#deadbranch you are the oracle of my writing

[brewed-pangolin]

Drabble request for Super Soap Sunday:

Origin story of the Soap MacTavish mohawk, 500 words or less...GO.

First Flight of the Scottish Hawk

Ooohhhh I love this!!! I may be one of the few that actually loves Soap's hawk, and this just gives me full range to go creatively nuts with this. Thank you!

Warnings: Mentions of loss at the end. Nothing more than ridiculous MacTavish household shenanigans throughout.

This turned into something I honestly didn't see coming. I couldn't stop writing, and I let the creativity flow through me. If you all like it enough I will expand on it more. Much love 💛

Massive thanks to @deadbranch and @d3athtr4psworld for your input.

Word count 1.4 k (Oops, got carried away again)

If there is one thing you should never do, don't ever dare John MacTavish to do anything. Period.

It's simple, really. All it takes is a few choice words and a push in the right (or wrong) direction and John MacTavish will go full beast mode.

You can thank his sister, Charlotte for the crested motif.

--

After completing basic training at the tender age of 16, John returned home with nothing but a triumphant chip on his shoulder and, more noticeably, a trimmed line of peach fuzz along his scalp.

While his mum and dad couldn't be more proud, his siblings on the other hand were chomping at the bit to get a rise out of him.

Hamish, the oldest of the boys, chimed in first.

"Ye look a'that, mum. Lil John's come back all growned up." He jabbed, before wrapping his arm around his neck forcing him into a tight headlock.

"Not n'the kitchen, Hamish! You'll break tha bloody cabinets!" Mum exclaimed while pushing her two oldest boys into the hall.

"Got'a test tha' strength ma! Can't..oofff" He was swiftly cutoff by John's elbow into his stomach. The two were now fully engulfed in a standing wrestling match.

"Fuck. Off. Hame!" Each of John's words were grittngly emphasized as he wrapped his hands around his older brothers arm.

"Gonnae be a whippin' fer the both a ya if ya donnae knock it off." Mum's warning fell on deaf ears, as this went on for another 10 minutes. By the end of it, both boys had endured the verbal wrath of a furious Catholic Scottish Maiden. (COs can't hold a candle to a pissed off mum)

The twins, Michael and David, couldn't be bothered with real world nonsense. They were too busy with the neighborhood boys playing their own version of 'modern warfare' deep in the backyard woods.

Albiet mildly gruesome in itself, fellow parents enforced a strict 'no guns' rule within the ranks. Imagination would rule the day once more. Sticks were a better option, anyway. And video games were non existent in the MacTavish household.

"Git out me sight, tha' lot'aya!" Patriarchal Rules over all.

Last, and on both ends of the birthing spectrum were Charlotte and Genevieve. John found them in their usual hiding place, the knitting room.

Genevieve, or Evie, as she was so lovingly referred to was only 4. A 'precious surprise' dubbed by mum, and the absolute light of John's eyes.

"How's my favorite lit'le lass, eh Evie?" He could never strain above a whipser when he called to her. And as he knelt down his arms stretched out and awaited her usual 'mighty bear hug'.

But it never came. As she looked him over, her precious green eyes began to water, her face slowly began to contort into a seldom seen melancholy, and then she cried.

"Smooth, Johnny." The sarcastic venom in Charlotte's words was immeasurable, yet still held within it that familiar sibling banter.

"Ooh, no Evie. It's still me. Still yer Johnny." He pleaded as he quickly tried to console her.

"Git out ya arse! Ya makin it worse!" Charlotte chided him as she knelt down to pick up her now inconsolable sister.

"Ah, c'mon Char. Donnae be like that."

Heartbroken is the only word that came to her mind. And being the oldest, she now had two 'children' to console.

"Jus' giv'er a minute, Johnny. She's only seen ya at home. Not like, this." She waved her hand at him, accentuating the difference in his appearance and demeanor. She also lessened her tone, for both their sakes. She'd make a good mother one day.

"Ya think I look tha' different, Char?"

"T'me? Nah. But I knew why yer were gone, Johnny. Evie didn't."

Of course, he'd ask only her this question. Besides their usual sibling rivalry, John looked up to his oldest sister the most. Craved for her approval above all others. Even more so than his parents at times.

"Aye. Is it tha hair, ya think? Bit of a shock t'myself if ya ask me."

"It donnae help yer cause, Johnny. Ya do look like a fuzzy bowling ball."

"Haud yer wheesht, Char!"

The playful jesting slowly began to smooth the lot of them. Evie's sobs eased into soft whimpers as she turned to face her brother once more. Her forehead rested into Charlotte's neck as her eyes once again roamed over her brothers familiar face.

"I donnae like it, Johnny." The high-pitched quiver in her voice nearly broke him to tears. He swallowed hard, forcing those feelings down into the newly formed gullet deep within his chest.

"I know, Evie. It's only fer a little while." His soft blue eyes matched hers, glistening in the dim light as they continued their conversation in wordless speech.

A slow tremble began to form in her lower lip. Quickly she released her grasp around her sister's neck and stretched out to him. It may not have been the bear hug he was expecting, but the comfort of her on his chest more than soothed that aching heart within him.

"The people've spoken, Johnny. What'ya give'm, eh? A typical buzz cut, stylish pompadour, a fricken mohawk?" Charlotte's jab struck a nerve, the evidence all over John's face as his brows furrowed in utter bewilderment.

She answered with her own expression, that sly curl to her lip that John was all too familiar with.

"Donnae do it, Char. I'm warnin' ya."

She had to. In the presence of Evie, Charlotte knew not to speak such fowl language. Silently, she mouthed and provoked him.

'I. Fucking. Dare you.'

That's it. That's all it took. The right words in the wrong direction, by the right person. John couldn't refuse. And like a baited fish, Charlotte swung him in and quickly mounted her victory atop her mental walls.

Six months passed before John returned home again. Military life suited him well. So did his new hairstyle.

It was the typical MacTavish family reunion; mum and dad always the proudest parents in all of Glasgow, ridiculous hairdo aside.

Hamish greeted him with the classic headlock, which again was followed by the verbal chastising of their Iron Maiden mother. (John would tell her one day she'd make the perfect Drill Sargeant)

The twins were currently grounded in their room for saying 'naughty words' in school. John didn't poke too hard, but got this gist it was something about 'God forsaken homework.' The usual teenage behavior.

He sought out his two favorite lasses with overwhelming vigor, finding them yet again within the walls of the knitting room.

"How's my favorite lit'le lass, eh!"

"JOHNNY!" Evie's squeal may have nearly burst his eardrums, but he would gladly go without all sound just to remember that beautiful voice.

He had barely crouched down before she swung her arms around his neck, throwing that much needed 'mighty bear hug' against him.

"Easy Evie, ya ain't such a lit'le lass anymore." His playful strain made her tighten the death grip around him, and he gleefully recipricated.

“Ha? Th’army turnin out softies now, eh?” Charlotte called from the corner as she effortlessly hung her newest knitted masterpiece on the wall, a large afghan in the most brilliant forest green hues.

“Awa’ an bile yer heid, Char.”

“Watch it, Johnny. Tha lit’le rapscallion on yer shoulder gotten a knack fer echoin th’lot of us. Gonnae be eatin soap fer dinner if she keeps it up, yeah.”

Evie strained her neck and forcefully stuck out her tongue in retaliation. The banter was a welcome grief to John. He’d never admit it, but he missed his daily chastising from his oldest sister during those hard days in the field. CO’s could learn a thing or two from the scolding mouths of a MacTavish woman. 

“Ya lookin good, Johnny. Besides the rooster crest. What’re they callin’ya, ‘Mornin Wood?’”

“That’s classified.” The bite in his retort didn’t go unnoticed.

“Ohh, look a’mister fancy pants ov’r here.” Charlotte threw her hands up in taunting surprise. She’d never admit it, but she missed throwing those playful insults at him below the chest. It was an ebb and flow that no other seemed to be able to grasp.

“Donnae matter, Char. Only needs one approval, yeah. What’ya think, lass?” John turned to face the green-eyed angel within his grasp, her eyes slowly studying the features of him, finally focusing on the thick crest atop his head. 

“I like it.” 

“Thas’all I need. Gonnae keep it, yeah. Jus’ fer you, Evie.”

“Pinky swear?”

“Aye. Pinky swear.”

Her voice was the lullaby that tamed the savage beast. The silent tempest on the shores of a violent sea.

John wrapped his finger around hers and gave into the overwhelming power she had hung over him. Evie smiled, and buried her face within his neck. The vice-like grip around him doing nothing but melting that hard metallic soul growing within him.

“Ya gone’n don’it now, Johnny.” Charlotte’s quip was sharp, yet softened as it flowed freely through the air.

John responded in equal softness, an eerily reminiscent silent jab.

‘Fuck. You.’

25 years and a full military career later, Captain John ‘Soap’ MacTavish sat lonely at the bar, pondering the ice within its liqoured embrace and watched as the waves of liquid slowly melded within themselves. He was within pleasant company, something he had truly missed over the remaining years of his career.

He heard the cadence of footsteps first, their possesor non other than the legendary John Price himself. 

“Ya know ya got to drink it for it to work, yeah.” 

“Aye. Jus’ takin my time with it.”

A somberness flowed freely through them, no longer wanting or needing to keep old wounds bound and at bay. Price scanned the crowd once over before returning his gaze to the scarred and crested veteran, both looking more worse for wear within the golden age of their careers.

“Ya know, Soap. I’ve known ya for over 20 years. And somehow I never thought to ask.”

Price paused as Soap brought the cold and perspiring glass up to his lips.

“Why do ya keep the mohawk?”

Soap turned to face his war hardened comrade. A silent shock washed over him as the quiet memory of her surfaced into the realm of his periphery. He sat motionless for a moment, spinning the glass within his hands as her name gracefully returned to the soft tissue of his lips.

“Evie. I kept it for Evie.” It felt like a hymn, to speak her name again after so many years of silence. The sound of it wafting into the wooden rafters before cascading and disappearing into the boisterous cacophony around the bar.

“Who’s Evie?”

“She was my sister.” Soap’s chest tightened as the words fell out of his mouth. 

“Was?”

The slip of the tongue caught him off guard. Soap met Price’s gaze and held within it a cold blue steel. 

“Touchy subject.” Price titled his glass, and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder before leaving him alone again at the bar with his thoughts. 

An ache formed within his heart. A void that was filled with her memories and locked away from the world's prying eyes. 

His fingers slowly turned the tumbler on the weathered bar while his eyes slowly began to focus on the smallest finger of his hand. Bringing it up to his face he studied its features as a chemist studies the inner workings of molecular bonds.

The slightest curl of a smile formed on the corner of his mouth as the sound of her voice ricocheted within the recesses of his mind. And the green, those bright green eyes like the mossy hills of the Scottish highlands. 

Edited 2/5/24 to include remastered Soap Squad 🧼

“Pinky swear, Evie.”

@deadbranch @sofasoap @d3athtr4psworld @punishmepunisher @jynxmirage @glitterypirateduck @astraluminaaa @shotmrmiller @obligatoryghoststare @homicidal-slvt @ghosts-goldendoodle @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world @writeforfandoms @tacticalanxiety @simpingoverquestionablemen @queen-ilmaree @havoc973 @foxface013 @sadstone-s @haurasha @mykneeshurt @designateddeadend @luismickydees @kkaaaagt

[brewed-pangolin]

💕 self-love time! talk about which ones of YOUR creations (edits, artworks, fanfics) you like the most then send to other creators to do the same 💕

Thank you so much for the tag @deadbranch.

I don't have the biggest body of work, but there are actually two that I've loved the most so far. So, as usual, I'm kinda gonna break the rules and focus on two fics instead of one.

My favorite fanfics I've written so far are Blue Steel and my SoftSoap Drabble

Blue Steel was the first fic I've written in almost five years. I know I've said it a thousand times, but it was so nice to come back and get it out into the world.

I love writing a playful Soap with just a touch of dominance to him. And this fic was so much fun to write. The powerplay between Johnny and the reader, the banter, the weird ass imagery I used. Loved all of it.

Soap being assertive and a tad bit controlling in the bedroom is something that I probably enjoyed the most out of it.

SoftSoap was on the complete opposite spectrum for me. Soap being cautious, timid, and unwilling to share his emotions was a break in the mold for me.

I loved how the reader tore down his barriers and let him open himself up, especially over something the reader honestly forgot about

This also peaks into the duality that I see in Soap. He has two different sides to him (selfless plug for The Highland Coin Toss)

Johnny/Soap is something that I truly have enjoyed writing for over the last couple months, and even if sometimes the work isn't all that well written, I still absolutely love doing it

Now if you come back and ask me this same question in a month, I'm probably going to answer with the new fic I'm working on. I am having so much fun writing it, it should be illegal. I'd like to thank my Oracle for this certain Scottish activity idea (you know who you are 😘)

This is honestly such a good idea. Self-love is something we need to practice more often. And there's something so satisfying about a creator gushing about their work. Spread the love, write/create what feels good, and most importantly, have fun!

No pressure tags: @sofasoap @punishmepunisher @ave661 @mykneeshurt @bloodyknucklesforme @yumethefrostypanda