#soap squad 🧼 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

undercoverpena · 1 year

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it descends (ii)

johnny ‘soap’ mactavish x f!reader

summary: all of his touches have grown to be purposeful and thought out—as though he’s continually thinking of all the ways he can burn his prints into you.

word count: 6.7k warnings: spice + smut. enemies(ish) to lovers.

part two of it happens | soap masterlist

At some point, it became less of a want—more of a need.

Your hands grasp his waist as you pull him through your base door. Yearning for him, finding his lips as eager to be against yours, as yours were for him. Everything else melts away with ease: stress, clothes, control.

No longer a battle of who can come out on top, who’ll be the one to take and give, while the other receives and gains.

Your mind is in a daze when he’s against you. His fingers angle your chin up, wrist resting against your neck as he leaves little, to no, space between the two of you.

All of his touches have grown to be purposeful and thought out—as though he’s continually thinking of all the ways he can burn his prints into you.

Sometimes, he takes you as you are. Likely afraid of moving you, guiding you elsewhere out of fear of it all shattering.

But, sometimes, he takes you on your side, hand on your upper thigh as he thrusts every inch of him inside your cunt. Sometimes, it’s not as slow or as teasing—all bent over, his chest against your back, silky words meeting the back of your shoulder as he stretches you.

It’s all out of habit now.

No secret look or exchange of whispered desires. He finds you if you’re not already with him, you find him, fingers brushing his forearm until you tug him into the shadows.

All this does is prove how thin the line has become. It thrumming in the back of both of your minds: narrow, and quieter, but mainly thin. The same one you promised yourselves you wouldn’t cross, a rule, so to speak.

“We stop this when it becomes something other than stress relief?” “Sure, lass.”

Yet, here he is, and here you are.

His weight on top of you, your thighs spread. Soap’s palm pressed down against the bed beside your head, dragging his cock in and out of you, breathy moans painting the air.

It’s not just fucking, it’s amorous. All of it is further evidenced by your honeyed touches on his waist, nails digging only slightly into his muscles and skin.

It’s both everything and nothing you deserve. Johnny is good, kind…

Your head tilts up as he hits that spot—as he presses his mouth against your jaw, the tip of his tongue sliding over your salty skin. It’s instinctive, your hands coming up to clutch the back of his head—feel the length growing, the hawk slowly becoming less and less discernible.

“Y’everything, y’are.”

He says things like that a lot now. More so in the last week. Since he’d returned with bruises and cuts, bags under his eyes that took days to disappear. It should be a warning, a flash of lightning that catches both of your attention.

But it doesn’t. Instead, you melt into it, try not to tense when he whispers your name—not your call sign, not lass. Because it’s also always your name now. The noise adds another lick up your spine, the sound making your toes curl and adoration swell in your chest. Because he says it with so much ease it makes your heart swell. You don’t care when he tinges the air with each syllable of it—as long as it's him, and only him.

It’s further proving how personal this is—how intimate.

More than you’d expected from someone you began hate-fucking on a safe house floor. That same someone whose eyes had felt foreign to you then, but now you know each speckle of them—know each star that twinkles in the blue galaxies. The swirling array of azure and pleasure which knows each one of your curves.

“Eyes on me, lass.”

And you obey, quickly at that. You let him see into your soul—all the darkened spaces you hide from the others. If he sees them, he says nothing, just holds you a little tighter, fucks you a little more purposefully. Dousing all of them in shades of blue and brightness, before cementing them with his smile.

The same smile you know you’d kill for.

The one which makes something flutter in your stomach and hurts your brain from trying to understand and unpick. It forms a lump in your throat, the same one which keeps appearing and disappearing for the last few weeks. One he must feel as he shifts his hips—changes the angle, brushing the head of his cock against a spot that makes you gasp. All aimed to make you forget and unfocus—

“Johnny.”

“I kno’, I kno. I got you, Hen.”

Sliding your hands down his neck, you know this. Your palms pressing against his muscles—letting him take and fuck, fuck and take. Your fingers feel each contortion, each movement as he thrusts into you, your gasps and breaths mingling with his.

It’s not hard not to commit each scar, each line and muscle you feel. Piecing together a person and the stories you’ve been occasionally allowed to hear.

“Missed y’, lass…” he moans.

Your mind melting, freezing—further worsened by his hand on your lower neck, index and thumb pressing against your flesh. Your mind is filled with just him, the same words brewing at the back of your tongue.

“I’ve missed you too, Johnny.”

And, while it’s the truth, you’re glad when he kisses you. When he smothers your words, flattens them. Your mind emptying with a twist of his tongue, only allowing a few occasional thoughts to stream through. Except, they’re the worst ones. The ones which you try to bury and the emotions which are worsened with each thrust. The shadows of it all, dubiously blending into a cocktail—its main ingredients are passion and desperation.

You almost think you can see it in his eyes too, even in the moments when you’re coated in dirt and blood, that isn’t your own. A look which asks if you’re alright—because he can’t trust his mouth too. One which you reply without a word, all curt nod and a smile.

It’s dangerous, how easy it would be to slide into having real feelings for him—so much so it almost takes your breath. It makes you want to hide, to stop this. To not let things further unravel and bleed wrongly into places they shouldn’t be.

But, you can’t say no to him. Don’t want to, in fact.

Even if you can feel it prickling at you, the real danger: all love, emotions and companionship. Your metaphorical walls doing nothing to keep him out—he's already through them, let in by your heart betraying your brain.

It is corroborated by the way your throat still hurts from screaming his name into your radio. Still able to feel the sand that whipped around your face if you think hard enough about it—the strain your eyes felt, trying to keep an eye on him down the scope to protect him. Helplessly watching him hand himself to danger like he's a human gift.

Soap made your heart ache when he hadn’t met your eyes later—Johnny broke it in two when he’d snaked his fingers across the seat, but wouldn’t say a word.

You’re not this person. You can’t be this person.

None of this is helped by the fact your cunt calls for him, practically whispers and beckons for him across rooms. That you wanted to hold his hand, and never let him fucking go. How without him being pressed against you, a single look can make you squirm. The marks, the ones which he leaves, mixing with the memories always prickle up and down your body just hearing his name.

You half-wonder if he leaves them to claim you or to make you remember. Each time you wash your skin, dress or move, you feel him. Able to remember how fucking deep he last was inside you, how he finds that spot between your shoulder and neck—the fact he knows which way to move his thumb to have you clamp down, screaming his name.

Just as he’s doing now.

Touching, thumb circling and circling—

And then pleasure.

Nothing but pleasure, white and him. Always fucking him.

In a place where your bodies were still cloaked in sweat and salt, where breaths were still heavy—a place between panting and normal—you didn’t ask him to leave.

His thigh against yours, slightly resting—but not quite.

Your body is still thrumming with pleasure, considering how many unstable steps it would take to the bathroom—too tired to care that he’d carry you if you asked.

A part of you, the one you try to ignore, is happy he’s here.

Images of him sleeping beside you tugging at the corners of your mouth, thawing the ice you scooped around your heart. The Soap-shaped-hole in your walls, how it isn’t even a focus for you to rebuild—leaving the bricks and dust in a heap in your soul.

He’s stayed before. When your bodies are damp from showers, muscles tired from fucking, brains emptied of the day and the dread that consumes you both. You’d meant to tell him to leave, to go—but his warmth had been far too inviting, nice, and almost normal.

Now, he stays. Born from the feelings you won’t acknowledge or accept, but stand prominently in the corner like a shadow. They hang over you when the two of you are sent on opposing causes—eyes catching when you both get to see one another. A mutual understanding, appreciation and gratitude that you’d both survived.

“Glad y’back, lass.”

You just smirk, the voice in the back of your hand ruining it—his kindness, his smile. He’s just thankful he still has someone to fuck. You don’t reply, don’t speak because of the sarcasm drenching your tongue, poisoned by your mind.

“I mean it, y’know.” Don’t. Please. “I am a good fuck, if I do say so myself.”

You see his face drop, but you move away before you can take it back.

Hiding, busying yourself until he finds you hours later—lips on your neck, hands in your hair. Words washing over you that you don’t keep, let them in and let them leave, pulling him close by his belt hoops. It ends with him staying that first night, your fingers brushing against his—the closest the two of you have allowed yourself outside of fucking.

And then the morning came, and he was gone. The blades of the chopper still swirling, mingling with your worries, concern and—

Something which knots at the back of your throat.

It not ridding even as the days drag on, flowing harshly from one to the next until he lands back—eyes cutting into him, spotting each new cut and bruise, listening as he tells a lot of stories. He always has so many.

Not that you mind. You just listen, his voice has grown to be a calming treat. No longer grating, but pleasant—coveted. Like most things to do with him, it crept over you slowly. It changed more delicately than the seasons.

All of this coming to you, crashing into you like a wave as your head rests against the pillow, staring at him, watching him rest on the back of his arm before you move. You know if you stay like this, you’ll curl into him—and that’s too far, too much.

“What’cha thinkin’?”

You smirk, sliding up onto shaky knees as you move down the crumpled sheets, hand planting on his naked thigh, watching him watch you.

“Gonna make you feel good, Johnny.”

“You already do, la—fuck.”

His words are cut off by your tongue licking a stripe up his cock. Tasting you, tasting him—tasting the two of you.

It was normal to feel something for the man you’d been fucking—that’s what you told yourself as you took him in your mouth. Feeling him harden against your tongue as the thought circled over and over.

It was normal to miss him, to crave him—to feel practically desperate for him. It had to be. You refused to think of it as anything but that.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass,” he whispers, bringing you back, hand in your hair—spit hanging off your bottom lip as you look at him.

Fuck, if his eyes weren’t the most beautiful shade of blue when he was beside you.

A colour that isn’t quite cerulean, or azure. Something oceanic, that made you want to dive in, let it coat all the sides of you, live there—be there, swimming and diving in it. You were blessed with the sight of them more frequently now than ever before. Them always just being blue before, now they’re a shade you can only name Johnny.

It’s why you let him stuff your throat with his cock. “Fuck my throat, Johnny.”

His eyes widen, turning the entire room blue as he shuffles and you move, his cock almost making you choke as tears brim in your eyes.

You just need to not think.

So your hands clutch the back of his thighs, rooting him here—with you. Silencing your mind as you hollow your cheeks, clenching your thighs together as he groans and hisses. Expletives coat the air, mixing with hisses and your name, until he coats your throat in his spend, swirling your tongue over his sensitive tip to lap every bit he’ll give you.

You don’t remember moving, but you do recall the way he brushed your tears from your cheeks. The way he ran a damp cloth over you, knowing the two of you had showered earlier. But, it was the kiss against your forehead which carried you to sleep and the feel of his fingers running up and down your arm that let the night take you. Resting for the first time in days—doing so until you didn’t.

Woken both rudely and pleasantly by his fingers curling inside of you, your cunt making lewd noises at his insistence—

Oh, wow.

His tongue glides over your bundle of nerves, making you almost buck. It’s too much and yet, not quite enough. A perfect tease, just like him. His eyes glance up at you, meeting yours for a second before he’s lapping, sucking, tasting all of you. Yanking and collecting all of your pleasure until you’re almost rendered fucking useless.

Because you will be if he continues.

If he drags another one out of you.

Your muscles still hurt, the few hours of sleep, not enough respite for how good it was last night—this morning, who even fucking knows.

“Jus’ making you feel good, Hen.”

Your chest explodes, his hands grasping yours as he dips back down, tongue plunging inside of you as your fingers blend in between his. The two of you are either making up for lost time or running from realisations.

The back of your neck is still sore from how he held it, pounding into you as the shower water rained down on the two of you—efforts of cleaning one another lost, forgotten—

“So fuckin’ pretty…”

You almost don’t hear them. The words. So lost in memories and the sound of your ears buzzing as waves of pressure and pleasure build, build, build—

“Wish you wouldn’t say that,” you whimper, wishing it came out spitting and full of fire.

Your eyes clench shut, hand releasing his, grasping at the sheets instead as he curls two fingers inside of you, finding the spot which turns you into liquid. Cool breath dancing over your cunt, almost blowing it out as a sigh.

An exasperated one.

“Why? It’s true?”

You don’t mean to lift, meet his eyes. Don’t mean to let him in. Let those fucking eyes creep in past your lashes and see inside of you—see how complex and chaotic it all is. How messy and full of doubts, insecurities and the lasting words once said by your mother all live there.

Because he’s between your fucking thighs.

His tongue, lips and chin glisten with your sex.

“Hey,” Johnny says, lifting his head higher, keeping his fingers in place, but still, “Yer the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen, lass… fuckin’ gorgeous y’are.”

Your face heats, cheeks burning.

The buzzing back as he slowly begins to move his fingers, feel him shifting, moving ever so slightly closer towards you.

And something shatters, willingly—having needed to if it was going to allow something else to grow there. To allow this, whatever this was becoming, to break through and bloom.

But you shut it.

Slammed the symbolic door through your eyes. Barricading him back out, halting it all…

“Just lemme fuck you, Johnny,” you whine, grasping his wrist, and removing his fingers from inside of you.

His protest is quickly muted by your lips, you pulling, grasping until you’re easing him inside of you and you can rock your hips against his.

This.

You like this. Him on his back, hands on your hips—you in control. You also like how he stares up at you, almost hearing him say those words all over again, but you blink. Twisting your hips, vanishing them away, filling the space between you both with his name:

Johnny. Johnny. Johnny.

Feeling him let you. Hand clamping onto your waist, but it’s different from last night. The way he’s looking at you is too.

It all forever changed.

Fucking hell.

Fuck.

“Come for m’, hen. I got you.”

And you know that. You hate that you do.

Hate that you feel safe with him. Your eyes clench shut due to the fact. Tears brimming for a different reason—because he’s not just in your cunt and between your thighs, but in your fucking heart. The bastard, the handsome fucking bastard.

He’s aware of the line. Aware that he’s put his boot over it, but he doesn’t care for the mess that’ll spread because of it.

All he wants is you.

He decided on it a while ago, accepted it a month ago, and has been thinking of nothing else for weeks. Soap doesn’t care how much you let him in, as long as you do. He’ll take the snippets, the small moments where your eyes shimmer and glisten—where the only darkness in them is from lust and need, and not faux hatred.

Even if you still throw up a wall when his hand releases your skin; when he turns for a second to dress and returns to find you cold, blank and empty all over again. He’ll take it all.

The line vibrates somewhere in the distance, blinking and winking that he should have known better. But, he could say that about so much that he does.

Like how he’s at your front door. Chipped paint and slanted numbers, the peephole covered by his thumb as he knocks. Because if you know it’s him, you won’t answer. He knows that much about you.

When you answer it, your eyes staring up at him, his hand slowly lowering from knocking—he sees a lot flutter across your face. Anguish, concern; embarrassment and relief. He’s not sure which one to cling to, even less so when you lean out, checking around him—either for others or for neighbours. He can’t be sure.

“You’re here…”

He smirks. “I am.”

Because, how could he ignore your call? The one full of soft tears you pretended wasn’t flowing, the same one that said you wished he were here. Something he thinks you’d quickly take back now he is here.

Those four words kept him going when his eyes were heavy on the long drive; the ones which boosted him as he stared up at the many stairs to your flat.

Each pellet of water drips from his hand and his sleeves land in a puddle where a welcome mat should be. Falling against trodden takeaway menus you’ve not picked up—it is the only sound and the only thing anyone would be able to hear, outside of two pulses hammering.

They’ve been off base for three days, and it’s been two days since your drunken call to him. One since you’d sent him a text asking him to ignore everything you had said. As if he ever could.

It had been the only real thing the two of you had exchanged other than your bodies. An insight into you, a peek into what goes on in that head of yours outside of looking fucking beautiful and sarcasm.

“I hate being home. It reminds me that I’m alone, that I’m scarred and fucking broken.” “Yer not alone, lass.” “Ha! Why cause I’ve got you?” “Yea. You always got me. Even if you don’t wanna admit that, let yerself think y’have no one when it’s the first best from the truth.”

You look hollow. Like the break from the demand of both of your jobs has carved something out of you—a light, a passion.

One he decides, there and then, he’s going to try and fill, replace. A pull inside of him to smother your woes with himself, to make your mind stop rolling a broken thought. You do that—stab yourself with shards of lies. He watches you do it, commits to his mind—later bringing his thoughts to life with black graphite, sketching the curve from your frown before erasing it and replacing it with a smile.

If only it was as easy to do in person as it was on paper.

A minute since he’d proven he hadn’t done that.

“Y’inviting me in?”

He watches you consider it. Run through all the possible outcomes, but your body sidesteps all the same. He smells the notes of recent cooking mixing with a lemon scent. A scent he finds is all you when you’re here, something light, airy. One he knows he’ll happily let cling to his skin, clothes and mind.

Because it’ll happen. It always does.

The two of you were bloody magnets, always finding one another, seeking each other out and digging into the other, desperate to cling on.

“You slept, lass?”

He knew the answer before you shook your head, the evidence in the bags under your eyes. The ones which are darker, more swollen than he’s seen before. And he’s seen you after being awake for three days straight; he’s seen you covered in dirt, sweat and insolence, but this is something else.

He touches you gently, half-expecting you to crack down the centre. Your edges peel from your centre, and fall to nothing right in front of his eyes. He’s happy you don’t move. If anything, you remain perfectly in place in your small hallway, staring at him, waiting for him to move more deliberately.

Which is why the dance is so familiar now. The way his hand moves to spread across your cheek, the way you curl into it, allowing him to kiss you, to taste you. Mint and coffee mix with the tip of his tongue as he deepens it, pushing you back until you meet a wall. His other hand hooks your thigh.

He doesn’t take your clothes from your skin as quickly as normal. He takes his time. Unwrapping you, time on his side. The light of the day shimmers through your blinds, painting your skin in yellow and warmth. It’s not until he reaches your underwear does he remove them tentatively, kissing each bit of skin he can as it unveils itself to him.

You're quicker and more rushed. Either desperate to feel him or to feel something. His jumper, belt, and trousers were all left in discarded piles from the hallway until your bedroom—until all that remained was your underwear.

His focus is on your hands. How they slide through the long-length hair, pulling and angling his mouth against yours with newfound desperation that makes him moan.

He could almost convince himself that he could have this.

You.

The two of you. Together.

He likes how you let him spread you open, that you kiss him like you never want him to stop. And it feels different. This.

Each time the last few it has felt more intimate, more passionate. The longing all underpinned by something he couldn’t quite see, but can feel has its own pulse. Something uncontrollable and alive.

Your eyes focus on him, unwavering and it almost takes his breath from his lungs, because you’re beautiful. So perfect.

He’s always thought it, even when you were snarky, even when you were being difficult for the sake of being difficult. That look in your eyes that would make a lesser man cower, but made him stare more boldly, because lass, that won’t work on me, even if it very much did.

He’d been unwilling to really see it, take notice of it. Not afraid, but reluctant. Now, it’s all he saw. Your beauty. The one all the others had allowed themselves to notice freely, without concerns of blurring lines and difficult emotions.

He lets himself taste you. Runs his tongue across your cunt before finally plunging it in, fingers digging bruises into your inner thighs as you try to clamp them around his ears. And fuck, if this wasn’t heaven right here.

You squirm when he flattens his tongue; you whimper his name when he circles your clit. Each sound captured by his ears, his hips rocking gently against your mattress—throbbing, pulsing all for you. Because fuck you do something to him—something he burns into your cunt with his mouth, telling you in the only way you’re prepared to hear him right now.

“M’gonna come, Johnny.”

He’s doing this to you.

Those flush cheeks, lips slightly parted, shoulders propping you up against full pillows as your jaw tightens. He’s doing this to you—he’s making you feel good.

It’s like music to his ears and a sight he had never known he craved. His pursuit continues until he feels you tense and he tastes your high. It stains his tongue, lapping it up until you’re trying to pull away—I’m too sensitive too much, it’s too—ah, much, Johnny.

It’s less desperate and more prolonged when he finally slides up, hooking your leg over his waist, and he fills you. His hand holds your cheek, something he both loves and knows you need. Slowly, carefully placing his forehead almost against yours—

Almost.

Your lips ghost over his, there is barely any space between the two of you. All he can think is: I never want to leave. Not here. Not you.

But the words don’t leave his tongue. They instead get balled up, rolled to the back of his throat before he swallows them. Focusing, changing tact, shifting to capture each moan you let out, each whimper you let escape. And when it hits, when he pushes you to the brink, you free fall for the longest time and he just watches in awe.

Because fuck, you’re a vision.

Both with a gun in your hand, more so coated in blood and a blade in your palm—but this is up there too.

It's different in your bed, your body tensing, heels digging into him as your nails cut into his waist as his name is ripped from your throat both willingly and reluctantly rolled into one. It’s more intense, more freeing—your pleasure going and going, and going.

It’s why his own shatters at the sight and sound of you, filling you, coating your walls in him as he grunts out your name freely, and loudly. White hot pleasure drenches every tense muscle and removes every worried thought over what he’d find when he arrived at yours. Leaving just this and you—utter perfection that he adores.

He kisses you as he slows his hips, all hungry and thankful. Both for letting him in figuratively and literally. Your breaths mingle with his, chest rising and falling as he pulls you close to him, holding you until you push him away—which he knows you will.

Each second that passes, he thinks will be the last. His lips break from yours, the rain hammering against the window as the sun tries to poke through the clouds. It paints your room in a yellow hue, one which makes your eyes more bright and more beautiful than normal.

“We have to stop.”

You don’t let go, don’t move from his embrace.

Your legs remained tangled with his, the same as his clothes were still in a mess somewhere in your home—the one you wanted him in. He pulls for a sheet, bringing it up, letting you fall from his arms, noticing the brief gap you form from him.

“Y’keep saying that.”

“And you don’t listen.”

He expects you to snap, but you don't. Not really.

And all it does is baffle him. You had confused him—had been difficult to understand from the beginning to now. You’re layers of skin, muscle and bone, and under it all, something he’s not sure he wants to be without.

Truthfully, it terrified him.

How his mind had become full of you. How he liked hearing your pulse as much as he liked hearing you say his name.

“Do you wan’ me t’, lass? Want me t’listen as yer tell me not to find you, when I know yer need me?”

“I don’t need you.”

“Yer don’t, do you?”

Glaring for a second, you swallow, yanking your eyes from his.

“There’s no one else, lass. Not f’me. Is there for you?”

The answer, it floats in your eyes. He can see it. How it’s slid from your brain to your tongue, eyes afraid to blink. Knowing he knows. Seeing it, processing it—fucking hating it.

His fingers find your chin, pulling your eyes to him, and for a second—the briefest one—he forgets how to breathe as your face softens and unfurls.

“No,” you whisper. “No one else.”

His fingers stroke your chin, accepting it—letting it linger between the two of you. And then, his lips find yours, body slowly covering yours.

You welcome it. Thankfully.

He feels your arms slide up around his neck, pulling him closer and closer, parting your thighs for him again. But it’s different—it’s changed.

It hurts.

Both the bruises on your forehead and the hole in your arm.

You try to slam the door behind you, hearing it not connecting with the frame but a person—one who has been charging after you. A person annoyed with you for self-discharging, for being angry in the first place.

You round on him, quickly—almost offsetting him with how quickly you 180.

”Fuck me, Johnny—“

“Lass, you are injured. Y' shouldn't... you shouldn't even b' discharged.”

You give him a poignant look. One that screams that you aren’t fragile, that you’re not made of glass. Even if your bone throbs, held together with sheer will and pins.

Something he knows.

Something he has felt, seen and pushed to the breaking point to prove. Yet…

He’s not a painkiller, but you wish he was—knew he could be. Knew he could rid even the worst thoughts from your mind, so why could he not do it with pain?

“Please.” Make me forget. Like we always do. Please, please, please…

The lines on his forehead lessen, his sigh escaping his nose slowly. “Don’t look at me like tha’. Yer had a bullet in your arm, y’need rest.”

“Babe…”

“Babe, aye?”

You swallow it.

His questioning tone and look of surprise and the sting that accompanies it.

In your defence, it had slipped out—slithered past your tongue, having woven its way out of the chest marked do not open.

Turning from him, you bite back a hiss as you try to remove your t-shirt, your muscles screaming as you do. Each tendon begging you to stop, to sit, to rest, to not fucking move. But you need it off. Unable to breathe, to think of anything but—your teeth sinking down into your cheek until you taste copper as you yank, tug and pull—

“Steamin’ Jesus, c’mere,” he says, his hands coming to help you remove it.

He turns you. A disapproving look etched into his face, sliding it over your injured arm with more care than you’d have put him down for.

Then it vanishes. Gone. Stolen.

His face is all kinds of different, his eyes not lowering to your chest and bra, but rather remaining on your eyes. And it feels… wrong. Even if it doesn’t. Even if everything has flipped and changed already, you still think—hope—he’ll want to go back to mindless fucking you.

It would be easier. Less complicated and messy. No feelings to unpack and unknot from inside of you. No confusing questions needing answers that you’d have to fish out from inside the parts of you that you hide from.

You want to move closer, kiss him, make it different—shift the moment into something you’re used to. Make it feel more like the usual. Because this doesn’t feel right…even if it is.

The two of you are closer than just getting naked and fucking.

It isn’t just grappling hands and pleasure, this feels like something else. Born from it? Yes. Derived from the times you’ve both shared. It standing in the corner, staring you both down—

He moves around you, stepping closer to your drawers, and you hear one draw open and close before he’s back in front of you. His hand holding a t-shirt, one of your favourites—the same one you’d been wearing when he turned up at your door those weeks ago.

It almost makes you cry. Almost.

You are somehow able to stem it back, hold it back with sheer will and fucking determination. Especially when Soap doesn’t speak, just eases it over your head. The baggy material floats down over you as he helps ease you into it, cautious with your arm and the bandages wrapped around it.

“You need t’ rest.”

It leaves his lips almost quietly, as though afraid any louder and it would break the air. The air crackles; it thrums and shudders out of tension and apprehension—because this is the turning off of the tide. Especially as you almost say: I just need you. I want you.

A choice needing to be made. You’d thought it when he skidded to you, kicking dirt up around you as he grasped your wound—face whitening. His words of comfort fell with ease, not caring for the eyes—the people, the team or the fucking mission.

The line then had just blinked and shone; now it flashes incessantly.

Your arm is throbbing, aching. A reminder of how easy it is to lose—for something to slip and spell disaster. The team, all of you, rely on each other to have a level head. To be there.

“C’mon, let’s get y’into bed—“

You almost melt into it. His touch. It would be easy too, to let him care—to let the person you care about, care about you. To let his arm wrap around you, mind running away, imagining the way it will feel to lie against him, curl into him clothed. Maybe even let his hand rest against your cheek, stroking it; maybe even have your clothed legs tangle in his, nothing sinful, just innocence.

But… you can’t.

Your feet stopping, halting. Eyes glance up at him, pleading that he’ll snap out of it too. Remember why this started. How the entire thing is born of a need to feel alive, to root one another; the next time a stress release, nothing more, nothing less.

This isn’t that. Not anymore. It’s something that could be real. And real means something costly, something which could break and hurt—far worse than a bullet, knife or bomb.

“I don’t… I don’t wanna do this anymore, Johnny.”

He’s smiling.

It clicks that he thinks you mean something else. That you don’t want to get into bed…

He nudges your good arm. “Why? Yer saving yourself for someone else now?”

You say nothing. But, your face must say it all.

Watching his slowly sink, the balloon inside of you bursting—it deflating in your chest. The look on his face makes your heart plummet, and sink so fast it’ll flatten at your feet.

The despondent look cracks the outer edges of you, snapping the places he’s healed. And this is just a taste of what it would look like to hurt him, to disappoint him.

“I just… I just don’t think I like you like that.”

Lies. Lies. Lies.

You twist it, the metaphorical knife. It's all there in your hand and now lodged into his chest as you hold his gaze. Needing the words to imprint, to fucking stick.

It’s the only way to fix this, to stop it all before it splinters and you’re both left with nothing.

His smile is the last to fall. It clearly having held onto you taking it back, but now it is so telling.

It fades as the seconds sneak into minutes.

It falls slowly at first. Then it falls fast, taking the shimmer from his eyes—tainting the hue of blue you’ve come to know better than your own eye colour. Realisation stealing, snatching it all away, as his eyes say the words he’s too afraid to say: Did I mean nothing else to you?

You're thankful he doesn’t ask them. Not sure at what volume you’d tell him that he means everything, and that’s why you can’t do this.

Why this has to stop…

“That so?”

You swallow, trying to keep your voice still. “Y-yes.”

He nods, stepping back. Trying to disguise his hurt as well as you’re hiding what a lie all of this is. The gap feels wider than a step or two. It feels like the floor has cracked and ripped you apart, and your good hand pinches your thigh, grasping to the pain, letting it centre you.

And then you smile because it’s easier too. Fewer muscles are needed to make it happen. You slowly step back, watching him watch you.

“I should rest, so…” you announce.

His jaw tightens, and then he nods.

Not a Johnny nod, not even a Soap one. A soldier-nod. A clinical, devoid-of-emotion nod that makes your whole chest explode into shatters.

You silence the cries to stop him, the voice in your head telling you to reach out to him. Not moving from your position, not fucking able to, until he slams the door behind him. The room rattling as it rips through you, the loss—all punctuated by the sound.

It cuts worse than anything you’ve ever known—it hurts more than being awake when they removed the bullet. All of it is made worse by the way the room shakes from his exit, the echo and earthquake left by his departure. The photo frame on your bedside table wobbling, and wobbling—

and wobbling.

“S-shit,” you whimper, tears falling free and fast.

Your good arm coming up to cup your waist, your other hanging limply, without purpose. You know you should move, but you can’t. Standing, frozen in the spot where everything broke in two.

A part of you, the sane part—the one which let him in and welcomed him—wants to run for him. To tug him close and tell him you lied. That you fucking lied, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.

Your legs are aching and shaking. All tired and without energy, not even a reason to hold you up anymore. Wanting to sink, to let your knees crash into the concrete floor and bare-thread rug, let it all unfurl and spill from you.

Bang.

You jump, eyes blinking, focusing. Desperately ridding the tears back so you can see, finding him.

Soap… Johnny, standing in your doorway, glaring until he isn’t. And then he’s moving towards you, door slamming again, a whole different expression knitted into his features.

“Yer aff yer heid if yer don’t think I know…”

You lift your chin, unsure why you do it defiantly, angrily. “Know what?”

You say it as if there aren't tears on your cheeks, as though him being in front of you hasn’t stopped the shards from your heart from hitting the ground and cutting you.

“Tha’ yer like me, lass.”

His hand grasps your waist, pulling you close—the bare knuckles off his other hand wiping your cheeks.

“I kno’ it, ‘cause I like you too.”

“Then you’re an idiot.”

“Aye, probably am,” he says, cupping your cheek. “Don’t care like. If that’s alright wir’ you.”

You stare at him.

Letting yourself be bathed in Johnny-blue, noticing the hair band—your hair band—still on his wrist.

And then he kisses you.

Differently. Explosively. Life-changingly.

Your mind is thinking only one thing as you kiss him back: It’s alright with me, Johnny.

an: just know, the seventh scene ended when he slammed the door on the first draft, so you're welcome that i added a part of the next chapter here.

part three of it happens ->

#soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish #soap 🧼#soap mactavish #soap squad #soap mactavish x f!reader #soap mactavish x female reader #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish #cod x reader #cod soap x f!reader #cod soap x reader #cod soap #mwii x reader

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sleepyconfusedpotato · 10 months

Text

⚔️ MWII (2022) Character Ages (as of 2022) ⚔️

I was on a character age brainrot back in January and now It's back because of @angelsarewatching so I'm gonna go ahead and post this on Tumblr. Tell me what you think tho and discussions are open!

🐑 Gen. Shepherd - Around late 50s, Pushing 64. I searched it up and apparently, the mandatory retirement age for all general officers is 62, in some cases 64. But if he got into the recommendation list after Brigadier General (O-7), it's allowed to be more than 62. He's a Lt. Gen, so that's O-9. Also, Glenn Morshower (Shepherd's actor) is 64 so let's go with that.

🧠 Laswell - 47-ish. At MOST 55. (Rya Khilstedt is 52. AMAZING BEAUTIFUL SHOW -STOPPING)

🚁 Nikolai - 45 as well. I would go with 48 though.

🪦 Graves - 40. He gives Texan cowboy energy. I just know he's an old dude and is actually older than the rest of the gang.

🛖 Alejandro and 🦂 Valeria - 37. Maybe 38. I don't know at what age someone could make the rank Colonel 'cause that's quite high up the ladder. (They might as well be older than Price. Shit, they might be 40.)

🚬 Price - 37 (Canon) c. 1985.

🐎Rudy - 36. He's been close with Alejandro for 20 years now. Assuming they're bestest of friends and knew each other even before military, Rudy would be around 36/37 as well.

💀 Ghost - 35 or lower. As far as I know, lieutenants are usually young, unless he enlists first before a few years later he went to the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst (RMAS). OR. His preference and efficiency of working alone are far better for use on the battlefield. The higher you are in the ranks, the more soldiers you are responsible for. So the higher-ups might purposefully don't promote him (and he prefers and agrees to it as well) so that he can continue working alone rather than leading a squad. He surely can lead a team, but he's better at doing shit alone. Crazy theory but hey, it's fiction.

🦿Alex - 35 (Alex was a Delta Force until 2013. Assuming he's around 26 when he finally goes to the CIA, that means he's around 32yo in 2019 and 35yo in 2022)'

🔭 Hadir - 33/34 (Canon) 1989/1990. I’m choosing 34 tho since in the ‘Hometown’ mission he was almost a teenager.

☀️ Farah - 30 (Canon) January 12th 1990.

🧢 Gaz - 26 (Canon). The bio says he enlisted in the British Army in 2014. Assuming Gaz finished high school first, he must’ve enlisted when he was 18yo. That means he was 23yo in MW19 and 26yo in MW22.

🧼 Soap - 26 (Canon). He’s canonically the youngest one in Task Force 141. The bio mentioned that his cousin is in SAS and he often time visits the base. Setting aside the fact that the cousin brought a fucking kid to a top-secret base, lil’ Johnny must’ve been like “I DON’T WANNA GO TO SCHOOL I WANT TO BE AN SAS SOLDIER” and he canonically LIED about his age. Apparently, he went in when he was 16 but got caught several times, until finally when he was 18 he got in.

That's it folks! Tell me what you think (｡･∀･)ﾉﾞ

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ladyelissarose · 10 months

Text

My Masterlist

Fluff🤍- Smut♥️- Angst🖤- Suggestive❤️

Batman 🦇

Stories;

‘Secrets of Gotham’ -completed🤍♥️🖤

‘Secrets of Gotham- Unmasked’ -completed🤍❤️🖤

‘Long Lost Christmas Wish’ -completed🤍

One-Shots;

‘Arcade’🖤

‘Just Give Me A Reason’ 🤍🖤

‘Perfect’ 🤍

Top Gun Maverick⚓️

Stories;

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin

‘A Heart With Wings’ -completed🤍🖤

Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd + Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin

‘Koko’s Adventures’ 🤍

One-Shots;

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin-

‘Not Alone’ 🤍🖤🖤

‘Hold My Hand’ 🤍

‘My Desert Flower’ 🤍

‘You Came’ 🤍🖤

‘Rewrite the Stars + Pt.2’ 🤍🖤

‘Because I Care’ 🤍

‘I See You’ 🤍

‘Slow Ride’ 🤍

‘Don’t Make The Same Mistake’ 🤍🖤

Natasha ‘Phoenix’ Trace-

‘I’m Here For You’ 🤍

Dagger Squad-

‘Top Gun’s Baby’ 🤍

COD MW2💣

Stories;

141 Task Force-

‘A Mother’s Revenge’ - ongoing🤍🖤

One-Shots;

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley-

‘Human’ 🤍🖤

‘Look Up’ 🤍🖤

‘I Want Him’ 🤍🖤

‘Guardian Angel’ 🤍🖤

‘My Comforter’ 🤍🖤

‘More Beautiful You’ 🤍

‘We Go Down Together’ 🤍🖤

‘Your Touch’ 🤍

‘Kiss it’ 🤍

‘Trick Show’♥️

John ‘Soap’ McTavish-

‘Trust Me’ 🤍🖤

GhostSoap-

‘Compromised’ ❤️

Blurbs;

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley - ☠️

Admitting your feelings after a fight🤍🖤

Investigating a fallen Ghost🖤

Ghost holding you after a mission scare🤍

Reuniting with Ghost after being on separate missions🤍

Ghost giving you your ‘found treasure’ 🤍

The lion and the lamb🤍

Simon fixes your hair 🤍

Ghost saves you in a red situation🤍

Waiting for Simon to heal🤍🖤

Simon helping your stubborn sick self 🤍

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish- 🧼

You came back to save Soap🤍🖤

Captain John Price- 🚬

Price comes to save you

Spider-Man ATSV🕸

Stories;

Miguel O’Hara 2099-

‘Caught In A Web’ 🤍?? -discontinued for now

Universes;

Miguel O’Hara 2099-

‘Sunshine & Midnight’🤍🤍

One-Shots;

Miguel O’Hara 2099-

‘Stop Thinking’ 🤍♥️

‘Protector’ 🤍🖤

‘Desires’ 🤍♥️

‘Beautiful Baby’ 🤍♥️

‘Karma’♥️

Hobie Brown aka Spider-Punk-

‘I’ll Show You Jealous’ 🤍♥️

‘Risks’ 🤍♥️

Headcannons;

Miguel O’Hara ‘2099’ x housewife reader 🤍♥️

Hobie Brown ‘Spider-Punk’ x tattoo artist reader 🤍♥️

#my masterlist #elissa rose’s work #the batman 2022 #top gun maverick #call of duty mwii #spider man: across the spider verse #chapters and one-shots #free is my inbox to ask for more!

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rileysghostt · 1 year

Note

Hey hey ❤️ Can you write angst to fluff with Soap? Like maybe reader is very scared of intimacy but they both obviously want each other and he helps her open up? 🧼

This one ran away from me a bit, but god do i love this prompt 😭 thank you so much for your patience!! I hope you love it!!

Being a soldier in the military was something you wanted since you were a young girl. Watching war movies and documentaries with your father inspired you to want to join up, but the medic aspect was definitely a curve ball for you and not part of the plan. However, the military needed medics and that’s where you were first assigned. Med Bay. At first, you hated the idea of being a medic. You wanted to fight, see that action front and center. Be a part of it.

Then, you attended your medic classes. You found that you’re the fastest in your class with a needle, stitching up a flesh wound within seconds. The way you were able to reset dislocated joints, apply a tourniquet, pack a gunshot wound. You were the best, the top of your class. Which meant they’d want you on missions, and that made you a little nervous. Like having-to-perform-under-pressure-and-in-front-of-an-audience kind of nervous.

That all went out the window the morning you’re meant to head out for your mission. You meet the team, shaking everyone’s hand. Everyone boards the Humvee, taking their seats and strapping themselves in. You did the same as the last person of the group boarded the vehicle, planting themselves next to you. You look over at the young man next to you, he looked about your age. His rank was the same as you, Private. So he was new, too. That was somewhat a relief to your nerves.

“You’re new too?”

You broke the ice finally as the Humvee began to move, your vehicle was the last of a small convoy of similar military vehicles also joining on the mission.

“Aye, this is my first mission. Yours too?”

That Scottish accent of his was smooth like melted chocolate.

“Yeah, I’m a little nervous.” You admitted as you looked down at your hands. You were picking at the skin around your cuticle anxiously.

“Nah don’t be, if we get in and out without a hitch you’ll be golden. No patchin’ any of us up, smooth sailin’”

You chuckled, he was right. You nodded as you looked back at him with a small smile. He was smiling too.

“Y/N, by the way.” You bowed your head only slightly toward the man next to you.

“John MacTavish” He nodded back.

Just like that, without skipping a beat, an explosion goes off toward the front of the convoy. Then another, this time it felt closer. One more, before your team finally decided to exit the humvee. As you hopped out of the back of the truck, you look toward where the explosions are coming from. A group of what look to be terrorists sat on top of a ridge just over the road where you were traveling. You ran with your team to try and find any kind of cover. Then you heard it. The screams and wails of the people that survived the blasts, but were now injured.

“I have to go back, there’s injured soldiers still out by the vehicles!”

You yelled toward your squad leader,

“We have to take out the threat, then you can treat them.” he yelled back at you.

“With all due respect, I’m not sure they’ll make it that long. They’re all losing blood, I have to get to them!” You turned right back around and began running back. You’d be able to pull people to a good enough cover to treat them, that was your plan. That was, until you heard footsteps following yours. You turned around to see John keeping up with you.

“I’ll provide cover fire. You’re not doin’ this alone!” He yelled to you.

Sure enough, that’s what he did. Suppressing the gun fire and distracting the enemy as you worked quickly. The rest of your team were able to take out the rest of the men. You were able to save every surviving soldier that was effected by the blast. Many of them suffered amputations, parts of their body suddenly not there. It was hard to pull that many tourniquets back to back, but you weren’t going to let up. Pulling the rubber bands back over and over left cuts and burns. Your hands were numb. Not only that, you technically abandoned your team, and that wasn’t going to stand. You and John both were reprimanded, stood in front of your Colonel together as he screamed at the two of you. You could have gotten the rest of those men killed. Because the two of you were able to save the lives of the others, he was lenient with your punishments.

You and John continued to stay friends as long as you two were squad mates. Sure enough, it didn’t take long for you to develop feelings for him. You were almost certain he did too, the way he’d look at you. The way he’d speak to you and about you to others. Even if you wanted to tell him how you felt, it wasn’t much longer until you were promoted. That meant you’d be leaving.. Leaving John. The last day of your time at the barracks was going to be the day you let him know how you felt. Maybe it was worth trying to keep in touch, send letters to each other maybe?

You couldn’t find him anywhere, it was getting later and later and pretty soon you’d have to leave. You found out he’d been shipped off on a mission that morning, you weren’t even able to say goodbye.

That was the last time you heard of John MacTavishh… Until now.

You’re now a Captain, leading a Med Bay at another base. You had your own small team of medics that worked under you, some that went on missions themselves and reported back to you, others that stayed resident at your base. This particular day, you had a rough go at it. Patient after patient, all with either deep gunshot wounds or large gashes. Sewing up wounds like these sometimes took hours and multiple people, depending on how severe the wound is.

You were finally done with your day, filing the last bit of notes you had before your doors busted wide open, a wounded soldier on a stretcher was wheeled in quickly and you hopped back up to your feet, running over to the patient as the other soldiers who brought him in parked the stretcher.

“Sit rep?” You chimed in as you scanned the soldier’s body, looking at the blood stains over his plate carrier. You noticed a SAS patch and your brows furrowed. You typically did get elite soldiers through your neck of the woods here, but of course you were going to help him all the same.

You checked his pulse on his wrist, seeing how much the blood loss had affected it.

“Bullet wounds through the abdomen and shoulder, myself and Sergeant Moore kept gauze on the wound with pressure as much as we could until we got in ma’am.” The young private spoke as best he could, his voice shaking.

“You did what you could, he seems stable for now. You two are dismissed. Sergeant, I need an IV started, blood bag and fluids asap. I’ll begin stitching.” You confidently spoke the orders to the only other person in the bay with you, they were meant to be your cover for the night after you left.

All this time had gone by, your skilled fingers making work of the stitching in the soldiers abdomen. He was still out cold, your sergeant attached a pulse monitor to the patient’s finger which let you know he was still stable.

Once you were finally done with the abdomen, you moved to the shoulder where you finally saw his face. It was John.

You froze, why had it taken you this long to look at this patient’s face?!

You let out a soft sigh, looking away for a moment to collect yourself.

“Captain..? Are you alright?” The other medic asked you.

“Y-Yes.. just tired is all. Once I’m done here I’ll head out.”

The medic nodded in response, then continued to work on hooking up the IV’s. You blinked a few times before starting on his stitching. It had been years since you’d seen John. He looked the same as you remember, just more rugged. Grew more into a man, a man that has seen a lot. You finished up the stitching finally and wrapped up the wound in gauze and tape to keep it from rubbing on anything. You took another long look at MacTavish, sighing once again. Besides the obvious anxiety you felt about seeing him again, you felt proud to know he was doing good things. Being part of the SAS was no joke, only the best of the best get recruited. After a moment of staring and thinking, you finally turn away and leave the med bay for the night.

You didn’t sleep much at all, your mind racing after seeing John again. You wondered if he’d remember you, if he would still think you’re the same person as before. A lot has happened since those days. A lot of traumatic and hard scenarios, things you’ve seen and experienced changing you. Molding you into this cold medic. Closing any personality off from your work, you essentially became a robot. All the blood, missing appendages, death.. It all molded you into this husk of a person. It was all so much, all the time. You did your job, and you did it well. However, no one prepared you for what you’d actually be seeing, and that part really messed you up.

The next day was your off day for the week, but you decided you were going to see MacTavish. You wanted to check on his wounds, making sure the other medics were dressing them correctly.

As you walked in the med bay, you felt his eyes on you already. Like he knew you’d be coming in, he was expecting you.

“Y/N!” He called out to you, slowly beckoning you to come over with a small smile on his face.

You gave him a small smile back before you walked toward him.

“John.. How’re you feeling?” you asked as you stuffed your hands in your pockets, already feeling your nerves.

“Better now I’ve got some blood in me. Who woulda’ thought you’d be the one treatin’ me?” John still had a smile plastered across his face. He was happy to see you again.

You chucked and nodded, “Right? I never thought I’d see you again. You look good.. Considering” You nodded toward his wounds which honestly looked a lot better now that they’ve been attended to.

“So do you. You’re more beautiful now than you were back then, lass.” His expression had softened, not so much smiling now. He was serious.

Your face turned red, you could feel the immediate rush of blood and heat to your cheeks. You couldn’t even bring yourself to respond right away. You couldn’t even look at him.

“S-So.. what’s with your call sign? Soap?” You tried to change the subject, as you chuckled again nervously.

“Ah yeah.. That’s classified.” He smirked,

“Can’t tell ya.”

“Oh yeah right, I have higher security clearance than you now!” You laughed, it’s been awhile since you’d done that. It felt good. Seeing John felt good.

“Yeah, but are you really gunna take the time to look it up? I don’t think so, you’re a busy lady now.”

He laughed with you, he was amazed at how well you’ve done for yourself. Seeing the Med Bay, the way your subordinates respect you, talked so highly of you. They also spoke of how stoic you are. No matter what comes in, you handle it with grace and professionalism. You were also a strict leader, even cold sometimes. Those things didn’t sound like the person he knew before.

“Look, I have to get going. It looks like you might actually get sent on leave later this afternoon if you keep progressing as well as you have.” You took a step back, you didn’t want to get too friendly with MacTavish again. You didn’t want your feelings for him clouding your head again. You had too much going on now, people that count on you. You couldn’t let your feelings for someone mess up all you have going for you here.

John didn’t say anything, more confused as to why you’re trying to leave all of the sudden.

“I’ll see you around.. Soap.”

You turned quickly around, walking quickly out of the med bay and back to your barracks.

You plop your body down on the couch with a long sigh. This is exactly what you didn’t want, but you had to see him again. You needed to talk to him again, and god did he look good. Even with his injuries. You were so taken aback and spooked by his words, you just had to get out of there. You were certain you would just lock the door to your room and not leave until Soap was discharged.

Sure enough, that’s what you did. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave and potentially run into John, embarrassing yourself all over again.

You tried keeping your mind off him. Reading books or watching television. Nothing seemed to work. Especially now that there’s a heavy knock on your door. Your heart sank to your stomach, yet you jumped up to your feet. Slowly, you made your way to the door, peeking out the peep hole. Sure enough it was Johnny. He was rubbing the back of his neck, he looked a little nervous himself. Taking a breath, you open the door.

“Hey Johnny.”

“Hey.. Um. I hope you don’t mind. I asked one of your medics for your room number. I need to talk to you.” His voice was low, a little shaky. You nod and move out of the doorway so he could let himself in. He sat on your couch, and you sat next to him after closing the door. Waiting for what he had to say.

“Listen, I’m just gunna come out and say it. I like you.. I’ve always liked you. Seeing you today reignited the feelings I have for you. Not a day goes by that Idon’t think about you, even just once. I’ll never forgive myself for not saying goodbye.. I wanted so bad to tell you my feelings for you then, but it just didn’t feel like the right time. I regret it every. Single. Day.” He looked you right in the eye as he spoke, you took in his words. Your heart thumping hard into your throat as he confessed everything he felt for you. You wanted so bad to jump up, to wrap your arms around him and tell him everything he felt, you felt for him too.

Instead, you were silent. That silence hung in the air for a few moments before you stood up, turning away from him and crossing your arms.

“John.. I can’t. I can’t have any distractions here. I’ve worked so hard for this, I can’t mess this up. As much as I’d like to return your feelings.. I just cant.”

It stung. Your words hurt both you and him. He stood up too, standing behind you as he spoke in almost a whisper.

“Y/N.. I’m not giving up that easy. You and I both know you could run ten med bays with your hands tied behind your back. You’re absolutely stressed for no reason. You love even cut off any ounce of feeling, of empathy, because you’re afraid of fuckin’ things up. I want to be here to support you. I want to be here to remind you of this every day. To let you know just how amazing and talented you are. You’re the most talented medic in this military and I’d be willing to bet on that. Stop stressing. Let yourself be loved.. Please.”

You turned around to look up at Soap, his eyes were narrowed at you. He was as serious as a heart attack, but could you trust him?

“And what about when you’re off on missions? You’re an SAS soldier now. You’ll be gone more than you’re able to visit here.”

He sighed, he couldn’t argue that point. He placed his hand on your cheek gently. His thumb swiped across your cheekbone as he spoke softly to you again, not breaking eye contact.

“I will write to you everyday, I’ll call you everyday, I’ll do anything. I can’t lose you again..”

Your heart melted, this is all you wanted. All you’ve wanted since you met Soap.

“Okay..” You whispered back. A tear began to collect on the edge of the waterline of your eye.

He smiled and whispered back,

“Okay..”

He slowly leaned in, making sure this was still okay. Giving you a chance to back out, but you didn’t. Your lips pressed softly against his, eyes fluttered closed. Your lips moved together slowly and softly as if they were meant for only this.

Once you both pulled away, you pressed your foreheads together.

“I’ve wanted to do that since i met ‘ya”

Soap chuckled.

“I almost wish you would have.”

You chuckled with him, this is exactly where you were meant to be.

#call of duty #mw2 #modern warfare 2 #call of duty fanfic #modern warfare #john soap mactavish #john mactavish #john soap mctavish x reader #one shot #fanfic #writerscorner

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loststims · 8 months

Note

ok so uhhhhh

spinni (kirby squeak squad) with soap cuttting & kandi stims

Spinni sensory board for @boba-foxy ヾ(＠⌒ー⌒＠)

| + requests open

🧼✧💍✧🧼

💍✧🐭✧💍

🧼✧💍✧🧼

#stimboard #stim #stimblr #sensory #sensory board #visual stim #stim gifs #kandi #kandi stim #spinni #kirby #stim board #soap slicing #soap stim

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brewed-pangolin · 5 months

Note

Drabble request for Super Soap Sunday:

Soap and you find yourselves in an unusual place/set of circumstances when the mood strikes. How does he A) let you know what he wants and B) how does he get you in the mood too?

Domestic Bliss

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x Fem Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI: Explicit smut, some fingering, P in V, backseat sex, slightly Dom-ish Soap, tons of dirty banter, Soap being a needy little horn dog

This 'drabble' turned into a one-shot because I can't control myself.

Synopsis: You and Soap take the next step in your relationship, and his not so subtle attempt to rile you up in public ends with an impromptu session in the parking lot.

Reference for where this man takes you to Poundtown here

Word count: 2k

"Alright, ma'am. If I can just you to sign here, here, and here. Then we should be all set up." Your advisor instructed as you sifted through yet another mountain of paperwork. Your eyes growing numb and your fingers beginning to ache from the repeated minor motion of signing your life away.

You pushed the last pile of paperwork over the advisors desk with gentle smile curling into your lips. Glancing over at the man sitting next to you with that same smile, a loving fondness in your eyes as you both took the next pivotal step in your relationship.

A mortgage.

Soap's demeanor was calm. Stoic even. Letting you take the lead in this circumstance as you were the one going to habitate the home more often than he would. A thought you both pushed aside for now to savor the wave of domestic bliss that came along after you signed the final piece of paperwork.

Yet his cool facade couldn't hide the cerulean maelstrom swirling within the whites of his eyes. A look you knew all too well, and one that never failed to send a quick shiver down your spine.

But here? At the bank?

Your smile quickly curled into a smirk, rolling your eyes at him as you turned your attention back to the advisor across the desk. You couldn't feed into Soap's growing needy desires. Not in public at least.

Pursing your lips with a heavy sigh, you tried to maintain your composure by focusing on the task at hand. Eyes trained to the quick movements of fingers across the keyboard as your consultant effortlessly entered your information into the database.

However, even the light clicking of keys couldn't keep your attention as you caught the sudden tremor of his knee in the lower periphery of your vision. The frantic cadence of his boot heel hitting the floor tearing at your concentration yet again, forcing you the bring the knuckles of your right hand up to your mouth to hide the apparent grin quickly forming on your lips.

With as subtle movement as possible, you placed your left hand on the top of his knee to quell his growing feverish motion. Gripping your fingers into the fabric of his jeans and pushing towards the floor in a physical attempt to ease his obviously heightening arousal.

“Ookay. That’s done. Let me get this all printed out and you two should be all set.”

“Thank you, sir. Appreciate all your help with this.”

You share a quick glance with your advisor as he stands, his eyes momentarily shifting to Soap with a subtle curl in the corner of his mouth. You keep a close eye on him as he exits the office, finally turning to face Soap with a furrowed brow and address the apparent tension erupting between you two.

“Jesus Christ, Johnny. Would you please calm down?” You scolded playfully. Your lips a thin line of a smile, obscuring your clenched teeth as you dug your fingers further into his jeans.

“How much fuckin’ longer is this gonna take, bonnie? ‘Cause I'm 'bout to bend ya over this goddamn desk if he don't speed this shit up. He can bloody watch for all I care.”

"We're almost done, Johnny. He just needs to give us the paperwork, and then we can go. So just, keep it in your pants for another five fuckin' minutes."

Your tone of reprimand barely able to combat the deep, rumbling brogue in his voice. Shifting slightly in your seat to quell the growing ache pulsing within your core. A gesture that most certainly did not go unnoticed as you took in the hungry blaze radiating within his eyes.

"Johnny. Don't. No!" Your frivolous attempt to stop him was broken down immediately as he thrusted his hand between your legs. Pressing his knuckles into the base of your heat through your jeans. Shifting to bring his chair closer and caress his mouth and tease you with his whispering brogue to the nape of your neck.

"Gonna fuckin' wreck ya, bonnie. Forget th'mortgage. This my down payment fer tha sweet pussy a'yers."

"Goddamit, MacTavish. Not here, ya fuckin' horn dog."

"Horn dog?" He questions with that distinctly mischievous grin. Pulling away as he eyed your advisor walking back into the office. His calmness in complete contrast to the excited flush bellowing from your chest as you quickly swat his hand away, scolding him quietly under your breath.

"Overconfident bastard."

"Alright. You two are all set up. You should be getting a call within the next five business days once you qualify. Other than that, welcome to home ownership."

"Thank you." You shook your advisor's hand, grabbed at your paperwork, and made an immediate bee line for the door. Beating Soap at his own game as you left him in the office with an obvious growing hard on. Already midway to the exit of the bank when you eyed him barreling out of the office in your periphery.

You didn't want to lose focus again. Not now. Now when you had the upper hand. You Kept your eyes locked onto the 4Runner at the back of the parking lot as your feet moved quickly at their own accord. Your ears perking to the sound of its alarm, a wave of triumph rolling over you as the locks sprung free.

You opened the backseat passenger door to toss your purse and paperwork on the seat. Expecting to see Soap at the driver side as you tried to close the door.

Tried.

You glanced questioningly at the door. Only then did you notice Soap's hand gripping on the edge. Spinning on your heels as you came face to face with a fiery blaze and a hungry look in his eyes.

"John?"

"Get in."

"John?!"

"GET IN!"

You felt his hands on your hips the moment his voice registered within your mind. Thrusting you into the back seat, an excitedly victorious giggle escaping your chest as he crawled in before slamming the door behind him.

"Yer such a fuckin' lit'le minx, y'know that? Leavin' me th're wit a full bloody stonner." He growled, pulling your shoes off and tossing them to the side, frantically moving to the front of your jeans as you continued to laugh in triumph at his feverish need.

"Makin' me do the goddamn walk o' shame and...why are these fuckin' buttons so goddamn small?!"

"Ooohhh, what happened to that cool confidence, Soap? Thought you could handle yourself under pressure. Bein' a demolitions expert an' all."

"Yer pushin' it, lass." He spat back. Relinquishing the fight with the buttons in favor of simply tearing your jeans off.

"M'also not tryin'a fuck tha bombs, smartass."

Soap tossed your garments to the back, flaring his nostrils with a darkened veil in his eyes as he spread your legs to take in the sight of your silken arousal. Moving onto his haunches with a deep inhale, his eyes rolling back as he took in the scent of your growing excitement.

“Mhmm. Could smell tha’ sweet pussy in th’re. An’ ya already so fuckin’ wet fer me, aren’t ya, bonnie?”

Words escaped you as he pushed two of his fingers inside your soaking heat, your eyes fluttering closed as he slowly pumped up to his knuckle, teasingly preparing you for what was to come. Unable to restrain your body’s reaction as your walls reflexively clenched around him.

“Donnae think I didn’t feel tha’. I know what ya need, lass. An’ m’gonna give it to ya.” Soap lured to you with a husky purr, your eyes fluttering open in response to take in the sight of him stroking himself through his jeans. His steely blue gaze boring into your soul as he effortlessly worked at the buckle of his belt. A throaty growl reverberating within him as he teasingly pushed the waist of his jeans below his hips to expose his painfully hardened cock.

"Johnny, I-" Your pleasured whimper was cut short as he throw his muscular frame on top of you, sealing his mouth over yours in a wet and desperately needy kiss. His strong hands gripping into the flesh of your thighs, guiding them around his waist as he teasingly pushed his throbbing erection into your moistened cunt. Filling you to the brim in one fluid thrust.

"Th's s'my home, bonnie. Right 'ere. B'tween yer legs an' deep in th's beautiful fuckin' pussy a 'yers."

Soap didn't give you time or air to respond as he encapsulated your mouth once more and immediately began pistoning himself into your core. The force of his thrusts wiping whatever thoughts and words out your mind, only focusing on the feel of him as he caged you against the backseat with his arms bent on either side of your head.

"Steamin' hell yer tight, lass." Soap growled into your lips, pressing his chest down into yours, keeping you still and allowing him full reign to pound his hardened length into your heat.

His bulbous tip kissing the flesh of your cervix with each forward thrust before pulling out almost entirely to only throw himself back into you once more. The continuous motion forcing your back to arch off the backseat, pushing your pelvis into his to stimulate the sensitive flesh of your clit.

Soap pulled his mouth away in repsonse to your shifting position, leaning forward to press his forehead into the crook of your neck. His hot breath cascading down your skin as he grunted and moaned with every subsequent thrust, his relentless pounding forcing you to grip into his shoulders to keep yourself stable beneath him.

"Johnny...Johnny..." you whispered softly against his temple. His name the only coherent word you could manage to let fall from your lips as your mind and body fell into the depths of his desperate and needy pleasure.

"Jus'...lemme 'ave th's, bonnie."

"Only g'nna need...an'ther minute.."

Soap's gasping breaths washed over the flesh of your neck, his voice rumbling within his throat like an otherworldly mixture of a growling whimper.

And the moment you felt his hips begin to falter, you pushed aisde your own pleasure in favor of reaching his. Only focusing on him. His needs. His desperate compulsion to always need to fill you and mark you as his own.

"C'mon, bonnie. Come for me."

You responded to his grunting demand by simply pressing your lips to the flesh of his temple. Wrapping your arms and legs around him tightly, letting him vigorously thrust his throbbing cock into your cunt until you felt the warmth of his release erupt deep inside you.

Soap's movements then halted all together. Burying himself into your heat as he rode out the relentless pulses of his climax.

Even within this impromptu moment, with him panting against your neck and you hunched beneath him in the backseat, there was always a certain level of intimacy that seemed to meld between you in the bliss of the afterglow. Cradling him in your arms as he slumped over in a limp and gasping mess.

"Fuckin hell, bonnie." He whispered, softly panting against your neck as he lightly pursed his lips against your neck.

"Jesus, Johnny. If I knew home ownership got ya this worked up, I'd it done years ago."

"Shut it, lass."

"Can't wait to see how hard ya get when I do my taxes."

Soap remained silent to your playful banter, responding only by continuing to kiss the curve of your neck as his body trembled, slowly coming down from the high of his release.

His mouth gently curled into a smile as he placed a series of gentle kisses up the nape of your neck. Chiding in once more to your jesting, his distinctive brogue thicker and more hoarse as he purred against your flesh.

"Won't 'ave ta, hen. Unless yer 'nta doin' a threesome."

"What?" You questioned, pulling him out of your neck to meet his steely blue gaze with a coitish smile.

"Uncle Sam already fucks ya in the ass, bonnie. It's the only time I'm yer designated sloppy side piece."

You can't hide the smile that emerged over your lips, pushing a piece of sweat ridden hair out of his eyes as you lovingly gaze up at him.

"Then I guess I'll be needing another down payment in advance. Just for good measure."

And of course, Soap obliges. Thrusting his still hardened cock deep into your core as he mutters those two words you love to hear.

"Yes, ma'am."

4Runner Wingman Masterlist

@deadbranch @sofasoap @d3athtr4psworld @punishmepunisher @jynxmirage @obligatoryghoststare @mykneeshurt @glitterypirateduck @homicidal-slvt @shotmrmiller @astraluminaaa @kkaaaagt @havoc973 @writeforfandoms @luismickydees

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morceid · 3 years

Text

tags i use

pluto’s brain rot: op tag

pluto writes: writing liveblogging/writing

pluto’s creations: anything i make that isn’t drawings or writing

pluto’s art: drawings

good morning crusty crew: good morning tag/my dreams

pluto’s pictures: any pictures that don’t have to do with art

qwee: my queue

school struggle😤: anything that has to do with school

gay people: moreid

kisses and cookies: morcied

my fav transgender gfs 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩/pretty people: garceid

anything diabetes related: diabetes💉

pluto weaves webs: web weaving

mutual tags

@jelle-jareau - juno🔍

@jemilyology - jae👁

@moss0ntherocks - moss🗣

@thejeidhater - annie🕯

@perpetual-goodvibes - emily👣

@peanutbutterworm - al🤭

@sunnymulti - sunny ☀️ ☀️

@derek-morgan-love-squad - derek🥰

@hotchsbabygirl - anj🎂

@yeetmeintotheunknown - spacey☮️

@veraiconcos - lucy🙌

@moreidism - iqa💚

@penemily - rose🦾

@morciaa - grace😪

@sunlightgalaxy - priya🌀

@hotchrocket - liv📛

@swag-ghost - simi🚪

@wannabemerida - eliza🪡

@jordantodds - frankie 🔱

@reese-the-edgy-enby - reese🅰️

@ssajelle - layla🐻

@agentshortstacc - joey🌊

@nonbinary-spencie - robbie🪱

@suburban--gothic - drey💧

@greenaway-lewis - lucy📍

@lgbtbau - maya🏏

@scandinavian-punk - yashasree📎

@sunflowrly - sunny ☀️

@thestrawberrygirl - elle🍓

@sapphoprentiss - jamie🧢

@dilaudidiot - spencer🧼

@tarajareau - monroe 👾

@elizabethxolsen - abbie💗

@themetaphorgirl - caitlin📖

@gluten-free-challah - soap🤠

@wheelsup - ri🥸

@willowrose99 - will🌹

@froggybagels - froggy♻️

@enbyspencer - jo🙏

@toddspoet - athena📝

@sadspencer - finn🤝

@angelreid - isa🐼

@dayytonababy - ryan ❤️‍🔥

@moreidsdaughter - becca❤️‍🩹

@fisherkinq - shay❣️

#pinned

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babey-fruit-bat · 2 months

Text

#john soap mactavish #soap squad 🧼#ghoap x reader #ghoap smut #soap x reader #ghost x reader #ghost smut #soap smut #simon ghost riley

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undercoverpena · 1 year

Text

adjusting.

soap mactavish x f!reader (squid!reader)

summary: soap has also seen cuddly you, arms wrapped all around him, keeping him as close as humanly possible. Even when the two of you were just friends. so, this is something else.

an: set after yours to keep, but can be read as a standalone | established relationship, adjusting to going from friends to lovers. wordcount: 2.9k

soap mactavish masterlist

Soap hears, before he sees you.

Entering the briefing room expecting your face to meet his, finding everyone sent on the operation except you.

It’s Ghost who crosses the room. Gently nodding at him to go to the side, mask still in place—arms folded across his chest as he explains.

—But, she’s fine. Just twisted her ankle, badly. After we'd got out.

Deep down, Soap knew you had come up against worse—handled and grunted your teeth through things worse than even those.

However, when he saw you hobbling awkwardly down the corridor—most likely against medical advice—something knotted inside of him. Because it’s different seeing it again.

Temporarily forgetting times when you’re hurt or injured, as he assumes you do with him.

Like anyone who was dating someone, he hated seeing you in pain, wishing to forget it as soon as you were better. So, having to watch you try to push through it, stings.

How? How’d she twist her ankle, Lt? Tripped on a tree root on her way to the heli.

If you weren’t currently being seen to, and were with them all, he’d have laughed. Likely jabbed a finger into your side as Ghost filled them all in on the successful, but eventful mission. Instead, the first sight of you back on base was that of you limping and hissing in pain.

“Y’shouldnt be walking on tha’—which, I imagine y’know.”

The way you pause, shoulders sinking as your head dips tells him all he needs to know. That you’ve sunk your pearly whites into your cheek, biting back a retort that would have been flung at him if he wasn’t… well him.

He watches as your fingers curl into the wall, its crevices between each brick trying to carve under your nails. You’re still in your gear, likely not even having the chance to run fresh, clean water over your hands.

Stopping just behind you, he places a comforting hand on your hip—feeling the heat from your body, even through the layers. Can even feel the grimace, the pain and annoyance bubbling furiously under the surface. Even if you try to hide it, he knows it’s there.

He’s come well versed in Squid.

“Mari—“

“Shut up, Soap.”

He does.

Even if your voice is more exasperated than bossy or sharp. It’s tinged with heaviness, likely guilt too knowing you—probably already wrapping its way around you, pleading with you to apologise.

“C’mere—“

“I’m fine, Johnny. Just…need to get to my room.”

“Lemme help.”

“No.”

It comes out sharp. Sharper than he’s heard you be in a while.

You look over your shoulder at him, sighing heavily. "I've been shot. Stabbed. Fuckin... I'm so mad at myself."

Your words are all words and no air, and you almost look as though you’ll shoot him an apology. Almost—

He steals the words as he lifts you. One arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, the smallest oof leaving your mouth as he holds you close, floor coming away from your feet.

“Steamin’ Jesus, yer stubborn.”

You glare, slowly weaving your hand around his neck.

He’s missed it, your touch.

Three days is barely anything after he's put up with longer, but it was only supposed to be one night instead of two.

You shift in his hold, and he adjusts your knees in his arm. Wondering how much you’re hating that you’re enjoying it, that the pressure off your body is welcomed—

“Be careful of doorways.”

“If that’s a dig at me being clumsy, lass. Yer should rethink it. I’m not the one wit’ a twisted ankle.”

“I’m not bridal picking up colleagues.”

“Colleagues, aye?”

He watches it flash across your face—the guilt again. The adjustment harder than the two of you’d banked on, the settling now the two of you are something far more than friends.

“You… you know what I mean?”

“I’ll let yer off—cause of the pain.”

“How generous of you.”

He leans close to you, contemplating something snarky back, but instead, he kisses your cheek. Pretty sure it means more than any quip could.

He’s seen many sides of you.

The frustrated, gnawing at your lip side. The funny, energetic side where your words are sharp and your middle finger is present.

Soap has also seen cuddly you, arms wrapped all around him, keeping him as close as humanly possible. Even when the two of you were just friends.

So, this is something else.

It’s like all of the versions of you are fighting to be at the front.

You smile, and then it’s robbed by frustration, and then you’re sharp and funny—making a joke about him being your bitch until you can walk. The jokes don’t land, because the light in your eyes isn’t there.

He watches you struggle for far longer than he’d have liked, but he knows when to pick his battles. Once he’d gotten you to his room—not yours, like you’d said—he’d placed you on the bed and let you unknot your emotions.

And Johnny hates it.

Nothing more that winds him up and creates an internal storm than being on the other side of the room, not able to help you. He’s leaning, purposefully digging his shoulder into the wall to keep him rooted; his arms folded as he watches you try and stuff elements of how you feel into various boxes.

You need to do this—it’s something you always do. Behind the jokes, the smiles and the occasional middle-fingers, you’re always processing—stuffing and stifling things just so you can keep your head up and your shoulders from around your ears.

So, as much as he hates it, he lets you do it. Doesn’t bother to move until you attempt to remove your boot, and then he’s across the short space in three strides.

Your eyes cut into him, all fuelled with anger and mounting annoyance at yourself. Your pupils attempt to slice through the air, but… they don’t.

Because he’s not holding back, he’s not throwing up walls to keep you out. You do that enough for the two of them.

“Want me t’remove yer sock, Mar?”

You look conflicted, chewing a response before you swallow it—whatever you’d been about to say—and nod. His fingers slide up the back of your ankle gently, each movement so slow and cautious, afraid of spooking you, of brushing over something swollen as he takes hold of the band of your sock.

It removes with relative ease as it unveils an angry, assorted blue-shaded bruise that’s spreading across your skin and bone. It takes all of him not to hiss, to not want to rub his own ankle in sympathy.

“Looks worse than it is.”

The purpling of your skin said otherwise. The angry swelling that shifted like jelly under your skin when he brushed his fingers over it.

You meet his gaze then, no walls, no shields to keep him out—just pain flooding the space where there had been anger. And then, if something hadn’t already twisted his insides, your eyes filled with tears, one’s which stung and burned him as much as they did your cheeks.

“Liar.”

You smirk, the smallest slither of the usual Squid.

“We should ice it, Mari.”

His eyes look up, seeing the signs of defeat beginning to spread over your features. Your eyes continue to shimmer, lips no longer curled up, and tiredness slowly kissing the skin under your eyes.

“Hey… it’s alright, yer man-bitch is ‘ere.”

For a second, you just stare, no smile, no smirk. And then, you’re burying your face in his neck, and his hand rises to cup the back of your neck.

It’s natural, almost on-demand, that he begins to knead the skin with his fingers—circle those spots on your neck with his calloused touch. The ones that can either relax you or make you moan. His body uncomfortably leaning over yours, rather wishing he could lie you back, bring you over him, hold you as close as he normally would.

“Can we just... cuddle?”

Great minds… he thinks to himself. “Course we can, Mar. Don’t ‘ave t’ask me twice.”

He brushes his lips against your forehead, feeling you soften against him as he eases you back, moving you with far more ease than you can manage.

“I can handle a shower,” you had said, pausing at his bathroom door, clutching the handle in your hand as he watched you.

Your weight all on your other leg, barely letting the sole of your foot meet the bare floor as you smiled as sweetly as you could.

“You sure? Y’don’t need some soap with y’soap?”

You smirk, and it warmed him like the fucking sun. “I can’t wait to tell Ghost you just said that.”

Once the door shut, his smile faded.

Body moving around his room, pulling out clothing you’d left—some purposeful, and some accidental. He found a t-shirt, shorts and some underwear, making a small pile on the edge of his unmade sheets as he listened to the spray of the water.

He should be on the other side. His hands holding you up, taking the weight from your ankle. It’s what he’d suggested, offered. Your eyes looking at him, a little brighter thanks to your nap and some more pills.

You haven’t got to always save me, Johnny.

He knows that.

Aware that you can more than handle yourself, but isn’t that what you do when you’re in love? Do you not take the burden, carry the weight until the person can lift up their own head?

The words had almost left his lips to suggest so, but instead, he brushed his fingers over your skin. He felt the mission on your cheek before he kissed an I love you against your lips.

Go on then, lass. I’ll be ‘ere.

You looked at him like you know.

Your finger ghosted over your lower lip as though you also couldn’t get over the fact the two of you do that now. As though it hadn’t quite hit you either that the two of you aren’t hiding, aren’t concealing all that lived between you.

He glances to the clock, threading his fingers together as he sits on the edge of his bed.

Eventually, he calls out, “Y’alright, lass?”

Waiting a beat, hearing the water turn off.

“No. Think I perished down the plug hole,” you comment from behind the door, steam rushing out when you eventually open it.

“Aye, y’hilarious y’ar—“

He feels them die, his words.

You standing, beads of water dripping down your body—falling down silver scars and toned muscles. Rolling across your hip bones, down your legs and passed your knees. It's your lips curling up, half-smirking as you stare at him with eyes full of flaming determination.

Steamin’ fuck.

His throat is dry, little point in trying to swallow, as he looks at you respectfully. Not that he wants to.

He wants to take a fucking picture and then carve it into paper with a pencil. He wants to study you, have you stood there so he can draw you until he has to plunge his cock in you to get himself thinking straight.

He’ll never tire of it—seeing you like this. A prize, one he was gifted and not won. Something he cherished before ever really having it, and now he does, not a soul can yank it from his grip.

“I’m hungry,” you say, voice full of silk as the syllables bless his ears. “You hungry, baby?”

Fuck is he.

And then his eyes land on your ankle, the one twice as big as the other. He tells himself that’s the reason he’s standing, sliding his palms against your bare hips as he tries to keep a level-head. You make it hard—you make him hard.

“Squid—“

“I’m okay,” you mutter, staring up at him through your lashes. “Promise.”

“Can we.. can yer, just come over ‘ere—can make you feel good right over here.”

Your smirk widens, tracing your lower lip with your tongue as you keep yourself stuck, soles glued to the floor. “No. Want it here, want you to fuck me right here, Johnny. Up against the wall, like we did before I left.”

But, it’s not like when you left, though.

Then you didn’t have an ankle three times its size amassing a colour range close to a craft shop. And it takes every thought of Price’s moustache not to give in.

To not kiss you—not lift your injured leg over his hip and push your other one to the breaking point of holding you up.

“If y’can just come ova’ ere—“

“Soap MacTavish. Are you fucking rejecting me?”

He closes his eyes, releasing a sharp breath as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Because he’s not sure how to explain this without it going wrong.

Without all the words leaving his mouth incorrectly and making you mad. Because technically, he fucking is. And he knows what an idiot that makes him. But also, you're hurt. And the way the two of you fuck, it's guaranteed to make it far worse.

“For now, lass, yes. But, you can’t even imagine how fuckin’ difficult tha’ is right now.”

Your face shifts. Changes.

He watches as a storm eclipses your eyes—one full of thunder and lightning. One with a purpose to pull him under and drown him, fry the skin from his bones.

Johnny also half expects to be thrown across the room from the look on your face alone.

But he’s quicker, bigger—stronger. Somewhat moving you before you can root yourself, half carrying and half dragging until you’re perched again, off your feet, on his bed. Him on his knees, right in front of you—staring at you on the same level.

“I found y’some clothes?”

You don’t speak. Don’t take them from him either. Your eyes morph into a knife as they try to plunge into him.

He unfolds the t-shirt—the one from a concert you went to with Gaz. Your voice all animated as you told him about it once, promising him that you’ll show him videos off it on your laptop when you go home.

Y’inviting me home, Mar? Course. This time mine, next time yours. Y’got it all planned out, aye? Yeah. Will even get you streaky bacon. Yer fuckin' glorious y'are.

You slide your arms through it, begrudgingly so. Your eyes not shifting from before the fabric goes over your face, to after. Just staring, cutting into him as if you’re the reason for all the wrong in the world.

And he’d take it, even if he doesn’t want to.

He’ll let you hate him if it means you’ll sit, and rest—like he knows you’ve been told to. That even if the two of you can follow it for tonight, tomorrow he can have your thighs clamping around his head as he makes you forget all about hating him, tree roots and swollen ankles.

“You’re a bad boyfriend.”

He smirks, watching your eyes soften. “The fuckin’ worst, lass.”

You just about smile—fighting it, clearly.

“Wait—Boyfriend again, am I?”

You shove him lightly, snatching the underwear from beside you to put in his hand. “You know I didn’t mean… just colleagues.”

I know. His hands guiding your feet through your underwear as he hands it you to pull up. “Aye, we’re jus’ adjusting.”

You nod, shifting in place as you pull them up onto your hips. Your hand rising to cup his cheek as he presses a kiss to your wrist.

The two of you in time returning to your places on the bed, the scent of his shampoo hitting his nose from your hair—your arm across his chest, fingers dancing on his ribs.

“I should tell y’, when Lt told me y’were with the medics—“ he whispers, his hand clutches yours, bringing it to his chest, right over where his heart is currently pounding into your palm. “Heart almost stopped.”

You look up at him, almost in disbelief. The look makes him wonder if he’s done a shit job of making you believe he’s all in, or whether—like him—you can’t believe it’s real.

“I’m not leaving you, Johnny.”

“Aye, best not. B’ shit of yer to make me fall in love wit’ you, and then y’leave me with those bastards.”

You laugh, it bristling over him. “Gaz isn’t terrible.”

“He’s not you, though.”

You roll your eyes, before closing them, burying yourself more into him. “There’s no one like me, Johnny.”

“Aye. Y’one of a kind, Mar.”

You sigh, a murmur of a noise leaving you—and he almost asks, almost questions. But decides against it, slowly counting in his head from 1 to 100, unsurprised that he only makes it to 62 before you’re asleep.

"Night, hen," he whispers into your wet hair.

Slowly closing his eyes, listening to your soft breaths as he lets his muscles relax for the first time since you left.

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