the room for you.
”Ready?” She asks, locking the brakes. She looks at you from across the room, and you know what she wants. Starting the day after they rebroke your bones, they made you get up and start walking, and you push yourself off of the bed, walkable cast heavy against the tile floor. 
Johnny’s in the room in a second, catching sight of you whenever he sees you stumbling over your cast across the room. The aide lets him push her out of the way, his hands gripping the wheelchair as you lower yourself down.
“I can walk out, you know.” You grumble at Johnny as he tosses a heavy folder into your lap.
“Hospital procedure, birdie.”
Simon’s truck is waiting for the two of you in the parking lot, Simon in the driver's seat. He throws a glance at you as Johnny helps you clamber into the backseat, crowded around by grocery bags. 
“Hello, Luv.”
“Hello, Simon. Thank you for the ride.”
Simon opens his mouth to speak, black hospital mask sliding up, but he’s cut off by Johnny clambering into the passenger seat. 
You watch Johnny from the backseat, foot propped up beside you. His hair has grown out too long, the Mohawk nearly disappeared and his beard has started to grow in. In all the years you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him anything other than clean-shaven; even in the field, he'll butcher himself with a knife before he lets it grow in.
He’s thinner than he should be, too. You wonder if he’d been eating like he was supposed to.
The drive home is disorientating, Simon taking turns too sharply, too quick for your still queasy stomach. By the time Johnny helps you climb down from the truck, dropping your hands quickly when both of your feet are on the ground. 
The house is clean, too clean for Johnny to have been here alone. Like he can sense you'd skepticism, Johnny speaks from ahead of you.
“I’ve hired a cleaner,” Johnny says, holding the door open for you. “So don’t worry about anything.”
It’s odd to be back home; you trace your fingers across the knick-knacks you’d collected throughout the years, the furniture you’ve spent years picking out. You have memories of sitting here with Johnny, memories of Simon and Gaz laughing from the kitchen. But now all you feel is lost, a bottle floating in a foreign ocean.
You wander into the kitchen, fingers trailing against the wall - there are no dirty dishes in the sink, no food in the cabinets; Johnny wasn’t living here. 
The only dish you recognize is sitting on the counter, you pick it up, feeling the unfamiliar weight in your hand. 
“It’s called Kintsugi.”
The Japanese word rolls heavily off of Johnny’s tongue, your fingers pause tracing the golden lines that cut through the mug. It was your favorite, a gift from when you and Johnny had first met. The two of you met at a diner, out with mutual friends. You’d thought it was cute, the name of the diner printed across the front in vintage lettering. Johnny had swiped it for you, hiding it beneath his jacket until the two of you parted ways at your doorstep.
“What happened to it?”
“I broke it,” he admits, dropping the grocery bags onto the counter. Your fingernail can’t find any snag in the glaze, any sign that the mug has never had the golden lines cutting through it.
Johnny busies himself with unloading the bag, speaking without looking at you as he confesses.
“After you were taken, I spent weeks searching for you until Price forced me to come home. I was angry, and I smashed it.”
You can feel the frown sketched onto your face; you don’t look at Johnny as you set the mug down on the counter. 
“I smashed the whole house to bits,” Johnny keeps going, turning to put the milk in the refrigerator. “Had to get Simon over here to help me put it back together. It was his idea by the way. To get the mug fixed. He said you’d be mad if it was gone when you came home.”
You lean against the counter and watch Johnny busy himself with the groceries. 
“He was right,” you admit, feeling silly over the sadness that fills you over the broken cup, “but maybe that’s something Simon has a lot of experience with broken things ya’know.”
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You and Johnny orbit each other for weeks: he’s there every day until you begin to question if he’s gotten himself fired to stay home with you. He drives you everywhere, and if he can’t, Simon waits for you just out past the front gate, no doubt on Johnny’s orders. 
“I had a lot of time off,” he says one day, elbow-deep in the laundry that he dumped between the two of you, eyes cast on the television. “Never had a reason to take it before.”
Your hands smooth the wrinkles out of one of Johnny’s shirts, fingers picking at the loose string. Today had been talk therapy, recommended by the SAS doctors. They were strict about all the requirements you had to meet if you ever wanted to go back, and laying on a shrink’s couch for two hours a week was one of them.
The graying doctor had asked you if you had spoken to Johnny about the anger that still wells up in you, the dreams you have of tearing your captives to pieces with your hands, the internal self-flagellation you went through every night when you thought about the career you’d worked so hard for, and have now lost. 
You had spent the rest of the day thinking about what he said, even when it meant not paying attention to the medical doctor’s order when they were cutting your cast off, but Johnny took in every word.
You almost say something then, tossing Johnny’s shirt onto his pile, but the wrong words come out.
“You need a haircut.”
“Yeah?” Johnny’s hands still around a pair of your shorts, you feel him watching you in his peripheral vision. “You want to cut it?”
Of course, you did; you spend more moments than not thinking about how his hair must feel like long if it’s still soft. But every time the two of you tried to touch each other, the other pulled away. 
So when Johnny takes your hand, and pulls you up the stairs, you let him - hand heavy and warm in your own.
Johnny lowers himself onto the closed toilet seat; you feel unsteady as you approach him, clippers in hand, and you’re not sure if it’s from the closeness or the weight of your cast being removed. 
“Are you sure you trust me to do this?” You ask again; since you’d come home your fingers had been a kind of clumsy they’d never been before. 
“What’s the worst that can happen?” Johnny keeps his eyes trained on you, fingers tapping against the tight denim stretched across his jeans.
“I can scalp you bald,” you admit, switching the clippers on, “and then you’d look like a Q-Ball for eight weeks.”
“I’ll be the best damn Q-Ball anyone’s ever seen,” Johnny says, beard twitching as he smirks at you. If he notices the way your fingers tremble when you take his jaw in your hand, he doesn’t say anything. 
His eyes close at the feeling of the clippers cutting through his hair, no doubt the feeling of the weight being removed was comfortable for him.
“You didn’t do this while I was - while I was gone?”
Your therapist says you shouldn’t shy away from calling your kidnapping what it was, but you still can’t form the words in front of Johnny.
He hums at your words, never opening his eyes as he speaks.
“I don’t let anyone else touch my hair, birdie.”
“What about your beard?”
Johnny snorts, eyes meeting yours as you maneuver his head to the side. 
“You don’t like it?”
You like the way he feels against your skin, you want to tell him. But you can’t make the words form, can’t spit them out. Johnny watches you chew on them for a moment before he lets out a sigh. His hair is scattered on the floor around the two of you, more than you’d thought he’d had. 
You swap the guards to shorten his mohawk, pressing yourself in between Johnny’s knees so that you can reach the nape of his neck.
His hands wrap around your thighs, light and warm against the skin that peeks out beneath the shorts you hadn’t taken off since you’d left your cast removal this morning. 
Your skin is on fire at his touch, you try to ignore it as you clean up his neck; Johnny buries his face in your shirt, breath warm against your stomach. His fingers trace light patterns on your thigh and it takes every ounce of willpower to keep the clippers from straying.
His fingers trace the scar that covers his name, and you jump back like you’ve been shocked. Your back hits the wall, knocking the decorative towels you’d spent days choosing to the floor. Johnny’s hands linger in the air between the two of you as you try to catch your breath.
“Sorry,” you pant out with a heavy swallow. 
Johnny pushes himself up, eyes watching you like you’re a wild animal ready to run. 
He reaches out and brushes some of his fallen hair from your shoulders, electrifying your skin again. His touch is hesitant as he traces up your shoulder, fingers cupping the back of your neck.
He’s fire as he presses himself against you, lips brushing over yours just quick enough to light something up inside of you before pulling away with an apology. He loosens the clippers from your hands and shoos you out with a promise he’ll clean the hair up himself.
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A storm rages outside, threatening to cut the power at any moment. You watch it throw around tree limbs and leaves through the front window. Behind you, the television casts soft shadows on the walls.
“Still pouring out there?” Johnny asks from his spot on the couch. Your answer is the curtain falling back into place. You pad back to your spot beside Johnny; he holds the blanket up for you to slip underneath.
His bare leg rubs against yours, but his hands stay firmly in his lap. He hadn’t tried to touch you since that day in the bathroom - even when he dropped you off at therapy, you’d wait for him to stretch across and kiss you, but he’d just send you off with a wave. 
You knew it was partially your fault: you couldn’t get the words out to explain how much you wanted him to touch you, how sorry you were for every jerk away. Every time you tried to tell him how much you wanted him, the words curled into your throat and refused to budge. You had even asked earlier for him to take a shower with you, to no avail. 
The movie - some family flick Johnny picked because it didn’t have any violence, you know - cast shadows across Johnny’s face. His stubble is starting to come in again; you reach out and trace your finger across the five o’clock shadow creeping onto his jawline.
Johnny doesn’t take his eyes away from the television screen, but he leans his face into your touch. Your fingers trace upwards, lacing through the Mohawk you’d trimmed just two weeks ago. Johnny nearly purrs when you tug on his hair, pulling him down so that he’s lying across your lap.
You have to take it slow, you know or you and Johnny both might break apart. So you just settle beneath him, fingers tracing patterns onto his scalp, eyes trained on the television, but not really watching. 
“I don’t think I’m going to go back,” you whisper, voice nearly drowned out by the storm outside. Johnny rolls, doing his best not to dig painfully into your thigh to look up at you.
“To work?”
You nod, still refusing to look at him. 
“I talked about it with the therapist today; I just - I think it would be best if I just cashed in my retirement. I’ve got a lot saved up: hazard pay and all that. The corporal offered me a job as a trainer. So I could still be around."
Johnny’s hand reaches up to grab your wrist, forcing you to look at him. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you don’t like that. He’s always your open book. You try to keep your heart rate steady at the feeling of him tracing patterns on your wrist. 
“I’m sorry, birdie.”
And you know he’s not just apologizing for your ruined career, for the nearly year you’d spent locked away in some disgusting cell, for the still broken teeth in your mouth, or the screws that hold most of you together now. He’s still apologizing for not being able to find you earlier, to be there months earlier. 
“It’s not your fault Johnny - I should have told them no. I should have been smart enough to just tell my commanding that I couldn’t do it. I should have-“
Hot tears start to fall; Johnny pushes himself up, fingers brushing them away gently. When you don’t shy away from his touch, he pulls you into his lap, tucking your head beneath his chin, and pulling you so tight you think you might break beneath his touch. And you would let yourself shatter beneath him, if it meant he could put you back together, shot through with gold. 
Johnny lets you cry on his shoulder until the fabric of his shirt is soaking wet; after a while, the smell of him, the softness of the way he caresses your back,and the feeling of his jean-clad thigh between your own stirs something else inside of you. You need something else, something more desperate, something to push away the feelings of failure. Of the fear that still lingers in you of heights, and darkness, and men who smell of sweat and gunpowder. 
So when you kiss him, softly, Johnny doesn’t push you away like he can feel how much you need him to touch you. Even as he lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, you don’t break the kiss. It stays superficial, and soft, neither of you breaking apart or deepening it. You expect him to carry you to the spare bed he brought downstairs for you, but instead, he cradles you up the stairs, hands gripping your thighs so tight you know there will be a thumb-shaped bruise there tomorrow. 
Johnny doesn’t stumble as he carries you. 
In the bedroom the two of you shared before you were lost, Johnny collapses on the bed, his smell enveloping you, hands never leaving you. He buries his nose in the soft skin of your neck, breathing in the smell of you. 
“Are you here with me birdie?”
Johnny’s voice is muffled on your skin, his hands pausing at the hem of your shirt. 
“I’m here Johnny.”
You rest your hands on his biceps and feel the way his heart is in your own chest. His weight presses down around you, the mattress sinking down beneath the two of you. The wind rolls in through the window, gooseflesh erupting on your skin where Johnny isn’t touching.
Johnny’s hands don’t move from the hem of your shirt until you slide your own down to his wrists, a bravery you hadn’t felt in weeks taking over you.
“Please, Johnny.”
Johnny shifts, knees spreading your own apart, but he still doesn’t touch your bare skin until you tug on his wrists, trying to slide them underneath your shirt, instead, he traces your arms - the area you know he thinks is safe. 
The feeling of his calloused hands on your soft skin makes you shiver; Johnny presses a kiss to your pulse point. You know he can feel the way your heartbeat picks up quickly, and he bites down on the sensitive skin lightly. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way you buck your hips upward into his. 
“Birdie.” It’s a warning and a promise rolled into one, and it makes you press your knees together, trying to slow yourself down. 
You let your own hands start exploring Johnny. Once, you’d had his skin memorized - every scar and freckle committed to your own memory. But there are new scars there you’ve never seen before, new wrinkles at the corner of his eyes he didn’t have before. 
It’s like the first time again, both of you exploring each other slowly. Johnny pauses every time you make a noise, eyes searching your face to make sure you’re alright. You push him away just long enough to pull his shirt off of him, hands instantly reaching out to pull him back down. His own hands slide your shorts down until you can kick them across the room.
Johnny kisses you, full of the same desperation he’d had that day at the hospital. Your teeth click together as the two of you suddenly move frantically, hands grasping at each other. Johnny shakes as you run your nails down his back, pushing until he realizes what you want.
Johnny rolls, hands still wrapped around your waist until you’re on top of him. The thin material of your panties is already wet; you can feel it when you grind down on him. The rough material of his blue jeans has enough friction to send lighting bolts through you.
“Is that what you want birdie?” Johnny’s voice is low and rough in his throat; his hands rest lightly on your hips as you grind down. Your hands reach back to rest on his thighs, more leverage for you to move. 
You can’t answer him, already biting down on the moans that start to build in the back of your throat. Johnny’s grip tights as you speed up; you can feel his erection pressing tightly against his zipper as you grind faster. 
You feel yourself start to tremble, hands moving to brace yourself against Johnny’s chest. He wraps one hand around your wrist, the other still at your waist; you can’t look away from the hungry glint in his eye. 
Outside the storm lashes, the cool air rolling in across you and Johnny. 
“Let it out,” he whispers, voice ragged and panting. He’s bucking his own hips in time with your grinding; he’s holding back - you know he doesn’t want to scare you, so you loosen the knot inside of you, moaning loud enough that a blush starts to creep up your chest. At the sound, Johnny bucks up harder. 
You can’t help the way you come undone, nails digging into Johnny’s chest, leaving half moons on the sensitive skin. Johnny lets you ride him until the waves of your orgasm finish rolling over you, his hands not leaving you until you finally still, thighs shaking on each side of him. You can feel your drenched underwear, feel yourself soaking into his blue jeans. 
Johnny is so hard beneath you, a red flush across his chest. Outside the storm rages harder, and the lights flicker momentarily. Johnny pushes himself up onto one elbow, the hand that has refused to move up your shirt sliding up just an inch. His fingers play with the edge of your underwear, the lace snagging on his callouses.
“Why don’t you want to touch me?” You can barely hear yourself over the rain lashing against the window; Johnny’s eyebrows knit together, and he pushes himself up until he’s sitting up, your legs wrapping around his waist to keep from falling backward. 
“I want to touch you,” he tries to reassure you, hands tracing patterns across the back of your shirt. But you shrug his hands off, catching his wrists in your hands before he can fully withdraw away.
“You won’t touch me beneath my shirt,” you slide his hands down to the bare skin of your thighs, moving them until the hem of your shirt falls over his fingertips. “You wouldn’t take a shower with me.”
Johnny chews on his lips, they’re too chapped, you think. The silence stretches in the sound of the storm, and the flickering lights. Before Johnny can speak lightning and thunder crash outside, and the house goes dark - the sound of the electricity powering down cutting him off. Neither of you moves in the sudden blackness. 
“I’m not broken, Johnny.” You don’t want to sound so pathetic, but you do. 
“I know you’re not, hen.”
“Then why am I having to beg, Johnny?”
Johnny’s hand slips up so that he’s holding your hips beneath your shirt. 
“I’m not going to hurt you too.”
It’s a tough confession for him to make, you know. He’d done his best not to talk about the whole ordeal, he never asked what you went through. This was his way of keeping you away from it.
You roll your hips across his again, and his breath catches in his throat. 
“Please Johnny; you’re not going to hurt me.”
You don’t know if it’s the whine in your voice or the way you trace your fingers across the hard plane of his chest, or if Johnny is just as tired of holding back as you - but he rolls you over, gentle and quick until his chest his pressed against yours, his mouth finding the sensitive skin at the base of your neck. 
You’re horribly out of practice, fumbling with the buttons on his jeans, getting stuck when Johnny pulls your shirt over your head, but he doesn’t let his lips leave you; your teeth clip together as Johnny deepens the kiss he refuses to let end until your gasping for breath beneath him.
It’s electric in the best and worst ways - Johnny’s calloused fingers tracing patterns on your stomach, kneading the soft flesh of your breasts, fingers teasing the edge of your underwear, pushing them further down each time.
The current running through you makes it difficult to breathe; you can’t even warn Johnny, can’t beg him to slow down what you were just begging him to speed up. But there has never been anyone who’s known you the same way Johnny has, and when his hands slow you know he can feel that it’s too much. Just for a moment.
“Still with me?”
“Still here.”
Johnny’s hands don’t speed up, but he doesn’t slow either - pressing open-mouth kisses down your neck, between your breasts, across the planes of your stomach until he finally stops at the edge of your underwear. He darts his tongue out to lick the sensitive skin peeking out above the hem, and the feeling makes you gasp out, hips pressing harder into the mattress. His fingertips brush just over the wetness you’ve soaked through and you grind your teeth together, painfully. 
“Too much?”
Yes.
Too much for you at this moment; you’re not sure if your body will hold together if Johnny even tries to eat you out, tries to stretch you with his fingers, you can hardly keep together at the feeling of him touching you anywhere after so many months of nothing but dirt, and maggots, and feverish longing for-
You didn’t notice Johnny crawling back up your body until he presses a soft kiss on your temple, fingers wiping away your hair that’s plastered with sweat there. 
Johnny’s whispering in your ear: how much he missed you, how he had thought about you every day, how he’d tried to scorch the earth to look for you; he pulls you until you’re back on top of him. You can feel how hard he is, how wet you are as you grind down against the hard planes of his lower stomach, searching for him.
Johnny’s hands squeeze at your hips, shifting the both of you until you feel the tip of him catch against you; a shudder rolls through you both, but Johnny doesn’t move. Every muscle in his body is pulled taunt, pulled against fucking into you at a frenetic pace. You recognize the set of his jaw, the way his hands wrap around your forearms. He’s letting you set the pace, letting you control him.
You wait for just a heartbeat before pressing down onto him; your vision whites out from the almost uncomfortable stretch of him as you sink down slowly. You can’t remember the last time the two of you were here, the last time the two of you fucked. Johnny’s nails dig into the underside of your forearm, yours into his chest until you finally reach the hilt.
You hold there for a moment, feeling the way he fills you up - so much so that you don’t think there’s room for anything else besides Johnny - there never has been.  You can’t even think between the feeling of Johnny filling you up and the feeling of not trying to cum so fast. Finally, when your heartbeat slows incrementally, you rock yourself against him, slowly, using his chest as leverage.
Beneath you Johnny is coming undone; he’s biting his lip so hard you think he might draw blood, so you trace your fingertips across his bottom lip. His lips part beneath your touch, and he takes your pointer finger into his mouth, tongue swirling around it.
The feeling makes your hips move faster, stuttering against him. Johnny moans, muffled around your finger. The sound is horribly erotic in the darkness, and it spurs something inside of you to move your hips faster, rougher against Johnny. But he doesn’t move beneath you, still holding himself back. The sound of skin on skin, of how wet you are for him drown out the storm.
Johnny’s hands are everywhere: in your hair, cupping the supple flesh of your ass, pinching and rolling your nipples between his thick fingers; one hand sneaks across the flesh of your hip, dipping between the two of you to circle your clit. The feeling makes you crumple against him; Johnny takes the opportunity to roll you over, pressing you into the mattress.
Johnny presses one of your knees up, hooking it over his elbow so that he can fuck into you, still gentle even when he’s deeper than you think he’s ever been before, his other hand still circling your clit, slowly enough to keep you from falling apart, but fast enough to bring you to the edge. 
His pace grows rougher; you claw at him, drawing red welts across his skin, but Johnny doesn’t slow down. You keep your eyes closed tightly, back arched to try and get him in deeper, to get more.
“Look at me.”
Johnny’s voice is rough, a gentle command you have to follow. His eyes never leave yours, even when his pace increases, the finger on your clit still rubbing tight circles until-
Until you’re breaking apart, shattering beneath him. Your orgasm makes you arch, back nearly leaving the mattress. Johnny’s hands move to cup your face, pulling himself down until he can kiss you as you ride through your orgasm, gasping in his own mouth. Your nails draw thick red welts across his back, but Johnny doesn’t stop pounding into you, your moans drowned out by the way he kisses you.
Not long after, Johnny’s pace starts to stutter, his lips never leaving yours until he plunges in deeper than he had before, and you can feel his warm release spill out inside of you. 
Even when he’s completely spent, Johnny doesn’t pull out of you, instead fucking into you once, twice, three more times until you know you can’t take anymore, hands pressing on his chest to push him away.
Johnny’s fingers smooth your twitching thighs as he pulls away. In the darkness, you can just see his outline as he shifts between your legs, but he doesn’t move from there.
He caresses you until you are finally still and your panting finally slows. His fingers trace across the cracks you can still feel, stitching you back together, shot through with gold.
“Still here?”
“Still here.”
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emeraldborealis · 2 months
Text
I Will
Pairing: Captain John 'Soap' MacTavish x GN!reader
TW//CW: Mention of torture, hurt/comfort, non sexual bathing, nudity, depictions of PTSD and panic, probably inaccuracies when it comes to recovery, but it's not something easily researched, so I used personal experience and knowledge. No use of y/n, my attempts of writing a Scottish accent.
A/N: This is part two to this fic, because I'm a whore for domesticity and hurt/comfort, also being taken care of because someone loves you and not because it's a chore <33
Words: 3,108
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Recovery started slowly, a new strict diet with a high calorie count to help build back the strength lost from malnourishment, physical therapy as well as actual therapy.
Drugs, mostly antibiotics to help with different infections, the worst being a UTI from having no sanitary way to use the bathroom. As well as some anxiety meds and some things to help with the hallucinations, though hydration and food mostly took care of that.
It was overwhelming the pace they expected you to recover at. It all felt like getting hit with a train then being expected to be able to walk it off. 
You were told you had to stay at the hospital for a while, that was perhaps the hardest part. You didn't want to be poked and prodded after finally getting out of hell, and you understood the good intentions behind it. But all you wanted was to go home and never see anyone ever again.
The only thing that made the whole ordeal even manageable was John, his constant presence by your side. His refusal to leave you. 
So though you couldn't go home yet, he brought the feeling of home to you. Like a dutiful watch dog refusing to leave their post.
"Ye're looking a lot better." Johnny praised you, handing you a mandatory snack in your 'recovery plan', at least that's what everyone was calling it. Real recovery didn't feel possible, even if you got back to your healthy size and physique. 
Even if you somehow got to the point where you felt like you could breathe and think again.
A piece of you would always be back in the Tomb, delirious and rotting. 
You felt a lot of shame from being there, the condition you came back in was not you, didn't even feel like a husk of you. It was beyond humiliating to think of how your captain had found you, the filth and disease you'd become. The thought of him touching you like that made you feel the burning feeling of bile rise in your throat.
Maybe it was the decaying remains of your pride that made you feel this way. Though you were sure anyone found the way you were  would feel just as mortified when given a moment to recover and think. 
Filth. You were filth and he'd carried you on his shoulders like something to be worshiped. 
"Think ye're up fur a shower t'day?" You hadn't showered since being rescued, you'd been cleaned, but not had a proper shower. It was something the doctors were struggling to get you to agree to, there was a requirement for a certain amount of vulnerability and trust that you just couldn't meet with the doctors or nurses.
"No." Gently you took another piece of the snack from him, he liked to break them up for you into smaller pieces, he'd noticed you'd been having a hard time swallowing things since your rescue. 
"Ye sure? I promise it's no' as bad as ye think it'll be." The thought of being seen so vulnerable was too much for you. Vulnerability was something you struggled with even before, but now, now it felt impossible. "I'll help ye, it'll be me, no' a doctor. Jus' me. Please."
His rough calloused hand slipped into yours, squeezing it gently. He needed to see a spark of something alive inside of you, to know he'd brought back more than just an empty cage, one that would be in eternal search for the bird that once lived and loved there.
A soft shake of your head made him sigh, you knew all he wanted was to take care of you. The thought of disappointing him hurt. Bad. Maybe he was upset with your refusal, Maybe he was upset with your reluctance to trust him, or maybe with how slowly you were going on your 'recovery plan'. 
As if it was as simple as checking off every mark on a list.
"Another day then." He leaned in, placing a soft kiss to your forehead. 
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The day you were given the greenlight to go home felt unreal, two weeks of recovery and now you got to go home. Three months of hell and two weeks was all the hospital deemed necessary for you to be able to go home. 
John helped you out of the hospital, taking the role of caretaker for as long as you needed him to be there. 
Stepping out of the hospital into the sunlight and fresh air of freedom felt so foreign now, you'd been outside many times while in the hospital. But this was different. You were going home now. You were going home with the person who made it feel that way.
The sun seemed to soak into your skin, seeping in through all your cracks to bring light to your soul. It never felt this way before, maybe it was the added damage that better let the light in.
"Th' car is over here." Johnny's rich Scottish voice sunk in too, filling more pieces of you than you thought possible now. Maybe recovery was achievable.
"Right." He led you with a gentle hand, helping support you, he helped you into the car, and settled himself in the driver seat, starting the engine and starting to drive you home. 
Crossing the property line of the hospital felt beyond good. Leaving as much of the damage and hell behind you as you could, it wouldn't help to hold onto all that pain and carry it with you. A lot of it remained even still, festering in your mind and carving out room to live in your bones, making several pieces of you feel hollow.
The trees were wonderful to see again, until you were driving under them, the sun shining through their branches blinding you, the light flickering in your eyes between blinding and shadow. 
A tightness formed in your chest, suffocating and stifling. A fan spinning overhead, the smell of all types of bodily fluids burning your nose, the quiet chatter of rats. Ropes tied tightly around you, squeezing you until you felt like you were going to pop.
"Stop." Your voice was beyond shaky and distressed, catching John off guard for a moment, not sure what was wrong. "I said stop!" You yelled, pulling at your seatbelt, it felt so wrong. You couldn't even breath, or think, or feel. You found yourself waiting for a grounding pain to strike you. But nothing ever came.
John pulled the car over to the side of the road, turning to you with concern, but you were already undoing your seat belt and clawing your way out of the car, all but throwing yourself down onto the park strip. 
Your feet wandered without a destination in mind, you just needed to get away, gone. Never to be seen again. If you couldn't be seen you couldn't hurt. If you were gone things would be okay.
"What's wrong?" John followed after you, softly grabbing your hand to stop you, turning you around to face him.
Your lungs burned in search of oxygen, trying to gasp anything down through the tears you hadn't registered were falling down your face. John's voice didn't reach you, your mind too preoccupied with the pain and suffering from the Tomb. 
Things didn't get any clearer until you were wrapped tightly in his arms, hyperventilating down his scent, the one you'd spent so many nights secretly basking in, his natural musk so incredibly potent and distinguishable in this moment, free from his cologne he hadn't put on in more than two weeks. 
This was just him, just John MacTavish, your Johnny MacTavish. 
"I can't. The trees." It wasn't much of an explanation, but he understood the problem, he was in the Tomb for long enough while he rescued you to understand. 
"It's okay. Ye're no' there anymore. Ye're no' there." He repeated the words until you believed him, the timber in his voice being the thing to bring you back from the ledge you'd fallen from.
He herded you back to the car, not forcing you to buckle in. 
When he settled back into the driver's seat he turned to you. "Do ye trust me?" You sat silent for a moment, before nodding. "I'm no' gunna hurt ye." He reassured, carefully putting his left hand over your eyes. You startled for a moment before hearing his voice. "It's okay, just fur the trees, then ye can see again."
He waited for your consent to cover your eyes before he started driving again, constantly speaking to you to help you stay grounded, to remind your brain it was just him. 
Once home he brought you inside, letting you take in the familiarity of a space that was yours, despite the dust, but even that felt like it belonged. It felt like coming home after a long deployment, you could pretend that's all this was.
You could pretend you didn't spend the last three months tied to a chair in hell. You could pretend the pain in your shoulders was from your rifle stock, not from being constrained in the same position day and night, until it felt like more than an eternity had passed.
"How aboot a bath now?" He sounded hopeful, not putting any pressure on the question. 
It took a long time to consider it, weigh everything about it. But now in the fortitude of your own home it felt a little more enticing, to be able to really scrub and wash away all that had happened. Not just a spit bath, a real good warm bath. 
"Alone?" You asked softly, looking down.
"If that's what ye want." John had an intense need to make sure you were taken care of, even if he needed to take a step back and let you do it yourself. 
"No." The answer came quicker than he expected, catching him off guard. "Stay with me, hold my hand." 
A soft smile played on his lips, stepping closer to you he took your hand, leading you through your house like he lived there. Like he was never going to leave you again. 
When he reached the master bathroom he carefully picked you up by the waist, lifting you to sit on the counter. You were lighter, smaller, than the last time he'd done that. But with time he'd get you back to the way you were. 
For now he'd love you just the same, put extra care into making sure you were taken care of.
"Stay here love." He placed a gentle kiss to your forehead before walking out of the bathroom, you grew anxious in his absence, waiting for him to come back. Trying to be brave. 
When he came back he was carrying a few things, a bath sheet, the soft one you liked the most. Some white fairy lights you used around Christmas but typically kept in the closet, and a candle, the fancy ones that crackle when you burn them. 
"Gunna take good care of ye." He promised, setting the things down on the other side of the counter to start filling the tub, checking the temperature before shutting the drain. 
Then he plugged in the lights, turning off the overhead light, making it a cozy atmosphere, lighting the candle he put it on the windowsill. 
You watched him with careful eyes, a pain settling in your chest from how much his actions were filled with love, doing everything he could to make you comfortable. It didn't feel deserved. Not when you'd been so badly ruined without him.
"Alright, let's get ye undressed. If ye're still okay with a bath?" He stood before you, hands resting on either side of you on the counter, a tenderness in his blue eyes. 
"Okay." That was all he needed, getting to work on carefully removing your clothes, careful not to hurt you or touch any sore or healing spots. He supported your body as he helped you stand to fully remove your clothes.
His eyes didn't linger, that wasn't his intention here right now. They didn't look away in disgust either, there was no pity or grimace on his face. Just the tender love of a man trying to take care of the person he cherished with his entire being.
He didn't try to move your arms when you tried to hide parts of yourself, didn't let that shame of being vulnerable with him fester, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close, letting you use his body as a shield against the world. "Let's get ye in the tub, aye?" 
"Okay." With another soft nod from you he guided you towards the tub, helping you step in, holding your hand as you lowered yourself into the warm water, reassuring you every second. 
"That's it, take it slow." He cooed, dipping his hand into the water before running it over your forehead, back down your greasy dirty hair. "Hair's gotten longer these past few months, think ye want it cut back tae how it was?" He asked softly.
"I don't know." You looked down at yourself in the water, taking everything in, letting the warmth of the water envelope you, consume you so wholly that nothing but this moment remained. 
"That's okay." He cupped some water in his hands, dumping it over your head, careful not to get your face, he didn't know what kind of torture they'd put you through, and he didn't want to trigger anything for you. 
Dipping yourself under the surface of the water you made his job of getting all of you wet a lot easier, he hummed in approval, grabbing a brush to go through your hair, smoothing it over before squeezing your shampoo into his hands, getting to work on washing your hair.
His fingers were like heaven, gently massaging and scratching at your scalp, removing all the dandruff from several months without washing it away. He was dutiful in his work, maximizing your comfort and enjoyment, humming a song for you. 
You weren't out of the tunnel, everything ahead still seemed so dark and uncertain, but being here with John, being taken care of, being treated so tenderly, you knew there was going to be an end, that one day you'd be standing in the light. You just needed to be brave.
"I love ye. All I ever wanted was ye. Always ye. I want tae spend the rest o' my life taking care of ye, making sure ye feel loved." Rinsing away the shampoo he turned your face towards him, kissing the tip of your nose. "I will never let ye be alone again, I think I'll spend the rest of eternity following ye around."
"It's nasty work taking care of someone, especially someone like me." You leaned into him, leaning against the edge of the tub to get closer to him, making his shirt wet with your body.
"Not tae me. Not if it's ye." Wrapping his arms around you he held you close, letting you soak through his shirt, anything to have you closer. His clothes would dry, or could be changed, but this moment with you could never be repeated.
"Join me." Your voice was soft, just wanting him closer, needing to feel his skin to fully believe you were really with him. That this wasn't all a hallucination. 
"Not this time, I'm just  tryin' tae get ye clean." He kissed your forehead before pressing his forehead against yours.
"Please." You begged, pulling him in impossibly closer, the side of the tub digging into his ribs. "I just need you closer. I just need to feel that you're real."
His resolve quickly crumbled, taking a deep breath he stood up, stripped himself of his clothes and stepped into the tub, settling beside you. He was thankful for just how large your tub was, a big long garden tub, the secret reason you chose this home.
"Now, lets finish getting you clean." He grabbed your conditioner, getting to work lathering your hair, working from the ends to the base of your head. Massaging it in. 
Then he grabbed your body wash and a soft rag, gently cleaning the remaining dirt and grime from your body, careful with cleaning your sensitive places, not wanting to hurt you in any way. He cleaned your back with extra care, working out the tension your body held until you were more relaxed. 
Once you were clean you leaned into him, laying on his chest, watching the candle on the windowsill, listening to his heartbeat along with the soft crackling from the wood wick candle. 
You stayed in the tub with him, skin on skin, until the water grew cold, only when he felt you shiver did he make you get out, wrapping you in the bath sheet, not caring he didn't grab a towel for himself. 
He blew out the candle and brought you into your room, grabbing some pajama's for you, grabbing one of the shirt's he'd left there on 'accident' for you to wear. Helping you get dressed, before leading you back to the bathroom where he towel dried your hair before blow drying the rest. 
Only once you were completely taken care of did he take care of himself, getting dressed before coming back to you. "I love ye, ye ken that?" His Scottish accent grew in thickness, tucking you into bed. 
"I love you too." A spike of panic filled you when he took a step back, sitting up and grabbing his wrist. He could clearly see the nervous unease on your face. Fear. He hated seeing that look on your face.
"Easy, I'm not gunna leave ye, just moving to get in bed on the other side." He shushed your worries, kissing you tenderly on the lips, climbing into bed beside you he pulled you close, letting you lay your head on his chest. 
His fingers traced circles over the skin of your arm, staring up at the ceiling. A comforting silence between you two, his heartbeat and breathing the only thing keeping your mind from wandering too far into despair.
"Penny for your thoughts?" You hum, looking up at him. Things felt alright when you were with him like this, a secret place neither of you could ever be caught in crosshairs or rules.
"Just thinking." He took a deep breath. "Don't know what I would have done if I didn't find ye. I wasn't messin' around when I said ye're all I care about." He leaned down to kiss the top of your head. "Get some sleep, ye need some rest."
You hummed in acknowledgment, for the first time in a while feeling genuinely sleepy, not just tired or exhausted, but feeling a desire to sleep. Feeling a desire to sleep because things felt safe here with the man you loved. 
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Your Friendly Neighbor Masterlist
This is the masterlist for the Your Friendly Neighbor series. This is an 18+ story which means minors are not allowed to read it and will be blocked
This series is on-going
Synopsis:
You moved into a small neighborhood for a change of scenery as well as for peace and quiet after having lived in the city for so long. You're not particularly talkative and yet just after a week of living in your new apartment your neighbor, John MacTavish, has seemingly made it his duty to get you to talk to him at least once a day.
Soap doesn't particularly like being home and yet he can't help but feel tied to the small neighborhood as he learns he has a new neighbor. Being a soldier and having a life outside of that work is tough, but he makes it work just so he can be your friend.
Part One
Part Two
Extras
Little things about neighbor!soap
Info dump about neighbor!soap
I don’t own these characters, Call of duty, or any of the Modern Warfare titles. You do not have permission to sell this work. (2/27/2024)
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just-a-sewer-goblin · 3 months
Text
The first time you called Soap sweet boy he melted on the spot. He had needed you, coming home desperate for distraction and love, which lead to you straddling him on the sofa and making out with him.
Soap had his hands under your shirt, his fingers grabbing onto your waist, kneading the flesh for comfort. That simple touch from him already lead to goosebumps all over your body.
"You're so pretty, Johnny.", you whispered against his lips and you could feel the way his body froze. He pulled back loking at you with wide surprised eyes. His voice betrayed how unsure he was when he asked: "You mean that? You really think that of little ol' me?"
His attempt at humour to deflect didn't work on you. You knew him too well for that. So you cupped his face with your hands and started peppering soft loving kisses all over his face. Interrupting them to utter praise against his skin. Hoping it would find it's way underneath and settle to protect him from every unkind word that had ever been said to him.
"Pretty. Handsome. Kind. Brave. Selfless. Strong. Warm. Safe..." He had his eyes closed and surrendered himself to the soft hold your hands had on him. His hands still holding onto you to anchor himself.
You pecked the tip if his nose, pressed a lingering kiss to his lips and when your breath fanned over them with your next words he shuddered.
"You're my sweet, sweet boy."
His eyes opened, looking dazed, as if you'd done something way more raunchy than just shower him with kisses and praise. A small whimper left him and he nuzzled more into your hands. You could feel his entire body melt into the sofa under you.
His hands wandered up your back, and pushed you closer while he leant in so he could press his face into your chest. Your arms wrapped around him, holding him to you, gently carding your fingers through his hair.
"Need you, baby. Missed you so bad. You make everything okay again.", came his muffled voice.
Your hold on him tightened. "I'm right here, sweet boy. I've got you."
He leant back his eyes full of adoration as he looked up at you.
Your smile went from soft to mischievous as you said: "And now, sweet boy, take me to bed so I can have even more of you and ravage you the way you deserve."
He grinned back, leant in faster than you could see, and cheekily bit the skin over your collarbone. At the same time his fingers dug into your sides and you squeaked with laughter.
Abruptly he stood up, you still in his arms and strode towards your bedroom. "Aye, your highness. Show me just how sweet you think I am."
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crimsonbubble · 11 months
Note
Belly bulge with soap 🤐 ? ?¿
cw. nsfw, gn!reader, tummy bulge, size kink, slight pet play *not proofread, just pure horny
[nonnie im gonna kiss you I love you for this ask]
MINORS DNI!!
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he's got your legs over his shoulders, leaning down til they nearly touch your chest. neither of you can stop staring at the bump he forms in your lower stomach. he grabs your hand and presses it harshly to the small bulge, his own hand keeping yours pinned to your stomach.
"ya feel me here, pup?" you can only answer him in whimpers, the hand on your stomach makes his cock brush against your sweet spots even harder than before. your clenching and pulsing around him, making him let out whorish moans.
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1-ker0sene-1 · 1 month
Note
God your blog is fucking SCRUMPTIOUS. If you’re willing could you do something with a reader who has POTS? Much love ❤️
{Thank you so much ♥️ Apologies this took so long! Requests are starting to come out again! I lost all my drafts due to my laptop breaking and had to rewrite 🥹}
Gaz
Honest to god. This man would probably be the absolute best partner for someone with POTS. Whether he was there for your diagnosis or you already had it when you started dating, he wants to help and accommodate the best he can. Kyle would hate for you to feel isolated, trying to match and normalize your routine so you're not alone.
Definitely got you both massive water bottles, the ones that have at the very least sixty ounces. So you can keep drinking and sipping all day and stay hydrated. If you don't feel comfortable going out to a physical therapist? Kyle is researching ALL night how to do gentle therapy at home with you.
Taking care of you is second nature to him. He's constantly thinking about you. When he leaves for deployment he has small meals already prepped in the fridge for you, cleaned the whole house.. leaves sweet notes all over the place reminding you to drink water, get some electrolytes, cool off and get plenty of rest.
"I'll be home soon baby ~K"
"Don't forget to drink your water! Love you pretty girl ~K"
"Rest for me lovie, we'll be doing plenty of 'exercise' when I get back ;) ~K"
Price
Prepared. That is what John is. He wants to be ready if you have a bad day, so he can pamper you as much as he physically can if he cannot immediately whisk away your pain. John definitely moves fast in a relationship, especially if he feels an immediate connection. You're telling him he can take care of you? Of course it's not that he likes that you struggle with the condition, but his love language is definitely acts of service.
" 's no trouble love, house feels empty when you aren't in it anyways. Might as well just stay full time."
You're moving in. He's installing a nice and sturdy shower bench, he's got snacks all around the house for you, he's mixing electrolyte powder in your water. John wants you to thrive more than anything, you're his girl, going to be his wife one day. He still wants you to feel and be independent, if you need he'll go with you to get a mobility aid so you can comfortably go out more.
He's set in his military ways so.. He's somewhat blunt with scheduling. Little reminders all day to drink your water with a kiss to your forehead. When you go out together, he's stashed some instant cold packs and little salt packets in your bag. John often lifts your hand to check your BPM tracker, once he's done he'll kiss your knuckles.
"Look at that darlin' .. Takin' care of yourself so well for me."
Soap
Johnny had quite the habit of being a bit lazy when home from deployment. But then you wandered into his life, he didn't know about your POTS at first. Just figured you also had a busy life and preferred nights in for dates. Then you got more serious in your relationship and opened up to him about your condition. It was an immediate flip of a switch, Johnny became your Johnny.
He wants you to be able to spend your energy doing the things you love, not the simple tasks, especially when he can take care of it. You practically gained a Scottish housewife. He'll shoo you softly away from the dishes, insisting you enjoy your hobbies or rest up so you two can have a nice day out. Laundry, cleaning, making the bed. Bathing you even though you're perfectly capable, definitely not to touch you and get a little handsy-
"I can take care of ye bonnie.. believe me tha more I do the more I fall for ye."
Would say the only somewhat struggle, is overheating at night. Cause you cannot tell me this man doesn't run hot like a heater. And he loves to love you, hold you, touch and feel you. But there's work arounds, a nice AC, and cooling blankets. Besides he sleeps like a rock so once he's out, if you get too hot you can give him a little push off you. Rarely he'll wake up and drawl out whines.
"..miss ye lass.. my arms are useless without ye in them.."
Ghost
Simon never thought of himself as a worrier. He's been through hell and back and not much phases him. But the first time he saw you faint nearly sent him to an early grave, threw whatever was in his hands to dart over to catch you. This was definitely before he really started to understand the seriousness of POTS. Now it's constantly on his mind, especially the moments in the day when he's not right there with you.
He doesn't want you to feel guilty about his panic, so he's pretty stoic and calm when face to face with you. Definitely goes in with you to every doctor's appointment now, asks questions, how he can help, what to do during your flare ups. You best believe he is taking everything your doctor suggests to heart. Buying you a BPM monitor, knowing Simon he'll probably figure a way to connect it to his phone. So even when he's not with you he knows a little about how you're doing. Statistically it's his most used app now. Once in a while you get a blunt-
"Go rest."
-text from Simon as soon as it gets too high for his liking.
Simon is very adamant that you take plenty of breaks throughout the day, if you're overexerting yourself he's right there with you. An arm winding around you, kissing the nape of your neck after gently brushing your hair aside.
"How you feelin' doll? Let's get you some water and we'll take a break for a while yeah? Put on that show you like and I'll take care of this.."
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ohmygraves · 16 days
Note
I was wondering if you could write a 141 how they react when you give them gifts. I love giving gifts, it makes me happy. Maybe even happier than the person receiving it sometimes. I bet some of them will like the excitement you get more than the gift itself, happily accepting everything you give just to see that smile.
ooh, i have to agree to that, anon. i honestly think that ghost and gaz would be the type to enjoy your reaction more than actually caring what you get them. just seeing you be so giddy when you hand them the gifts are enough of a treat, y'know?
you gave ghost a little knife carving kit, a little thank you for all the times he mentored you and saved your ass. you knew he liked knives and you thought that it was a nice activity to do instead of working out or smacking johnny's head if the scot misbehaved. and maybe he could use the knife or add it to his collection.
still, you are very excited to give it to him no matter what, as you want him to enjoy your gift. he could see you basically jumping in excitement when you see him, holding a small bag and with a giddy look on your face, cheeks flushed red and bright eyes as you hand him the gift bag.
now, ghost doesn't particularly care about gifts himself. since he doesn't have many things in general, his barracks room is really just basic necessities. trinkets like these are not something he enjoys collecting.
oh, but to see you all so excited and the way you try to contain your joy and happiness as you explain what you got him? now that's adorable, it made his heart clench that he thought he needed to get it checked with the medics.
"... thank you, love." he said softly, looking at the small box of knife carving kit in the bag. you cheered, telling him that you'd like to see the result when he finished it, bouncing off somewhere else. he hoped that you didn't notice that his eyes are basically softening looking at you walk away, the corner of his lips curled upwards under his mask seeing you so happy.
gaz's cap was getting really worn out, and you noticed that the bill had a slight tear on it, revealing the material underneath the fabric. so, as a good friend you decided to get him a new cap.
you knew that he liked some good joke, so you got him a trucker cap that says "women fear me, fish fear me" at the front, with a graphic of a bass. soap thought it was funny, and you did too. you're sure that kyle would like it just as much.
well, you didn't know that kyle has like twenty baseball caps in his barracks room, so he didn't need a new one. he collects caps.
when you see him one day, a gift bag in hand, you didn't even notice that the cap that had a tear on it was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a similar cap in color. you were too busy giggling at the idea of him wearing a cap that says "women fear me, fish fear me" to pay attention, and yet when he opened the gift from you, he didn't even complain. your cute giggles and laughs were enough to make him happy.
"really, love? 'women fear me, fish fear me'?" he scoffed, a smile on his face as he took off his hat, wearing it on his head proudly. he didn't care that soap immediately had to take pics of him, he only cared that it made you laugh.
i feel like soap would love anything you give him as well, but it's in a sense that "awh, ye got me noodle maker because ah'm too lazy to cook ramen noodles in the commons room 🥺" like this man would be excited with anything you give him, no matter how stupid the gift is.
you hand soap a wrapped gift box, knowing that he will get excited over this. you'd seen this infomercial a few times and you know that he would enjoy this gadget, given how silly it was and how oddly specific the function is. the infomercial was so silly.
of course, you gave him a slap chop.
opening the gift, his eyes went wide, smiling giddily as he looked at you, eyes glimmering. "bonnie, is this th' one where th' lad threw a slicer out th' window!?" he looked so excited and happy, you were so happy knowing that he liked the gift.
you nodded, saying that it could practically chop anything he wanted. it'll make things so much easier when cooking. soap hugs you, squeezing you as he practically squeals, thanking you for the gift. you said it was okay, and now soap can make all the salad he wanted. you left him to try out his gift, needing to go back to work.
ghost raised his eyebrows looking at you, crossing his arms as he looked at soap. "no bloody way someone like ya would eat a fuckin' salad, johnny..." he scoffed, knowing that the chance of soap eating fruits and vegetables are close to zero, since the scot is a picky eater.
soap sighed, looking down at the gift you got him. "seein' bonnie happy is good enough gift."
he'll make some crushed doritos at the top of his sandwiches or something.
price i feel is the same as soap, but only when it comes to the aesthetic of the item? he's easy to give gifts, likely smth related to fishing or cigar. he won't comment if you give him a cute shaped ashtray for example, or a floral patterned cigar holder.
as a token of appreciation to your captain, you decided to get him something that you thought he might use. price smokes a lot, so it was easy to find something to get him. you, however, are not great at picking the style for it.
ashtray is arguably one of the simplest items around. it's a small dish with sometimes notches to hold the thing you're smoking. as long as it catches the ashes, anything can be considered an ashtray. likewise, there are a lot of shapes and designs of an ashtray that you just spent lots and lots of time picking, scrolling through hundreds and thousands of pages online to find something that's both useful and nice.
you ended up ordering an ashtray in the shape of a ball, made of alloy and had lots of intricate designs of a dragon and bird. it was not only heavy, but also quite big for an ashtray, truthfully.
you started to second guess if this was a good idea, given that it looked like something that your asian grandpa would have on the table when he takes a smoke break out in the porch, sipping coffee while enjoying some hit of nicotine. maybe you should give it to someone else instead, or resell it and get something better, but soap had seen the massive ashtray and were laughing at how big it was, and his big mouth spilled the beans to the captain about how you got him a particularly garish looking ashtray. because of course, everyone told you that what you got him was a bit much for his very simple aesthetic.
having soap basically ruined the surprise, you had to give price the present either way, a bit hesitant as you handed him the box. you were worried that he'd just make fun of it, that he'd laugh at your choice.
"a bit heavy for an ashtray there, doll?" he hummed, looking at the patterns. it seems like it was somewhat like a carving of ancient chinese murals, the typical dragon and phoenix flying through the sky. it looked out of place on price's desk.
"well, i'd have to say the lid is quite a game changer," price added, smiling at you. "covers up the pile of ashes inside."
you were relieved that he seems to enjoy it for its intended function at least.
"have to say though, love, i didn't expect you to pick this style..." his fingers traced over the pattern on top. "it looks beautiful. thank you."
you're not sure if he's just being nice or if he actually enjoys such aesthetics, but you're glad to see it on his desk being used every time you go to his office.
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saturncodedstarlette · 2 months
Text
Ghost, walks into the room with documents in hand :
Ghost : Alright so—
Ghost : Wait a minute—
Soap : . . .
Y/N : . . .
Soap : We’re just—
Y/N : —working!
Soap : Yeah! We were just working… together……
Y/N : independently!
Ghost, not impressed : So you two work without your clothes on?
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