You draw the prettiest Ghost I've ever seen 💕 (and thats saying a lot coming from me whose fav character is Pretty Boy Soap). That's an issue because I cannot take him seriously anymore 😂 A stone cold killer? Where?
Hi, for the wip ask game, bff Soap Hurt Comfort? :') please and thank you!
for the wip ask game--lighter, sweeter bff!Soap. you're meeting him at the airport. he's coming home after being MIA. scared you to death.
this one is short, so here it is edited + posted in full. for the hurt/comfort girlies :)
600 words / 23
…
“Thought you couldna live without me, eh?”
You tackle Soap in a hug, tactical gear and all. "Shut up. Shut up. God, you're alive."
He laughs and returns the embrace. "Too stubborn to die. I thought I told you not to worry about me."
You grip the straps on the back of his vest and keep your face in his chest to hide the tears threatening to track down your cheeks. "You can't just say that and go MIA. They talked about putting your name on a memorial and everything."
"You know me. Always gotta do things my way."
"Your way is stupid."
He chuckles and rubs your back. "Yeah, I'm stupid. I've missed you, though. I haven't stopped thinkin' bout you."
"Really? Cause I..." The dam breaks. You can't stop the flood of hot, angry tears. "I missed you too." Then you start sobbing. God, it's embarrassing. But you refuse to let go of him.
He strokes your hair. "Hen, don't cry. Please. I'm here and I'm not goin' anywhere. I'm your man, aye?"
You shake your head, stubbornly refusing to move.
He rests his cheek on you. "I don't want you to be sad. I'll make it up to you, I promise. I love you."
Hearing him say that just makes your heart skip before the tears come out faster. You love him, too, more than a friend should. How could anyone not fall in love with him? He's Johnny. It's just that you were always too chickenshit to tell him. You thought you lost your chance.
"Come on, look at me."
"No," you mutter, refusing to unbury your face from his shirt. Scared to, maybe. "I don't want you to make it up to me. I want to stay here."
"That's no problem. We can stay here for however long. I just need to know you're not upset at me. I can't stand seein' you sad. Makes me sad."
You sniff. "You deserve it."
"Aye, I do. But what can I do to cheer you up'?"
"Nothing," you mumble into his chest. "I've been crying for two weeks because of you."
You try to collect yourself anyway, wiping your eyes with your sleeve. His squadmates stand a little ways away from the terminal, looking curious at this scene you're causing. This isn't exactly how you wanted to meet them. You're supposed to be Johnny's cool best friend, not a weepy mess.
Johnny recaptures your attention, wiping away a stray tear track with his thumb. "You've been cryin' about me?"
You shove him, but it's light and there's no anger in it. "Of course I have, asshole, you're my best friend. They said you were MIA. Why wouldn't I cry?"
He grins. "But I'm here now, though. Could use a wee bit of comforting myself. You mind?"
You sniff, nodding as you press your sleeves into your eyes one more time to dry them. He's right. He's the one who's been away from home for a month. Probably endured some draconian shit, missing for two weeks and all. But the way he's looking at you through those blue eyes of his... it's not fair how easy it is to fall under his spell again.
"Yeah. I guess. What do you want? More fawning and crying?"
He laughs softly and pulls you into another tight hug. He presses a kiss to your temple, and you have to act like it doesn't make your heart explode into tiny pieces. He rests his chin on the top of your head, content to keep you here, totally enveloped in his frame. "Mm, that'll do. Just to start."
For the celebration! The Prompt: laying their hand on the other’s leg. The pairing SoapxReader or DammonxReader, you choose! >:3 pls and tyyy
Never ask me to choose again, darling, I'm polyamorous for a reason >< You get both! And also lots of love from me for your support and overall awesomeness <3
Link to the celebration post for anyone interested here!
Emotional Support Dog
CW: 1132 words, John "Soap" MacTavish x gn!civilian!reader, fluff,
Even the air around you feels charged with anxiety. No amount of meticulously created comfort can tone it down: tucked into the soft corner of your couch, surrounded with pillows, a blanket, a steaming cup and a bowl of snacks to accompany fat stacks of papers to read, you still feel nervous. No one can blame you though: your boss wasn't particularly fair informing you of the upcoming meeting late. Very late. Couple of days before a very important meeting with your place at the company depenging on it - that sort of late.
Goddamn corporate.
So it's not surprising that you're slightly crumbling under pressure to get prepared with all available documentation; maybe they're trying to set you up to be at their mercy or fail, but you're not going down without a fight. Even if the fight makes your knee bounce nervously and the almost-forgotten nail biting come back as your eyes scan one bureaucratic word vomit page after another.
You're so engrossed in the process of absorbing vital information from the bulky speech figures and long columns of numbers that you nearly miss the sound of the apartment door opening and closing - and the one entering isn't even trying to be subtle about it. Poor door suffers a concussion in its core each time it gets slammed shut by the overly excited to be home individual; then follows the jiggling of keys thrown to their place, two hasty thuds of boots being enthusiastically kicked off, and finally - a dramatic pause. Were you a little less busy, you would've already been at the door, right where one hearty hug awaits, arms opened and everything; maybe you would've made him wait on purpose, just to see a sulky pout of an impatient pup light up with pure inner sunlight by your presence; but you can't just pull yourself away from this very important reading.
So in a minute Johnny peeks around the living room entrance, wary expression immediately replaced with a loving glint in the aquatic eyes at the sight of you. In two strides he is already at the sofa, plopping his ass right next to you and nuzzling the side of your face with one, two - three kisses: to the temple buzzing with brainwork, to the soft cheek and to the corner of your sightly frowned mouth.
"Whit are ye doing there, bonnie? Thought ye fell asleep, didnae even come hug me at th' door," here comes the famous pout, eyes full of betrayal boring straight into your soul in hopes of coaxing more kisses and cuddles. Would've definitely worked.
If not for the bloody headache fussing over this goddamn meeting planted into your skull.
You open your mouth with a sigh, planning to answer him - you're going to hug and kiss him alright, just a second, you just have to finish this paragraph, so wordy and inhumanely written that you almost don't doubt it was done by a real person - to deliberately make every reader's of this file head explode. An efficient way to balance the workforce market.
Soap, however, reads into your frowny silence and immediately smells that something's wrong. And it very much might be his fault - even though he did the dishes, took you to your favourite Italian on the weekend, showed impeccable restraint when a guy at the parking lot ran his mouth at you (that prick was lucky Johnny didn't want to start the date with a fight: "Ye better thank tis guardian angel 'ere fur haudin' me back, or ah'd teach ye a lesson, ye sod," - all said with a firm hand placed on the small of your back while you glared at the mouthy motherfucker), folded the laund- oh shite. It was the laundry, wasn't it?
"Bonnie, ye're nae angry at me, are ye?" Johnny tilts his head, trying to catch a direct glimpse at you, and almost shoves himself between you and your reading, squeezing in more kisses. "Ah'll dae th' laundry, ah promise, must've forgotten-" - you finally blink and emerge from your hyperfocused state, immediately cupping the Scot's worried face and planting a loud smooch on his nose.
"I'm not angry... not at you, at least," you give him an apologetic kiss on his pouty lips and look back down at the paper in your lap. "It's just work. Gotta read all this or I'll be in trouble, boss gave me a really short notice this time. It's like they're trying to set me up... sorry for ignoring you, sunshine."
Initial relief on Johnny's face that showed there when you confirmed he didn't get on your bad side (he did fold the laudry after all, just managed to forget that he did) gets replaced with a concerned look once again. Leaning back a bit, he gauges the stacks of papers laid out on the coffee table in front of you and furrows his full brows.
"'N' how long ye 'ave tae read all tis?" - "The meeting's two days away, morning." You rub your neck with another exasperated sigh, and a much larger hand, warm and calloused, comes up to do it for you, squeezing the sore spots and making you shudder as it forces the knots away. How long have you been sitting here, hunched over the papers?
"Steamin' Jesus, tha's a lot of reading tae dae," he mutters, squinting to try and make something out of the corporate gibberish - and inevitably failing. With a sigh, Johnny reserves to kissing your temple again. "Well, shite, nae lik' ye 'ave much choice, dae ye? Wanntae 'ave pasta fur dinner? Ah'll cook."
With a confirming nod and a grateful grunt from you, already deep in the papers again, he raises from the couch that creaks with relief, but then pauses and sits right back down. His big hand finds its way to your leg, squeezing your knee reassuringly and stopping the jittering with warm, heavy weight. You lift your eyes once again, meeting his bluest ones with a net of crow's feet around them, nothing but warmth towards you. This sight makes breathing, constricted by the pressure put on you by the situation, easier.
"Ye got tis, aye, bonnie? Ah ken ye got tis. Ye gonnae show 'em."
With a pat, meant to gently hammer in this confidence in case you were still worrying and doubting yourself, Johnny finally gets up, and your knee immediately feels cold without his big paw on it.
"Ah'll go start th' dinner, and ye holler if ye need anything, aye? Ah heard snoggin's good fur yer brains."
Of course he did. Bloody rascal with his innocent blue eyes winking at you and calming your wired self down. Well, why refuse such considerate service when offered?
Forged Under the Stars
CW: 1157 words, Dammon x gn!reader, fluff
The cool of the night yields under the relentless burning of several campfires and torches lighting the clearing your celebratory party takes place at, their heat amplified by mulled wine and other drinks generously shared between everyone present. Sitting close to one of the campfires, you quietly observe folks with genuine smiles on their faces that only add to the pleasant warmth in your chest. It's nice, you think, seeing them relax and shrug off the heavy weight of barely avoided danger. They deserve this small moment of peace and quiet among impending doom, and so do you.
Drunken laughter at one of the barrels people gather for the good ale distracts you, your curiousity piqued as you lazily try to make out what caused the whistling and hooting - some brave soul trying to compete against others in absorbing a humongous mug in one go, perhaps? Whatever it is, it keeps your attention long enough for someone to stumble a bit clumsily and seat themself down with a quiet "oof", warm knee nudging your leg in an accidental move before the person straightens up. Snapping your eyes to the right, you can't help the wide smile tugging at your lips.
"Hello to you too, Dammon," you raise your clay mug as a greeting, taking in the view. The blacksmith doesn't look too out of it, but he's clearly tipsy - you aren't surprised, he does give off the impression of someone easily getting lightheaded from a drink or two. Even the warm orange hue of the campfire can't hide cute rosy blush on his cheeks and pointy eartips; neither manages he to conceal a certain glint in his bright glowing eyes.
"Sorry," he mumbles, probably referring to his clumsy landing, but you just shake your head - he didn't even really disturb you, holding up quite well. Same can't be said for everyone: with another glance around, you notice a completely plastered tiefling maiden try and dance with Wyll, who ends up catching her and preventing a fall after fall for the giggling girl. A quiet rustling from behind alerts you, but even without looking you realize it's just Dammon's tail getting restless, usual reserved attitude lifted by ale or whatever he was drinking.
You two sit in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the party and stealing glances at each other, smiles widening and chuckles escaping when you catch each other looking - after one of these accidental eye contacts Dammon and you burst out in particularly loud fits of laughter, leaning forward and shaking your heads. Alcohol makes it so much funnier, fuzzy, pleasant feelings coiling like furry cats in your stomachs.
"Gods above, I haven't laughed like that for a long time," Dammon sits back up and tilts his head back, inhaling fresh night air and watching the night sky. His vision makes the stars shine brighter, and while you watch him instead of the nightsky, you think you see the celestial bodies swirling in his eyes, reflected as if they were a crysral clear lake.
"Not much laughter in Avernus, eh?" Your slightly intoxicated tongue works faster than your brain, and you immediately stutter, cursing yourself for bringing The Descent - of all things, damn it! - up. "Sorry, didn't mean to..."
"It's alright. I know what you meant," Dammon's smile doesn't falter and he tears his gaze away from the sky to look at you. Maybe it's a play of the flickering flame you sit at, but it seems as if his eyes only shine brighter when looking at you. "And you're right, that wasn't... although there was this one time..."
He briefly checks if you're listening and goes off - waving his mug, unusually expressive and talkative, clearly encouraged when you prop your cheek on your palm and listen on. Maybe you don't quite keep up with the amout of terms and unkown words his slurred speech is littered with, but you still laugh, when he puffs his blushing cheeks, reenacting the way some poor apprentice thrown into his forge held a heavy anvil and tried to use it as a hammer when they ran out of those (how does a forge run out of hammers? why yes, of course, when a whole squadron of unprepared for battle soldiers swarms it and takes everything and anything they can use as a weapon. yes, the firepokers too.)
At the sound of your laughter, loud and unbothered, Dammon pauses with his antics and turns back into his shy self, holding his breath and drinking in the sight of you with a surprisingly sober shine to his eyes. Your fit of giggles dies down, when you feel a warm hand on your thigh, barely squeezing, long tiefling claws carfully denting the skin underneath your clothing.
"Thank you," sincerely whispers Dammon, looking at you like you've hung the moon in the skies and lit up the fire in his forge, "for everything. For this night."
He leans in closer, lips slightly parted, something else dancing on the tip of his tongue, something he can't brace himself to say out loud. You smile, covering his palm with yours - his is strong, warm, a hand of someone working hard, rough and with visible burns from accidental sparks scorching through the protective mittens. It startles Dammon, fingers twitching and squeezig a bit harder before he lets go of your leg and moves his eyes away. His ears slowly start glowing brighter, tail swishing behind you and nearly swatting your bum - turns out, it almost coiled around your waits while you two were sitting next to each other.
Unwilling to let his bashfulness to get in the way, you catch Dammon's hand before it slips away and hold it gently, allowing to rest on your thigh again, your fingers almost intertwined.
"I'm glad you're here," there's enough courage in you for the both of you, added in liquid form or coming to you naturally - doesn't matter. Dammon's shy smile grazes his lips once again, and he finally allows his tail to wrap around your seated form, carefully, ready to pull away if you show any signs of discomfort.
You don't.
"I hope we see each other again," with your support, Dammon allows his thoughts to spill out. It's a little bittersweet, a reminder that the celebration will eventually come to an end and you both will have to move on, heavy burdens on both of your shoulders. But maybe, just maybe the knowledge that wherever life chucks you, if there's a forge nearby, you might see a familiar face - maybe that knowledge lifts the weight just a little bit.
After all, this blacksmith has some fine, strong shoulders you can lean on.
If you know anything about the Faerûn traditions, it's that lovespoons are carved out of wood. Unlike that little forged one that you find among your posessions the next morning.
When you buy yourself that unnatural-banana flavoured sweet chewing gum with a transferable tattoo in the pack, you ask Johnny to help you put it on your skin since you want it on the back on your neck (like Lisbeth Salander's wasp tattoo) and it's inconvenient to try and blindly pat it down with a damp cloth to ensure the tattoo transfers fully and doesn't rip.
What you don't take into account is that instead of wasting time and going for a towel he can put under a running tap, Soap just presses the little paper onto your scruff and then gives it a wet lick. Smacks his lips a few times, mutters that it tastes good (Gonnae share yer stash, bonnie? Oi, dinnae be greedy!) and proceeds to lick some more, telling you to quit squirming if you want the tattoo to transfer properly.
He promises to take a picture once the protection layer is removed and the little picture is there, but gets distracted with peppering your neck further with kisses and groping your soft waist and hips from behind.
What can he say, you look good all tatt'd up, bonnie 😌
We were having a chat with my treasure @/killerpancakeburger and I am bringing you this: Soap has thalassophobia and possibly fear of outer space. Well, kind of.
Fear of the Depth
CW: 334 words, Soap fears the deep
He's not downright scared of the ocean and bodies of water, he can swim in the deep sea just fine, he's not afraid to stand on a cliff over the waves. If the mission requires him to dive and he looks down where there's no bottom under his feet, only blue-black darkness, he won't freak out.
But if he lets himself really think about the depth of the ocean and space, all that darkness filled with unbreathable nothingness, he gets an unpleasant feeling in his chest. It's not even the thought of something that could lurk out there, huge beyond comprehension, it's just the vastness of the endless, bottomless sea that no human can really wrap their head around.
Johnny's always a lot. He fills every space he gets into with himself: his broad shoulders, his loud voice, his laughter, his personality. There are always people around him, he's making every room he enters flourish with life. His excitement and emotions gush out of his open chest freely, he's constantly moving.
Feeling small is just inherently foreign to him. It's wrong.
Slowly realising his insignificance, his puny size in comparison to the infinite pit, water everywhere you look, nowhere to rest, nowhere to ground yourself, makes it harder to breathe for him than any sudden shark attack could.
A fight is something he can take on, something exciting, something to occupy his restless mind. A creature, an ancient god, whatever - it's something.
It's getting lost in the endless nothing Soap is scared of.
