#soap 🧼 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

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.

“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.”

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.

“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.”

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.

“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.”

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.”

an: reader is called mari... because of calamari... squid joke ;)

prequel jealous!soap fic here

#john soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #johnny mactavish x reader #soap Mactavish x f!reader #soap 🧼#john mactavish x reader #john mactavish x you #johnny mactavish #soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x you #cod soap x reader #cod soap #soap mw2

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undercoverpena · 1 year

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trouble keepin' my eyes off you

john 'soap' mactavish x f!reader wc: 4k | warnings: angst, jealous!soap, pining summary: soap has been aware of it for longer than he’d like to admit. each time his eyes land on your mid-smile, each sound of your laughter—all he thinks is, I want this, I want it all with you. an: prequel to yours to keep and a thousand — and dedicated to @guyfieriii who i adore, and dedicate all my soap too. teehee.

soap masterlist

It’s uncomfortable, the heat. It clings, wraps and drapes over everything, smothering any breeze or fresh air.

The sweat builds on his brow, dripping down the back of his neck, leaving puddles at the base of his spine. Worst of all, beads drop from his hairline, sliding down his cheeks, dropping from his jawline as he runs his hand through his hair.

His hair has grown—the shorter sides having gained some length, beginning to conceal his very deliberate mohawk he had going. Which is another string to the bow of annoyance. It tells the tale of how long they've all been here, sweating, not sleeping, watching and waiting.

But the bow, the real thing which has been grating him is that you’re on the other side of a slightly ajar door, sparring—and it isn’t with him.

Soap has been trying not to listen.

But, they’re loud—you are loud.

Even his attempts of burying it have been futile. He's attempted to recall songs from home. Ones where there’s a scotch or beer in hand, swishing from side to side as his voice cracks as he screams the words—arms around a friend or two. The words which he knows are embedded into his soul—into the very fibre of his being—and yet, you’re making it hard for him to finish a verse, never mind a song.

He’s tried to focus on the quieter noises. The ones he wouldn't usually pay any fucking attention to—like Gaz tapping the keys of the laptop in the kitchen and the hot breeze trying to brush through the open window. The background noise, never loud enough to cause any impact—but he needs them to. He clings to hope that they will. He practically claws out for them, grabbing them with metaphorical hands—anything to drive the much louder noises away.

The ones coming from the door he’s forbidden from entering all because of stern words from even sterner eyes behind a balaclava.

On some level, he understands.

The whole place is small. Privacy is not something any of you are granted. But, he knows Ghost is trying to provide that for you in this case. Because you, little Squid, rarely ever ask for help—especially from him.

Gaz, yes. Price, maybe. Even him, occasionally.

Ghost—never.

But, he’s softened. He has jokes with you, purposefully having chosen to spend time with you on watch. Something rare, and very out of character for a man who initially didn't even show any of them his bloody face.

Soap knows you've done it again. Seeped under his layers, like you did with all of them, weaving your way, making it hard not to instantly take a shine to you.

He doesn't blame Ghost, he understands why. He can see that time was taken making you, carving each element of your personality, creating someone that is both good, clever and funny. You're strong-willed, giving-a-shit attitude is most likely the reason Ghost is helping you—training with you, offering guidance and support.

Handing you fucking praise.

Because he too has caught on to what they’ve all seen. He’s taken notice of how fucking splendid you are, how you’re capable and fucking gorgeous all rolled into one.

That’s it, Squidlet. Use your—perfect, that’s it, you got it. Atta girl.

He’s sure he’ll need bleach to burn Ghost’s words from his brain.

Even if it’s his fault—because he knows he shouldn’t be listening.

Having created his own personal torture chamber that he’s taken the time to design, construct, and build. Because there wasn’t a table and chairs here before—he moved them here. Choosing this spot so he could be close, just in case. Of what? He's not sure. But he needs to be here, something within him compelling him to be.

Under his jealousy, he doesn’t blame you, and he doesn’t blame Lt either. He knows the two of you can hardly be expected to spar outside, where every pair of eyes could be the enemy. Out there, the air isn't just thick with heat, but tension too.

Apprehension simmers as they come closer and closer to completing the very thing they are here for.

So, he's sat outside the room. Pretending to be interested in the latest report. Not wanting to move. Twisting and turning his emotions like playing cards, wondering why didn’t you ask him?

He bristles, chewing the inside of his mouth, breathing heavy, hating it—hating it all. His cheeks burning, coated in sweat as he stares at the words on the page, unsure why none of them are soaking in.

Why wouldn't you choose your lieutenant? That's the thought that gnaws, that sinks its pointy teeth into him. And it makes his bones ache.

Because he's so close, and yet so far. He almost has you, but not entirely. And it pecks at him, weaves into his insecurities, his need to prove himself—so much so he can’t rid the image of his lieutenant looming his big fucking frame over you. You under him, eyes staring up, lips parted, shredding your clothing for the man who rarely shows his face—

Your groan punches the air.

A sound he knows is from you being knocked on your arse, but it makes his fingers turn white. The sound so painted with frustration, and tiredness. He can tell—christ, he can even imagine the look on your face that accompanies it. Yet his brain twists it, morphs it, transforms it into something so ugly it almost breaks his heart.

It makes him want to claw at his brain, scratch out the images the tortured parts of himself keeps creating.

Because he knows you’re both sparring, that Lt is likely knocking you down, over and over again—not knowing that you’re stubborn, not knowing he should stop, that you’re running on nothing.

He’s your lieutenant, yes, but he doesn’t know you. Doesn’t know that you push yourself until you snap and shatter, leaving fragments of yourself in your hands. Pieces he’s tried to help guide back into place when he’s found you, lost and broken in such a way he’s not sure how to glue you back.

But, you didn’t choose him.

You chose Ghost.

Asked, practically pleaded with him.

So, he had to listen—even if he really fucking didn’t want to. He had to take the few sightings of you through the cracked door—the proof that you’re not on the floor, broken, breathing hard with sweat blending with tears.

Which means he also sees your body sheened with sweat, hair sticking to your face, neck and shoulders, and your tiny, tight shorts. It means he's seeing you looking ethereal, almost too good for this goddamn place.

And it nips at him—fueling his jealousy. It peels at his skin that Ghost is seeing you like this without a filter, without anything getting in the way.

All of it whisking against the vexation of the heat, the fear of failure and the growing tiredness. It makes his knuckles almost crack, his skin almost translucent as his wrists ache from the way he continually clenches his fist.

He’s down bad. He knows that.

Soap has been aware of it for longer than he’d like to admit. Each time his eyes land on your mid-smile, each sound of your laughter—all he thinks is, I want this, I want it all with you.

Not that he says those words. He just thinks them. Lets them swirl around his godforsaken mind until they try to drag him under.

Sometimes, he can’t even think because of it. The depths of his own thoughts like water, drowning him from the inside, made so much worse by the simple fact—he’s not the one pinning you to the floorboards. That he has barely seen you, spoken to you, been around you since they all landed here.

But Ghost has. His lieutenant has. The same Lt who is funny, witty, and even has his own nickname for you. The one who has height even on him, who is broader, and who your eyes land on immediately when briefs are given out.

Not his.

Each time he almost wants to exit the room, his teeth cutting the inside of his cheeks. Instead, he sits and silently stews. Bubbling away like a broth his mum used to make—hoping, waiting to get back to base where things feel easier.

And then, your squeal pinches the air, Soap unaware he's even standing until he blinks.

Then he hears the unmistakable gruff, Manchester twang of “Y’alright, Squidie?”

His heart pounds, attempting to crack his ribs and fly out of his chest. More so as each millisecond ticks on, as they add up into seconds and your voice hasn’t cut through the air—

“Not broken. Winded. But—“

You cough. Heavy. Chesty.

Soap’s mind fighting, urging him to push the door open more and visibly check you over himself. But, he hears movements, feet—boots.

“And. Stop callin’ me, Squidie.”

“Prefer Squidlet?"

"Fuck no."

"Get up.”

“Alright, alright,” you hiss, and the floorboard creaks again as you do. “Anyone tell you that you're the worst sometimes, Ghostling.”

Each night, he hopes the air will be easier to swallow. But, each night he wishes, it brings a new fresh hell he feels ill-prepared for.

Tonight, it’s sticky—the air clogged with thick, stubborn heat. There’s moisture, but it’s wrong. It smothers, makes his clothes chafe against his muscles.

All of it is made worse by you being difficult. You're kind, warm-hearted, and beautiful—but fucking difficult too. Especially on low sleep. Especially when you're woven so tightly, you're going to snap.

He’s heard Price order you to get some fuckin’ sleep—your back against the dingy wall, his palm flat against the wall, eyes close to yours. Soap watched as you lifted your chin defiantly, muttering back, I’ll sleep when you do, Captain.

Anyone else, he suspects they’d have their neck wrung. Sharing a look with Ghost—one he wasn’t able to translate—as you spit that you'll do the next watch, climbing the stone staircase and the ladder at the top before anyone can argue.

It reminds him of months ago, when you’d driven yourself to near exhaustion then. Your stubborn, difficultness being the backbone for you not to sleep, something always needing to be done—as if you’re the sole person who can stop all of this and put the world to rights.

You’ve always taken on so much.

The fire in your chest is both a blessing and a curse. He’s heard Price chew you out for the same reason. You try to do it all, not because you don’t rely on them or because you don’t trust them, but because:

“I care about you, all of you.”

Soap had been lingering, hanging outside the door of Price’s office when he heard his response.

“What makes you think you’re alone in that, hmm? You’re one of us, Squid. So, be one of us.”

When you’d emerged—tail between your legs—it didn’t take a genius to see you’d taken it hard. Not the berating, but the statement; the fact you fit in, that you were cared for.

And, even then you’d tried to shift the emotions dancing in your eyes from him. The mask not slipping down quickly enough, and the smile was not being presented fast.

“Y’alright?”

He always wondered if you’d have lied if he’d found you one minute later. If you’d have done so because you’d have known he hadn’t seen you undone, exposed—walls at your feet.

“No. Not… not really.” “C’mon, lass.”

It wasn’t the first time, but it was one of his favourites.

He’d held you against him, his sheets over both of your bodies, comfortable silence surrounding the two of you, clothes a welcomed barrier to anything else—as you held him like he was your rock in a storm.

Just like the two of them did on that first mission together.

I trust you. You know that, don’t you? Course, lass. Be bit awkward if y’didn’t? I mean, I don't do this with anyone else. Sleep with them... like this. I hope fuckin' not. You're special, Johnny. That's all I mean.

Sleep took you seconds later. Gently stealing you from him, breaths turning heavier and body relaxing and moulding around him.

Soap had found, in that space between reality and sleep, that’s when you were the most free. When your tongue is loosened and your heart is without chains. A side of you he sees in fleeting moments when he’s alone with you, but in a greater capacity like this—when you’re about to leave him for your dreams.

Now, though, it’s different.

You're weighed down by more than stress and pride, but rocks and fucking anchors. Whether because of the growing casualties or because you missed your bed, because it brought up memories you only ever half told him about.

He knows this because he's overheard Gaz ask you if you’re okay—Soap watching from the sidelines as you lie through your teeth. Something you’re getting better at, somewhat able to control your features, almost a poker face.

He knows you hate lying, to them at least. Each lie you spit opens a sore inside of you. It’s why he’s not asked himself. Not wanting to give you something else to churn and worry over, knowing it knots your insides and makes you spiral.

It’s not his turn to keep watch, but he follows you up the ladder all the same. He leans, the air coating his skin, making him already dream about the dribble they call a shower. Because even the rooftop wall is boiling, almost cooking him through his vest and clothes.

“Talk to me, lass. What’s keepin’ y’up?”

You don’t look at him, continuing your pacing, eyes trained in the distance. But your breath audibly catches, clearly startled, clearly rattled by his question—his presence.

“I hate losing.”

“We ain’t gonna lose, Mari.”

Your chin lifts, tongue swiping across dry, cracked lips. “I know… we’re the best of the fucking best. But…”

He knows.

He’s been feeling it too.

That thing. Unexplainable. The shadow in the corner, the one which has been haunting and hunting them since the wheels touched down. Sometimes, it’s easy, and sometimes it’s methodical—it’s torturous observing until the perfect moment. And when it’s the latter, it has a way of scratching at sensibility.

They all have a past. A failed mission that stands out from the rest—one that reminds each of them not to relax, to not let their guard down—what a single mistake can cause.

Your head turns, the moon casting a shadow across your features, and the hold you have on his heart tightens—nails digging in deep as the muscle tries to thump.

“Johnny, I’m just so t—“

But it’s stolen, your explanation.

Heavy boots and a masked face cut off whatever you were about to say. Eyes sitting around darkness, staring from him to you, bouncing, before frowning.

“It's not your watch, Johnny—"

"—I know—"

"You should get some sleep."

He wants to argue. Almost bloody does, too.

Wants to dig his heels in, and get you to continue, but he’s tired—his shoulders aching, his eyes stinging.

But, it's your words from another mission that come to mind. The ones from when you’d emerged like a phoenix—fire and smoke behind you as you stumbled into his arms—

Dunna do that, lass. Scare me. Need to stop worrying, Soapie. I always find my way back. I promise.

So he nods. He leaves. His palms descend down the ladder, half-stopping when he realises he left the window opening pausing.

He's not sure what he’s expecting—if anything at all. A confirmation, maybe? That the girl who drives him mad, has feelings for the more obvious choice. The brooding, big lieutenant who spits army jokes like he has an arsenal of them; the one you spend more time under, even if it’s sparring, than any of the others.

He’s about to move, shaking his nonsensical thoughts when he hears Ghost.

“Y’gotta stop fighting us all, Squidlet.”

“I’m not.”

“You fuckin’ are, and you know it.”

Silence. Horrid, fucking silence. So much so, his mind begins to fill with images of your bodies moving together, arms pulling the other close, ripping, shredding—

“You’ll be a piss poor shot if y’don’t sleep. Plus, you’re wearing Johnny out.”

His face flushes, bloody burns in the space between the second floor and the roof.

He doesn't miss you mumble that you’re not. All dismissive. Making his hands grip the spindle of the ladder, releasing a puff of air.

“If I sleep—“

“The world will keep turnin', trust me.”

“You almost sound like you care.”

His heart sinks, drops—and fucking plummets. Because you’re right. It does. It sounds exactly like that. The nickname. The way he’s come up when it’s not even his watch. All of it screaming that it’s something—all flashing lights and loud music accompanying it.

“Go to sleep, Squidie.”

“It’s my—“

“Go.”

He has to move.

He needs to move.

Even if he wants to pull you close to him. Even if it feels like you’re slipping through his fingers.

Just like he had done when he first realised how he felt, how he’d been feeling. When he’d almost told you. Rain hammering down, drowning you both to the bone. The two of you sent east, the rest west. Splitting a building each, finding his empty, and telling you as much. Your radio silence still haunted him. His blood thumping in his ears, ripping through each room, doing what he does best—cleaning fucking house. Finding you, bruised, bleeding, your knife in hand trembling under a dead body. The sound of boots drawing nearer to the opening they’d made—

“Thanks, Simon.”

He blinks in the present. The memory faded into nothing, vanishing like smoke—like it was never even there. Whatever held the last parts of him, snapped. His eyes staring up, pricking with the heat and the moment—stinging, aching.

You called him his name.

It left your tongue wrapped in intimacy, in care.

He’s unsure how he reaches the bottom of the ladder, his palms closed, fists clenched, nothing else in his head except getting to his room. Crossing the landing, passing the room with the others, only focusing on reaching his own room. The small thing—the cupboard with a single bed he’d managed to cop.

Everything he's squashed down, rises. They all begin to angrily fuse, mixing with the heat and his pent up frustration that he’s still here—so much so he almost slams the door. Almost.

His fingers instead press the thin wood into its frame. The click blessing the air like the first strum of a guitar, his heart beating like a drum—and then a knock, one belonging to a smaller hand, calloused, but still soft, the bass that sets the mood. All of it blending, creating a song he's not sure if he'll love or hate.

He knows it’s you. Knows it as he opens the door, watching you stare up at him, sliding your vest from your body, all defeated and knackered beyond belief.

Deep down, no matter what his brain says—what he hears, what he sees—he at least knows it’s him you choose to curl up to. That when you really need comfort, it’s him you look for. It’s him you pull close until your bodies almost merge into one.

“Hi.”

“Lass...”

You look troubled, more weighed down than he really noticed. Not even bothering to hide it, to plaster a smile over the cracks.

“Can I… Soap, I can’t…” you chew the inside of your cheek, avoiding his eyes as you sigh.

He tugs on your wrist, pulling you to him. Your body falling into him like it’s weightless, like you’re all attitude and feathers. Bringing you close, holding your head to his chest—almost swaying with you.

It always starts like this.

One, long hug. Rooted to the spot. Nothing—not a single thing able to penetrate the two of you. Frozen in a moment no one can ever take. And then, he’ll turn, finding shorts and a different t-shirt, hearing you undress before finding something more comfortable. Sometimes it’s your own, sometimes it’s his.

And fuck, when it’s his.

Your wicked, but sleepy smile is a picture for sore eyes and one he wishes he could take a photo of when you wait for his invite, as if you ever need one to climb into his bed.

Your bodies slide against the mattress. Usually, the springs protest, but the cot you’re sharing just groans in frustration as both of your sets of limbs find their place.

It should feel awkward, but it never does. He shouldn’t crave this, should be able to sleep solidly without a person on his chest. But, he finds he sleeps better with you. Finds that dreams are easier, that there’s more sunshine, more hope and fucking rainbows in the world when you’re on top of him, softly breathing.

“Night, Mari.”

He waits.

Your usual sleepy ‘Soapie’ or ‘Johnny’ blessing his ears. But none come, none. And he almost tenses, almost moves you to see your face.

“You… you don’t mind that we do this, do you?”

His hand tilts your chin up, staring into those eyes, begging them to give him a reason—either to close the gap or begin the process of getting over you. Something. Anything.

Because how could he mind this, when he wants something more?

He’d ask for it too. If he weren’t afraid. The big demolition man scared of losing you, of losing this, by being greedy and wanting more.

“Neve’, lass. I like being the person y’come t’when you need somethin’.”

He doesn’t miss the smile. The soft one. The one which you rarely show, but is bloody beaming for him now.

“It’s only you, Soapie,” you say, curling tighter into him, leaving no space.

And it takes all of his control.

Thoughts of his great-aunt with her harsh accent and wiry moustache to be able to pull you closer. Your head on his chest, fingers dancing up and down your arm as he feels you relax, muscle by muscle.

“Only me, y’say?”

You let out a soft breath, one that dances warmth over his t-shirt—almost over the hair on his chest. “You’re an idiot, Johnny. Course it is, who else?”

And he smiles.

Not at his name, not at the insult, but the fact you’re falling asleep—something you’ve not done for two full days. And it’s on him.

Only him.

He buries the rest of your words. The ‘who else’ and the instant answer that appeared on the tip of his tongue. He can unpack it another time.

There’s something about waking on top of him. Clothes are a horrid, but necessary barrier between the two of you.

You don’t want things to change, for them to spoil, to wilt and fade from grasp. So, you’ll put up with only having this, having him in this way. At least then, you'll always have arms around you that you know won’t hurt you. You’ll accept the hugs, and long for the cuddles; you’ll settle for sleeping alongside him, rather than with him.

And, you won't tell MacTavish that you think he’s handsome, no matter how much he dares you to drink. That even asleep he is beautiful, even minus the evidence of his smile, and the dimples you wish to trace with your fingers. He’s still everything, without being anything.

He’s your best friend, your safety, your person.

He feels like home, a soul that grounds you and keeps you rooted. He makes you better, helps you grow and—

Your fingers draw a circle on his chest. Watching his lashes flutter, his eyes slowly opening, and your throat going dry—like it does each time he looks at you with so much softness.

I think I’m in love with you, Johnny.

That’s what you should say.

Instead, you say, “Morning, Soapie.”