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[welshj03]

I’ve been in constant mourning since I joined this fandom

+Someone asked why he was in a jet, I don’t know too 😭

[frostyfirefly]

send me cod smut requests pls

[frostyfirefly]

me writing romance: the plot stays ON during sex

[frostyfirefly]

"Bleed" - Call of Duty Soap x Reader Smut

You're a member of Taskforce 141 when a job goes bad and while Soap patches you up, he asks you to remember that one night in Berlin that never should've happened (but you hope it meant something more)

NSFW + minors do not interact okay love you all byeeeee

PS. happy birthday @frostydarkholme68

***

You had no idea how the mission went so fucking wrong.

Nothing with Taskforce 141 had ever gone so badly before. You were their newest recruit, handpicked by Captain Price because of your skills, dedication, and that kind of bullshit, but you had proven your worth and grit — and you had never been on a failed operation before. Sure, the team joked about the “last American they’d worked with turning against them,” but you would always smartmouth right back. The funnest comeback lately had been, “Graves just didn’t know how to handle a bunch of hot men,” because it made Soap turn red.

However, the unbroken streak broke tonight. And it broke big.

The Russian asshole you had been hunting had trapped the group and separated you, weakening you in mere moments, so now, you lay bleeding out in some underground tunnel like a damn bitch.

They’d stolen your goddamn pack, too, with all of your medical supplies. You always overpacked. Always. To the point where Soap asked if you really cared if that many people lived or died, or if you just got off on saving people, to which you always hit the shit out of him. You knew deep down he liked it. Still, he knew better than to mess with your supplies.

But tonight, you didn’t have the bag.

And now, you didn’t have Soap.

Dammit, you weren’t supposed to care.

Struggling to keep one hand over the bleeding wound in your side, you forced each breath, willing each one to count.

Someone will come.

Gaz and Price were in a different part of the operation, and they hadn’t been in the tunnels yet. Maybe they’d realize the communications had died. Maybe they’d realize you and Soap were missing.

You hadn’t seen Soap get hurt, but you had seen some of Mikhail’s men take off down the tunnel. They’d thought you were dead. And they’d taken Johnny, and Simon, too. It didn’t make much sense to leave you behind to die, unless the enemy wanted to leave a message.

So Johnny was as good as dead and the realization tried to set in but you didn’t let it.

You couldn’t let it.

Dammit, as much as you insisted you were ‘just friends,’ even after that night in Berlin, you really were more than that, weren’t you? But he had never brought it up again since. It had been months ago, for fuck’s sake.

Hot tears burned your eyes and you tried comms again to no avail.

Then again, you hadn’t brought it up, either.

Fuck.

The blood kept pouring.

You didn’t have your fucking bag. You would know exactly how to patch yourself up if you had a damn item on you. They had stripped your gear.

Because they think you’re hurt badly enough you’ll die here, right?

The comms were gone.

Nobody knew you were missing.

For all the work you had put into becoming a part of the Taskforce 141, to find a place of belonging where your years of dedication did some good — and this was how it ended?

Alone, bleeding out in a tunnel?

You closed your eyes and kept focusing on your breathing. Tried to reason a way out of the tunnel. Tried to tell yourself once you got the energy, you would crawl to a fucking exit. 

“Y/N!”

The voice barely registered in your head.

“Hey!” There it was again. Sharper. Almost angry.

Then big, familiar hands grabbed you.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Soap searched you over quickly. Blood ran from a gash in his temple, but you didn’t see any more wounds than that — then again, your vision was growing fuzzy. “Here. I gotcha.” He snatched a bag off his shoulder. Your bag. Where the hell had he found it? Where had you dropped it? “You with me?”

Voice hoarse, you said, “Where the fuck were you?”

“Occupied. But I’m here now, lassie,” Soap snatched out supplies, “miss me?”

“Fucking asshole.” You couldn’t really stop the tears if you’d tried.

“I’m gonna patch ya up, a’ight? Not as good as you would do it, but —”

“Comms are down,” you said, vision still blurred, and you wanted to take the supplies from him and do it all yourself.

But you couldn’t.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Soap grabbed your free hand and said, “Aye, aye, don’t worry about it. I’ve got ‘em comin’. Simon is hunting the rest of ‘em. Now, focus on somethin’ else.” He gave your hand a squeeze before setting to work.

“Are you serious?” you demanded.

“Sure I am. Ya know, I heard you had a damn fine night with a fellow sergeant in Berlin. Tell me about that.”

“You bitch.” You didn’t mean it.

***

The group went out drinking a lot. You never really drank, but that night, you let the others convince you it was a worthy celebration. It was. The mission had gone swimmingly. You’d even gotten to stitch up Ghost in the back of a chopper, and he had been as nice to say your stitches were the best he’d ever gotten.

So, you drank.

A little too much.

Gaz and Price took off early. You didn’t doubt Kate would happen to show up to see Price at the hotel. But that left you, Soap, and Ghost. You’d only been working with the group for a couple of years, and that was the first night you really felt like a part of the damn force. Ghost goaded you both into drinking more.

Soap got drunk first. He complained, accent thickening, “Nobody holds their liquor like you, Simon. You fuckin’ arse.”

Ghost smirked at you and said, “Well, Sergeant seems to be keeping up just fine.”

“Yeah, Soap, don’t be a pussy.” You took another shot. Because of course you did. And you found too much satisfaction in seeing Soap’s reddening face. 

At some point, though, while you were all drinking and boasting about war stories and crazy shit you had all done before you had known each other, Soap put his hand on your leg. Usually, you would’ve twisted his arm out of socket. Usually, you would’ve told him to back the fuck off. Fucking around with other soldiers wasn’t something you had ever done, and you had no intention to start.

Soap kept talking about some story of him in Kazakhstan.

He didn’t even seem to notice he had his hand on your inner thigh.

You kept drinking and let it stay there. Because it really wasn’t so bad. And you tried to one-up his story about snowy mountains and saving some kid named Roach with stories about the Middle East and stoner American soldiers that had saved your ass.

Soap challenged, “I’ve saved yer arse, too,” like it was a competition.

“Probably the ugliest bloke to do so,” Ghost put in, watching the crowd ebb and flow around them. The little bar was the perfect atmosphere to feel safe in. Dammit, did you feel safe. For once.

It wasn’t longer after that argument when Ghost took the bottle of liquor from Soap and you both and said it was time to wrap it up. He helped you both stagger your way to the hotel. Then he said lightly, “You kids have fun,” and he ditched down the hallway. One of the lights overhead flickered.

Soap slurred, key fob in hand, “Aye, here, I’ll walk ya,” while following you out of the cricket old elevator.

“I can manage, I’m not a dog,” you said, voice just as stilted and distant. You’d never even gotten drunk before. It was already pissing you off how shitty it felt.

It was also pissing you off how badly you’d liked having Soap’s damn hand on your leg for half the night. Nothing had felt so bad for a while.

Soap still unlocked the door to his room. “Here.”

“That’s not my room,” you said.

“I know.” Soap watched you. In the too-bright lighting of the hallway, his blue eyes gleamed. “Just didn’t think the fun had to end so soon.”

Then he kissed you.

You let him. Hell, you kissed him back.

Johnny scooped you off the ground and hauled you into the shitty old bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He had you both stripped to your bare tattoos in a matter of moments. Wasting no time, he pushed you into bed and climbed on top. He’d damn well kissed almost every inch of you before landing another kiss on your neck and asking, “That a’ight?”

“Yeah,” you said.

Johnny grinned. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” Everything was warm and fuzzy. You told yourself it was because you were drunk.

It wasn’t.

He kissed you again. “That’s my girl.” He went down on you eagerly, like he’d done it a million times even though that had been the first fucking night he’d touched you. And dammit, he was good. He got you the first time, cheekily pulling away just to say, “Ya can make some noise if ya want. Ain’t gotta be so uptight.”

And you listened, and he didn’t stop till after the second time, and only then because you begged him to. 

Johnny kissed your neck again and everything went fuzzy. You swore as he carefully slid in, grunting. Each fucking thrust made it a little harder to focus on your breathing. By the time he finished, you weren’t thinking about breathing anymore.

“Fuck.” Johnny quickly collapsed beside you. It took you both a minute or two to catch your breaths. By then, though, for the first time since you’d met him, he had no snarky comment to make. He pulled me close and passed out with your head against his chest. A little like he gave a damn and wanted you close and safe.

You passed out, too.

You slept better than you had in a long damn time. In the morning, you both woke up, showered, and didn’t say a damn word about it again.

***

“You didn’t like it?” Johnny asked, covering the wound. His hands never shook. “In my defense, I was steamin’ —”

“I didn’t say that.” You bit your lip a little, the pain and anger making your vision hot then. There he went again, using his damn Scottish slang. “But you didn’t say shit about it. So, you fucking used me.”

“Used?” He kept focused on his work. “That’s what you think it was?”

“No shit.”

Johnny met your gaze briefly, blue eyes dark with concern. Then he quickly focused back on the wound. He secured the gauze over the wound and you finally pulled your hand away from his arm. Soap caught your hand, gentle. Too damn gentle. “Hey,” he said, “listen to me, dammit.”

You did. You were too damn tired to fight. That scared you, too. You’d been left to die and Johnny was saving you but you still weren’t sure if it was real or some nightmare. And his fucking blue eyes always saw right trhough you. You had wanted it to be real — more than anything. And it was too scary to believe it had been, so you had ignored it.

“I never meant for you to think I was using you. I love you. And I’m gonna get you out of this fuckin’ tunnel, and when we get someplace safe, we’re gonna figure this shit out — because like it or not, asshole or not, you’re stuck with me,” Johnny said.

It was then the worry in his voice and eyes made sense.

Because his hands were covered in blood, holding yours, which were also covered in blood.

How much blood had you lost?

Was that why he was so worried?

Mind fuzzy, you mumbled, “Promise.”

You didn’t want to lose him.

You wanted to believe whatever the hell you had going on was real — even if it scared you. Because he’d come back for you, hadn't he? He’d escaped Mikahil’s men just to save you, and had let the rest of the mission go to shit. That meant something;. And all the other times he had saved you — it counted.

Johnny quickly kissed you and said, “A Scot’s a man of his word, you know. Now, c’mon. I’m carrying you to the top.” Because you’d lost too much blood and you needed more care than he could give you and the worry was only faintly hidden from his tone then.

Ears ringing, you mumbled, “You owe me. For not saying anything before.”

Johnny picked you up carefully. “Love, I’ll give you anything in the world, just stay with me.”

“Deal.” You tucked your head against his chest.

***

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