making out with johnny, simon’s cock between the both of youOhh yeah. Alternating between his heavy balls and his glistening tip. The older man making nasty comments on how desperate the two of you are acting. “Filthy things, look ‘t you both.” He’d grunt, his mask rolled above his nose. Scarred jaw clenching. His thick hands flexing as they grasp at Johnnys’ and your hair. Oeugghh. cums on both your faces and watches you lap at each other’s faces like a couple of desperate dogs. PRIIIINT.
Summary: You were only meant to write one letter. A gesture of support. But when Soap writes back, it begins a chain of letters.
You never thought anyone would read it.
The paper felt too clean. The words are too stiff.
But you wrote it anyway, one letter, addressed “To any soldier who needs it”
You wrote about the sky that day. The rain on your window. You thanked them for their service. You told them, whoever they were, that you hoped they were safe. And then you signed it.
Sincerely,
Someone who still believes in letters.
You never expected a reply.
Until one arrived a month later.
Dear ‘Someone,’
Didn’t expect a letter like that, not gonna lie. Most mail we get is dull as shite, but yours made me laugh. Real rain-on-the-glass kind of stuff. I liked it. Made things feel a bit more real. Anyway. My name’s John, but everyone calls me Soap. No, I won’t explain why. That’s classified.
Write back? It’s quiet as hell out here when the bullets stop flying.
Yours (sorta),
Soap.
That was how it began.
One letter turned into two. Then three. Then dozens.
You never even saw his face, he never sent a photo, but his handwriting became something sacred. The sharp angles.
The occasional smudge from a dusty glove.
The way he always signed off: “Yours.” Sometimes “Yours, always.”
He was funny. Witty. Crude in places.
But sometimes, something deeper slipped through. Memories of home. Things he’d lost.
The way he’d describe the sky over foreign mountains like it was poetry, even if he claimed he was shit at writing.
And over time, you started writing about yourself too.
The real things. The ache of being alone. Your fears. Your dreams. Your secrets. And he listened, even through ink and distance.
And then… the letters stopped.
A week went by. Then two. Then five.
You checked the mailbox obsessively, fingers trembling every time it was empty.
You told yourself he was fine. That maybe the base moved. That maybe mail was delayed.
But there was a part of you that wondered if he’d died.
If your last letter, the one where you wrote “I think I might be falling for you” in shaky script, had never made it.
It had been two months.
You were on your porch one late afternoon, arms wrapped around yourself, rereading his last letter.
The sky was gray. Your chest felt empty.
And then you heard it.
Boots on gravel.
And there he was.
Soaked in rain. Hair shorter than you'd imagined. A duffel on his shoulder. Drenched, exhausted, and very much alive.
You dropped the letter.
He didn’t say a word at first.
You barely breathed. “J-John?”
A flicker of relief crossed his face. He nodded, once. “It’s me.”
You ran to him before he could say more, arms flying around his shoulders as he dropped the bag and caught you. You were crying. He was shaking.
“I thought y-you…” you choked.
“I didn’t,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m here. I’m okay.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
To really see him. His eyes were tired but they lit up when he saw you.
“I got shot,” he said quietly. “So, I couldn’t write. Thought about it every day, about you.”
You touched his face, breathless. “I d-didn’t even know w-what you looked like.”
He gave you a soft, crooked smile. “Disappointed?”
You laughed through tears. “N-no. Never.”
His hand found your waist, gentle. “You said in your last letter that you were falling for me.”
You nodded, afraid to speak.
“I fell too,” he whispered. “Months ago.”
He kissed you before you could reply.
It was slow. Real. The kind of kiss you only give someone who knows your soul before your face.
When he pulled back, you were smiling.
He brushed your cheek with a calloused thumb. “Write me again?”
You took his hand and pressed it to your heart.
“Stay,” you said softly. “And I’ll say the words in person from now on.”
~Masterlist~
ˇAO3ˇ
Wattpad
/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/
johnny marks you all over with hickeys when two of you are fake dating: (
it's honestly irritating for you because he's gonna do it not only in the calm space of your apartment, but also in public, when you're out eating dinner with him - a part of an "act", too.
"ye want to sell it, aye? 'm a very passionate person," he says, and you have no other choice, but to accept it. you have to pay price for your debt, and the only way to do it is listening to him.
except, johnny knows it and takes advantage of it. he's not even hesitating to claim you in front of everyone that doesn't know about the deal. good guy that looks at you, clearly with a want to talk to you? out.
he starts biting you too:( not very violently, but your fingers becomes a toy for him, as well as your shoulder, where you have his tooth mark that is healing up bc he bit it bloody. he always somehow manages to pull you away from the idea to cover it.
Soap reclined against the back of the metal wall of the plane, eyes dragging from each member of the team until they landed on her. She, oddly enough wasn’t sitting like the others were, contemplating the mission and the risks. In her hands was a small book, about the size of a cigarette holder, perhaps a religious book, but he’d never known her to pray or be religious outright; then again, she wasn’t very open about many things of herself either.
Her eyes drew along the pages, quietly turning them, occasionally shifting with the movement of the plane and he heard lowly, “Keep staring at her like that and she’ll think you like her.”
He fought the urge to roll his eyes and merely retorted, “Would that be such a bad thing, Lt.?”
Ghost chuckled. “She’ll eat your heart out, Soap.”
“If it’s her, that doesn’t sound like a bad way to go.” He shifted his foot and tapped along the ground, loud enough for her to cock an eyebrow to acknowledge the motion. “Whatcha reading?”
She flipped a page. “A book detailing the capture, trials, and deaths of women during the Salem Witch Trials.”
“She’s tryna figure out why they didn’t catch her back then,” Ghost chirped and her eyes rose from the page to meet his, knowing he was smirking behind that stupid mask of his.
“Don’t take the bait,” Price muttered beside her, arms crossed over his chest, and she was almost prepared to let it go. But, she also remembered that Ghost ate the last of her chocolate chip poptarts before they left.
She went back to her book and rattled off, “Ghost can’t play golf. We went to a putt-putt one time and I’ve never seen a man so competent in the art of war be so terrible at hitting a ball.”
Ghost spluttered as Soap snickered.
“He snores like an old dog and drools in his sleep.” She flipped another page. “One time we were on a mission in Baghdad, and he wasn’t paying attention and ran into a wall. Broke his radio from the impact.”
“I did not,” Ghost hissed.
“He cried watching Where The Red Fern Grows.”
“WHO WOULDN’T?!” he snapped. “SHE DIES OF A BROKEN HEART AFTER HER BROTHER!”
“One time he ate a box of fiber bars to recover from a hangover and he shit himself in the middle of the store.”
“Alright! I get it! I’m sorry!” he griped and she smiled to herself as she quieted down and went back to her book.
For a few moments, silence enveloped the group in the plane, then Soap asked, “Did you really shit yourself?”
"You've gotta be kidding me," you muttered, dropping your bags on the floor of the shitty motel room.
This road trip had been a test of your patience right from the start - a flat tire, construction that tacked on seven additional hours to your travel time, a nasty case of food poisoning that turned you green around the gills for a miserable twenty-four hours, and now...this.
You and Soap looked at the only bed in the room - a twin-sized mattress with a dip in the middle. Not exactly a welcoming sight, but it was better than sleeping in the car. Again.
You exchanged a glance with Soap. Just as he took a breath to speak, you beat him to it.
"Dibs!"
"Damn it," he muttered, trudging off to the bathroom in defeat.
In the middle of the night, Soap marched into the room and flopped into bed beside you, snuggling up tight at her side.
"What the fuck are you doing?" you grumbled.
"Tub's too small," Soap mumbled into the back of your neck.
"The bed isn't that much bigger," you pointed out, punctuating your words with an elbow to his ribs.
He chuckled and - undeterred - proceeded to spoon you.
Which you actually enjoyed. Secretly.
But you couldn't let this happen. Soap was your friend. Nothing more. That bubbly feeling in your chest when he was around could not be allowed to bloom into anything bigger than it already was.
"Okay, I guess I'll sleep in the tub," you replied, trying to get out of bed.
Except Soap was like an octopus, with very, very strong arms.
"Quit wiggling, bonnie, and go to sleep."
"I can't do that when you're suffocating me."
He snorted and squeezed you a little tighter, slotting his chin into the crook of your neck and shoulder. You liked the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your back, the comforting rhythm of his breathing, and his body heat. Dear God, he was like a furnace.
This certainly wasn't helping those damn butterflies in your belly...
Somehow, you survived the night. And when the road trip was over, you tried to ignore the pang of disappointment at how empty your bed felt without Soap in it.
A noise woke you around 3am. Your heart lurched in your chest as you sat bolt upright, wondering where you left that baseball bat.
Then Soap shuffled into your bedroom, disgruntled, rumpled, with a crazy case of bedhead, wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a gray t-shirt.
"Jesus, Soap," you gasped with relief. "What the hell? It's the middle of the night. You can't just waltz in here."
"Why not?" he demanded, burrowing into your bed. "You gave me a key, remember?"
"For emergencies."
"Exactly," came Soap's muffled reply as he flung an arm around your middle. "I couldn't sleep. So, it's an emergency."
You sputtered.
"That's not what I meant - "
"Tell me to leave then," he countered.
The way his body molded so perfectly to yours, biceps locked around you, the warmth of his chest against your back, his fingers laced with yours...you couldn't bring yourself to protest.
At your silence, Soap hummed with satisfaction.
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
You simply smiled and wiggled deeper into Soap's embrace. After all, you were getting exactly what you wanted.
a psa for those writing for johnny “soap” mctavish
as much as a love the works you’re all writing, a lot of people really don’t know how to write a scottish character (and that’s ok !!!! we get like no rep so) so as a scottish writer, i figured i should help you guys out a little bit.
dialogue
johnny has a VERYYY strong accent as i’m sure anyone can work out
however this doesn’t mean he’s suddenly speaking a different language
yes, a lot of slang is used and for a basic definition of scottish slang and how they should be used; use this ! if you have no idea of slang i’d recommend reading through every word
although we like to use slang, i can promise you that if we’re with someone that wouldn’t understand a word of it / someone who’s first language isn’t english, we wouldn’t speak fully scot (for example if johnny was speaking to alejandro or rudy)
there’s absolutely nothing to suggest he can speak gaelic. yeah i know this is an obvious one but i have seen a few people slip gaelic into his dialogue and that’s super duper inaccurate
barely anyone in scotland speaks gaelic (unless you’re up very high north or maybe in the isles). it’s actually almost an extinct language because the english pretty much wiped it out when we got colonised.
something i love to see is when he mumbles little scottish things under his breath. accurate af.
we say shite more than shit. and never ever will a scottish person say ass. it’s arse all the way.
we don’t call people (especially if you’re sleeping with someone !!!!) lass. or lassie. we call kids that.
pet names are normally along the lines of love, hen (my personal fave), sweetheart, little lady, bonnie (sometimes)
also, shagging is sex. shag, shagged, shagger. yeah.
mum not mom. maw, more commonly.
all that being said he does use a loottttt of slang so honestly go ham i love seeing scots language get used because it’s not been used in fanfic like ever before
culture
seen a few people write soap going mad for st andrews day
yeah no we don’t to that lol i barely every remember that it’s actually st andrews day
also, we aren’t all completely versed on celtic mythology. i could barely tell you the first thing about it.
in scotland we’re all kind of touchy, like we’ll greet people with a hug and stand weirdly close to each other so if that’s something you’re writing about it’s important to note that our personal space is really small
not sure where people get this idea from but scotland isn’t all sheep and highlands and fairies and like little huts
yes we have that but we’re a really modern nation and wayyy to many people have a weird perception of scotland
my man is literally from like glasgow (his accent sounds glasgow but don’t quote me on that) he’s not a farmer or anything
we swear. a lot.
KILTS. not skirts, very common to wear in scotland to events like weddings, christenings, anything formal really.
cunt isn’t a horrible word i literally everyone a cunt, sometimes it’s used affectionately
misc.
if you’re gonna write about scottish politics i beg you research it. johnnys probably pro independence and an SNP voter. google it for context
we’re really loud. and we talk really fast. yes, other characters are gonna be confused af
irn bru !!!!!!!!! it’s a scottish drink and ive seen one person mention it and i just about cried i loved it
in scotland you can vote at 16 and join the army at 16 if that’s relevant to you
if you’re going to write about something you don’t know anything about, either do research or ask someone scottish (im more than happy to help!!)
please don’t take these as complaints or anything !! it’s just very very off putting to see people make massive misconceptions and conclusions about scotland! i love that we’re finally getting some hype. anyways ask about anything!! <3
This is the COD Masterlist. As shown, it features multiple tabs, each designed to facilitate navigation to the particular story of your choice. Please note that a few are yet to be introduced and updated further. Happy reading, lovelies!
⋆ Simon “Ghost” Riley
⤷ Oh baby, Oh baby
⤷ Princess?
⤷ A Night Too Young
⤷ Stay.
⤷ Hiraeth
