#SOAP COME BACK

[crashnbrn]

[ghostedbunnie]

thinking about how 141 men would take advantage of christmas or just a cold weather in general.

fem! reader, 18+ minors do not interact!!

johnny definitely takes some mistletoe and waits for the perfect opportunity to be like "oi look a' that bonnie, a tradition is a tradition." and he just swoops in on you to literally maul you. slobbers all over you like a dog, pants into your mouth and grabs handfuls of your ass unapologetically. honestly half of his brain shuts down as soon as he has his hands and mouth on you. also doesn't care about timing or privacy, he'd do this in front of a room full of people.

simon is a meanie. he loves coming back inside to your home, catching you unawares while you're singing some christmas songs and baking. it doesn't help that he can only be heard when he wants to so you really stand no chance. he walks up to you and shoves his cold ass hands under your sweater and holds on to you so you can't even move away. he would start by grabbing your hips and quickly moving forward to cup your boobs while you whine about the goosebumps. he definitely ends up grinding onto your ass and whispering into your ear about how he can warm you right up.

kyle lets you talk him into matching ugly sweaters mostly because he is too hot to look bad in anything. he loves seeing you happy so he will do anything. if you are celebrating with your family or friends he is literally the picture perfect boyfriend that gets everyone oohing and aahing. he helps you with the tree decorating when something is out of your reach (but he lets you try to do it yourself just to see the sweater ride up and show of your skin, he is still cheeky) and he always tastes your cooking telling you exactly what it is that you're missing and have been trying to figure out for the past 10 mins. but his mind is playing out scenarios in which he's gonna get to the lacy lingerie he saw you wearing underneath the sweater.

now john is more lowkey about christmas, if he was on his own he wouldn't even bother with a tree. he does end up getting one for you ofc (after mean mugging few part-timers that tried to flirt with you but every time you looked at him he didn't let anything show but the guys there started giving you a wide berth). he will bring you to a work christmas party that he was forced to go by laswell and when he sees people bring their kids and you interacting with them, his mind starts racing with some wild thoughts about how your christmas could look next year. when he corners you in the bathroom and locks the door the only response to your wide-eyed stare is that he is "gettin' into the christmas spirit, love. jus' like you wanted."

[shotmrmiller]

ghost getting himself a cute, soft girl he doesn't talk about much but is clearly obsessed with and price just thinks it's nice he's finally settled down, approves of the home he's made for himself, definitely approves of the one he's taken for himself.

soap asks kyle if he's seen you and he says, "yep. lovely bird he's got tucked away in her little dollhouse. makes great food, too." soap swears there's a subtle shift in his tone when he says "lovely", a hint of something deeper that flickers in his eyes for just a moment. soap simply sucks on his teeth, letting it slide. (although he knows that kyle's always been one to appreciate the good things in life.)

interest gnaws at him, a persistent itch he can't scratch. price likes you just fine, as does kyle. well what about him? he decides to bite the bullet and goes to simon with a knot between his brows, the corners of his lips tugged downwards. they've shared clothes, bullets, beds. if the other two got to meet you, why can't he?

"ya can come over for dinner on tonight. she'd 'ave my neck if she didn't formally meet ya anyway."

soap then asks, out of genuine curiosity more than anything else, if simon would have kept you in the dark from him hadn't he brought you up himself.

"ya meet 'er when i want ya to, boy, and not a moment before." the tone he takes is unmistakeable. his words are a command, not a suggestion, and soap instantly knows to not push further.

soap nods. "ah'll be there."

"course ya will. she'd be terribly disappointed otherwise."

yeah, he'd hate to have that.

soap sits in the living room, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light over the cozy place. with a full stomach and an unfastened belt, nursing a glass of kentucky. he can't remember the last time he ate that well or that much.

maybe it's the alcohol that loosens his tongue, or the fact that he wishes he also had a sweet little thing to keep at his side just like simon's doing with you now, but the thoughts he's been mulling over all evening since he first saw you tumble out of his mouth.

"while ah can attest to yer taste in sweethearts, can't say much about your alcohol. bourbon, LT?" he says, chest warm.

simon's arm tightens around your hips, fingers splayed possessively over your thigh. he shrugs, completely unbothered by the backhanded compliment. "can't be perfect in everythin', can we, sergeant?"

soap's cheeks burn furiously hot when you come to his defense with a smack of your palm onto simon's chest. "be nice to johnny. he's got a face that make up for some of his other flaws."

the teasing lilt in your voice unashamedly gets his southern blood pumping. he can't help it if certain things stir when someone as pretty as you look at him like that. soap swirls the amber liquid gently in the glass while keeping his limpid eyes on you, not even trying to hide the fact that his gaze hasn't wavered since your cheeky little comment.

you then whisper something in simon's ear, your cupped hand not even half the size of his head and soap has to rearrange himself from the outside when your teeth catch your bottom lip. simon looks up at you then, eyes heavy and half lidded, and a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth.

"'m not sure, love. you'll just 'ave to ask 'im yourself. go on."

you open that sweet mouth of yours, but simon cuts you off with a decisive wave of his hand. "no. you know how to ask for things."

your reaction to that is visceral, and you're on your knees faster than his alcohol-muddled brain can comprehend. don't look down 'er shirt, don't look down 'er shirt, don't-

"johnny, will you touch my pussy?"

he splutters at your question, completely taken aback, but it seems you're not done just yet.

"hands to yourself, sergeant. tha' not all."

you pout at simon, one that earns you a look that promises consequence, but do as he says.

"will you touch my pussy, johnny? pretty please?"

[3amfanfiction]

what about a johnny who becomes a proper ghost. can walk through walls, can't touch anything without a whole lot of concentration, basic ghostly vibes.

then you move into his house and he's pissed. this is still his space, why are you here, and you're moving everything around? absolutely not. he's not gonna stand for this.

so he puts in the work he's been procrastinating and learns how to properly affect his surroundings and gets to work on scaring you away. little does he know with the housing market as it is, you have no intention of leaving no matter how many ghosts are here with you. and it sure sounds like a lot with the ruckus johnny puts up.

so johnny gets more and more fed up. he eventually throws a full blows temper tantrum right as you're about to have guests over--throwing things, lifting them up into the air and letting them drop, ghastly wailing, running taps, the whole 9 yards.

you’re normally able to ignore him and set things to right after he loses steam but this time the clock is ticking. you’re at your wits end, up against a wall. you come to a decision and figure you've got a 50/50 shot of this working.

you raise your top and flash your tiddies at him.

silence.

everything falls from where it was hovering and quiets. the house almost lets out a sigh.

you take a breath and lower your shirt, happy that it worked only for it to be yanked off your head. you look down and watch your nipples extend, ghostly hands you can't see plucking at them. no matter how you try and fight, you can't get your shirt back down over your chest.

maybe this was a bad idea

Pt 2

[stellewriites]

marrying johnny was an easy choice, in that you had no choice at all.

he needed a wife and you were too old to stay at home any longer, already well past the average age other women in your town got married. the wild west wasn’t kind to young women, so it made sense to cling to the offer johnny made even if you knew his heart wasn’t in it. it was unlikely you’d find a better option in your town, no one interested was as young or as handsome.

it didn’t matter the rumours that spread about him. in fact they fell in your favour.

you barely had the chance to get to know him; told on your first night to keep house, left with his set of rules and chores to occupy you while he rode off with his tall masked friend.

it could be days, weeks even, between the morns you saw him. you didn’t ask where he went or what he did when he didn’t come back home. you didn’t care, happy to take advantage of the empty bed.

and for months, crossing paths only a handful of times, it worked for you both. you kept your horse fed and brushed, used it to travel into town for your perishables each week and made sure the space out back was kept neat for if johnny arrived back on his own mare.

it worked. you were happy. but then johnny was shot; part of a train robbery gone wrong, the sheriff had told you stiffly.

he apologised for your loss, but you could tell he didn’t mean it. he told you if you had any clue who johnny’s partner could be then it’d be wise to turn him in sooner rather than later before leaving you to organise the funeral. closed casket, he’d advised wryly, in fact just ask the undertaker to seal him in a box and pay him direct. save yourself some time.

watching johnny’s casket get lowered into the ground you couldn’t help but think about how you’d never even kissed. husband and wife, though a true sham of it behind the walls of your home. not that you’d admit it so.

you stand next to his friends, people you hadn’t gotten to meet, and watch them grieve at his funeral. the tall man, his lower face still masked, seemed beholden with his grief; shaking with anger as his wet eyes stayed firm on the casket as it was lowered to the dirt.

you once again deigned not to think of where johnny may have been staying when he wasn’t nipping back home to you or how likely his partner in crime may have also been his partner in life. you’d let johnny keep his secrets.

you take the deed to his house - now your house - and shake and cry yourself to sleep that evening. it wasn’t grief that kept you awake though, but guilt. guilt over feeling thankful for his death since it brought with it your freedom, no strings attached.

johnny’s gentle, if not disinterested, countenance towards you had been reassuring, but not a guaranteed permanence. this however, was.

you continue to keep house, visit the stores in town and generally continue on as before for months after. you don’t see his tall friend and you don’t hear from anyone else that had been present at the funeral throughout the entire time. in fact, it’s almost a year later to the day of his death when you’re disturbed in your home.

steps crunching along the dry mud out back, irregular scratching at the windowsills and knocks on the doors inside the house.

when you think you see a man in your mirror you finally go to one of johnny’s friends still living in town and ask about your late husband, if they’ve seen or heard anything, but they just look at you pityingly.

you leave before they can get a doctor involved, blame it on a bad night’s sleep and a lonely heart - the horse wouldn’t settle for the wind and it is close to the anniversary as you know - and wave them off when they offer to come to the house. instead you buy a peashooter from a condescending clerk at the hardware store and hope for the best. hope to god it’s just big rats.

but you should’ve accepted their offer.

you should’ve moved out as soon as the noises started because finally one night when you’ve been kept up for hours and frozen still by the noises and movement in your house, you shakily take the gun and drag yourself downstairs. you follow the sound to the front door and sling it open.

you gasp at the sight before you. johnny sat on his horse, wearing the same clothes as he was a year ago when he was lowered into the ground; but dirtier, dustier, and his horse’s front leg has too many bends in it to be natural, its jaw hangs too low, its eyes too cloudy.

you daren’t look at johnny’s face beneath his hat, tilted low until your shaky breaths register and he looks up with a growing grin. grim and broken and hollow. his eyes are a cold grey, no longer blue, but clear and seeing unlike his horse. he stares at you as you take in the blood staining his chest, the unnatural, sporadic twitch in his hand as he removes his hat. you gasp a second time, shudder with it, when you finally see the wound that killed him.

a hole in his temple, gaping and splitting out into minute cracks and bruises across his forehead and down his cheek. hairline fractures and ruptured blood cells reaching out like tree roots.

his smile didn’t reach as high on that side but you tried not to dwell. you didn’t understand what he had to smile about in the first place.

“johnny…?”

“in the flesh, hen. come give yer husband a kiss, eh?”

“i don’t— i don’t understand. this can’t— you died. i saw them bury you.”

“aye. ye let them bury me.”

“i didn’t— i didn’t know—”

“ah ken, ah ken. i forgive ye. or i will, if ye let me in.”

you swallow thickly. there was a heaviness to his words that suggested you’d be doing more than just letting this… man, your husband, back into your home. you know he meant more than that.

“it’s late, johnny.”

“all the more reason not to dawdle. ne’er thought you were one to waste time even if ye were skittish.” he eyes your gun, held in shaking hands but still aimed higher than the steps before you, not fully dropped yet. “ah see ye’ve gotten past that in my absence.”

“it’s late.”

johnny huffed through his nose like a bull. angry like one too.

“so ye’ve said an’ ahm well aware. hen, let me in, before dawn comes knockin’. now, c’mon.”

you frown, clear your throat even as it felt full of cotton.

“what— what did you say to me on my first morning here after we woke up together?”

he squints at you, clenching his jaw tight before letting his unnatural smile stretch back across his lips. “forgive me if mah memory’s spotty but ah think ah said ‘good morning’.”

you raise the gun and point it towards him. “me and johnny never shared a bed. he left me alone here that first full week and he took the chair downstairs when he did stay. always.”

johnny’s grin turned mean in front of you, the cracks splintering further across his face.

“i was happy to try an’ do this the nice way, but now…” he threatens, twisting to drop off his horse.

you shoot him in the chest when his feet his the ground but the bullet doesn’t stop his even pace, doesn’t even startle his horse, and you feel dread finally rise above your adrenaline and chill you to the bone.

“shouldnae a done that.”

fanvid by serastonins

[hopelesslonelyghost]

has anyone seen those tiktoks where it goes “if i die don’t look for me i’ll come to you?” and it’s like a cat or a puppy….

yall know where this is going …..

:)

what if you spoke about that with your boys. just randomly one afternoon when all five of you are chilling in the living room watching a movie and you’re just like, “if i die i’ll come back as a cat” and they all just whip their heads towards you and you’re like “what?”

the only one who bites the bullet is simon, who snorts and asks, “wha’ type o’ cat would you be, love?” and price is lowkey highkey glaring at him because why the fuck is he encouraging this?

you just shrug, “i think maybe a black cat. i’ve always had a soft spot for them.” and that was the end of the conversation because the movie got to the good part and you shushed everyone.

what if you died on a mission. ambushed and shot dead in front of your squad. just like that, you’re gone.

what if one day a couple of months later when your boys are visiting your grave they’re all sat on the grass when all of a sudden a black kitty comes meowing up to kyle and immediately jumps in his lap and begins to purr and knead at his jeans.

what if all of them just freeze because they remembered that conversation you all had years ago about you coming back as a cat. a black cat.

what if kyle picks the kitten up, staring at it with tears in his eyes and just holds the tiny feline up to his face and whispers, “you really came back.”

what if they take the kitty home, bathe her and cuddle her until she falls asleep.

what if they all cry themselves to sleep that night because they just miss you so much but you really kept your word because even in the afterlife you’re right there in the form of a rambunctious kitten that loves to sun gaze just like you did. that loves to sit on their laps just like you did. that loves to nap at all hours of the day just like you did. that loves to sometimes spend time alone just like you did. that loves to leave wet kisses on their cheeks just like you did. that is just as clumsy just like you were.

what if one day they all come home to their fur baby staring at a framed picture they have of you. smiling and trying to cover your face from the camera. they remember you weren’t fast enough, and that flick of you is now one of their most precious memories.

what if the little void looks back at the boys and chirps a soft greeting. happy to see them back and running over to them and rubbing themselves against their feet, welcoming them back home.

WHAT IFFFFFFFFF

[niccolites]

is possessed by an evil spirit for a moment and i can only think abt brother's best friend soap (heavily inspired by @ceilidho's ask here)

Idk man something about soap having always been a little bit weird with u. he's been friends with ur brother for years, back to when you were teenagers. He's only a year older but you felt the gulf of that gap, exaggerated when he shot up, puberty like a tool he used just to tower over u and make u uncomfortable

Growing up with him as a perpetual shadow, always a little bit too close, always a little bit too intense. Your parents shrug it off when u complain about it, telling u that he just likes u and u could be nicer to him about it, poor guy. Ur brother calls u stuck up when u snub soap, hissing at u to stop embarrassing him when ur rude when johnny tries to give u his seat on the couch where they're playing on their console

only you know that he's only offering u a seat so that he can press in close, a hulking mass in the corner of your eye as hot breath hits the side of ur face while he tries to look down ur shirt. constantly trying to dodge his grabby hands that grip ur exposed thighs or smooth over ur hips - pupils blown out when his hands swallow up the expanse of your skin

u snap at one point and tell him that he disgusts u, that ur not into him at all. he goes red in the face, growling that you've been leading him on, that ur playing games with his head (he is assuming u wearing a blue bra after he yanked ur turtleneck up was to match his eyes, even tho he shouldn't have seen it in the first place)

u end up with ur panties around ur knees as he forces u to stroke his cock, panting into ur throat as u 'make apologies' to him. he forgives u btw, he knows that u have to act this way, that ur brother would kill him if he knew. makes it seem like ur partners in crime, in this together even with his hand manacled around ur wrist to stroke him off

it gets worse after he enlists, and u don't see him for weeks or months. he gets pent up, barely putting a show on for everyone before he's dragging u off slick mouth on urs until there's spittle dribbling down ur chin, whining for u to please let him see his pretty girl (he's talking abt ur pussy), already 2 knuckles deep so ur wondering why he's even asking in the first place

and now he's a hero to everyone else. stuck in the bind of him being the in-love teenager to the kind-hearted man that is risking his life for everyone, do you have to be so cruel to him?

u wonder why, face pressed into the pillows of ur childhood bedroom as he hikes ur ass into the air to rut into u hard and fast

u do what u always do, hissing and spitting at him until he finally gets his way and ur back bows as he barely pauses through ur orgasm as he chases his own. he knows that u have to put the show on, lovey, but he's waiting in the backwing for u. partners in crime right?

[angelfishcake]

I need everyone to see this

[temeyes]

[s0fter-sin]

everyone makes fun of soap when they find out how many hair and skin products he keeps on hand. the cabinet in his bathroom is filled to bursting and he always keeps travel sized bottles on him on missions

when soldiers outside the 141 find out, they call him precious and self-obsessed, a vain pretty boy too preoccupied with his reflection to focus on the enemy. no wonder how he got his callsign. price has given up telling him to leave them on base and just teaches him to individually wrap them so they don’t rattle against each other and give himself away

what they don’t know is that each product contains an ingredient that when mixed with any number of the others, creates potent chemical bombs. he was caught unarmed once, he won’t let it happen again

[furiosophie]

((zombie ghost this, zombie ghost that, what about eldritch!soap who came back wrong??))

[yeyinde]

idk i just want more Soap + surreal horror but in a "you think you ran over the neighbours dog coming home late at night so in a panic, you stuff it inside your trunk until you can figure out what to do. but it isn't a dog and now it won't leave you alone" kinda way.

[dyktvideogamesfx]

hey :) i love your blog. i think you misread the previous ask. it was asking for babas favorite soup, not soap lol

WOW I... YOU'RE RIGHT.

SOUP. I LIKE A SPECIFIC SOUP MY MOM MAKES. FUCK.

[forestshadow-wolf]

Soap doesn't smoke.

Didn't.

Does occasionally.

Sometimes.

When he needs it.

Routinely.

Any chance he gets.

He didn't used to. Not for any morality reason or whatever. Lord knows he already lacks enough of it. Just sometimes it was easier to literally run himself to the ground then go to the shop. There was just no real reason to attach himself when he could just as easily pick his skin of his fingers raw while he got lost in his head.

Plus his mam always said "John, donnae you even start on this, you know how granda was." Granda was a 78 year old bugger who died of lung cancer, and he must've smoked a pack a day. Pretty good for a fucker killin' himself, soap reckons. 'Course he respects the hell outta the man still, and he'll never tell his mam about blond stranger he bummed from once as a teen. There was never any reason to wake a, perhaps, dormant gene.

Never any reason until there was.

It was only bumming a cig once or twice when it was offered. A rare occasion. Waiting for exfil from a salty mission with nobody but the grass and the breeze to witness. Nothing to say. Just have a smoke about it. All that happened. Everything they survived. The parts they almost didn't. But Soap doesn't smoke.

Ghost would never admit it but he gets snippy when he doesn't have his smokes. So Soap carries a pack on him just in case. Just in case Ghost loses his own. It happens sometimes. When it does he'll offer his pack to Ghost, take one for himself too. No reason not to. But it's not like he smokes. Not really.

Usually after the team gets out of debrief from a tough mission Ghost needs a smoke. It helps him unwind. Brings his mind out of survival mode. Brings the lieutenant back to the Ghost. Soap finds he often needs it just as much. Less so for the nicotine, more for the silence, sometimes for the motions. It helps remind him how to to breathe properly again. But he doesn't really smoke.

Ghost likes to have a smoke after meal times. He doesn't even invite Soap anymore, expects him to follow. Like clockwork morning, afternoon, and evening smoke. Soap switched to Ghost's brand. Every time, without fail, Ghost would forget his pack of cigs after lunch and bum one off Soap. And every time, without fail, Ghost would routinely complain about the piss quality of his cigs. But it's not like Soap smokes all the time.

Until he did.

It was Soap's own fault too. Picked a fight over some meaningless topic that he can't remember. Some things were said. Some things were unsaid. He made Ghost the villian in his story. Next thing he knew Ghost was packed up and shipping off to the other side of the country. Soap said some gnarly things. Things he wishes he couldn't take back a thousand times over again. But worse than that it's what he wishes he hadn't left unsaid out of fear. Wasn't even the three big words. Just one. One pathetic work that he couldn't utter. And Ghost would have stayed. Now his clothes smell like smoke, his room, his blanket, his kit, his sketchbook. When he wakes in the morning. Around his breakfast. In the gym working out. Cleaning his fire arms. Doing paperwork. Fixing the broken shit on base. He still smokes Ghost's cigarettes. He was right, his old ones were piss. But more importantly they smell like him. Everything smells like Ghost. Reminds him what he lost. What he chased away. Just how he wants it. Let the memories and hurt really sink in. Ghost said he'd be back. Some day. Soap will return to his cheapest quality cigs. A harsh reminder of what he lost. But for now he smells like Ghost, and he won't easily give it up.

[deathblossomm]

[tbag-hq]

Another angsty 141 pregnancy concept from me cause I’m an evil mastermind.

Imagine you’re engaged to one of the 141 boys, you’ve been together for a few years then BOMB Pregnant. You make it to about 3 months into pregnancy then wake up and all his stuff is gone, naively you assume he got deployed and just didn’t tell you which is odd but hey whatever.

You don’t get any calls from him for about a week which should’ve been red flag number two but it’s red flag number one, you decide to take the initiative to ring him up only to figure out you’ve been blocked. Now you start freaking out, you check everything you have him on and even have a friend check and yup you have just been 100% ghosted(dumped? Idk.)

Now you have to figure out how to handle a baby, rent, bills, food and extra stuff with no father for your kid.

Signed,

Lex Luther reincarnation.