Johnny ‘soap’ MacTavish spoiling his Hyper fem! Reader gf
If there’s anything Soap is good at it’s spoiling you rotten.
He never really felt the need to spend his money on none necessities due to him always being deployed so once you come into his life ever penny which doesn’t pay for food, bills, rent or clothes goes straight to a pink glittery card he had customised for you.
He’s text you during the day to make sure you’re okay if he didn’t see you but at least one new thing with the card.
Why wouldn’t you spend it if he had it for you?
And don’t get me started on when this man is home with you.
Despite being off fighting and saving the country from certain doom, as soon as he walks through that door he is straight to pampering you like you’re a queen. Which you are in his eyes.
Fancy dates, shopping trips, hair and nail appointments, spar days and if you wanna stay in best believe he’s giving you massages while you eat take away he ordered for you, in a face mask while he watches some Reality tv you had started while he was gone. Struggling to not get roped into all the drama and dirt of the show.
“She should leave ‘im. He doesn’t deserve a girl like ‘er.”
CW: Slight dub/non-con (tho they’re both exactly where they want to be, trust me, lmao) Playfighting, Soap being a brat (as always), Gender-neutral!Sex-indifferent!Reader, mild dehumanization, I suppose? (Reader sees Soap’s arousal more as like, a toy to muck about with, if that makes sense.) Light Dom!Reader. Very much sub!Soap. Sort of Mean!Reader. Kinda QPR with Soap? Sorta? Not beta read. No use of y/n.
MDNI 18+
Uhhhh… Something, something Sex neutral!Reader who gives Flatmate!Soap, a boner just to win an argument.
Also apologies I’m a bit rusty lmao.
It started accidentally, with just a playful swat at Johnny’s chest when he was being cheeky and goading you about your favourite team loosing a match, which rather rapidly devolved into you both rolling around your living room, wrestling, laughing and squawking loud enough to drone out the telly, and multiple near misses between both of your foreheads and the overladen coffee table.
Eventually you get the big pillock on his stomach, pinned beneath the breadth of your thighs, witj his arms pulled behind himself, — biceps flexed from the strain, and shoulders arching off the ground — and his wrists trapped beneath your palms against the small of his back. His chest heaves, pushing you up and down with his laboured breaths.
“Ye get all o’tha’ out yer system then?” He slurs. The prick still had enough audacity left to grin, albeit lopsidedly, with the way his cheek was smushed against the surface of your favourite rug, the corse fibres scraping against his stubble in a way that surely could not be comfortable.
“Maybe,” you allow, like a ruler gazing down from their throne. Appraisingly, your fingers flex around his wrists feeling the way the delicate bones shift beneath your hold. They’re probably the most delicate part of his entire body— not that he seems to care at the moment, far more busy squirming around beneath you, trying to twist himself around to look at you to any degree. “Depends,” you squeeze your thighs around his ribs, forcing him still, which from the sound of it, also has the unintended effect of knocking the wind from his lungs in one ragged exhale.
“Depends?” He rasps, “bloody hell— ah let ye win one time and—”
“Let me win?”
“Aye, surely ye dinnae think ye—”
“I got you on your arse fair and square—”
“O’fer the luv’ah Christ— naw ye dinnae—!”
“Did to!“
“Did naw!”
“Did to!”
“Did—!” Before Johnny can get another word in, you rock back on your heels, using your hold on him to arch his spine further, and wind your other arm around the front of his neck. You can feel the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the click suddenly rather loud despite the announcer still droning on about the now inconsequential match. “Fuck…” He gasps, as though you’d just kicked him in the ribs instead. Uselessly his fingers flex, the tensions jumping under your touch.
Oh.
That’s… different. Theres this almost airy lilt to his voice that you’ve never heard before.
It’s enough to get your brow to furrow, especially when paired with how suddenly silent Johnny’s become, no longer even attempting to meet your gaze. You pull your arm tighter where it’s under his jaw, forcing his head back, just to see if he’ll do it again.
A noise that you can only describe as a whine, however tentatively, falls from his lips, bitten and clipped, still half caught in his throat. This newfound angle gives you a brilliant view of his face as it goes positively crimson.
Oh.
Oh.
Fuck. That’s why he’s picking fights?
You can’t help the snort you make, much to Johnny’s apparent mortification, based on the way he reddens even further.
“Seriously?”
“Ah cannae help it!” He snaps, squeezing his eyes shut so tight that it’ll surely give him a headache.
Of course you knew Johnny was a bit of a randy mutt, you’ve seen him stiff around the poor sods sitting by themselves bar side on pub night— but, Christ, this is a new low, even by his low, low standards.
“You’re a sad specimen, MacTavish.” How could someone be so desperate for it that even just getting thrown around made them worked up?
“O’ away an’ — Shite —” despite your words, it doesn’t stop you from flexing your arm around his neck again. His hips twitch forwards, rolling against the floor, before flinching back, jostling you, and he tenses like he can’t decide which direction’s worse, “bile yer head, ye minging bastard.” Somehow you think this is making him more breathless than the scuffle did. His brogue thickens as he delves eagerly into cursing you, and your entire lineage out. Not that you can understand a lick of it after a certain point.
It becomes a game, almost, of you finding new ways to poke and prod at him as he gets increasingly worked up, just trying to see what sort of reactions you can stir from him from where.
Stroking down his strong back elicits a shiver, grazing the pads of your fingers along his exposed skin from where it had risen up in the scuffle has him squirming, dragging your nails across it earns you a grunt. You even try tugging at his hair, threading your fingers in deep, and pulling, letting out a laugh in delight as he lets out a louder whine, interrupting himself mid sentence.
He doesn’t ask you to stop, even in the deepest part of his rant about how you’re the worst mate ever, just kicks his leg back, fruitlessly trying to dethrone you, even though you’ve long since let go of his hands.
“Fuck— Jus’…” Johnny lets out a low sound of frustration and drops his head forwards limply, pressing his chin into your arm, “please,” he huffs.
Hm. “Again,” you say with a chuckle, just to see if he will.
“Please,” Johnny begs, as though something, anything would do, his body finally falling still under you.
“… Fine, fine,” you relent, releasing him and rolling off with a grunt, landing on your back beside him with a dull thud.
There’s a dark stain on the ceiling from when he had snuck up behind you one evening, and startled you so hard you sloshed wine up onto it, and all over him. Had taken a couple hours to clean it all up, or well, most of it, apparently.
Johnny makes a rough, wounded noise, and lets his head fall, knocking harmlessly off the carpet. “Yer the fuckin’ worse, ye ken,” surely its supposed to be an admonishment, but he sounds far too sulky for it to contain any proper bite.
You grunt noncommittally, and try not to smirk too hard when Johnny pushes himself up, unable to meet your eyes; your own reflexively darting to the tent pitched in his trousers, as he does the loser’s skulk of shame off to his bedroom to take care of it, sure to emerge later pissy and angling for another spat.
Worth it.
Hullo. I’m not dead, lmao. Just been super busy for the last few months.
This was supposed to be a lil’ practice free use handjob blurb feat. Soap, but uhhhh, it got away from me as usual, clearly.
Anyway— I just got Baldur’s Gate 3 thanks to the steam summer sale, and I am enjoying it immensely (I’m only forty hours in and not even out of act one yet, and 100% recommend it to anyone who hasn’t tried it yet.) But despite my love for Wyll, I promise I’m not ditching the boys.
I may however, be stuffing them into some fantasy settings. :3
Also!!! Thank you so much, to the person who sent me a writing request a while back, I did see it and I am working on it— I just got stuck on a scene, but I promise ima try to figure it out ^w^
A/N : no warnings on this one apart from reader's attempt at teasing soap, him making a potentially offensive joke at one point in the story, just fluff
part one masterlist read it on ao3
It all started when you sent him a picture of the evening sky taken from your balcony with the caption: "had a shitty day, but look, at least the sky is pretty!"
He also had a shitty day, but the sky wasn't pretty where he had been stationed for the past three days. He couldn't see it most of the time because of the thick smoke from the nearby forest that had been burning, and when that didn't happen, it was filled with grey clouds.
In any case, he couldn't risk sending you a picture of his surroundings and potentially compromising their location. But he couldn't leave you on seen either. Or send a Like emoji, as Price usually did whenever Soap sent a cat meme in their group chat.
He had just returned from a patrol and didn't manage to take all his gear off, so he took a quick selfie of himself in his tactical vest. He didn't even bother to wash the war camo stripes from his face, as, in his humble opinion, it only added more atmosphere to the picture.
He might have forgotten he didn't have to try to impress you with tough-faced pictures. You already lived with him and saw him on a daily basis, when he was in London at least. You had already seen his deflated mohawk after a morning of sleeping in, so you probably wouldn't even be impressed by how puffed up it was even after a couple of hours of wearing a helmet.
Nonetheless, he spent the following minute staring at the bubbles that appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again, and grinned. Maybe he did surprise you after all.
"prettiest thing in your area, I assume?"
If he concentrated well enough, he could imagine the smirk plastered to your face as you stared at your phone, waiting for his answer. You were still reserved about openly teasing him face-to-face, jabs at his Scottish accent excluded, but he had noticed you grew bolder in text.
It was not like he wasn't enjoying it. He could be a real menace when he wanted to. And after all, it takes two to tango.
"am I prettier than your evening sky?"
This time, your reply was instant.
"negative."
And there you were, still persistent in speaking his language. Maybe you were trying to win him over with all these efforts? The thought of learning some corporate terms just to tick you off suddenly became very attractive.
"did i use it in the right context? That's how you say no in the army, right?"
"a fancy way, yes"
"roger that, soldier. what is your rank in the army anyway?"
"that's classified, bonnie"
"fine, keep your secrets while you can."
"i'm sorry, was that a threat?"
"would it sound like a cliche if i said it was more of a promise?"
"Sergeant, quit grinning like a schoolboy and get your ass to debrief!"
Ghost was quick to bring him back to reality, standing still in the doorway and glaring in his direction beneath the hardened skull mask.
"Who are you texting anyway? 's there someone we should know about?
Soap rolled his eyes at Simon's unusually expressive tone and tilted his head towards him, giving him the sliest smirk he could muster:
"Don't be jealous, LT, you've still got me for at least a week."
If looks could be weaponised, Soap would be Ghost's knife practice target, apple on his head and all that. But he was used to his Lieutenant's sharp stare, and he felt particularly brave that evening. And pretty. So he returned his attention to his phone and sent you one last text:
"gotta go, duty calls"
"copy that, watch your six, Y/N out!"
If Ghost noticed the dumb smirk plastered om Johnny's face, as he trailed behind him to the debrief, he didn't let it show. He knew that if he gave him enough time, Soap would tell him everything he wanted to know before the week was over.
***
bonus:
Your life certainly wasn't a movie or a book, but the beautiful sunsets in the most mundane places were a cliché that never ceased to amaze you.
During the past month, you had witnessed enough beautiful sunsets that you sent Johnny sky pictures almost on a daily basis. And, while his phone gallery was filled with pink skies, you had started to amass a collection of poorly taken selfies of him in his military gear. Not that you would let him know of your opinion, it was clear he tried his hardest to look tough and smug in most of them, that you secretly found it adorable.
So when you sent him another breathtaking picture of the sky taken from your office, with the caption "friday yey-day, i'm drained. can you spot the bone-shaped cloud, btw?", you did not expect to see him leave you on seen. He either couldn't take a picture, or he was trying hard to pose for one.
You almost forgot about it during the commute, too focused on not falling asleep and missing your station. And when your phone eventually vibrated in your hands, you were too busy making your way off the crowded bus, physically pushing people away to get out. Your energy levels were dropping way faster than your phone battery, and your phone was already at least three years old.
So you only noticed Johnny's reply in the elevator, where the picture could not load due to the faulty internet connection.
When it finally did, you stopped in your tracks in front of the door, hand frozen on the keys. Your roommate had sent another selfie, as you'd expected of him, but the pink sky backdrop was oddly similar to the one you had just sent him. Up to that rectangular cloud that looked more bone-shaped than ever. It was almost suspicious how well it fit into the picture alongside his beaming figure.
You unlocked the door and stepped into the living room. The puzzle pieces in your head finally fell into place when you saw a familiar pair of boots next to your shoes. Feeling the warm smile that spread to your face, you shook your head and raised an expectant gaze towards the balcony, and there he was, half-leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed on his chest. His brow furrowed as he set eyes on your weary figure.
"Looks like someone's been in the trenches."
You shook your head in resignation as you tried to give him a reassuring smile while taking off your shoes:
"Not to disrespect your line of work, but try to spend your entire day talking to middle-aged men about what's basically numbers on a screen, and you'd sympathise more."
"Well, in my line of work, we either listen to those men or shoot at them."
His reply took you by surprise as you raised your head in his direction, only to see him widen his eyes in alarm. The couple of seconds he spent waiting for your reaction felt as though he was waiting for the proverbial axe to fall - did he take it too far? That was what happened when he spent too much time in Ghost's company - his dry humour had finally started rubbing off on him as well.
But his shoulders sagged in relief as he realised you had covered your mouth with your hands in a failed attempt to refrain from laughing too hard. Your cheeks were still red when you went to him and enveloped him in a half-hug, patting his back with your left hand:
"It's good to see you, Johnny!"
Soap's brain stopped functioning for a split second as he took in yet another warm welcome from you. He'd lie if he said he couldn't get used to it.
"Ye should make yerself comfortable, lass" he smiled at you and dragged one of the balcony chairs. "I'll be back in a jiffy!"
With that, Soap hurried into the kitchen and dumped the ramen seasoning on top of the noodles that were already boiling. He'd followed the steps on the ramen packs religiously, and all that was left was to bring the steaming pot to the outdoor table.
But as he turned toward the balcony, he stopped in his tracks, wide eyes gazing at your sleeping figure, all splayed over the balcony chair. Your head was lolling to the side, with your face partially covered by your hair and mouth hanging half-open.
He struggled to silence his chuckles as he carefully set down the boiling pot. Instead, he retrieved his phone and opened the camera app, trying to capture as much of the evening sky as he could, with you sleeping soundly in the foreground.
That picture was definitely going on the fridge alongside the two silly selfies he'd sent you and that you had already printed out.
