#soap/reader

[vanderilnde]

you buy a second-hand laptop from a dodgy craigslist user only to make a carnal discovery hidden between the files.

cw for anal sex, face fucking, pet play, choking, masturbation, noncon filmed sex, overall dubcon, reader is fujoing out

ghoap (x reader)

-

You saw it in a flitting advertisement. Used Acer Aspire V5, female buyers only, and didn’t hesitate to contact the poster.

Ghost was his screen name. Macabre, but not something to dwell on because he’s selling the only affordable hand-me-down you can find. He insisted on meeting at a hole-in-the-wall pub, beneath a metal sheet awning. There’s a cigarette pinched between his lips as you approach, an overripe mask rolled over his broken nose.

“You’re our bird?” He asks in a Manchester hint, exhaling a plume of off-white smoke.

You stifle over that operative word—our—but push through it and meekly nod, preening at his feet.

Beneath the predatory glint of his eyes, you realize you’ve gravely miscalculated the calibre of this situation. Meeting a complete stranger in a gritty alleyway and waiting to pick up his scrap-metal laptop, all because it satisfies your budget.

“Yeah…” you mumble. Try to make yourself invisible even though it’s redundant—he already towers over you, his shadow eclipsing your body, his heat drinking you in.

“‘ere it is,” he grunts. “You’ve got our cash?”

You hand him the crumpled wad of paper, squirming as he passes his thumb over his tongue and folds through the money, counting it with a mean curl of his lips.

“That’s– is everything alright?”

He stuffs the money into his jacket and expells a deep prusten sound, like an idle predator. “Fine. Pleasure doin’ business with you, bird.”

Ghost turns on his mud-clogged boot and strays off, letting the shadows swallow him whole. You hold the bulky laptop to your chest and wield it like a weapon on your way home, finally settling into bed, ready to examine your new purchase.

The hinges creak as you pull it open. A grimace splits your cheeks at the dust crusted in the margins, the rings of juice gummed to the mousepad.

A few letters from the keyboard are missing, and a few strips of tape look dog-eared, peeling from the corners, exposing the laptop’s internal wiring. Gossamer-like, spiderweb cracks work across the edges. The screen is a blotchy eyesore, striated with horizontal lines.

You have to beat your knuckles on the laptop to keep it from jamming. You navigate the desktop with simmering irritation, invaded by the inkling that you’ve been utterly scammed. Nothing matches the photos advertised on Ghost’s account, and just as your annoyance is about to ripen into white-hot anger, something catches your eye.

It’s nestled into a nook on the desktop. It’s an unnamed folder that stares back at you, unassuming, the icon already half-opened and waiting to be examined.

You double click it, more like triple click, actually, since the mousepad decides to cramp, and squirm as the folder flares over the screen. It’s a collection of videos, their thumbnails all spotty and dark, eclipsed by the thumb of whoever’s holding the camera.

Their titles are as cryptic as their photos.

wet.avi; tail_plug.avi; no_prep.avi; with_price.avi.

You find yourself scrolling lower, your fingers working against the mousepad like a rapidly unfurling spool of thread. You decide to investigate one of the videos, one with a foggy, filmy thumbnail, and carefully heed the title before poising your finger above the open function.

johnny_leash.avi

The video is grainy, as if it was imported from a camcorder rather than a phone. The first few seconds are a blurry with grey-scale strobes running across the screen, radiating an aura of seediness that makes a hint of discomfort sink like sediment in your stomach, adhering to your viscera. A deep, damp squelching sound peals out, tempered with the sticky noise of something being broken in, hollowed out.

The camera ebbs, settles, then focuses all at once. You think you’re going to faint.

It’s someone’s puffy ass getting stretched out on a fat cock. It puckers and tightens with each piston-paced thrust, red.

A large hand belonging to the person recording enters the frame. Their hand tattoos stretch as they split their palm across the hind of their spine, the cameraman’s fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into their back, clawing them down on their battering ram of a cock.

“Quit whinin’, Johnny,” the voice behind the camera loudly grunts.

The one getting split open, Johnny, snivels into the pillow. His spine is curved into the mattress, his ass pert and sticking in the air, rippling with the force of the cameraman’s hips.

A plume of dust travels over the screen, fleetingly concealing the image. When the soot thins into the air and bares the salacious material of the video, you gasp.

There’s a glint caught on something silver from the feeble lightning. It’s a chrome-plated chain, you see, connecting to Johnny’s throat. A leather collar cutting into his ruddy skin. The leash is wrapped around the cameraman’s hand like a reel, and each time he tugs, pulling his hand back as if winding up for an attack, Johnny gets peeled off the bed, his back arching so deep you’re sure it’s close to snapping.

“Shit, Simon—!” He squeals. “Can ye… slow down?”

The aforementioned Simon grunts. Animalistic, like a rabid predator. The camera whirls, the unromantic colours of the room they’re in bleeding into each other, and when it focuses, you see Simon’s large palm splayed against the back of Johnny’s half-shaven skull, gripping his hair, pushing him into the bed.

The man flails like a fish out of water, struggling under his hand. It prompts an emergency response out of you—the way he’s being fucked into the mattress, no doubt pressing a Johnny-shaped chalk outline like the ones at crime scenes into the bedding. Alarm seizes you, and the thought of submitting this to the authorities trumpets like strobe lights in your mind.

The video is written with inept non-professionalism, reeking with the sentiment of a found-footage horror film that it’s not the authenticity that rattles your bones like a wind chime, but the morality.

You tell yourself to stop the video, but as the thought squeezes itself between your ears, Johnny’s hoisting his neck back and peering into the camera, his striking-blue eyes flaring in all-encompassing horror. His lips pop open and wrap around a soundless scream, warbling.

“Yer recordin’ me?”

“Smile for the camera, Johnny,” Simon pants. “Who knows who might see this, right?”

Simon shoots his hand up and bullies his fingers past Johnny’s lips. He sinks his nails into the round of his mouth, stretching his cheek back into a repugnant curl. It’s paradoxial—how Johnny’s mouth is pulled into a smile, but his eyes are wide and wet, wordlessly begging.

Your body betrays your moral plight.

Your rapt ocular vein, the signals rushing to your mind, your nipples stiffening in your shirt. You feel as though you’re made of livewire, not matter, as you watch Johnny’s ass get spread open on Simon’s cock, his eyes rolling like unruly billiard balls to the back of his head.

His ass is red and patchy, burning up. Simon’s hand swats through the air and makes the sound of a whistle, flaring into a booming crack of thunder whenever he brings it down on Johnny’s ass. It makes you jump. Makes you feel as if your ass is being abused by proxy just by sitting, and watching raptly.

Instead of inching your hand towards the button that exits the video, your hand dips below your waistband and moves to cup your cunt.

The gusset of your panties is already hot, clinging to your dewy core. It sticks to your pussy, baring your puffy lips and swollen clit. You give it a few slaps and rub your fingers languidly, pace quickening.

But the video abruptly ends before the ascent to your pleasure is able to materialize. You yank your hand from your pussy, smearing your arousal on the mousepad as you search for another video.

You don’t heed the title—face_fuck.avi—before clicking it and readily spreading your legs, flushing at the sound of your lips parting.

The video starts, and you swear it feels like you’ve been hit with a brick.

Simon—or Ghost, you now recognize—is a behemoth. Huge would be an understatement for him. The camera is set up this time, somewhere across the room, but Simon still just barely fits within the margins. He’s folded over Johnny who sits on his knees with his back against the wall, his neck hoisted up at him.

Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. He’s hard—this, you’re sure of because of how red his balls are—yet still, his cock droops with weight, the bulbous tip scarcely teasing Johnny’s lips.

“You want your snack, boy?”

Johnny nods. He darts his tongue out and tries kitten licking the slit, but Simon isn’t having that. He grips the base of his dick and swats it against Johnny’s cheek, slapping him, the noise so thick and resounding it sounds like a palm that breaks his skin, not a cock.

“Greedy bitch,” Ghost snarls—you decide that name is more seemly for him—“Can’t wait when it comes to dick, huh?”

Johnny’s lips part, a response poised behind his chattering teeth. However, his reply gets snuffed out and shoved to the back of his throat as Ghost feeds him his cock, slamming into him with one, slick motion.

Johnny’s head hits the wall, his face puckering as pain blooms behind his skull. The action makes his jaw clench, clamping down on Simon’s cock, but Simon is quickly gripping his hair and puppeting his head back, sliding his cock deeper, until the tuft of steel-wool hair on his pelvis brushes Johnny’s nose.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Ghost grunts. “No teeth.”

The only mercy Johnny is afforded is when he sinks his nails into the sinews of Ghost’s thighs, scratching him striated, trying to offset the burn in his jowls. The back of his head thumps dumbly against the wall with each of Ghost’s jackhammering thrusts, his smaller cock springing up and slapping against his navel.

You keen. Rub your clit a little faster, tease your forefinger around your winking hole as spit and precome sticks to Johnny’s chin the same way your juices strings your fingers together. Johnny goes lax and the video abruptly ends, and you almost feel yourself going crazy, hastily exiting the video because you miss the phantom sensation around your cunt getting stretched. You click on another video that has your heart jumping to your throat.

It’s dated from just yesterday, two days after you placed the order with Ghost.

breeding_my_boy.avi

Your panties are completely soaked through at this point. The image of Johnny folded like origami under Ghost, eclipsed by his body, makes you gush. His knees are pressed against his ears and his ass is in the air while Ghost tugs his cock, towering over him and pressing his tip against his hole, slowly sinking into him.

Simultaneously, you hook two of your fingers up your cunt. Your arousal seeps out and pools into the divots between your knuckles, hot and wet, making a sucking sound as you draw your fingers out and thrust them back in, pawing your walls.

Ghost pulls his cock to the tip before driving himself back inside. He’s deeply-seated, knocking the air out of Johnny’s lungs with each stroke. Ghost draws his thighs close for leverage and sinks his fists into the bed, on either side of Johnny before snapping his hips, feeding him his whole cock.

You sink your other hand below your pants and blindly sweep at your clit, watching with keen eyes as Johnny gets pounded into the mattress, his legs thrashing dumbly with the force, his hands twisting into the moth-eaten sheets because he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands and according to Ghost, he’s “not allowed to touch his cock.”

You can barely see Ghost’s sweat in the coarse-grained, gritty video filter. It comes out as glistening dew, dribbling down his neck and onto Johnny’s cheek, to which he swiftly laps up.

It’s the same thing for Johnny’s tears—sparkling in the soft smoulder of light, smearing like spread as Ghost works his rough tongue against his cheek, licking up his brine.

Johnny’s whimpers and the crack of flesh against flesh emanate out of the janky laptop as tinny, thin. However as Ghost lowers his head, grumbling against the hull of Johnny’s ear, whispering, the thin sound travels out of the speakers and punctures your stomach.

“Wish I could breed you, pup…”

Pleasure gyrates in your belly, frothy. You curl your toes into your mattress and buck into your fingers, feeling your orgasm beginning to crest. You pinch your clit the same way Ghost snakes his hand low, trapping the tip of Johnny’s cock between his fingers to squeeze.

“Smile a’ the camera, dog,” he mutters. Takes him by the jaw and dimples his cheeks as he makes Johnny look into the lens, his eyes glossed over.

“Y’reckon she’s touching herself?” Ghost growls. “Watching you turn a mess?”

Your orgasm is on the edge now. Ghost looks at the camera, his eyes glowing like predators do on trail cams, a swill of molten rushing through you. He looks like he did beneath the awning—animalistic, as he seems to stare directly at you, snapping into Johnny’s ass.

“m gonnae come…” Johnny whimpers.

Ghost chokes his hand around Johnny’s cock, sliding his hand up and down to the pace of his thrusts. And with what happens next, your body girdles, throwing itself into the throes of your panoramic orgasm.

It’s Johnny. Bending his back off the bed and squeezing his thighs. He moans your name—your screen name—the one used to purchase the laptop. He treats it like something to bite on to defer the pain of his orgasm, trembling.

Thick ropes of come shoot from his cock just as an off-white liquid escapes you, splattering over the screen. You’re quivering as Ghost fills Johnny, watching as his balls tighten and breathe like a pulse as he comes inside.

The three of you are miraculously synchronized. Your laboured breaths simmer, thinning into nothing, as the two of them turn to look at the camera.

You undertake the decision to keep the laptop.

And a week later while browsing Craigslist’s homepage, you stumble across a familiar username.

Posted by Ghost 32 minutes ago.

Looking for a flatmate in Manchester. Two roommates. Three bedroom. Females only. Serious inquiries only.

A second doesn’t pass before you’re writing up your application.

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 5; ghoap x reader) part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

-

Give him blood and he’ll give you something new to chew on.

Except that isn’t the way it goes. Not this time at least.

He tries to talk Ghost out of it, but it falls on deaf ears. Blatantly ignored. The car barrels down the motorway under the cloak of night, a swell of stars overhead as the city falls farther behind. Radio shut off. Johnny thinks if Ghost had his way, the radio would’ve been pulled out entirely, just wires and an empty, black cavity in the dashboard, but it’s a rental. 

And no one wants to deal with the paperwork involved in damaging military property. Not even Ghost.

Ghost won’t so much as glance over at him. Unaffected as ever, as if they didn’t just fuck. Johnny’s stomach hurts when he thinks about it. Even without her knowing, he’s broken his girl’s trust. Not for the first time; maybe not even the last. His guilt echoes not only that he let Ghost make him come, but that he liked it—that the buzz in his bones says do it again, please god, again, please let me come, I need to come, touch me, please—

He thinks about his girl, then turns to Ghost again.

In the pit of his stomach, Johnny knows this is wrong. In his rational mind, he knows it. If he were in a better place, he wants to think that he’d make a real attempt to change Ghost’s mind, maybe get him to turn around at the next gas station, but he can’t deny the excitement bubbling in his belly at the prospect of seeing his girl again after a week of nothing. 

The silence has been eating away at him. Bits of his brain flaking away, moth-eaten. Checking his phone again and again to no new messages, getting the same voicemail message whenever he calls. Something flutters high in his chest, an itch he can’t scratch; it tells him to take off in the middle of the night, drive all the way back home and pound on her door until she’s forced to answer it, forced to talk to him face to face.

Again and again, he tries looking at it from her perspective—tries to empathize with her. What he would’ve done in her shoes had she allowed a coworker to grab his dick in front of a crowd of strangers. It’s more than fair, he thinks. His own shame leaks out of his pores in the middle of the night, sleeping on top of the covers because he sweats right through the sheets. 

And yet, he keeps butting up against his own anger. Talk it out with me, yell at me, he growls into her voicemail, anger growing as the days pass one by one. 

It’s the road that alerts him to their arrival into the city more than anything. More cracks in the asphalt, the car rattling over sewer depressions and potholes in a way that says home sweet home. Usually it’s a source of comfort, like seeing the silver lining on grey clouds or the iridescence in an oil spill, purples and greens catching the light. Not now. Now the road winds like descending into the underworld, each turn coming with a sinking feeling. 

They park down the road from the flower shop, tucked just out of sight. A cool breeze wafts over his hot face when he steps out of the car. It nearly rocks him back. When he glances up, his heart stutters at the sight of her bedroom window, sealed tight now. Only cracked open during their sleepovers, when Johnny runs a bit too hot at night for them to sleep comfortably with the window closed. 

“Should I…do ye want me to give her a call to wake her up?” Johnny asks tentatively, shutting the car door softly so as not to make a noise. 

Ghost shakes his head. “We’ll let ourselves in.”

Johnny’s picked hundreds of locks in his time; he’s jimmied open doors with crowbars, set up explosive charges, used a good old fashioned ram from time to time—no stranger to the trade—but it feels decidedly uncomfortable with Ghost at his back, staring down at him as he breaks into his own girlfriend’s apartment. 

“This is a bad idea,” he grumbles, turning the pick in the lock until he hears a familiar click inside. 

Ghost doesn’t answer, just raps his knuckles against the back of Johnny’s head. A silent get a move on. 

Her apartment looks the same but different when they enter it. His muscles remember the layout though. The pink couch in the living room with two dimpled pillows on either side, the footstool by the door, the stand with her shoes all piled in neat little rows, the vase on her kitchen island with a fresh new bundle of flowers, fragrant when he dips his head to take a whiff. He’s loved flowers ever since meeting his girl. 

Ghost doesn’t try to muffle his footsteps for once. He rummages through her cabinets and drawers with all the finesse of a first time burglar looking to get caught. It smacks of intentionality. Johnny’s worked with him too many times in the field to know that if Ghost wanted to disappear into the darkness, he would. He’d be the thing creeping silently through the shadows, tread lighter than air, close enough to touch but never see. 

So it’s more than deliberate when he noisily shuts a drawer. Baiting her out. 

It’s no surprise when Johnny hears her creep around the corner from out of her bedroom. He’s tucked in the shadows of the living room, just out of the light, so he sees her first when she comes silently down the hall, whole body trembling with fear, the bat she keeps beside her bed drawn over a shoulder. Even her hands shake around the grip.

Of course she yelps when Johnny says her name, stepping out of the shadows, swinging wild. He winces when the bat smashes into a lamp, shattering it on impact. 

“Fuck!” she screams, scurrying backwards into the wall behind her. Several framed pictures rattle against the wall, nearly knocked off their hooks. 

“Noisy, isn’t she?” Ghost grumbles from the kitchen, tossing a bored glance over, unbothered by the commotion. He undoubtedly heard her creeping down the hall as well. 

“What the fuck?” she gasps, chest heaving when she breathes. Her eyes dart from Johnny to Ghost’s massive form in the other room. Poor nervous thing. She must recognize Johnny’s voice saying her name even through the panic because her lips droop in a frown, more confused than petrified.

“Hen, it’s jus’ us—nothing to worry about,” Johnny coos, hands stretched out in front of him to show he means no harm. 

It gets her to lower the bat, but only just, the slightest dip that has him darting forward to pry it gently from her hands. The ceramic shards on the floor will have to be swept up later, but he’s relieved that at least she didn’t step on any of them. 

Up close, she’s just as pretty as he remembers. Pretty as pie. How could she not be? In the glow of youth still, not like it's been a decade since they last spoke face to face—only a little over a week. A sight for sore eyes, even though Johnny’s narrow when he stares down at her and thinks about the week of his texts and calls going unanswered. His jaw undulates, rage held back by the thin thread of her scent that wafts under his nose, making him lean into her. 

Breathe in and out. 

“Us?” she repeats, brow furrowing.

She glances over at Ghost again, the man still ambling around the kitchen, at home in her little one bedroom apartment like he visits her frequently. Like it’s his as well. 

“Aye…Ghost wanted to come—Simon wanted to apologize…for the other day,” Johnny explains. 

“You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night…so Simon could apologize for sexually harassing me?” she says, the disbelief smacking in her words. 

“Hen, it's no' nice to say it like that—” 

“No time like the present,” Ghost says, not ashamed in the slightest. “Heard you weren’t taking Johnny’s calls. Might not’ve had to do this if you’d picked up.” 

Johnny doesn’t believe a word of that, but there’s no reason to call him out on it now. 

He can see her wrestle with a trifecta of emotions competing for first place. Anger, embarrassment, and then, a smidge of worry holding up the rear. Aware of the fact that she woke up to two grown men, one practically a stranger, breaking into her apartment under the guise of having a conversation. His heart aches at the thought. The lion’s share of the blame rests with him, but still it’s her that suffers for it. 

“You…you shouldn’t be here,” she rasps, flinching when Johnny lays a hand on her waist, towering over where she’s still cowered against the wall. Bat gone now, defenceless. Her pupils narrow to a pinprick. He almost tuts, poor thing. Scared out of her wits. 

It feels so good to touch her though. Soft and yielding. 

“‘Was Simon’s idea, hen, but, ah—” his breathing picks up when his fingers tighten on her waist and she squirms “—I was goin’ crazy thinkin’ ye were pissed for what happened last week. Couldnae get a wink of sleep—kept closin’ my eyes and seein’ your face. Nearly broke me.”

“I am pissed at you,” she snaps, temper getting the better of her.

“I ken, I ken,” Johnny coos, ducking his head until his lips graze her temple. “Simon’s sorry—we came all the way here so he could tell ye to your face, but fuck, hen, I’m sorry too—shoulda said something instead of standin’ there like a fuckin’ dolt—”

“You should’ve,” she interrupts, still fuming mad, an iceberg melting right in front of them. It makes his cock pulse.

“—Aye, hen, I’ve no excuse, none at all. Shoulda told Simon to fuck off and keep his hands to himself—”

“Careful, Johnny,” Ghost says warningly, finally stepping into the living room. He fills out the archway imposingly, almost forced to twist his body on an angle to step in. 

Her eyes cut over to Ghost, narrowing, lips pursing. Johnny’s heart jumps in his chest. It’s one thing to see his girl again in the flesh, but to see her all righteous and on the verge of an argument—he could bend her over the back of the couch now, sink into the plush, delicate folds of her pussy, reacquaint himself with deep, languid thrusts. Heaven after not getting his cock wet in a week.

He flinches when he thinks about the last person to touch his dick. 

“So you’re sorry?” she says to Ghost, her disbelief clear. Difficult to see why she wouldn’t find it hard to believe that the man that shamelessly grabbed her ass in broad daylight in front of a group of his colleagues and her boyfriend would now choose to apologize. 

Johnny knows the answer is no when he sees the way Ghost’s eyes rove over her body, taking stock of her little cotton pajamas and her bare feet curling against the cold floor. Ghost tilts his head to the side, eyes travelling back up to meet hers. “Sure I am, bird. Don’t I look sorry?”

Neither of them answer that. Arguing with Ghost feels different, like inviting in danger. Moving too suddenly in front of a hungry dog, jowls loose and salivating for a bite. 

He takes a step closer. “Complete pillock, wasn’t I? And now Johnny’s getting the silent treatment ‘cause of it. Just couldn’t bear another second of him moping around base on the verge of tears.” 

Johnny frowns at that. His girl frowns too, but there’s something more to it. He wouldn’t blame her for not accepting Simon’s apology, if he could even call it that—nothing about it rings sincere, more like words spoken softly to call a kitty over—but questioning it feels worse somehow. Like detonating a bomb at two thousand feet above ground. 

“…Okay,” she says instead, voice trembling a little. “Apology accepted. You guys can go home now.”

“Bird’s forgiving, huh, Johnny?” 

Johnny preens despite himself. “Aye. She’s a good girl, Lt. Told ye so.”

Ghost nods. “That’s right. A good girl who’s gonna let us make it up to her ‘til we have to report back in forty-eight hours.”

“Wait, you can’t—” she starts, then cuts herself off when Ghost’s eyes flash.

He can’t help the way he shudders at the helpless look on her face. Downturned eyebrows, pretty lips slack with disbelief, just the slightest hint of a whine building in her throat that dies when it dawns on her that nothing short of calling the cops will make the two of them leave. 

And she’s a good girl—would never call the cops on him. His perfect girl. Sweet as pie. 

Johnny falls in love a little bit more when she presses her squeezed fists against her eyes and exhales. “Fine. I’m too—I’m going back to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”

Ghost doesn’t react to her acceptance. It’s taken as a simple fact of nature—he says something and it happens. He speaks the world into being. 

“I’ll take the couch,” he grunts, finally sitting down to unlace his boots. He looks comically large on her little couch—it’s more than likely that his feet will hang off the end, if not everything from the knee down. 

Johnny already figured as much. No point in them driving all the way back to base when they both have the next two days off duty and there’s a perfectly serviceable couch for Ghost and the other half of her bed for him. He thought they’d have to convince her a bit more or strong arm her into it (a putrid thought; he’d rather have sweet talked her into the idea), but his girl always manages to surprise him in the best way. 

On that thought, he looks over his shoulder towards the bedroom door, cock throbbing again at the thought of getting to hold his girl’s body against his. Touch starved dog. Mangy mutt, tongue lolling out at even the possibility of a pet. 

Ghost must notice the object of his gaze because he sets him straight. “You can take the floor, Johnny.” 

His tone brooks no argument. When Johnny whirls around, the words already on his tongue, she’s my girl, I’ve already slept in that bed ten times over, the sight of Ghost’s bare face, the mask now off, dangling in his hand like some scrap of fabric, makes him lose his train of thought. It’s not often he’s granted the luxury of seeing Ghost’s face—wide, clean shaven jaw, buzzed blond hair, old burn marks like a half-moon around his eye, nasty old scar slicing through his lips—and to see it now, here, makes something in him give. 

Saturnine man with a wolf’s appetite. Ravenous. 

It burns him that his girl looks slightly relieved at having the bed to herself. Irks him. Makes his jaw clench on a mean remark, half tempted to spit out something cross. Just because things have gotten complicated, now he’s not welcome in her bed? After the week he’s spent toiling, trying to make amends? Pleading desperately over the phone, stewing in guilt and heartache—Johnny knows she’s a good girl, but if he finds out that she’s replaced him with someone else in the week since they last saw each other—

Even the thought makes him see red.

He watches her as she turns around to retreat back to bed, more than a little displeased. 

“Give Johnny a little kiss before bed, why don’t you, bird?” Ghost lightly suggests. Not a suggestion. 

She freezes mid-turn. His expression dares her to put up a fuss. Johnny again nearly clucks his tongue, troubled on her behalf. Her spitfire nature is snuffed out easily under that stare. Grown men with experience in the field wither under Ghost’s stare. It’s no weakness of hers that she acquiesces time and again to his demands, glancing up at Johnny from under her eyelashes before shuffling over, pressing the lightest of kisses to his cheek. 

“Better than that,” Ghost grunts, unimpressed. 

His poor darling. Humiliated now. No skin off his back though. Johnny’s heart pumps double time when she presses her lips to his; soft petals that spread when he slips his tongue into her mouth, too eager after a week of nothing. Touch starved. Desperate to sink into her, lap his tongue over her lips and the roof of her mouth and press her jaw open to spit messily in her mouth. Take it, hen, every piece of me.

She rips her lips from his and dances away when he tries to get his hands on her, eyes wide, casting one last glance over at Ghost before hightailing it back to her room. 

He barely resists going after her. Only Ghost’s stare roots him in place; his voice in Johnny’s head that rumbles, heel. I’ll tell you when to go.

He still doesn’t know what it says about him that he angles himself towards it. Bows his head to it. Moth to a flame that shocks him to the bone when he touches it.

Ghost tosses him the second pillow from the other end of the couch and takes the only blanket for himself. No matter. Johnny’s bivouacked on snowy cliff sides, chilblains blistering his toes for weeks; nights spent camped in torrential downpours, his tent on the verge of collapsing; windswept baysides chilling him to the bone. He can handle a pillow on a hardwood floor. 

The ebb and flux of an ocean in his ear, and then Ghost’s voice from the couch: “I’ll take first watch.”

Whole body falling loose as if snipping a cord tethering him to the world. 

“I’ll clean up the lamp in the morning,” he mumbles, vision already blurring. Ghost hums low in his throat.

He falls asleep with Ghost’s voice in his head, his girl’s taste still in his mouth.

[eilidh-eternal]

Between @peachesofteal, @ceilidho and @charliemwrites I have been plagued with mind rotting thoughts of manipulative!Johnny and I wrote this in a feverish haze

So uhhhh yeah, here’s 1.8k words of Johnny being an overbearing and possessive menace to reader

This will be part of a larger collection of works The Wild Hunt Masterlist

This is a dark fic, 18+ MDNI, descriptions of kidnapping, coercion and mentions of death below the cut

Snow falls beyond the frosted window panes, flickering like static in shafts of warm-hued lamplight and collecting in powdery, white drifts. The picturesque cityscape and the dissonant overlapping of conversation coming from the gathering of family and friends in a quaint town house decorated for the upcoming holidays feels like something plucked out of a cliché holiday romcom. Except this isn’t a yuletide gathering, and the congregation of familiar faces is one less tonight.

This is a wake. And an odd one at that.

You didn’t believe in the myth that deaths are more frequent around the holidays, and you certainly didn’t believe in a black cat that eats the souls of the recently deceased if you don’t throw a proper party with games and drinking, and enough food to feed a small army, at the wake. But this is Scotland, and the country is teeming with myths and superstitions. 

So, here you sit. Curled into the corner of a sofa with a glass of… something. You’ve been told it’s like eggnog, done the Scottish way. 

Great aunts, uncles, cousins several times removed and friends of the deceased distant relative all nurse their own glasses of the festive drink, and various recounts of fond memories are shared amongst the group gathered in the living room. There’s one voice that stands out among the others, and you watch with reserved interest as the mohawked man it belongs to tells his story. It’s a little louder, with more bravado than the rest, narrating his memory with a jubilance that belies great fondness. 

You’d never met the man everyone was reminiscing about, only came tonight because a cousin on your fathers side—the Scottish side—had cajoled you into going with her to the wake so she’d have someone to talk to besides her mother. You didn’t understand why she’d begged and pleaded as you sat in your corner alone while she flits about here and there, talking to just about everyone there about anything and everything. A trait you had not inherited from your Scottish patronage. You’re so deep in your own thoughts in fact that you don’t immediately register the added weight on the sofa beside you, the way it dips and bows beneath it, until that lilting bravado is crooning in your ear, close enough to feel the whisper of warm air from his breath on the outer shell.

“How’d ya know Captain MacMillan?” 

You blink, realize you’d been so entrenched in your own thoughts that you hadn’t even seen the man you’d been watching stand from his seat and take up the empty space next to you, and a flush of embarrassment blooms across your cheeks when you realize he must have seen you staring. When the rest of your body catches up with your brain you turn to face him, finding his face mere inches from yours. 

He smells like the earth after it rains, like petrichor, and it mingles with something tangier—something sharp—like the honed edge of a blade. His smile is just as striking, all teeth and curling lips. Feline.

And his eyes—bluer than Loch Lomond on a clear, sunny day, and glittering in the same way the sunlight catches on the cresting ripples at the water's surface. They feel just as deep and endless too, the way his pupils flare and swallow that brilliant blue as he studies your face with a startling intensity, devouring every detail. Something rattles and trills in your mind at the way his gaze seems to drag you down, down, down, where it’s hard to breathe beneath the waves, and you can’t tell if the sound is sweet music or a frantic warning. 

The realization that you haven’t yet given him an answer dawns on you and you suck in a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. 

“I uh… I didn’t know him. I knew of him though—a distant relative,” you explain and your fingers curl tighter around the glass in your hands.

He doesn’t lean away, remains firmly inside your little bubble and cocks his head in a manner that reminds you of a cat watching a bird outside a window. Hunting. He’s so close you can see the shadow of a beard, freshly shaved but with new growth already pushing its way to the surface to darken the sharp line of his jaw.

He hums. A low rumbling sound that emanates from deep within his chest. “Didnae ken the Captain comes from such a bonnie family,” he says in that swaggering bravado, and it almost sounds like a purr. “What’s yer name, hen?”

You give him your name, along with an outstretched hand which he takes in his large one, palm and pads of his fingers rough and callous against your own, and his pupils flare wider, causing his eyes to darken a sinful shade. “I’m Johnny MacTavish. Or Soap, if ye like,” he says, and holds onto your hand for just a few seconds longer than he should, the warmth of it branding your skin before he lets go.

“Soap?” you question and quickly pull your hand back into what remains of the personal space he seems intent on crowding, feeling like you’ve reached for a hot pan without a mitt.

“It’s muh callsign,” he says and drapes an arm over the back of the couch behind you, caging you into your little corner. 

More bells.

“I’m military. SAS, like the Captain.”

SAS.

Suddenly you’re seeing all of the things that had drawn your interest to him earlier in a new light.

He’s built. Broad shouldered and bulky in the arms and thighs that have been creeping closer ever since he sat down. The scar on his chin that pulls taught when he smiles with all his teeth. The metallic tang that lingers on his skin. How silently he had suddenly appeared on the couch beside you.

Danger.

He places his broad hand on your thigh and your eyes jerk to his. There’s a menacious glint flickering in the dark pools that reels you in and pulls you under, like the kelpies young children are warned about. 

Don’t get too close to the water or you’ll drown. Don’t get too close to him.

His hand feels more like a paw, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your leg like a cat sinking its claws into fresh meat.

“They’re choosin’ teams fer quarters,” he says with a nod in the direction of the coffee table where guests have begun to gather around an arrangement of disposable cups, bottles of scotch and a collection of coins, splitting into two groups. “Think ye should be on my team,” he says a shade darker, fingers digging harder into your thigh and lips curling back to reveal his feline grin once more. 

You pull your leg away from him, tugging it closer to your chest, and your heart thumps insistently against your ribs, pulse quickening in the way prey that recognizes the hunt does. You feel like a mouse caught between the claws of a kellas cat, half-wild things that roam the highlands.

“I-I actually have to go,” you blurt and shoot to your feet before he can sink his claws in further, discarding your half-empty glass on the end table. “I don’t hold my liquor well, and I have an early morning tomorrow.” It’s a lie, but how would he know? You snatch your sweater from the arm of the sofa and shove trembling arms through the sleeves. “It was… nice meeting you though.”

Was it?

“A-and I’m sorry for your loss.” The words come tumbling out like you can’t say them fast enough, tripping over your own tongue as you hurry to extricate yourself from his grasp. You don’t wait for him to return the sentiment, turning on your heel and making a beeline for your cousin.

You tell her you’re tired and heading home, offering a brief hug for her and your aunt before you have to walk back through the living room, right past Johnny, to get to the door. You don’t know if it’s relief or dread that flutters in your stomach when you see Johnny no longer occupies his spot on the couch as you cross the room. Isn’t anywhere in sight. 

With your down coat bundled tightly around you, you step out into the cold night, immediately hit with icy wind and stinging particles of snow against your cheeks. Your car is parked just around the corner, less than a minute's walk. And you take hurried steps away from the town house towards the pavement.

You should have been more careful.

One moment you’re turning the corner towards your car and the next your feet are sliding out from under you on ice-slick pavement, sending you to the ground in a bone-shuddering fall.

Your skull cracks off the pavement and it echoes between your ears. You lay stunned on the ground, unable to do more than groan at the pain radiating from the base of your skull down your spine.

And then there’s hands on your shoulders. Large, warm hands that glide up your neck and prod at the tender flesh at the back of your head. You groan at the painful press of calloused fingers and a familiar voice coos to you.

“Took quite a tumble, wee rabbit. Ye really shouldnae have been walkin’ so quick through all this snow,” he says as he retracts his fingers from your head and they settle on your shoulders again.

You groan, trying to open your eyes and see through the flakes of snow that blur your vision as you try and fail to lift your head.

“Dinnae move too much, ye’ll hurt yerself more.” His hands move from your shoulders to snake beneath your knees and under your back to lift you from the ground.

You moan as the motion jostles your head and sends a blinding jolt of pain through your skull, exploding behind your eyes and sending stars dancing wildly across your remaining vision.

“Shhh wee thing, yer awright. I’ll make sure that pretty little heid of yours is tended to.” 

You’re being carried, cradled to a broad chest by burly arms. Smells like rain-

No…. No, no, nonono-

You try to force your eyes open, fighting desperately against the tunneling of your vision to see through the hazy edges and blurry focus.

You’re shifted against him and you cry out as pain flares bright behind your eyes again, and he coos, telling you he’s got you now. He’ll take care of you.

Broken whimpers bubble up in your throat as you’re laid down on something soft, and you wince against the rumble of an engine as it purrs to life. Everything sounds like it’s underwater, and somehow amplified to rattle your brain in your skull. You feel heavy, arms and legs turned to lead.

“Was here fer the captain, but when I saw ye, so pretty curled up on that sofa… knew then I was leavin’ with ye instead.”

It’s the last thing you hear before your fading consciousness suddenly gives way to complete and total darkness.

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

[thatgoblin]

141 Men Losing Their Partner

Summary: Dead Dove Don't Eat.

WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT PERTAINING TO PREGNANCY, DROWNING, CAR ACCIDENT, MURDER, NO HAPPY ENDINGS.

Price

It had been a normal day for John, texting you at lunch to see what you wanted for dinner. It was Friday, which meant that it would be a lazy weekend after a grueling month of missions followed by an equally grueling week of training with cadets. Nothing seemed out of place as he pulled up to the house he shared with you, a small townhouse that was perfect for the time being, but with talk of a baby, you would need more room soon. 

“Love, I’m home,” John called, holding plastic bags full of Chinese cartons holding low mein and sweet and sour pork. “Love?” There was no answer. The inside was eerily quiet and John knew that quiet meant bad things. In the field, it meant that people were on the move and hiding it, but at home it meant you were either gone or hurt. After being told you would be home and waiting, he was on high alert. 

Guns weren’t a common item, but with his position he had one stashed. Stalking through the house, handgun held out as he cleared rooms, he was moving on instinct. Years of training from doing this through blown up buildings and searching for the bad guys was the only thing keeping him from running through the place and screaming your name. 

When he got to the kitchen, he spun around the corner with the gun raised, slipping on something slick and wet. Catching himself on the counter, his breath left him. 

There was so much blood. More than he had ever seen before, not even when he interrogated or was locked up in a Russian prison or even the fucking battlefield. Nothing compared the scene before him. 

John shook as he set his gun down, starting to hyperventilate as he locked eyes with your lifeless body. You were on the floor, your throat slit and body stabbed to the point that it looked like someone put ground beef on you. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t. You were the safe place he had from the world. Everything about you had been his soft landing place. He had worked so hard to keep you separated from his job and it was all for nothing. 

Going to his knees, he crawled to you. John’s hands trembled as they touched your face in disbelief. He was unable to take a proper breath, the smell of your blood stinging his senses as he pulled you to him, pressing his face to yours. There was no conscious movement as he began to rock and weep softly. Holding you tight, he stayed there till Laswell showed up. She had been invited over with her wife for a double date. Kate tried to pull him away as her wife called the police, but it triggered him to start screaming. Even when the police showed up, it took an ambo arriving to sedate him for him to let go of you. 

“Be careful with her,” he sobbed as the medics put you on a gurney. “She’s allergic to penicillin. She gets hives. Please, she needs-she needs-”

Kate held him as he broke, going silent. “We were going to have a baby,” he whispered, tears soaking his beard. “We wanted to get a new house and have a baby. We wanted. . . What am I going to do?”

Gaz

You had been on a date with Kyle, a fun outing that was desperately needed after being separated for months. You went to dinner at this greasy burger place then went to an arcade that had a giant purple dragon he swore he would get you. After five tries and lots of swearing, he finally did it. “My hero,” you cooed, holding your prize as you leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Ready to head home? I don’t think this guy is meant to be carried around for long.”

“I am if you are,” Kyle said with a grin, giving you a wink. Wrapping an arm around your waist, he pulled you along to get to the street. He held his hand up to hail a cab, holding you close as you pressed against his body. It had been too long since you had last held him and with having him home for a few weeks, you were refusing to let him go any time soon. 

“Can’t get a bloody cab for shit,” he huffed. You were about to tell him you could call for one when you heard tire screeching. There was no time to react to the car hitting the curb then the pair of you. It was milliseconds and even if either of you had been looking at it, there was no escaping it. 

The car had been speeding when it barrelled over you two. Kyle flew over the hood and slammed into the windshield as you were dragged under the tires. Screams from everyone filled the air as the car stopped for just a moment before swerving off to leave you.

“Ky-Kyle,” you wheezed, laying on the ground. Your middle had been crushed and you couldn’t feel anything below your chest. It hurt to breathe, making you choke and gasp as Kyle forced himself to drag himself to you.

“Doll,” he groaned, his leg at a bad angle and his head bleeding profusely. “Don’t move. Stay with me.”

“Kyle,” you choked out. “Cold.”

“No, please,” he whimpered, collapsing next to you as people gathered to try and help keep you still as others called the ambulance. “Darling, don’t. Please.”

“Love,” you whispered as he took your limp hand. “You.”

“Help is coming, please, just hold on,” he begged as you stayed still and quiet. “Darlin’? Baby? No, no, no, no.” The ambulance didn’t arrive for nearly an hour. Price showed up well before them. He made Kyle stay still as he kept calling for you, holding your hand. Someone had draped their jacket over your top and another person laid their’s over your middle, hoping to give you some decency as Kyle demanded that Price help you. Even when he was in danger of snapping his spine, paralyzing himself for life, he still made you the priority. 

“Gaz,” Price said softly. “She’s gone. I’m sorry, lad.” 

“No, please. She’s just-just quiet,” Kyle sobbed, his physical pain not even compared to what he was feeling when he was made to let go of you for good.

Soap

It had started out as a weekend trip to blow off some steam. You and Johnny had gone to a resort in a warm climate with crystal clear water and amazing food. There was plenty of mixed, frozen drink and tanning lotion for the pair of you to get some nice warm color back into their almost sickly complexions. 

Johnny made sure to get plenty of pictures of you in your bathing suit, specifically your ass. You  gave him shit, but he just laughed and took more. Included in your stay was a boat tour of a cave. It wasn’t the rainy season so it was safe. No sudden surges or unexpected storms. Johnny said he’d been in more dangerous pools in the UK, making you relax and trust that things would be fine. 

You weren’t the strongest swimmer, but you were good enough to get by. Add in a life jacket and Johnny next to you, you felt safe. Untouchable really. What took you by surprise was the rumble of thunder as you got halfway into the tour. 

“Don’t worry, it will miss us,” the guide said, easing any worries that would pop up. Holding Johnny’s hand, you were about to make a comment about the glowing algae when you heard a clicking pop. Turning to him, you were left speechless. 

“You know I’m not good with words, but I think this speaks for itself,” he said, holding up a rose gold ring with a set of yellow diamond leaves. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” you said softly. “Yes! I would hug you aggressively, but I don’t want to lose the ring and tip the boat!” You cried with a shrieking laugh. Sliding the ring onto your finger, he pulled you close for a kiss as flashes from the phone the tour guide held reminded you that you weren’t alone. 

“I got everything recorded, Mr. Johnny,” he said with a grin, handing Johnny’s phone back to him. 

“Thanks, Mate,” Johnny said with a grin, keeping you close. As the guide turned the boat around, thunder rumbled again, much louder that time. “We’re still good, right?” He asked.

“Yeah, we’re heading back now, no worries,” the guide said as he navigated the slowly raising waters. You held onto Johnny as the thunder got louder and you could see the lightening was able to be seen from the front of the cave. 

Another rumble lasted longer, making you look around at the water. The rumbled quickly turned into a rushing sound, getting louder in seconds as a monstrous wave slammed into the cave, sending all the water rushing back. The rush slammed into the boat, making the bow lift high. With the guid on the back of the boat and you and Johnny in the middle, the weight distribution didn’t save you from being tossed into the water as the boat capsized. 

You screamed, grabbing for Johnny as you were pulled under. There was no preparation to stay under too long, your lungs burning as you blindly clawed at the bottom of the cave to find the side or top. Bursting through the surface with a choking gasp, you didn’t have time to get another breath before you were pulled back under by the rip that had been made by the current. Not even with the life jacket were you able to break through the water. 

Johnny was able to grab the guide and get him to higher ground in the cave. Dragging him onto rocks, he began to scream your name. Where had you gone!? You were right there! “Where are you!” He screamed, ready to jump back in.

“No, you will drown! It’s not safe until after the storm!” The guide cried as he grabbed Johnny’s arm. 

“My partner is in there!” Johnny snarled, but the guide fought with him, keeping him where it was safe while you were left on your own. As the flash storm rolled on, just a few minutes after it showed up, your life jacket floated out from the back of the cave. It didn’t mean anything, you could still be alive. Despite the water calming, the guide made them stay on the rocks till a rescue boat came in, shining a light on them. “There’s someone still in here!” He yelled as the men climbed into the boat. 

“We know, we have her outside,” the rescue worker said, helping them sit before turning the boat around.

“She’s okay?” Johnny asked, surprised as he never saw you since you fell from the boat. The man was quiet, not looking at him. “Is she okay?” He pushed. “Can you fuckin’ tell me if she’s alive or not!?” He snarled. All he received was silence. When the boat came out and he saw a white sheet laid over a body on the beach, he jumped from the rescue boat before it could stop. Running over, he was screaming your name as the police were taping off the beach. One of the officers tried to stop him, but he easily shoved them aside as he kept screaming. 

You were still and silent as he picked you up, refusing to let anyone near you as he wailed in grief. Holding you, he rocked the two of you as the police tried to control the growing crowd. There was nothing they could do to help him, as news crews began to swarm the beach to get pictures of the grief stricken man holding his fiancee’s body as her hand with the engagement ring dangled free for them to take pictures of and plaster on the front pages.

Ghost

 You were just a month and a half shy of being full term. When Simon had been called to do a mission, you were pissed and ready to fight Price, but Simon calmed you down before you could come at the bearded man with a cricket bat. It wouldn’t be that long and he’d be back with plenty of time for the baby to be born. 

It had only been two days when you felt contractions start. At first you thought it was Braxton Hicks contractions, but then you felt your water break. When you went to the bathroom to check, you found that it wasn’t your water. It was blood and it was soaking your underwear and pants. Calling an ambulance, you unlocked the front door so they could get in. Once you were sure they were on their way, you called Simon’s emergency line. It wouldn’t go to him directly, but he would know what was happening right away at least. Leaving your message, the ambulance arrived soon after.

Crying, you held your stomach as you were strapped to a gurney and rushed to the hospital. You weren’t being told anything, just to keep breathing as the pain grew. With your phone in your hand, you kept checking it to see if Simon was able to call, but there was nothing. At the hospital, you were rushed into surgery as you begged one of the nurses to call the emergency line again to see when Simon could call. She promised she would keep trying as you handed off your phone. Once in surgery, you were put under and the last thing you thought was a plea to any deity listening to save your baby. 

Simon got the message and was gone. He didn’t ask permission or explain. His whole team was with him, though, getting him back home as quickly as possible. It was nearly five hours later in a plane to a helicopter that took him to the hospital with some of his gear and mask still on. Jumping out of the helo before it could land fully, he ripped his mask and vest off to throw to the side as he sprinted to where you were. 

His head was empty aside from the drive to get to you. You had to be okay. You had to be. There was a nurse waiting for him at the stairs, stopping him from running blindly through the hospital. 

“Mr. Riley,” she said, not flinching under his gaze that was fire and rage. 

“Where is my wife?” He growled, towering over her. 

“You’re wife. . . I am so sorry, but she didn’t make it,” the nurse said. Simon could only hear the ringing in his ears that he would hear when he was near a concussion grenade going off. “Her uterine lining ripped and she had lost too much blood by the time she arrived at the hospital.” None of her words seemed to register to her as his team came up behind him. 

Every word was lost on him as he stood there, not responding to anything she said. Not even Price shaking him could bring him to. 

“What about the baby?” He finally asked, coming out of it enough to think of that. “Is she okay?”

“She’s stable and in the NICU. Despite being born rather early, she is healthy and will stay there till she’s considered to term to make sure she has the best chance of surviving,” the nurse said. Simon nodded, going quiet again. 

“I want to see her. I want to see my wife,” he said. The nurse nodded, knowing he would do it anyway he could. His face said it all. Taking him to the OR, she waved others on when they stopped to question why four men were being let into the room. The team held back while Simon moved forward to the white sheet covered table. With steady hands, he pulled the cover back to see your face. You looked like you were sleeping. He would watch you before you awoke for the day and this was the same face. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, stroking your hair. His gloves were long gone, leaving him bare to the world he struggled to hide from. “I’m so sorry. I should have never left.” Leaning forward, he pressed your faces together as he quietly cried. He had lost his family, then found you and it was a breath of life to him. Now you were gone and left him with a small piece of you. He didn’t know if he could do it without you, if he could be someone his daughter needed or wanted. Simon didn’t know how to be a good partner till you came along, so how could he know how to be a good dad without you?

Masterlist

Taglist: @birdstoprey @sebbytheraccoon @pricescigar @alwaysshallow @sae1kie @sleepydang @lexi-zsy09 @ghostlywhiskey @ghosts-cyphera @poohkie90 @neothewitch @shadofireshinobi @sadslasher13 @0alk0msan @xaestheticalien

[alwaysshallow]

Hey 👋🏻 here to help you with your inspiration ✨ what about meeting Soaps mum for the first time? Would it be pretty early on because he just can’t keep his mouth shut about you or would he wait until like the holidays? Would he be nervous? Trying to dodge embarrassing details about him spilled by his mother?😊

i feel like soap would make meeting his mum the day, honestly. some random day though, not holidays!! maybe when he's off deployment, and you have time off from your school/work<3

you dress up nice, you're all scared because you want his mum to like you, after all, he's your lover!! the one who you care about, the one who you just ADORE.

just to find out that woman knows... pretty much everything about you. your favorite color, your favorite dishes (she prepared a nice meal for you!! just your fav stuff). and you learn from her, when soap is outside with his father, that right from the start of your relationship, friendship, even, he can't stop talking about you.

he is obviously nervous!! but not for the things you think he is, he thinks his mother is gonna embarrass him on SPOT. and she does, he has so many pictures with him being a fucking dumbass with a teeth gap kafjkfkn

she also tells you how much he avoided bath, and he's almost red when he sits right by the table with you. your pretty laugh is the only thing that keeps him here; and the way your eyes shines too. he knows you're the one, and he buys a ring this day:)

[inkbybambi]

soap is the type to spend hours biting and sucking marks into your skin. he’s possessive, not letting you go until you have fresh marks blotching your skin, not even trying to put them in places that could be covered by clothes. no, he’s going to make other people realize that you’re spoken for and if he’s not there with you to make them realize that, then the smattering of marks along your throat and collar will speak for him.

[wildechildwrites]

Corn Syrup

Johnny "Soap" McTavish/Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: 18+, Miscommunication Trope, Light Injury/Violence, Angst, Smut (lol)

No Use of Y/N

Summary: You get injured in combat and Soap has been acting weird since. He won't even talk to you.

A/N: I hate the no communication Trope as much as the rest of you but I promise the pay off is good. Kensington Gore is a short companion piece to this fic that's Unrequited! Ghost/Soap/Reader

AO3 Link: Corn Syrup

The blood seeping through your uniform is bright red, and as you idly dip your hand lower, scooping some up on your fingers, all you can think is how fake it looks. Corn syrup blood, like in the movies. You let out a disbelieving laugh, locking eyes with Soap before a feverish pain slams through you like a ton of bricks and you crumple.

Your team fusses around you, hurrying to get you back to base while Soap holds steady pressure on your wound. You can’t stop laughing about the blood, about how unreal it is that it’s yours and that there’s so much.

“Jesus lass, you’d think bein’ shot would be enough ta shut you up,” Soap said, his voice sounding floaty and above your head. You blink hard to clear the fuzziness around your eyes. Another laugh bubbles out of your throat.

“If you’d prefer me silent, Sergeant, I can think of a few ways you could shut me up,” you slur back provocatively. Johnny doesn't laugh like he’s supposed to, only presses his mouth into a thin line. His face is the last thing you see before everything fades to black.

— — — —

It’s your first time back on base since you’ve been shot. Your recovery had been relatively quick, but you were still itching to get back into the field, and back to your squad. They had all visited you while you were recovering, aside from one glaring omission.

Johnny.

You’d seen neither hide nor hair of the Scotsman for the duration of your hospital stay. Even Ghost had come to see you, looking stark and ridiculous in the fluorescent lights. You had tried to broach the subject with him, meekly asking after Soap, but Ghost had just stared at you, his light blue eyes unreadable, until you had dropped the subject.

You and Johnny had always had a close relationship. He had been the first to fully embrace you as a member of 141, and you two had been attached at the hip since then. You trained together more than with anyone, constantly cracking jokes and poking fun at each other.

You also had a deep, intense infatuation with him.

You tried to keep it under wraps, terrified of making him feel uncomfortable and ruining the deep friendship you two had. You tried to avoid any physical contact unless absolutely necessary, keeping things platonic to the extreme and constantly dodging the sexual innuendos Soap was always lobbing at you.

There had been moments of tension of course, mostly under heavy stress, where it had felt as if his gaze had lingered longer than usual, but you knew it was all in your head. There had been a single drunken kiss after a successful mission, but it hadn’t meant anything to him.

The unit had gone out to celebrate, and Soap, not being one to shirk a Scottish stereotype, had gotten absolutely sloshed. The rest of the team had left the booth you were occupying to try their hand at beating Ghost at pool, and Soap, unable to stand, had scooted closer to you, grabbing your waist with his large hands and pulling you into him, smelling strongly of liquor and muttering about how you were ‘bonnie’. Then he kissed you, and your world ended because he tasted like whiskey and made your brain turn to goo and your toes tingle, so you retreated to the bathroom like a coward and never brought it up again.

You had wished desperately that he would visit you in the hospital. You were restless and couldn’t figure out why he would be avoiding you, eventually coming to the conclusion that you had scared him off, that your delirious joke had made him uncomfortable enough that he needed to distance himself from you. Your chest ached at the thought. You had managed to do the one thing you had been trying desperately to avoid, ruining the best friendship you’ve ever had in a careless, blood-soaked moment.

Debriefing made it painfully obvious that Soap avoiding you was not just in your head. Everyone was excited to see you, and even Captain Price had given you a quick but firm hug.

“Good to have you back,” he said gruffly. Gaz beamed at you from where he sat and you felt yourself grinning, before your eyes fluttered to Soap and your face fell. Soap sat in the corner of the room next to Ghost, staring resolutely at his boots. You spent the entire briefing half listening, trying to get Johnny to at least meet your eye. After the meeting, he darted out of the room and you decided to go after him, running out the door.

“Soap!” You called out, but the Scottish man just turned the corner like he hadn’t heard you. It felt like someone had sucker punched you in the chest. You really had ruined everything. He wouldn’t even acknowledge your existence. Ghost silently slid in place beside you, and you looked up at him desperately, the confusion evident in your eyes. He put a hesitant hand on your shoulder. Your throat felt tight, and you ducked away from him, making a break for your room.

Days have gone by, and Soap continues to ignore your existence. You were an over tuned guitar string, constantly close to snapping. Soap and Ghost were training in the gym together throwing punches when you walked through the door, intent on the treadmills to help relieve some stress. Both men looked up at you and Soap immediately turned and headed towards the locker room.

You felt tears well up in your eyes. You don’t understand why he hated you this much. It hurt. You just wanted your friend back but he wouldn’t even let you close enough to apologize for whatever you did wrong. You could feel Ghost’s eyes on you again and you turn away, trying to hide your tears. You leave the gym and walk quickly back to your room, your head down. You closed the door and let out a sob.

You cry until your chest hurts and your nose runs like a facet, curled up in your bed under the covers. When you were out of tears, you lay there silently, staring blankly at the wall. Someone knocks, but you don’t react. Your door creaks open.

“Lass?” Soap calls out, his voice a mere whisper. His heavy footsteps draw nearer to your blanketed sanctuary. You let out an audible sigh, turning over and sitting up to glare at him, hair mussed and nose puffy.

“You've been avoiding me.” You croak. Soap has the decency to look ashamed of himself. “You didn’t even visit me in the hospital. Not even once.”

You level him with a stare he’s only ever seen when you’d slotted a knife in between a man’s ribs, and Johnny feels the same distinct sensation of agony stabbing in his chest.

Then everything is spilling out of him at once, words tumbling between his lips before his brain can hope to catch up.

“I couldn’t stand ta face you. Seeing you like that nearly made me lose my fuckin’ mind. Cacklin’ like a banshee, bleedin’ everywhere and then you looked up at me with those eyes… Christ lass, I was unraveling.” Soap’s knees hit the bed, and suddenly he's kneeling next to you, closer than he’d been since that fateful mission.

You stare at him in shock. His voice is edging near hysterical. “Could barely keep it together enough to keep the pressure on the bleedin’. And then you blurt out that stupid fuckin’ line, something you'd never say, damn near delirious, and I realized that the girl I’d been pinin’ after for months was gonna die in my arms.”

“Johnny,” you whisper, but he carries on, the waterfall of words continuing without interruption.

Then his lips are on yours, and you don’t taste the whiskey this time, but your toes tingle and your brain melts just the same. Your hands go for his hair, fingers curling in his mohawk, and he lets out a keening sound against your lips, dragging you closer to him. His hands are warm and everywhere, holding you like you’ll disappear in between his fingers.

“I'm in agony. You don' understand what I'd for you. What I’d do to you. And it wasn’ until I’d almost lost you that I realized how much I fuckin’ burn for you,” he whispers, fervent as a hymn.

Soap’s got you pinned under him, and you can feel him, hard against your thigh, feel it twitch when he pulls back just so he can look at you, lips swollen from the kiss, his eyes wild.

“Tell me you don’ want me too,” he pants, but you can’t do anything but stare, because you’ve never really let yourself truly look at him before, not so openly, and he’s so goddamn beautiful.

“You’ve got lovely eyelashes,” you finally say, and reach up to gently touch his face. He leans in again, recaptures your lips with enough force to bruise, crushing you against him like he’s trying to shove you into his ribcage, like with enough force he can fuse your skin together, and you think you may break from the weight of it all, drown in the tidal wave of his sudden affection without complaint.

He wanders, his mouth moving to your neck, and he bites down and grinds his hips into yours, swallowing the gasp you make at the contact. You rake your nails down his back and he positively whimpers, melting further into you, sucking and nipping at any exposed skin he can reach, a hand wandering in between your thighs, thick fingers pressing against your clothed sex.

You feel like you're being consumed by the sun, warm and blinding as Soap makes practiced work of your pants, stripping you bare, letting out a quiet groan at the sight of you. Eagerly he begins kissing his way down your chest and stomach, landing between your thighs. You clench them together almost instinctively, suddenly shy, and as he pries your legs apart with a cocky grin, it hits you just how much you've missed him.

Johnny devours you like he hasn't had a meal in weeks, wet and messy, and you feel yourself coming towards the edge, a warm knot building inside you even as you pull on his hair, trying to get him to come up for air.

"You're gonna suffocate if you don't breathe," you gasp out, and you can feel him smirk against you. He pulls back, slightly out of breath, his mouth wet and hair tousled.

“I ken think of no sweeter place ta die,” he says playfully, kissing the inside of your thigh before diving back in.

You almost fall over the edge the minute that Johnny shoves one of his thick fingers inside you, curling it just right, hitting the perfect spot and making you see stars. He moans along with you, eyes bright, watching you come undone from in between your thighs. Your legs shake and you clench around his head as he coaxes you through it, and you're still seeing stars when he pulls himself up to pull you into another searing kiss. You can feel the hardness of him bumping your clit, and that's all the warning you get before he lines himself up with your entrance and presses into you.

He’s big and it stretches and hurts even though you're soaking. Everything is just too much, too fast. Things you've been suppressing for months are all bubbling up, and all you can feel and taste and see is him, the blinding sun to your lonely moon. Johnny shushes you gently, touching your face even as his body is trembling with the effort of resisting the urge to drive his hips into you as hard as he can.

“I don’ mean to be so eager,” he says, dropping his forehead to yours. “I’ve missed you, lass.” He kisses you lightly, and you realize there are tears running down your cheeks.

"I thought you hated me," you whimper, "I thought I had scared you off or annoyed you and that you didn't care about me."

Johnny stares at you with a look that shatters you into pieces, agony and tenderness tangled together in equal measure.

“Christ,” he says, voice gravelly, “don’ you know I’m in love with you?” And then he pushes his hips forward, filling you up, his hips meeting yours as he sheaths himself completely inside of you. You gasp, tears still flowing as he kisses you, soft and slow. Then he begins to move, drawing his hips back before bottoming out again, and it hurts less now, a familiar heat building low in your stomach.

Johnny’s rough but gentle, his own restraint on a razor thin wire, too aware of the scar tissue just above his coarse hands even as he’s slamming his hips into yours, feeling you clench down and squirm, your nails tearing into his shoulders and raking down his back.

Everything feels so good, you’re so warm and alive beneath him, the skin he’s been dying to touch for ages and the sounds you’re making are driving him wild, the whimpers and gasps making him feel like a teenager, ruining his stamina and pushing his control. You’re pretty even in tears and even as Johnny swears under his breath that he’ll never make you cry again, he admires the glassiness of your eyes, the tremble of your bottom lip.

“I-it’s so b-ig” you whine, your breath hitching with every thrust. Your walls are fluttering around him as he stretches you open, your hips rolling up to meet his thrusts. Johnny moans, his hips stuttering.

“-m’not gonna last much longer” he pants, “want you ta cum on my cock first.” Your breath hitches and his heart flutters along with it, reaching down to thumb your clit, making you whimper and tighten around him. You grab his face, pulling him down to kiss you as you feel yourself falling over the edge, moaning against his mouth as you feel his cock twitch inside you, filling you up. Soap slumps against you, his cock still sheathed in you as he delicately kisses your mouth. You kiss him back in a daze, your legs trembling and brain foggy.

“I love you too,” you whisper, words muffled by his soft lips on yours, and Johnny sighs wistfully, pulling back to look at you. One of his warm hands reaches up to cup your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheekbone.

Unrequited Ghost Part 2

[last-starry-sky]

me: okay I’m going to bed. I have work tonight.

also me: *writes a thousand words of historical AU soap fucking reader in the stables*

me @ me:

[bowtied-pasta]

Alright fineeeee since nobody begged me for it, here’s a sneak peek 👀

It’s the same dream every night.

Blurred visions of disturbed dust in the air, confusion and disorientation, head falling to the ground abruptly before large black boots fill your vision and then your vision goes dark and you wake up.

It was normal though.

Anyone with a soulmate dreamt of the scenario in which they will meet them. You had often wondered what it might be like to not have one. To get blissfully peaceful and empty minded rest every night. To not have the overwhelming burden of knowledge hanging over your every action.

There were some people that avoided their destiny as vigorously as they could, but everyone that tried apparently always failed. Destiny is just that. Fate can be changed, but someones destiny was written by something much larger than life and some things would happen no matter how hard you tried to stop them.

The scenario that people with soulmates dreamed of is just one of these unstoppable things.

You knew that it would be inevitable then, that one day you would meet your soulmate while injured in combat. You had run every scenario that you could think of when the dream had become more and more vivid the more you had it, and while a hopeful side of you had ideas of some handsome, burly field medic from an ally base somewhere… a far more realistic side of you knew it was just as likely that those dark boots could belong to an enemy.

[vanderilnde]

rugby player soap fucks you after a win. that’s it. extension from this post of mine

cw for dubcon smut, noncon exhibitionism, and gross johnny + simon

-

“Did ya see that, hen?”

Johnny’s words come out stifled behind his mouthguard. He smiles, and it’s bulky, a little dim-witted in how he darts his tongue out, licking up a wash of blood that sluices down his lip. His eyebrow is split and his nose is bent out of shape, his cheeks all swollen and ruddy. 

He pulls you into a crushing hug, shaking like an ebullient dog that’s unaware of how big it is. His jersey, a royal blue, turns cobalt with his sweat. It sticks to his skin and outlines his chest, peeling off of your shirt when you sheepishly pull away. 

The pitch is glutted with celebrating teammates and their loved ones, but the broadcast camera is raptly focused on you and Johnny. On the grudging hold he has on your waist and the unwieldy trophy he’s just won for his team. 

Johnny grins like it’s a challenge. Like he wants to make the camera turn away. He forestalls the protests on your tongue by sinking into you for a hard kiss, bruising, and almost brutal in its force. It’s like he hasn’t separated himself from the game yet. Like he doesn’t want to compartmentalise you from the barbarous sport he plays. 

The scruff of Johnny’s stubble tickles you as you try pushing him back, try twisting out of his hands. But his fingers, as bandaged and torn as they are, press dimples into your jawbone and keep you in place. Keeps you squirming and shameful beneath the dissonance of celebration. 

He peels away with a kitten lick, pressing a wet smooch to the corner of your mouth. He’s smiling, pulling your jeans against the bulge beneath his spandex-like shorts, chuckling.

“Scored that last try for you, hen,” he pants. Spits out his mouthguard and passes his tongue over his bloodied teeth. “Did’ja see it?”

Johnny stinks of iron musk and sweat. He hands the trophy away and uses both hands to pull you close, clemently kissing your jaw. 

“I did,” you hum. You consciously lilt your voice upwards, telling it to Johnny how he always needs to hear it. “You did so well, Johnny. So good.” 

He whimpers into your neck. Just barely gyroscopes his hips against you. 

“Did it for you,” he slurs. Johnny’s words are all soft, melting on his tongue as if he’s drunk. As if his brain is belated and stuck in the grip of your praise. “Did so good, right? A’practiced so hard.”

You take the bait that Johnny has given you, petting him, because if not, he’ll get ratty and make a scene. You pull back and cup his face, preening under the cornflower blue of his eyes and the puppy-like dip of his lips. You smile. “So good. I’m so proud of you.”

Johnny is half-lidded and dizzy, nodding to himself, swallowing your praise like an empty-headed dog. Impatience and lust are written into him—you can tell by the darkened shade of his eyes and how hard he clutches your hand. 

“Let’s go,” he says, leading you through the stadium entrance, shouldering past fans asking him for autographs and photos. “We’ve time before the team goes for dinner. Nobody’ll be in the change room.”

Your cheeks flare with the implication of Johnny’s words and how purposeful they are. Marked by firm determination, leaving no room for objection. 

He tugs you like a puppy pulling its owner. Excited, working against its leash, your feet struggling to catch up. Johnny pulls you into his team's changing room, slamming the door shut behind you. The sound of you getting pressed against the lockers is thin, tinny, and fleetingly impairs you. When you reorient, Johnny has his skinned knee between your legs and against your pussy. His hand palming his cock through the tight material of his rugby shorts.

“Johnny,” you pant, “what if someone comes in?”

“Let ‘em,” he huffs out a laugh. “What’re they gonna do? Ban me from the league? I just won us a trophy. ’m on top of the fuckin’ world, baby.”

Annoyance cycles in your stomach at his lack of consideration. You try wiggling out and mewling, but the thigh between your legs is an immovable object. Your clothed clit catches on his sinews at every angle, pushing a gasp out of you regardless of how you twist and turn. 

“Haud y’r wheesht,” he barks. A hint of aggression bleeds into Johnny’s words, and that makes you pliant. “We’re just celebratin’, hen, no need ta ruin my win.”

Your eyes are on the door while Johnny shucks down his shorts. It rolls down his thighs and he leaves it at his knees, too eager to toe off his cleats and pull it all the way off. He stands awkwardly now, a little stilted because he can’t stretch his legs all the way, but that doesn’t stop him from bevelling his thigh into you and flexing, grinding into you. 

Johnny peels your shirt—a replica of his jersey—off of you, and kisses you deeply. You can taste the salt and blood crusted against his lips, feel his small smile. 

Johnny spins you around and folds you over the bench. Your knees bruise against the rubber flooring and your chest flattens against the cold wood, your brain reeling in the gross implications of it, whatever Johnny and his friends get up to in this locker room. 

He rips down your jeans, almost popping the buttons off, almost burns your skin with the denim, and settles himself behind you. Johnny grabs a fistful of your ass and spreads you open, swatting your pussy with his other hand.

“Johnny…” you mewl, and he chuckles. Gives you a waggle, slipping his large hand over and thumbing your clit.

“Thought you were feart of bein’ found?” He asks, lowering to his knees and kissing your dewy folds. “Why’re y’being so loud?”

Johnny waits for a second, giving you time to think of a reply, but with the first sound to leave your mouth he’s licking a fat stripe up your pussy, collapsing your words. 

He laughs at himself and it sends vibrations up your spine. Your bones are grinding together, your nerves filaments of live wire under Johnny’s hands that dig divots into your thighs and his mouth that sucks on your clit, tonguing your sticky folds. 

He spits on your cunt, spreads the wad of saliva around with his tongue. He pulls you into his mouth and suckles, moving his wet lips against your dewy ones. 

You stretch your arm back and tug on Johnny’s fleecy mohawk, scratching your fingers against the dew-skinned, shaved parts of his head. He expels a groan against your clit and you mewl, pushing into him, wiggling so his nose buries further, his tongue plunging into you and licking a stroke up your walls. 

You’re quivering now, shaking against the cold bench and Johnny’s hot mouth. A knot of energy crackles in your stomach as he wraps his lips around your clit and slurps.

“Gonna come on my mouth, hen?” Johnny pants, but pulls away before you reply. Punches a whine out of you by spinning you onto your back against the bench, pulling his cock out and giving it a few tugs, his dick so hard it droops with laden weight and a slaver of precum.  

“Or would’ya rather do it on here?” He asks, stroking himself. His balls low-hanging in front of you, the fat head of his cock all ruddy and red and flaring as he pinches it. 

You stare, dull-headed, with your mouth hanging open and a hazy film behind your eyes. Johnny giggles. 

“Cannae think with this in front of ye?” He smears his cockhead on your lips. “Sweet girl. So cute.” 

Johnny winces and pulls away. He swings one leg over the bench, settling himself on top of you. His cock is a heavy mass of muscle between him. Swinging, bobbing in place. Dumb and drooling with precum that drops onto your navel. 

He slips himself between your puffy folds, panting like a dog. Equally as impatient as one, squeezing his cockhead past your first ring of muscle, writing off your small cries of pain. He thinks cupping your cheek offsets the burn—still, Johnny’s cock is so heavy and so big inside you. Spreading you open, stretching you out. Making a home inside your belly. 

You hic his name, and he shushes you with a kiss. Johnny weaves into short, quick thrusts, because pulling himself to the tip means losing most of your warmth, and he can’t have that. He settles on barely rolling his hips, focusing on burying himself deep, folding himself into a frog position if that means fucking you meaner.

“Takin’ so much cock, bonnie,” he moans into your neck. “So good. So good.” 

Johnny’s ears turn pink and his eyes turn glassy. He keeps rocking inside you, his cock filling you out so well, so full, your thighs shaking and damp with slick. He fingers your clit, and in his pace, wild and unfettered, you wrap your legs around his waist like a cobbled together leash that you use to pull him closer.

Johnny grows feral at that. He slaps his balls harder against you, biting your shoulder. Sweat and blood rolls down his cheek and onto your face, augmenting the icy gold of his first place medal. It drags along your chest with each of his thrusts, turning into a ball of liquid fire as your body saturates with sweat. Johnny leans down, his lips slick as he kisses you, the push and pull of his hips ripening into a more jagged, desperate rhythm.

“Gonna fill y’up, hen,” he pants. There’s a strong dissonance that impairs you, echoing within the locker room. Johnny’s degenerate moans and the slap of skin against skin. The pitched sound of the wind being knocked out of you, the sticky sound of your cunt getting spread open on his big cock. 

Something else poises itself on Johnny’s tongue, something impure, but it gets shaved-off as he cuts himself off with a long, flinty moan. Johnny quivers as he comes, and that pushes him deeper as he fills you with his warm ropes.

He presses down on your clit, pushing the rise of your orgasm out of you. Your spine curls off the bench, your nails digging divots into Johnny’s arms, your mouth hanging open and a rough wave of pleasure curling over you and breaking into your skin. Your orgasm is so consuming it burns, eating you whole.  

It chews you up and spits you out. You tremble around Johnny’s softening cock as he peppers kisses down your sternum, and while you reorient, you see an unearthly spot of colour in the corner of your eye. It isn’t composed of matter—it’s big and blurry and hides between two rows of lockers. 

Then, you realise the drapery England flag, the absence of a Scottish one. 

The man who stands in the corner is blonde and huge and has his fat cock out, curling his fist around it, pumping. He’s so quiet, an ambush predator as he just stands there, continuing to beat his dick even after you make eye contact with him. 

He turns to Johnny, grotesquely smiling.

Johnny returns it.

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 2; ghoap x reader) part 1

-

The hard part is admitting to himself that he doesn’t know how to function on leave without Ghost’s voice in his ear.

Johnny’s two days into his annual leave when that stray thought crosses his brain. Out with chums even, packed into the booth of an old pub in his hometown, the leather well-worn and a match on the telly that he half watches while one of his mates goes up to the bar to order another round for them. In between his third and fourth pint of lukewarm mild, he thinks something like, wonder what Simon’s up to.

The thought comes and then keeps coming. Keeps cropping up when he least expects. At the pub (wonder what Simon’s up to), in line at the grocery store (wonder how Ghost takes his steak), drowsily puttering around the kitchen while making breakfast (no way he wears the mask at home), listening to some guy in front of him hack up a lung at the dry cleaner (Lt’d do his fuckin’ head in if he was here), and even in the shower with his head tipped back, rinsing out the suds (wonder if he’s got a girl tucked away at home). 

Is it so unusual? Johnny can’t remember a time in his life when someone lived in his head night and day, but Ghost’s presence feels like an extension of his own these days. He’s cycled through girlfriends without a care in the world, without contemplating their existence for half as long, but they never cradled his life like a small bird in the palm of their hands and returned it safe and sound, did they?

Still, he feels it like a knot in his chest. Dreams about Ghost even; wakes up hot and hard, and scrubs his hand down the side of his face when he sits up in bed. Phantom memories of a body heavier than his weighing him down (just the duvet) and a thick hand curling around his dick (his own hand wrapped around his shaft, rubbing one out in his sleep). 

He shakes it off, but it follows him out into the real world. Looking at the door of a coffee shop and thinking absentmindedly, Ghost would have to duck under that. 

Johnny puts it out of his mind. As much as he’s able to, that is. Chalks it up to some kind of hero worship. He’s worked with superior officers before—plenty of times, hundreds of times—but there are few men of Ghost’s calibre, both in skillset and mystique. Not to mention the sheer size of the guy. And what is Johnny if not a moth to a flame?

Better not to ruminate. He casts the memory of seeing Ghost’s dick in the showers after their last mission (monstrous thing, uncut, pubes darker than the hair on his head, more than a mouthful—it’d give him lockjaw) out of his head. Doesn’t think about it. Laughs at a mate’s joke at the pub when he didn’t catch a word of it to mask the way he perked up at the sight of a wide-shoulder man until he turned around, giving Johnny a proper look at his face.

He’s not ready to think about it. Might never be able to really look at why he eats it up, why he struts around with his chin cocked just a bit higher than usual because he knows everyone else is watching him with equal parts envy and curiosity for being Ghost’s favourite. 

Then, one day, he meets a girl.

Johnny’s not winning an award any time soon for world’s best son, but he knows a thing or two. The first thing being chocolates and the second being flowers. His sisters handle the rest; they fuss about the party, get a gift certificate to the spa, send out the invites—all that fun stuff. He’s sent off for the bare essentials. Practically kicked out of the house by his oldest sister—nearly brains himself on the asphalt and tugs his windbreaker on when it’s thrown out the door after him a second later, grumbling about being the errand boy.

He picks up a box of chocolates from the corner shop (not fancy enough, his sisters will probably bitch, but that’s a problem for later) before heading down the road to the florist. There’s a bench out front stacked with tin flower vases, the only spot of colour on a dreary spring morning. He spends a couple minutes chatting with the cashier and flirting a bit halfheartedly (he thinks maybe it’ll be worth it if it gets him a discount, even five percent off) until the florist comes out from the back. 

“Jesus, who gave ye the right?” Johnny breathes, horse blinders on, vision narrowing on the object of desire coming out of the back in a linen apron and simple t-shirt underneath, scissors poking out of the front pocket. 

“The right?” she repeats back, blinking.

“To leave the house lookin’ so fuckin’ gorgeous. Glad I wasn’t driving when I passed you by—woulda been in a twenty car pile up.”

She’s not impressed in the slightest. It’s thrilling. By that point, the cashier is long forgotten. Probably not the best impression he’s ever made, but he’s made worse ones. It’s not every day he comes across an angel. Hard to be polite in front of a real life miracle. 

He wears her down over the week though, showing up each day for a new bouquet. His mam’s never liked him more, so at least there’s that. His sisters side-eye him whenever he ducks out of the house to head down the road to the florist’s, but even they know better than to bring it up and risk pissing off their mam. He interrogates her about flowers and her job, makes his presence unavoidable, a week long siege that ends with Johnny taking her out to dinner and then letting her take him to bed. 

He wakes up nestled in her cozy apartment above the flower shop, stretching out and making himself right at home. When she trades in her linen apron for a terry cloth robe and stands expectantly by the door, Johnny just grins. Shows all of his teeth. 

“Are ye just gonna use me and kick me out?” he pouts. Folds his hands behind his head and digs a foot into the sheets, trying to sink into the mattress. Little king in his castle. 

“You know, you don’t have to pussyfoot around with me. Weren’t you just trying to get laid?” she asks, brow arched. The disbelief thick in her voice makes it clear what she thinks of him. 

“No’ just some playboy, hen,” he scoffs. “I have feelings too.”

Her other eyebrow lifts. He’s tickled pink.

He plays the part well, he supposes. Lounges in bed and eats grapes all morning while she stares at him from the kitchen like he might dissipate at any moment. He’s used to leaving a false impression, like a lake that someone builds their house next to until years go by and someone says I think this was once a meteor. 

When she comes back to bed around mid morning, Johnny wastes no time pulling her up onto the bed until she plants her cunt over his mouth and sinks down onto his waiting tongue. 

Candy sweet pussy, he thinks blissfully, then says it out loud because he can never keep his mouth shut. It must tickle because she yelps and nearly pulls away from his face altogether, but he wrenches her back down, fingers digging into her ass cheeks a bit too forcefully. He’ll pay for that later. 

In the aftermath, when she collapses beside him in bed and rests her head on his chest while he plays with her hair, he itches in his skin to message Ghost. It perplexes him. They never text, he and Ghost; they don’t call, they don’t write, they don’t email. For all intents and purposes, their relationship ends at the perimeter around base, dissolves to nothing. It’s not Ghost’s fault he trickles into Johnny’s dreams sometimes. 

A week goes by. Calm the mind. He thinks of Ghost and his fingers tremble and the phone stays silent and he lets the thought go. Steady. Breathe in and out. His caryatid girl slips in and out of his sheets, hesitant always like he might leave. Johnny doesn’t know if she wants him to, wants to feel vindicated in her assumption, but of all her wants, that ranks the lowest in his mind. 

He spirals deeper into it, infatuated. She’s sweet but snippy, candy sweet with a sour kick—everything he’s ever wanted in a girl. Ever unimpressed, watching him with a small, hidden smile, amused despite herself. 

Johnny wonders if this is the universe waving its hand in front of his face. Yoohoo, missing something?

He looks pointedly away. 

It’s new, but maybe he’s like every other military man in the world, unable to go with the flow, dissatisfied with seeing where things go. He needs instant gratification, everything now-now-now, the certainty of commitment—he spills blood with everyone he knows, so why would his girl be any different?

Returning back to base is harder this time around. The last day of his leave is an exercise in restraint, tempered only by her smile when he sees her off at the door to her apartment, reluctant to leave. 

“C’mon, promise me you’ll call, hen,” Johnny mumbles into her mouth, catching her answer with a languid swipe of his tongue. His arms press her tight to his chest, digging his hands into her back pockets and giving a good squeeze, relishing in the way she squeaks. “How’m I gonna survive without ye, huh? They’re gonna have to jumpstart my heart after it gives out from missing ye so bad.”

“So dramatic. You have my number,” she says when he finally pulls back enough to let her speak.

“No, please, baby, please—promise me—”

“Oh my god, alright, fine—I’ll call. Now get going already.”

The drive back to base leaves him feeling bedraggled, lost. When he gets in, it’s straight to the barracks, an hour long nap before reporting to Price, dragging his feet the whole way over. Moping, for lack of a better word, until he rounds a corner and nearly collides with someone that stops him with a single hand on his shoulder. 

When he looks up to eyes rimmed in black paint, the world lightens. His shoulders lift. 

“Wipe that smirk off your face, Johnny.”

It takes Johnny awhile to bring her up with Ghost. Something keeps holding him back, choking him when he tries to say it outloud. He blames it on uncertainty (had to be sure she was the one, Lt, ye ken?) but he feels the truth at the core of him. When he does finally muster up the nerve to pass his phone to Ghost where her photo is front and centre, no mistaking his intentions, he waits on tenterhooks for a reaction. 

Only breathes out when Ghost asks to meet her. He can do that. 

“Aye, Lt. Just for you.”

[nymahjoie]

Day one of kinktober '23, featuring you, Soap, and overstimulation.

[ao3] / text in read below

“A dhia!”

Soap’s head tilts back into the mattress as he comes for the third time, hot spurts joining the drying ones that already painted his stomach. A beautiful contrast on his tanned skin. His usually racing mind is only able to focus on the way your fingers slow in their strokes but don’t stop. How they urged more from him. And the way he wants nothing more than to be free of the ties that bind his wrists above his head so he can get his hands on you and pay you back.

His head lifts and he groans at the sight of you, still fully clothed with a satisfied smirk on your slips, sitting to the side of him. It was unfair how you could get him like this, draw so much from him, with your clothes on and using only your hands to drive him over the edge over and over.

“Y’gonna be the death of me if you keep that up, Y/N.”

Your smirk grows as you watch him squirm beneath your ministrations: thumb circling the head of his cock and milking his softening length. You click your tongue. “We don’t want that, now do we?” Your free hand moves to guide his leg farthest from you up to bend at the knee. “It’d be such a shame,” you coo, nails scratching along the skin of his thigh as your lips press to the side of his knee, “to lose this fucking beautiful sight before me.”

“What do you say, Johnny? Think you can manage one more for me?”

His stomach tenses and a surge of energy courses through him, always eager to please, especially when it comes to you.

“Fuck,” he moans. “One, two?” Hell, I’d give you ten more if y’asked.”

“That’s the spirit.” Light fingers swirl in the pearly white mess on his stomach, wetting them before traveling low between his legs. “Just look at you. A fucking masterpiece tied to my bed.” Your praises fall on heated ears while your thumb probes at his ass.

“Relax for me, baby,” you urge with a devilishly sweet smile when he sucks in a sharp breath, muscles instinctively clenching at the intrusion. His focus shifts again to try and control his increasing breathing and do as you say and allow your cum-slick digits to sink further.

“Good boy.” Another kiss on his thigh and you start to find a slow rhythm between the fingers slowly stretching him and the hand stroking his hardening cock.

It isn’t long before sweet moans and whines come out of Soap’s bitten lips again, his blissed mind sinking further under the waves that crested through his body. His hips rock into your hands in search of the contact you’ve deprived him of by restraining his hands. You can see it in the way his fingers curl and uncurl into fists. In the way he grasps out in vain when your fingers curl just the right way in him. In the way he needs to ground himself to something if he can’t have his hands on you. In the way he fights to last longer than this brief period.

Soap tries to focus on anything else–the sounds of the world outside or the feeling of the sheets under his sweaty skin–but the way you sprinkle in words of encouragement and praise pulls his focus back to you.

“That’s it.”

“Very good.”

“God, baby, you’re doing so well.”

They were like toppings to a delicious dessert he’d overstuffed himself on and kept going back for more.

“Y/N, I cannae–” his next words are unintelligible and lost to a moan as you curl your fingers just so. Welled tears fall from his eyes as it becomes too much, the blurring of pained oversensitivity and an eager need for more.

“You can. You look so good like this for me. Come on. We’re almost done.” Your words are a hard encouragement, a demand that he could and would take being brought over the edge one last time for the night.

He chokes a sob when it hits, his exhausted body tensing and arching under your deft touch. There’s a brief ringing in his ears followed by the dull thrum of his rapid heartbeat. It’s probably a good thing that this was the last one for the session because he barely noticed your forehead pressed against his or your gentle hands on his cheeks wiping away the tears that rolled.

It’s a slow return to reality, his hazy vision eventually coming into focus to see you leaning over to untie his hands. He groans, though thankful that his tense muscles were able to relax and he could set his hands on you. Finally. They rest on your forearm and thigh, squeezing gently.

You chuckle, amused by the lovestruck (cumdrunk) look he gives you. “Welcome back, Johnny,” you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.

“Well, hello, angel. I must've died and gone to heaven.”

So he wasn’t too far gone to not use his cheesy lines. You roll your eyes with a smile and start to massage life back into his shoulders before slowly helping him sit up. “Careful there. Keep talking like that and I might just have to take something for myself.”

Soap rolls his shoulders with a familiar grin, his hands finding their way to your hips. “Maybe you should after all that. I’ve got at least one more good one in me. Might as well make it an even five, eh, leannan?”

It’s hard to say no to him when he’s like this, so eager to give more until his body can’t and then more after that. That and the puppy dog eyes that wordlessly beg for you to shed your own clothes and ride him until you’ve had your fill. But you saw the way his eyes glazed over with the last one and how he practically saw black.

“Johnny. You just about passed out after that one…” you start to warn him but his lips find your neck. Still all lovey-dovey and handsy as if you hadn’t just pushed his body to the point of exhaustion.

“I wouldn’t mind. You usin’ me even after.”

That earns him another roll of your eyes as you reluctantly stand and snag a nearby towel. God this man made it difficult to say no.

“You’re a fucking temptation, you know that? Maybe later. For now, let’s focus on getting you cleaned up. You need a break.”

[thatgoblin]

141 New Girl/Monster Au Headcannons

I'm working on it, in the mean time have some thoughts.

Price

He's an Incubus demon and an older one at that.

None of the housemates know his exact age. They have a log of guesses.

He's the most distant with the New Roommate, but is curtious and kind.

Every time he's home, Roommate doesn't sleep well. Either from horny dreams or from a deep seated part of their brain that won't let them sleep when danger is around.

He's the least likely to hurt Roommate.

Soap

He's a literal puppy. Just got bit maybe 6 months before the story starts and is in his puppy phase. Everyone likes it despite the protests.

Def has zoomies at home.

Does steal Roommates socks.

Also steals Ghost's hoodies a lot.

He can smell if something is up with Roommate and is the most attentive to their needs and wants, even if they aren't.

Gaz

He's half fae and half human, so he's older, but nothing close to Price. At 50, he'll stay the same for many more years to come.

Has to have greenery wherever he is or gets grumpy/sick.

Has a penchant for meddling in affairs he shouldn't, mostly personal matters of others, and will use his magic to get away with it.

Like when he heard another soldier crying over their Ex, he put a temporary forgetful spell on them so they'd be quiet.

Price reprimands him for that, but doesn't do much to stop it because it's never permanent and always within reason.

He likes to pick Roommate's head for idea in growing his garden. What plants he should get or what animals he could put in it.

Ghost

Is a vampire. But is only 37. He was recently changed in the last few years.

Wears a mask even at home because of the type of vampire that bit him. There are several types ranging from older genuses that are very much still a wild animal to the more domestic ones that can conceal themselves to society.

Ghost was bit and nearly had his throat ripped out by a feral vampire in the Middle East on a mission. Price was able to save him and let him turn instead of letting him die. So his whole neck is scarred and his face sits naturally in a wide, sharp toothed grimace.

He's a moody bitch that leans into the whole 'I am not a man, but a monster' bit of being a vampire.

While he lurks in the shadows, he just wants to hold Soap's hand and go out for a drink.

He regularly gets karate chopped by the others because he tries to bite Roommate and they desperately need someone to keep the house occupied so other monsters can't get it.

I'll think of more later, but for now, HERE'S YOUR TREATS!

Masterlist

Taglist: @birdstoprey @sebbytheraccoon @pricescigar @alwaysshallow @sae1kie @sleepydang @lexi-zsy09

[alwaysshallow]

New here! I read your Simon x reader with a newborn, and wonder if you'd be so sweet as to write the scenario with Soap? (Please and thank you)

🤘

soap is a very enthusiastic father to say the least lol. I mean, he’s pretty much around you at all times when you’re pregnant it gets annoying (he’s into this gym healthy pregnant lifestyle and is absolutely offended when you say that he’s pushing it and you want a simple PEACE)

when the baby is born, he’s the first to do anything. bath? changing clothes? diaper? He’s on it, but it doesn’t mean that you should let him do it LMFAO

Simply because he’s……… hmmmmm very speedy with everything. I mean that by all my heart, this man doesn’t know the “slow” way of changing the diaper - and you see results later on. You try to be pissed on him (i mean, who wouldn’t be?) but you see him blabbing to your baby and the whole mad thingy goes away:/

what is good, he’s just as enthusiastic to stay with the baby, when they wake up at night, but after some nights, he asks you for help because it turns out that….. your baby won’t stop crying even if he’s playing peekaboo with them. a shame, but what he’s gonna do??

He’s very loving though. you love that about him, adore how he manages to find time, even if it’s hard and he has to work after the whole “newborn” phase. He’s someone that will dedicate his life to get you knocked up with second one because he thinks fatherhood suits him lmao - so prepare mentally…….

(a bonus; if you thought you're buying too much for the baby, nope. he's buying all the toys, clothes, even before baby is born. whole task force 141 even made a "special exception" and made a special pjs for your baby lol so they could have "little mactavish" on it)

[wildechildwrites]

Kensington Gore

Part 2 of Corn Syrup

John "Soap" MacTavish/Reader/Simon "Ghost" Riley (unrequited)

Word Count: 764

Warnings: 18+, noncon voyeurism, smut, angst

No use of Y/N

Summary: Short Partner Fic to Corn Syrup Ghost listens to you and Soap fuck because he's a little in love with the both of you.

A/N: I'm sorry for always making Ghost a weirdo, my instincts for him always go way dark lol and this time he's a sad weirdo so

AO3 Link: Kensington Gore

Fuck, he felt like a creep. He just worried about you, had even stood awkwardly in your hospital room, looking down at the tubes holding you together. All you could do was ask about Soap, staring up at him with sad eyes. He couldn’t blame you, the Scotsman was magnetic in a way not many people were, and Ghost couldn’t help but hate him for it, just a bit. How could you not love Johnny? He lit up every room he was in. Hell, Johnny even put up with Ghost's stupid jokes over the comms, and you knew that he always had your back.

But he'd seen your heart shatter in the gym, watched your eyes fill up with tears, and so he'd followed you, listening to your sobs through the doorway. He wanted to say something, to knock and throw out the perfect one liner, to say something the way Johnny would, but Ghost wasn’t good at that, so he just stayed, listening.

He'd lingered when Johnny showed up, tail between his legs. He'd slipped into the shadows, telling himself he was keeping an eye on things. You two fighting would divide the team, compromise missions. As your superior, he had a responsibility to monitor the situation.

He ran out of excuses when he heard Johnny start to fuck you.

The walls of the barracks were bloody thin, the uninsulated brick doing nothing to drown out the noise. That was the real issue, not the fact that Ghost was creeping closer, leaning against the door to your room, his breathing as slow and steady as when he lined up a shot.

Simon lets his eyes slip closed, imagining Johnny sinking into you, stuffing you full of cock. He wanted to see, wanted to watch your pretty face contort as he listened to Soap mumble to you through the wall. He could feel himself getting hard. He knows he should leave, that he should go back to his room and give you two some privacy. Instead, Ghost presses his forehead against the door, and slowly undoes his fly.

Of course, you had to be a crier. Ghost imagined you whimpering and scratching at his chest, tears running down your pretty face as he forced you to take everything. A strangled gasp from inside the room, "It's too big!" And his knees nearly buckle. He pulls his cock out and spits in his palm. Stroking himself, trying to match the erratic pace Johnny was setting, the sound of slapping skin through the door driving him on.

He wondered if you'd let him watch. He knew Soap was a showoff, had walked in on Johnny once, sprawled out on a tiny bed in a safe house, hand around his cock, his head tilted back, eyes closed as he lazily stroked himself. Ghost had stood in the doorway, watching his Sergeant's Adam’s apple bob up and down.

"Have ya got a joke for this one?" Soap had asked, his eyes still shut.

You were so shy though, so easily intimidated, he could imagine you blushing and avoiding his eyes. He'd drag you into his lap, make Soap take you from behind as he held you to his chest, watching your facial expressions, listening to you whimper and moan.

Ghost gripped his cock harder at the thought of your glittery eyes staring at him. He’d grab your hair, just mean enough to make you gasp, make you part those pretty lips for him. He could tell you were close by the noises coming through the door, could imagine your pretty pussy being filled with Soap's cum. He wondered if you’d let him eat you out after Johnny was done fucking you, let him clean you up and make you cream on his face, whining and squealing at the overstimulation. He could imagine Johnny watching, cock still slick with you, his expression lazy but heated.

He came soundlessly, eyes closed tightly, holding onto the image of you sitting on his face, of Soap’s watchful eyes. His hips stutter forward, hands stumbling to catch his release. The noises on the other side of the door have stopped, and regret and shame hit Ghost as the haze clears. He zips his pants up and quietly moves away, heading back to his room. When he’s safe behind closed doors, he strips, not bothering to turn on the light. He leaves the mask on tonight, climbs into bed sticky. Thinks of you and Soap, intertwined.

That night he dreams of warmth and tender hands. He wakes up in his cold bed, alone.

[last-starry-sky]

part one part two

part three of my stupid medieval highlander au!Soap/reader

((there is nsfw!!! finally!!!)) warning: dark content ahead (dubcon)

soap helps out our poor sick reader by giving her a bath.

It became a daily ritual for the two of you, these chores. Both of you silently waking in the winter dark before the rest of the patrons. You became attuned to the soft sound of stressing rope and straw above you. John, no - Soap, that’s what he told you to call him, would rake up last night’s coals to start the fire anew as you dressed. 

“M’ friends call me Soap, lass. Ye’ can too,” he told you as you stood at the well, two buckets at your feet already, waiting for him to fill and haul up the last two. 

Friend. It made you feel warm, protected and happy to know that was how he felt about you. But was it right? Something within you doubted a friend should feel the way you felt about another friend.

You had to concentrate of the gray stones of the well, the snow that swirled across the ground in the cruel wind, your toes wiggling to keep warm in your shoes, anything that wasn’t John, Soap, staring at you. Even in the pressing cold, the wind and snow of the mountains, his blue eyes still send a chill down your spine every time they catch yours. He looks at you like no one has before, like he knows what you’re thinking, and it scares you. You don’t even have words to describe how you feel, how could he?

The bucket lands with a dull thunk on the stone. Soap lets out a huff of white breath as he unhooks the bucket from the rope, a smile creases wide across his face as he catches your eye. The high points of his face: his cheeks, nose, and ears, the parts not protected by his growing beard, are pink from the wind and work. His lips too, are chapped and blood-flushed from the small conversations he keeps trying to pull you into. Snow embedded into his dark hair and clothes.     

“Last one, lass,” he says picking it up along with one of the buckets at your feet, leaving you the other two. “Quick now. Get in n’ get warm.” 

You nod, pulling both yours and his cloaks - he refused to let you stand outside with him until you took it - closer around you, coughing into your hand before picking your buckets. Soap watched you over his shoulder until you catch up.  

“Don’t sound good, lass. Ye’ feelin’ well?” He questions you as you walk back to the inn.

“No. Just a cough,” you say clearing your throat. You don’t want to worry your friend. 

-

You’re too weak to leave your bed the next morning. Your cough had gotten worse and worse over the previous day, finally ending with the innkeeper’s wife shooing you out of the kitchen and into Soap’s arms to finish dinner. Soap had rubbed at your cheeks, commenting on the chill on your skin, and set you in a chair in front of the fire wrapped in a blanket without another word.

Your head was still fuzzy, caught in a loop thinking of the large, warm hands on your face, when a bowl of soup was set in front of you. 

“Try t’ eat, lass. Yer lookin’ pale,” he says kneeling next to you, lacing the spoon between your trembling fingers before leaving. There are several patrons that need attending to and you are in no shape to help, so Soap picked up your slack. How would you ever repay him? 

You manage a few spoonfuls of broth before exhaustion hits you and your falling back into the wooly warmth of the blanket around you. You only meant to rest your eyes, but when you wake, you’re tucked snugly into your bed. You toss as much as you can to one side with a whine. Warm. You’re too warm. You can feel the sweat pooling at the small of your back, behind your knees, and under your arms. You weekly shuffle the several blankets off your body. You hear them hit the floor as you flop back into place on your mattress, the cool night air relieving you of some of your body’s oppressive heat. Sleep quickly pulls you under once again. 

When you wake again it’s morning, and the blankets are tucked back around you. You are thankful for them this time, as your chill is back. You pull yourself down to cover up to your nose as a shiver ripples through you. You’re just closing your eyes when a creak from the corner of the room makes your stomach drop. You strain your eyes to make out a large figure slumped against the wall near the foot of your bed. The figure mumbles and snores as it moves in it’s sleep before falling silent again. 

You breathe a sigh of relief as you lay back again. Soap. It’s just Soap watching over you. 

It feels like not a second later that a warm hand is stroking over your cheek. Your eyes open weekly. The image is blurry, but you can make out black hair above you. 

“Finally awake, lass?” he says softly, smiling and stroking your cheek.

You nod, try to speak, but end up turning away, coughing a fit into your arm.  

His face falls into a frown as he crouches down next to you. His hand strokes down your back as your coughing slowly stops. 

“Still not soundin’ too well,” he says, his hands still running soothingly over you. “I’ll get ye’ something to eat, yeah?” 

He leaves without an answer, but he’s back quickly with a warm bowl of broth. He takes pity on you, sitting you up in bed as you’re too weak to even move on your own. He then stays, insisting on feeding you each spoonful of broth. 

“Ye’ve barely eaten a thing in two days, lass,” he says as you try to push away another spoonful, his eyebrows forming together into a thick black line of concern across his forehead. “You’re weak. Be good now and let me take care a’ ye.” 

You silently accept the spoon of broth, if just to ease his concern. It earns you a wry smile in return. He tucks you back into bed after. Just as you’ve closed your eyes and start to drift off, you feel a cool peck on your forehead.

“Sleep well, lass,” you hear him say as he steps away, fingers trailing across the top of the blankets. 

-

You fall into a restless sleep. You wake hot and cold, pushing your blankets off only to pull them back on moments later. When you finally fall asleep it’s into a thicket of weird and wicked dreams. Soap is in all of them. It makes your cheeks burn, but not from your fever, to remember them. They start off innocent: him holding your hand, brushing your cheek, smoothing the hair back from your face. Those dreams you didn’t mind, but like a trick, a thief in the night, they steal their way deeper and deeper into your sleeping head, pulling you with them. It’s not long before he’s kissing you, something you’ve been far too afraid to try with anyone in the waking world, but the man in your dreams is all to happy to guide you. Then he begins to touch you: his rough fingers tracing delicately over the bare skin of your neck as he caresses it, then lower to your chest where he spreads his wide hand to smooth down between your breasts. 

You whined in your dream then, both scared and eager for his touch. A very real hand on your shoulder shocks you awake. Soap is standing over you, concern graven into his sleepy face. You must have woken him up. 

“Any pain?” he asks kneeling down next to your bed. His hands find yours. He rubs your smaller hands between his to warm them.

You shake your head, voice still lost. 

“Y’ moanin’ in y’ sleep, lass,” he says with a small smile, trying to keep his voice light. You can feel embarrassment bloom across your face. Soap pulls away to stretch out his arms, his back cracking as he does. A yawn quickly follows as you sit next to him trying to look like you haven’t been having the most depraved, inappropriate dreams a woman can have while he sleeps not five feet from you. 

“Feel well enough to bathe?” he asks laying his hand over your leg underneath the blanket. 

You nod. It would do you good to wash the sweat and sickness from your body. You try not to think about the slick feeling pooled between your legs, right next to his hand. 

“Good,” he says with a pat of his hand and a wicked smile. “I’ll put the water on t’ boil.”

After he leaves, you pull yourself to sit up in bed. You carefully work your joints back and forth one at a time. You’re not used to laying in bed this much, even when sick and you need to get used to moving again. Soap walks back into your room with a candle and a large basin as you’re cracking your back. 

He sets the basin on the floor and the candle on the chair he’s been sleeping on.

“Water’s almost boiled,” he says standing over you. God, he looks so large as you look up at him. “Ye’ strong enough t’ stand?”

You aren’t sure, but you try. You weakly pull your legs out from the bed. A chill shoots up your bare feet as they touch the floor. You try to push yourself up, but lose your balance as your hands leave the bed. You would have tumbled to the ground had Soap not been there to catch you. 

“Tha’s a ‘no’ then,” he says placing you back on the mattress. “Doan worry. I’ll help ye’. Stay here while I get the water.”

He’s out the door again before you can put together what he said. You hear him rooting around in cabinets, searching for something as he lets the doors slam shut behind him until he finds his prize with a soft “ah!”

When he returns, he shuts the door behind him with his foot, as his hands are full. He has a kettle of steaming water in one hand and a pile of linens in his other hand. He deposits the linen on the arm of the chair, careful to mind the flame of the candle. He drops a ball of soap that had hidden in his fist on top. He poured a small pool of steaming water into the bottom of the basin. The curl of the steam made you shiver. It had been so long since you’d had a proper bath, let alone a warm one. 

He set the kettle to his side and then lifted his hand to beckon you forward. You shook your head with wide eyes, crossing your arms across your chest as his intentions hit you. He let his hand drop to his knee, the candlelight catching his smile slipping down in the corners.  

“Come oan, lass. Can’t bathe in ye’ underclothes now can’ ye’?” he said cocking his head to the side.

Your cheeks burned furiously. You kept your gaze fixed on your knees. There was not a chance on God’s green earth that you were going to let-

Soap’s rested his hand on your knee, rubbing his thumb back and forth trying to sooth you.

“Nothin’ I ain’ seen before, lass,” he said with a soft sigh. “Jus’ wanna get ye’ clean and well is all.”

You stared at his hand on your knee for another moment before nodding in return. You tried to grip the edge of your shift to take it of yourself, you felt it wouldn’t be so embarrassing if you did most of the undressing yourself, but Soap’s hands over took yours before too long. He let you lean against him as he pulled the cloth from under your legs. You kept your head buried in his shoulder as he skimmed his hands up your back. You could no longer feel the cold of the room from the blush that bloomed over your body. His hands under your arms pushed you away, forcing you to look in his eyes right before he forced your arms up. Your shift covered your vision for a blissful second before Soap pulled it from your body, letting it drop to the bed beside you. 

You didn’t fight as he picked you up right after, one muscled arm under your legs, the other across the small of your back. He turned and gently knelt down to deposit you in the basin. You could just barely fit both your butt and feet on the bottom if you squished. You didn’t feel like squishing, even though it would have been more modest, so you let your feet rest on the outside. You half expected Soap to leave, or let you wash yourself, which you could have done, if very very slowly. You did not expect him to pull off his tunic and pull you to lay against him. 

“Doan want ye’ t’ get me too wet now,” he commented as he threw his clothes into the corner. You didn’t answer. 

You tried not to look either up at him or down at yourself as Soap set to work. He poured more water int to the basin. It was just on the edge of too hot, but it felt amazing. You closed your eyes as you relaxed back against Soap’s chest. 

“Feel good?” he asked as you felt the muscles of his chest flexing. 

You opened your eyes to watch him lather a washcloth with the soap. He dipped his hand between your legs to wet it. You froze as he did. He didn’t make any motion to touch you, just rang out the cloth and began you clean your neck and face. After lathering you with bubbles, he reached back down into the water to clean the cloth and wipe the suds from you. 

“Sorry if I’m rough with ye’,” he said reapplying the soap to the cloth. “Been a long while since ‘ve had to do this,” he said using both his hands to work the soap down your arm. He plunged his hand down into the cooling water of the basin, wringing the cloth out before gently wiping the soap off. “Never with a woman ‘fore, though,” he whispered against the side of your head. 

He was halfway through silently cleaning your other arm when you found the ability to ask, “When?” 

He continued as if he didn’t hear you, cool water running down your arm as he wiped from shoulder to wrist. He reached for the kettle and poured more steaming water between your legs. You leaned further back against his chest, closed your eyes and whined as the warm water coiled something inside you as it filled the basin enough to cover your sex. Soap’s hand braced on your stomach as he set the kettle beside him. It was a long, silent, moment before he responded.

“Used to help with the injured, when I first joined the army,” he whispered as he wet the cloth in the now warm water. 

He smoothed the cloth in his hand over your chest, a river of warm drops running hot down your cool skin enough to make you shiver. His motions were slow now, achingly slow.

“Weren’t a pretty sight. Tendin’ to men maimed in battle,” he said stopping to plunge his hand into the basin again. 

He was resting his chin against your shoulder. You could feel his nose brush your ear when he moved. When he brought the cloth back to your body, it was to cup over your breast. You sighed as the nubby linen rubbed over your nipple, his fingers squishing the soft flesh as his hand rolled the whole of your breast toward the middle of your chest.

“No’ as pretty as you,” he whispered darkly into your ear, pulling away the cloth. 

He quickly repeated his washing on your other breast, holding you as he rubbed his thumb several times over your nipple to watch you shiver against him. 

“Soap,” you whined in your weak voice.  

“Gettin’ cold, lass?” he said dropping the cloth into the basin. “Doan worry. I’ll have ye’ finished soon.” His breath huffed hot down your chest as he spoke.  

His hand on your stomach moved to your thigh, the other hand reaching into the basin to hunt for the cloth. His hand swirled around, bumping against your inner thighs until he found the cloth, plastered to your sex. You shivered as his fingers wiped up your core to pull it away.

“Gotta keep still now,” he chided as he lathered down your stomach. “Be good and let me finish ye’”

You honestly tried to stay still, but you couldn’t help but jump every time his fingers swiped a bit too low, sending a spike of pleasure through you. His fingers bit into your thigh as a warning. 

“Goan take all night if ye’ don’t obey, aye lass?” he said letting the cloth slip silently into the water. 

He poured the last of the hot water into the basin, filling it near halfway. You sighed as you relaxed against him again as he smoothed the warm water over your thighs with both hands. 

“Tha’s a good girl,” he said huskily into your ear. 

You suppressed a whine in the back of your throat. He moved one hand to cup over your sex, just barely touching you. The other came up to roll a nipple between his fingers. He groaned as a breathy moan fell from your lips. The fingers on your sex rubbed up and down, testing and teasing, but going no farther.

“Still so dirty,” he growled against your neck. “Goan need t’ take my time with this lil’ thing. Make ye’ feel good,” he said swirling a finger around your slick entrance, causing you to jump. 

He shushed you as you trembled against him. He worked his finger up to press at your sex, specifically the little sensitive nub between your folds. He rubbed at it slowly until you started to feel something, the same thing you felt when waking from your forbidden, dirty, dreams. Did he know about them? Is this why he was doing this? You could only trust him now and lay against his strong chest as he worked you faster and faster. 

“Such a sensitive little cunt ye’ got,” he said hiking your leg farther open, giving him more room. “Like ye’ve never been touched before.” 

“Never,” you whined as his fingers worked you in a delicious spiral. It was like he was pulling you up and up and up. Brain going foggy and distant. 

“Never?” he repeated, shuffling against your back. You shook your head. “Ah lass,” he groaned.

You grabbed his hand as you felt something break, like you had reached the peak of the mountain and flown off the edge. A high-pitched gasp broke out of your throat and you felt yourself trembling, falling back to earth. Soap’s hands were there to catch you, wrapping around you to hold you to him as you gasped and writhed. 

You panted as you came down, breathing and feeling better than you had in days. Soap was still behind you, leaving light kisses down the side of your face and neck. His hands too, were smoothing down your cool skin, fingers running over every bit of exposed skin until it was committed to memory. You wished you had the energy to do the same, to try and touch him, to show some small bit of gratitude in return. 

You were half asleep when he pulled you from the basin, water dripping from your bottom and thighs. You felt him towel off what little water remained before placing you back under your blankets with another kiss. You listened as he gathered the things from around the room: the soft scuffling of the basin and chair, but sleep proved too powerful. You were out before he left the room.