surreal/psychological horror + Soap where you agree to house sit for a coworker when they take off for a vacation. but a man shows up and tells you he's supposed to be staying there too.
their son, he shrugs. came home on leave from the military. crashin' here. thought mam might'a said somethin'.
she didn't, but it's fine. and he's harmless. sort of. maybe. you're not sure, really. because he's a little pushy. has a wild temper that ebbs and flows at intervals you can't really keep up with. tempestuous. mercurial. but he makes dinner. he tells you about what he did—not all of it, but some. like why he was sent home as he gestures to the raw scar on his temple.
need some tlc, he quips with a sharp grin. and lucky him because he found the prettiest little doe waitin' fer him.
harmless. a soldier. you can trust that, right?
but he stares at you with a naked hunger, like he wants to eat you alive. but it's gone when you really look. and sometimes, things go missing. your clothes. panties. odd stuff around the house. he hides the newspaper in the trash before you can see it. says the cable is out on the television—Netflix only. no news. he can't—he can't bare to see it. trauma. you wouldn't put him through that, would you, doe? no. you're a good girl. the best.
(at night, asleep. a nightmare; his rough voice in your ear: his good girl. so good for him. so wet—)
and it's just three weeks.
you'll be fine.
(—even though you taste him in the morning. on your lips. your tongue. the back of your throat. salty, bitter. but—there's a pack of salted licorice on the table. fifteen pieces, it reads. maybe you ate them. fuck, got such a pretty mouth, doe. you count each piece. gonna make me cum. fifteen. it's fine. it's fine. there's an ache between your thighs. a tenderness you lie to yourself about as you ignore the stickiness pooling in the gusset of your panties. fuck, doe, ahm gonna—)
absolutely fine.
until your coworker calls after finally getting cell reception. chatting in your ear about her vacation. normal. totally normal. and her son? you tell her. he's been a real help around the house, too (but she should maybe talk to him about sneaking into your bedroom at night because that's so weird, it's so strange; you don't want to wake up to a man staring at you in the dark, or catch the scent of sage on your pillow anymore, the lingering heat—please tell him to stop doing that because when you do, he just gets a weird look on his face like you're the problem, and it's just all so—)
"what son? we don't—we don't have a son—"
the phone line cutting out doesn't really surprise you. and neither does the creak of the floorboards. the solid weight of a chest against your back. the press of metal. a warm, firm palm folding over your throat, anchoring you in place.
a soft, mournful coo:
"ah really didnae want ye tae find out like th', doe. ah thought we had time together." his hand tightens. breath heavy, ragged against the shell of your ear. "but we gotta go, doe. it's time for us tae leave—"
(maybe you should have pushed back harder against letting him hide the paper, or barring you from watching the news. you might have seen a familiar face.)
Fate - nothing else could have explained the two of them being in the same park in the middle of Germany. He’d gone there to escape her memory. She’d been carrying him with her wherever she went. Shayne could still feel the sensation of breathlessness he’d felt when he first saw her, the mixture of disbelief and elation that threatened to silence his voice as he’d tried to call her name.
Even now, today, in this park, she still took his breath. “She loves the park,” he whispered. Dinah smiled at their daughter. “So do I,” she whispered, “especially with you.”
What if Maxie Jones fell in love with Harrison Chase? What if Sonny Corinthos finally got a vasectomy? What if Steffy Forrester opened her own fashion house? What if Kate Roberts met Victor Newman and was determined to become his next wife, consequences be damned? What if...?
Yes, there are so many storyline possibilities on the soaps. This is, after all, a genre where literally anything can happen: aliens come down to Earth, people return from the dead, the devil possesses the sainted town matriarch, and more than one family relative suffers from multiple personalities.
And if you're like me, then you have probably imagined a hundred and one different storylines you would love to see play out on your favorite show. Well, now is your chance to share some of those ideas while spreading some much-needed positivity in the fanbase too!
I am inviting all soap fans to check out Soap Drabbles, a new fanfiction challenge where you get to decide what happens on your favorite show! Will you reunite your favorite couple, break up another one, kill off someone in a tragic car accident, and reveal it was the evil twin whodunnit? You have the storytelling power in your pen - or should I say, laptop, phone, etc.?
We're officially launching Monday, February 19th, but I invite you to come and see what we're all about now. Please help spread the word!
gimme soap x reader in a lifetime-esque thriller where you marry a guy you barely know to escape a crazy stalker that keeps getting bolder and scarier, only for your husband to end up killed after a hit and run several months after your wedding, leaving you utterly alone in the middle of nowhere.
at least until a man shows up claiming to be his younger brother.
he's a little strange, but he seems strong. dependable. and when he tells you he's in the military, you relax. because he seems more than capable enough to do something about a creepy guy who broke into your house and left a wedding dress on your bed, prompting this vegas wedding to begin with. he'll protect you—so long as you don't go into his room. a caveat you have to respect considerating this used to be his childhood home, too.
so you do. and it's easy. all of it is so—easy. he just seems to know everything about you. to get you in a way no one else ever has. and it's flattering, being at the mercy of such an intense man's interest. a little wrong, but—
"he'd have wanted th'." he tells you, eyes bright. feverish. "he'd have wanted what was best fer ye." and you have to believe it. you let yourself believe it.
until the lead detective on the case tells you that your husband was an only child.
piggybacking off of @ceilidho 's dog soap idea with something awful lmao
You first notice it when you catch him staring at you from the crack of your bedroom door.
He's sitting in the dimly lit hallway, only half of his face peering into the sliver of space between the white wood of the door and the frame. Just—
Watching.
In the bluegreen glow of the flickering screen (Robert Stack paces down a blue hallway, bathed in that hazy, neon glow of early 80s television), he looks more like a lurking shadow than an animal. Eyes dark, and glinting in the soft light like the surface of a placid lake. You think of the dangers lurking beneath the murk when his muzzle dips, the slow refocus of an apex predator acclimating to a sudden change by its prey. The motion almost entire too human, and—
Not.
Not at all. It rides a razor's edge between anthropomorphism and the uncanny valley; the middle a strange, unfathomable realm of eerie discomfort. Something is wrong. The notion prickles against the nape of your neck. Crawls slowly down your back, the spindled gait of a languid spider tickling your skin as it walks over your flesh.
Something is wrong with your dog.
He was fine ten minutes ago. Had his dinner. Went for his walk. You were lazing on the bed flipping through the channels when his ears perked up, head pointed toward the back door.
You didn't think much about it. He had to go. Maybe he heard a rodent rummaging in your garbage. You slipped out of bed, his soft, fuzzy body sliding against your calves as you walked him to the patio, pulling it open and letting him out. He seemed to hesitate at the threshold, though. And while it didn't stand out to you then, it does now. He froze, ears pinning back, flat to his skull, as his fur lifted. Raising high in the air. A whine slipping out—
There was a rustle in the bush. A low noise. A growl. It was probably just the other dog sniffing along the fence, you thought. Your neighbours husky. He placed one paw on the deck, and then turned to you, eyes wet and glossy in the flushed porch light, and—
(and he looked so scared.)
Your breath hitches. Heart twisting in your chest. He's still staring at you from the hall. Unblinking. Expression wild. Wide. Pinning you with his stare. But he's panting. Chest expanding as it heaves through it's snout in quick, shallow breaths. Maybe the other dog scared it. Maybe the husky bit it's paw through the fence. You should check on it—
Him.
Check on him.
He went outside after a moment. Tail flattened between his legs. Drawn toward something you couldn't see, couldn't hear. And you turned around with a smile, waving him off as you walked back to bed. And now—
It's—his—lip curls.
He's never so much as bitten you much less—snarled. The suddenness of it paralyses you. Roots you to bed. Useless and unable to do anything as your dog, your baby boy, lifts his muzzle up with a growl, long, sharp canines dripping red—
"Baby?"
It's a warble when it slips out. Shaky. Scared. The sound of voice makes the dog drop his jowls, cherryred tongue lulling out. Pink, foamy drool spilling to the ground as he pants. His teeth look sharper than they did before. You brush them every night before bed, cooing at him as you scrub his canines clean. Singing some off-key song about dogs and their pretty teeth. He watches you with nothing short of adoration etched into his big, brown eyes. Wide and so trusting, so loving—
It's a harsh juxtaposition to how he looks at you now. Hungrily. Like a starving lion looming over a tired, sickly gazelle. Tongue out, jaws dripping with saliva. Your heart lurches.
"Baby?" You call again and he huffs. The rough noise filling the room, echoing through the hall. Deeper, somehow, than the snarl on his lips. The halfbitten growl booming in his heaving chest. You curl your legs inward under the covers, drawing them tight to your chest as he blinks, slow. Languid. As his lips split wider, wider, and for a moment, you almost trick yourself into seeing a maniacal grin pushing at the corners. Frenzied and full of teeth.
But the lake ripples, and the thought is tucked away. Hidden under a blanket of numbness that spreads, mushrooming over your thoughts. Cobwebbing over the unease that saturates your mind; tiny fangs of a spider piercing through, liquifying them.
He keeps his eyes pinned on you, mouth open wide with his tongue out the side of jaw, and slowly raises himself off of the floor. It's something you've seen him do hundreds of times. Agile flicks. A big stretch. A yawn. A shake.
You wait for it. And wait. Wait—
Something cools on your cheek. Wet, sticky. You don't have to reach up to know that it's tears. They roll down in an endless stream, cold against your frozen face. Unable to move as your mind bends, and bends, but refuses to break. To snap. Shatter. To admit that what you're seeing is real.
That he doesn't shake. He doesn't yawn. He jerks. He twists. Unfamiliar, you think. Like he isn't used to moving with a body this shape. Distorted. Wrong. It snaps. It twitches. He hunches over with his spine bowed and his head slung between his thick front legs, low to the ground but his eyes—
His eyes are on you.
Pinning you down. Glowing in the artificial blue light.
You can't watch him move. Try to walk. It'll skewer through the molasses you let trickle over your fear, curdling in your belly like sour milk. You drag your gaze away from his jerking gait instead, staring, unseeingly, at the television as he limbers onto the bed.
You can smell something on him when he moves close. Rot, you think. Ozone. Pine. Dead leaves. The wet, mossy bark of a fallen tree. Blood. Bad meat.
He looms over you. Snout inches from your cheekbone. The puff of his ragged breath glues uncomfortably to the sticky tears on your face. The air that rattles in and out of his lungs is uneven. Choppy. Inhale too deep. Exhale too shallow. It morphs into snarling rataplan. In-in, out. Inout. In, ininin, out.
Your eyes burn. If your heart beats any harder, any faster, you think you might go into shock. Cardiac arrest. Killed by—
Fear.
That there's blood on his muzzle. You smell it when he leans in close, snout pressing cold and slimy against your cheek.
You're not sure why you do it. Muscle memory, maybe. But your hand lifts. Falls to his head. Nails scratching through matted, oily fur.
He's still staring at you. Whale-eyed. Something inside you whispers not to look. That if you turn your head, all the things hidden under the silk web will bubble to the surface. Things like—
He's big. Too big. Your growing boy.
He smells. He reeks. Got into the garbage again.
He's acting strange. Wrong. He's just scared.
He's going to eat you alive. You love him.
This thing isn't your dog—
He swings his head toward you suddenly, maw open wide, peeling back from those sharp, stained teeth; tongue lulling out—oh god, oh god—and he licks your cheek.
Panic bubbles out of your throat in the shape of a laugh. A giggle. You're going crazy, you think. Hysterical. But you let him lick your face, swiping his too hot tongue over the tears on your cheek. Your nose. Licking into the corners of your eyes. Over your forehead, chin. Jaw.
Its only when his muzzle slides up to your lips do you flinch back. Pull away. "No. N—no. Bad bad. Go—go to sleep, baby."
He huffs, and you stare—resolute, empty—at the blankets when he drops his head down, licking slowly at your rabbiting pulse. Teeth grazing the soft skin of your neck. Nibbling, pinching with his sharp incisors. The gossamer falls. The sheet is pulled back.
The thing stares at you with a hideous, devastating want on its borrowed face. Primordial. Archiac. It's hunger. It's greed. Its a lamb in the lion's den. And you—
You pull the sheet back up. Slowly slide back to the pillows below. Eyes fixed on the ceiling as he looms over you. Your baby boy. There's a huff. A quiet exhale through its nose, and then you feel it move. Twisting. Turning. Curling up against your side, body supine and made of strong, hard muscle. The rough scrape of its fur feels like a beard. Coarse. Wry. Spread out and matted down against its canine body. Burning like a furnace. Reeking of brimstone.
As he settles in his spot, resting his heavy head on your belly (possessively—owner, pet; the lines blur as he flicks his gaze toward you, watchful now and still as heavy, dizzyingly intense as before), you lay awake staring at the ceiling. It'll pass in the morning, you think. He must have eaten something bad. Got into the garbage again. You'll take him to the vet, maybe.
(leave him there—)
He's fine. He's just a little sick, is all. Agitated. It's going to storm tonight. He can feel it in the air. In his joints. Everything will be fine—
Outside, something yowls. The patio door rattles.
Scratch, scratch, scratch—
He huffs, lifting his head with a small snarl pulling on his waxy muzzle. Eyes narrowing into slits. Glaring into the hallway. To the patio.
"Easy, baby," you quaver, and curl your hands into his damp fur. "It's just the wind. It's just the wind—"
Another huff. It sounds rougher this time. Deeper. Masculine. Human.
When he settles back against you, you feel bare skin sliding along your thigh, and realise that the nightmare has just begun.
"Baby? Could get used tae tha'. Are ye gonnae ca' me a good boy too?"
Reader take dog soap to a vet but get this- ONE OF THE BOYS IS THE VET
Reader crying and not understanding what's wrong with the dog and simon/kyle/price is there like "nah it's normal, just try spending more time with him"
it's a small town too so everything is "travel-based." travelling doctors. nurses. plumbers. the vet comes by once a month and lives two hours away. but you need someone to see him now before he eats you alive and a local in your town tells you about this guy they know. you're still in denial about what happened, still clinging to the idea that you'll wake up to Baby wagging his tail and waiting to go on a walk. so you give it a shot. it really can't get any worse than this, right?
when you show up, the guy takes one look at the dog and just breathes heavily through his nose.
"he's fine," he grunts, despite sparing a glance at it that lasted only a fraction of a second. "a little scared, is all. needs some love and he'll be fine."
this version of love turns out to be meat. raw meat, specifically. if you don't have the stomach for it, he tells you to let him out to hunt on his own. and affection. physical contact. says something scared your dog. he's anxious. he just needs some TLC and he'll be fine.
makes everything out to be your fault—as if you haven't had Baby for years now.
you're not acting like yourself, he says as if you both weren't pretending this dogthing wearing Baby's skin wasn't the problem. just cuddle him like you used to, and everything will be fine.
(except—it isn't. but you think he knew that when he sent you off with something to take the edge off. pulling you aside before you left, and saying: "they're for you, not it.")
omg if you could, would you please write literally anything about soap?? If not then would you possibly write some jealous ghost? (,,: maybe the reader and Soap are really close and fuck around together and ghost just watches from a distance until it's taken a little too far and he does something drastic ? Reader and Soap are goofing around and end up in a compromising position and ghost just yanks them apart and at first they're like "that was so unprofessional I'm in trouble oh no" but it turns out ghost was just enraged with jealousy lmaoo
i absolutely write for Soap (and Price, and Alejandro, and Gaz, and "Alex"... honestly, all these COD boys got me simpin something fierce).
i'm so sorry this took so long—i had a lot of ideas about Soap, but i mostly wanted two pining idiots in a pub! i tried to add elements of the Ghost request as well (messing around, blink and you'll miss it Ghost jealousy), but i really just enjoyed that almost comfortably claustrophobic feeling you get when you're with someone who ensnares your full attention until everything just completely goes away. that "oh, are we still in public?" dazed feeling.
i really hope you enjoy this! 🖤
tw: none, mostly just fluff and banter; gratuitous use of Scottish slang
Ghost’s Version
He slides you a glass filled with amber, eyes dancing in the low, golden glow of the pub. Fairy lights. They catch on the green in his irises; a boscage in hazel.
There is something warm in the air—the taste of victory, of scotch (Price insists, buys two bottles, and offers up Maduro cigars to anyone who looks at him)—and you cling to it, wrapping your hands around this feeling, and tucking it close to your thudding heart. It's comforting.
Everyone is together again. Price knocking his hand against Gaz's shoulder, loudly telling anyone who'll listen about the time the kid was hangin' out a helo. Fuckin' nutter. Laswell nursing a glass, pad in her hands. Ghost beside her, eyes drawn to the names of men you'll eventually have to go after flashing in his dark eyes.
Gaz shoots you a glance. Help me, it says.
Your return smile, a wave. No way.
If you get close to Price now, you'll never get loose. You'll end up walking away with the taste of a battle on your tongue, scotch in your belly, and cigar smoke clotting inside your lungs. He always leaves you feeling dazed, whiplash sick.
It's best to avoid your captain when his voice is a raw scrape, a wheeze, after yelling in the trenches for so long.
It might, of course, be said bottles of scotch that permeate inside of you; a low heat in your belly. You feel giddy with it.
"A'right, bonnie?" His voice is a thick fog in the morning. A blanket of white over the pastures. Sun peeking through.
"Aye," you murmur, riding a very thin line between that confidence only being a shade away from drunk can bring, and coy—coquettish. Teasing. It's been like this all night.
(Maybe even longer—ever since he knocked his knuckles to your shoulder, bottom lip between his teeth to stem a grin, and said, not bad for a bonnie lass.)
Soap's hand jerks. The glass scratches across the tabletop.
"Oh, aye?" He thickens his accent, lets the twang of the highlands congeal in the space between you.
"That's it, bonnie."
He's close—leather, plastic; he smells of polymer and oak—and the flecks of caramel in his eyes remind you of the sun. So close, you can feel the rays scorch your cheeks when he leans in, when his white teeth flash, blinding, in your periphery.
"That right?"
"We'll make a Scot out of you, yet."
It happens in between everything.
A break in the clouds between rainfall—turadh.
That's how most things happen with Soap, you find. Small moments here or there; little snippets. They stack up slowly, a steadily filling dam until the levee begins to crack, and crumble.
It spills over; a splash. A lull.
He's meant to be teaching you cuss words that you can hurtle at your enemies, or a secret language meant for the two of you if you'd ever gotten into a tight spot together. Maybe, even a way to annoy your Lieutenant. It's slipped in somehow—between it’s a dreich day and whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye! —and sits heavy in your chest.
Turadh.
(Is there even a word out there more beautiful?)
His chin is pointed up toward the arching ceiling when he mutters it softly, a ghost, perhaps, from his childhood. It slips out like it wasn't meant to. Like it was lost somewhere in his mind, his memories, and slowly buoyed the surface, captured between trembling hands. A forgotten piece of home dipped in the evanescence of nostalgia.
It feels like the end of a storm when his eyes drift to you. A crooked smile pulls at the corners of his mouth.
"Heard it from me granny," he says, shrugging, bashful. "Heard a lot more than that, too. Cussed like a sailor."
He says nothing more. His past, like most of the men whose company you keep, is a secret. Held tight to the chest under a thick bulletproof vest. Untouchable. Unreachable.
Your fingers itch all the same.
"She definitely raised you well."
"Is that an insult?"
You flash a light smile his way. "If I wanted to insult you, I'd call your haircut naff."
"Cheeky little—," Soap huffs. "No one appreciates the mohawk anymore."
"Did they ever?"
He leans down, eyes honeycomb golden in the gloaming, and smells of alder and wych elm. "I happen to think so."
The fissure splits. Water leaks. You wonder if he'd taste of the highlands.
"You happen to think a lot of things," tremulous words, barely above a whisper, slip from the seam of your wobbling lips. "Doesn't mean any of them are right."
"We'll see, bonnie." He motions for you to take your drink. "I'm sure you'll find I'm always right."
"Is the clause in that always ironclad?"
"Aye, and you best know it, lass."
Another word is learned— fadachd —when he smiles at you; a soft crook of his lips, shadows catching on the jut of his mouth. His eyes are warm honey; molasses. If you stare too long, you think you might just get stuck.
A shudder, then, rolls through you.
(You've had worse ideas, really.)
"You're not teaching me the good stuff," you pout, thumb brushing over the curve of the cup, dragging through the impression of your mouth left on the rim.
"I'm not much of a teacher," he shrugs, bringing his glass to his lips.
Your throat is dry. Eyes locked on the way his Adam's apple buoys with his swallows; on the smooth column of his neck, on the stubble that falls beneath his chin, jaws.
You can't look away quick enough when he turns to you. His eyes burn into yours. The glass clinks against the table.
"What do you want to learn?"
"Everything—," you choke, fingers curling over the cup. "I—I mean… what are some, y'know, stuff I can use on a date."
His voice is thick, raw from the alcohol he drank. "A date?"
You nod. The glass is cool against your palm. You bring it to your lips, and let the sharp liquid sit on your tongue.
"With who?"
You mimic his shrug, swallowing. His eyes are on you. You try not to tremble.
"Anyone. Just—," your voice is a rasp; a shade under a whisper.
You take another swig—liquid courage—and try not to grimace. The alcohol burns through you.
(His eyes are suns. Dizzying. Blinding.)
When you turn to him, you flash a slow grin; eyes lidded. Teasing. Kittenish. You feel a little bit like an imposter. "How do I get myself a Scottish man?"
You can see him swallow. Hear the click in his throat.
Beside his sternum, you watch his vein tick. Wonder, dazed, what it would be like to sink your teeth into his skin. To mark him as yours for the world to see.
Soap— Johnny —MacTavish: all yours.
You shiver.
"A Scottish man, aye?"
"Well, if you teach me right, I'll know how to seduce one."
His elbow rests on the tacky tabletop, knuckles pressed into his chin. He leans over you until all you can see is him.
"And if I teach you wrong?"
In the triangle of his arm and jaw, you find Ghost in the corner—sitting beside Price and Laswell (you wonder, for a moment, if any of them ever really stop) as they pour over documents—and tip your chin toward him.
"I might end up with an Englishman."
Soap raises his head, peering over his shoulder. He pauses for a moment, eyes darting between his Captain and Lieutenant.
It's satisfying to hear him huff through his nose. A heavy exhale. You wonder if he's jealous.
It makes you think of Madrid. Of that stunning woman draped in Chantilly.
Aye, lass. It was a pleasure to meet you.
You turn to your glass, mulling over what he might say in response, your comeback, but his grip on the glass catches your eye.
His knuckles are white. Nails red, flat against the surface.
"Soap—"
He turns back to you. The tight grip around the glass eases.
When he smiles, it feels like a cloud cover, hiding away the blaze. "Lt? Might be good for him."
"Yeah…" you murmur, words quiet in your slurred panic. You don't know how to salvage this. The teasing, the banter—it was bordering on flirting, and now—
Distance.
He's just Soap. And you're just you.
(Aye, lass—)
It stings. Prickles between your ribs and your heart, and the ache of it makes the alcohol in your gut churn.
"I doubt he'd go for it."
"What? He's been keekin' you all night." There is a divot between his brow. When he turns his head, the fairy lights behind make his stubble look darker. "Yer aff yer heid!"
You blink, a small smile growing. "D'unno that one, yet, professor."
"It means: you're talking rubbish. He can't stop lookin' at you."
He enunciates the words for you, even adapts a spiteful English accent to go with it, but it's the burn in his gaze that makes you feel like you're floating. Bubbly and light and reaching for the stratosphere.
You don't want to lose this.
(The ever in that is ironclad.)
"How do you say I'm drunk?"
Soap shakes his head, tension dissipating. It's a relief when humour cuts into his grin. "Too many ways to count, lass."
"C'mon," you slide forward on the barstool, elbows perched on the table, palms cupping your warm cheeks. They feel blistered, sunkissed. "Just one? It'll even be the chef's choice."
"Oh, aye?" He mimics your pose, leaving only one hand to grasp the glass between his palm. He rolls it between his thumb and fingers for a moment, eyes downcast as he thinks. "Yer mad wae' it."
You roll the words around your tongue. "Mad with it?"
"Aye."
"I like it."
"Are you?"
"Am I…?"
"Mad wae it?"
"Just a little…"
Soap levels you with a look that knocks the wind from your lungs. "You're blootered, bonnie."
"Awa' an bile yer heid!"
Something sits in his brow at the sharp words that spill, unpractised, from your lips. A rumble in the distance warning of approaching rain.
You think the deluge might drown you.
"Careful, bonnie," his breath smells of scotch. Tastes like a sunburn. "You might just bite off more than you can chew."
The burn of the alcohol does little to abate the itch in your throat.
"Bonnie," you murmur, numb. You can't hear much past the thudding in your chest. "Why'd you call me bonnie?"
(Aye, lass—
Bonnie. Bonnie. Bonnie—)
His head drops when he huffs, a soft laugh spilling—almost reluctantly—from his chest. He stays like that for a moment, head bowed and the corner of his mouth twitching. When he raises his head, his cheeks are stained rubescent.
The alcohol, you think, dizzy. The world spins, and then narrows into a pin-drop where only the ruby smear on the bridge of his nose exists.
"'Am no diddy, but—"
"Sergeant."
There is a misty cloud surrounding you; a gossamer spooling over your eyes. You blink the cobwebs away, but they're stuck to your retinas.
Ghost stands shrouded in the smog. His dark eyes slide to you. Endless black. Unfathomable.
"Soldier."
The command is clear. Stop muckin' about.
His voice is a warble when he speaks. Gruff, low. "Lt, comin' to learn some Scottish, too?"
"Negative." He says, clipped. Then: "can barely understand these pissed Glaswegians as it is."
"It's a lovely accent," you murmur, grinning. Stupid, dopey. It feels like waking up after a long nap on the beach.
His eyes are liquid pools of black when they slide to you. "Bloody hell. Must have knocked your head one too many times if you think that's lovely."
"It was more of a smack."
"Christ. With a rifle?"
You like it when he's loose like this. Relaxed. When he isn't barking out commands, and orders, and keeping a chasm between everyone.
"No, with a hand."
"Better see the medic. Don't need you suffering any more brain damage."
It's on the tip of your tongue— aw, you do care —but his words stick to the gummy lining of your scotch-filled head. Any more.
You pout. "You're a stone-cold bastard, you know that?"
Somewhere under the mask, you like to imagine that he's grinning. "Never said I wasn't."
"What do you need, Lt?"
Liquid eyes slide to him. "We're heading out. You stayin', MacTavish?"
He nods, sharp. "Aye. Might wander around Glasgow for a 'mo."
"And you, soldier?"
Ghost stares down at you. Soap's words surface—keekin' you all night—but you see nothing when you match his stare. When the heavy brunt of his full attention falls on you.
Soap glances at you, eyes a half-sun. Your hands prickle. You wonder if wandering around might include a trip to the Cairngorms.
(You imagine you could reach up and kiss the sun.
Maybe, him, too, if he'd allow it.)
"I—," you tilt your head, nervous suddenly. "I'd like to learn more Scottish. If you wouldn't mind the company."
"Aye, bonnie." There is victory in his grin.
Ghost gives a sharp nod, and doesn't wait.
You watch him leave, suddenly tense. Soap hasn't looked away from you yet. It simmers inside; another fissure. Another crack. The levee wobbles.
"So…," he says, his voice a tickle in your ear. "About wantin' to seduce a Scot…"
"Not just any Scot," you murmur, eyes low. Framed by the hazy fairy lights, his grin feels like the sun cresting through a storm cloud.
"Got my heart flichterin‘," he mutters. His hand is warm when it touches your wrist. "Wanna feel, bonnie? Feel what you do to me, hen?"
It feels like you're underwater when you nod. Like you've been dragged below the surface, then spat back up on the sandy shores, drenched in the rays.
The heat kisses your palm when he presses it flat to his chest. His pulse hums under your lifeline; the grand wings of a bird fluttering in his ribcage. Your nails sink into his shirt, curling over the fabric until it's knotted in your fist. You could hold on to him forever.
His eyes feel like a dawning sun when they land on you, wrapped in that equinox between day and dusk when you can still bask in the warmth that curtains over you. Liquid honey. Melted wax. It seeps over you, filling the cracks.
(You, the earth; him, the sun: a perfect perihelion. You bloom under his cosmic heat.)
When you were younger, you'd stand on the hills, and gaze up at it in the aether. Your eyes narrowed into slits, watering from the blaze. The smile on your face was warmed under the rays.
They warned you, then, when you'd come home with a headache, rubbing your tender eyes, that you'd go blind for it. That the sun would ruin you, that it wasn't meant to be stared at so nakedly.
You think of it, now, when your eyes begin to crease. When the blistering intensity of him—luminous, bright, blinding –stares, open and raw, back at you.
—you fucked in the upper car park at the Cairngorms, nestled near the base of a hill. he took you under the setting sun, and whispered how pretty you looked bathed in ochre and desperate for him
—it was Price who bailed you both out after getting slapped with public indecency ("haven't you two ever heard of doggin'?")
—he takes you to a football game for a proper date, your well-won Scottish man, but spanks your ass at home when you cheer for ManU over the Celtics; it's blasphemy in this household
—Gaz doesn't even want to know why you're barely able to sit in the chair, and why Soap looks so damn satisfied whenever you wince
(you tell him, anyway.)
translations (forgot these, oops)
—turadh: A break in the clouds between showers | dry spell
—it’s a dreich day: miserable day
—whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye: what’s meant to happen will happen, or what will be will be
—naff: boring, rubish
—fadachd: yearning, longing
—keek: looking
—yer aff yer heid: acting stupid, someone that's too drunk or talking nonsense
—blootered: drunk
—diddy: coward
—flichterin‘: soft fluttering, as in the wings of a butterfly, or the flame of a candle.
—bonnie: used by older gens; used to describe someone pretty or attractive (is actually gender neutral - could be bonnie lass or bonnie lad)
—hen: used for a younger lady (can also be patronising) but kind of like sweetheart or honey)
Can we have sub!Soap 🥺 please. Like he kindly let's her have control for one night and he fuckin loves it. Maybe she ties his hands and makes him beg to let him touch her while she rides his face or something (,: I think he would be so good at begging
hiya, op! so sorry this took so long!!
Sub!Soap was such a delight—thank you so much for this! 🫣
warnings: Sub!Soap; begging; face-sitting/face-riding—f!receiving; female!reader; female gendered anatomy; femdom; unfettered filth; Johnny is stupid for you
"Y'have no idea what y'do t'me, hen—"
His words are barely coherent when he slurs them out, breath humid and heavy on your neck. The hot, wet press of his tongue follows, laving across your pulse point. It's the flash of teeth against your skin that has you tipping your head back in pleasure.
"Johnny," you murmur his name softly, words swallowed by the sound on the television—Everton versus the Celtics, or so he told you when you stumbled home that evening, exhausted from work. It's lost in the grainy static of cheers, and the booming voices of the commentators.
He's incorrigible tonight—grasping at you with feverish hands as he tugs your trousers down, pawing at your flesh.
There is a desperation in the way that he moves, so different from his usual teasing demeanour. A roughness in how he handles you, touches you. It sits low in your belly until you're burning from the fervid hands that roam your body until not an inch has been left untouched, until his fingerprints are a mosaic on your flesh.
"Please, hen—," he murmurs into your sternum, hair tickling your nose. "I just need it—need it so bad—"
The taste of whiskey on his tongue is sharp when you lean down, moulding your lips to his.
Johnny's kisses are always so needy. So intense. He kisses you deeply, thoroughly, as if he can't get enough of the taste, and doesn't stop until you're pushing at his chest, gasping for air.
There is something in the way he aches for you tonight that simmers inside your veins. A liquid spume of rich confidence: the illicit tang of conquest.
It's almost like an out-of-body experience when you thread your fingers through his hair—longer now that he's on leave—and pulls. He groans against your bottom lip, deep and heavy; the noise vibrating through your chest. It's—
Addicting.
Your fingers tighten until a fistful of his brown locks is sat in your palm. Another tug, and he whimpers.
"Fuck, hen—," he pants, hands clenched around your waist. "That feels so fuckin' good—"
"Yeah?" You purr, thick with coquettish mirth; a slurry of want and power. "You gonna be a good boy for me, then?"
"Jesus Christ—"
Your words seemed to have stunned him. He's malleable, pliant, when you push him down on the couch. Eyes wide, hungry; his mouth red from your teeth—Johnny looks like he was made to be beneath you.
"I wanna tie you up, Johnny." You whisper to him, tongue rolling over your upper lip. He shudders under you, head tips back as he groans again. "Make you beg for it."
"Ah, fuck—" his hips jerk, nearly toppling you off. His hands snap up, grasping your waist. An apology spills from his lips. "You cannae say shite like that t'me."
The broken end of a giggle tips out when his accent thickens. “Oh no?”
He groans, shoulders tensing when your hands fall to his chest. “Jesus—”
"Want me to ride you?" You murmur, cocking your head at him. "You can't touch me, though."
His tongue flicks out over his bottom lip, eyes cresting with want. "Aye," he rasps, swallowing thickly. "But—I want to taste you, hen."
Your breath catches, words barely a whisper. "Oh, yeah? You want me to—"
"Sit on my face, bonnie. I want to taste your cunt."
His words bludgeon through you; molten need pools in your lower belly. You shiver.
"That what you want? Want me to ride your face? Get you all messy—"
His hips twitch again. You can feel the swell of his cock against your ass.
"C'mon, hen, please—"
His hands are burning when he grabs your waist, helping you move over him. It's liquid with Johnny—years of practice in the SAS make him agile, and strong: you can feel it in his hands when he takes hold of you.
There is something magnetic about a man who surrenders himself to you wholly despite the clear distinction in power.
Balanced over him like this, staring into those hazy eyes, it's almost intoxicating, more so than the half-drunk cup of whiskey and coke made you feel. The surge of it through your veins makes you dizzy. Delirious with it, really.
"Johnny," you breathe, heart thrumming when he immediately looks up, responding instantly to you. "You're not allowed to touch me, love. I want your hands—," you grasp his wrist, sliding them down until his palms rest flat on your thighs; "—right here. Don't move."
The command slips with an ease that makes his eyes flutter, a soft groan rolling out of his throat. "Fuck, hen—just gimme it, please—"
Like most things with Johnny, it—this— started out as a joke.
A friend's wedding in Aberdeen. A few drinks. He kept talking, teasing. His hand was heavy on your thigh, hidden from view of everyone. Glass of scotch in hand, eyes azure in the coruscating lights hanging from the beams above, you could taste the anticipation in the air when he dipped his finger between your legs, hiking the hem of your dress up.
He leaned down. The scent of sin on his breath. "Be good for me, dove. No one'll notice."
In response, you'd clamped your thighs tight together, trapping his wandering hands. Smile taut, eyes sharp, you purred: if you don't stop it, Johnny, I'm gonna have to punish you, love.
His hand twitched.
"Yeah?" His voice was lower, breathier than you'd ever heard him speak. "How so? What'll y'do to me—"
Your eyes cut across the table. No one was watching. No one noticed this moment. But his words were liquid in your ear.
"I'll have to tie those wandering hands up, won't I?"
He spilt his drink on the table when he set the glass down.
Johnny looked back at you, and you knew this wasn't over. You should have known then that trouble was simmering in the hazel eyes.
And now—
"Yeah, bonnie," he breathes against your cunt when your fingers thread through his hair, giving a sharp tug. "Just like that."
Johnny isn't the type of man to be incredibly dominant in the bedroom. There is an ebb and flow. He gives just as much as he takes, and so long as he has you writhing around, and desperate for him, he's a happy man.
This, however, is new. Uncharted territory.
"Are you sure, Johnny?"
His eyes are molten. "Fuck, hen. You have no idea."
There is a pinch in your muscles from holding yourself above him like this, barely an inch away from that devious mouth, but still. You hold it. Swallow it down. You want him to beg.
"Is that how you ask for it, Johnny?" You coo, tightening your grip on his hair. "Mind your manners, baby. I know you can do better than that."
Your words make his eyes roll. Milky whites flood his lower lids as he tips his chin back, a ragged whine spilling out. "Steamin' fucking Jesus, hen—," he chokes, hands squeezing the meat of your thighs.
It's a parody of what he once whispered into your ear, fingers buried in your cunt.
Mind yer manners, hen.
Words tumble out in a gruff litany, too fast and slurred for you to keep up with.
"Come on, now—" a sharp pull makes him croak. "Don't you want me to ride your face, Johnny?"
"Please, hen, fuck—! I need your cunt. I need it bad—"
It's rucked: gathered at the base of his throat where it sits, heavy and syrupy thick. The timbre, the desperation, the quiver in his voice makes you whimper, your core tightening with want. You need his mouth on you, need something to stem the ache inside of you.
You almost give in, almost drop your drenched pussy to his lips, but you don't. You can't.
He can do better than that.
"Johnny," you tut, rolling your hips over his mouth. Just a tease. Just a brush. His hands tighten, trying to pull you closer. "Stop."
He freezes immediately.
You're sure this isn't what the SAS meant when they said they'd train him to be perfectly disciplined and obey commands in an instant, but you can't help sending a small bout of gratitude to the heavens for that. Your perfect soldier.
(Somewhere in the great yonder, you can only assume his superior officer is cursing your name.)
"If you don't behave, Johnny, I won't let you touch me at all. I'll make you keep your hands over your head."
"No, no, no—," it's out before you even finish. "I'll be good, hen, I'll be so fuckin' good fer ya."
"Then prove it."
His hands spasm over your flesh, and then go still. The steadying breath he takes rolls over you, and you sink your teeth into your bottom lip to keep from whining.
This man will ruin you.
His eyes are wide and saturated in desire. Like a good soldier, he waits for his command.
Fuck—
(That is, of course, if you don't ruin him first.)
"Do you want to taste me, baby? Want my pussy on your mouth?"
He nods, eager and frenzied. "Fuck, yes, yes, yes—please, bonnie, I need it so fuckin' bad—"
"I'm going to give you a taste, love." You murmur, hand slipping down until you're cupping the back scruff of his mohawk in your palm. Another fistful. His lashes flutter. "But you better make it good, yeah? Or I'll make you sit there and watch as I get myself off instead."
"Fuckin'—Christ —!"
His hips jerk again. Eyes whiting out.
It's the way his forehead crumples at the image conjured, eyes squeezing shut, that makes you whimper. His body trembles under you, coiled tight; muscles pull together in an effort to keep himself from moving. To obey your command.
Your breath knots in your lungs, core throbbing at the sight of him so needy for it, so lost in the hazy thought of watching you fuck your cunt, play with your clit, and not letting him do a damned thing at all, makes your spine tingle. Makes goosebumps erupt over your flesh.
(Something, then, to try later.)
Your voice is already wrecked—low, breathy. It's a sultry roll of want, eager and desperate. "Ready, love?"
His only response is a deep groan, another pitch of his hips. Johnny's eyes slide open. Molten gold gazing at you.
"Please, hen, please—"
The first desperate swipe of his molten tongue delving between your folds has you shuddering from the intense pleasure that roils inside of your core. It's good. So fucking good.
Johnny eats your cunt like he'll never have it again. Like it's something to be savoured. A delicate treat, an expensive wine. Slow and sweet, dragging it out until you have tears running in rivets down your raw cheeks, throat hoarse from begging him for so long. It's tender, almost. Barely a graze. A whisper of his tongue. He pants against your cunt, blowing softly at your clit until you're tugging at his hair for respite.
Discipline, you think, watching the way his eyes roll when he finally gets his fill of you. Mouth devouring you whole. He's controlled in his movements despite the obvious strain in the way he rolls his tongue over you, but the agony leaks out in the pinch of his fingers, the shudders wracking through his body. The jerks of his hips. His mouth works seamlessly, but his eyes encapsulate the neediness brimming inside of him.
It's palpable when he nudges his nose against your mound, breath harsh and heavy when it comes out. Heaving gasps and gusts of air as if he was drowning, and struggling to stay afloat.
Maybe, he is.
But it's—
Not good enough.
You want to break him. Shatter that self-control until it fragments between your thighs. Until he's whining into your cunt, begging for reprieve.
Your head tips back, hips rolling over his mouth. The stubble on his chin and cheeks scratch the soft, sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, but the burn feels good. You want him to mark you. Love it when he rubs himself over your skin until you're raw from it.
"Johnny," you whimper, his name a hymnal on your tongue. "Stop—"
It's a nearly maddening sense of torture when he grunts against your pussy, curses spilling from his mouth. But he listens.
Your good soldier. Your obedient man—
"Fuck," he slurs, the word bitten and doused in anger, frustration. "Come on, hen, I need your cunt. I need my mouth on your pussy. You want it, I know you fuckin' do, so why're ya—"
"Johnny—" his name is sharp. He stills immediately. You pull his head up, pressing yourself against his mouth. "You need to learn when to shut up."
His eyes flash. A challenge brims in those molasses depths. Sticky, thick, and now bubbling with ire. You've angered him.
Johnny always gets what he wants. Always. And now—
It's euphoric. The absolute unfettered debauchery that spools inside of your head is enough to make you shudder. To have a man whose strength could easily knock you aside and take what he wanted without it even being a fight reduced to smouldering vexation over not getting to taste your cunt is a rush, it's a high you could fall into. He's docile beneath you. Listening to every word you say. But his eyes—
A shaky smile splits across your face. "You want it, babe? Want my pussy?"
"Yes," he hisses, brows furrowing tight together. There is aching desperation in his eyes. A plea. "I need it, hen. I want your pretty pussy on my face. I want you to ride me until you cum on my tongue. I need you, pretty thing. I need it—"
"Be a good boy, then, and prove it to me."
He doesn't hesitate. His tongue slips over you, eyes dropping when he finally has your taste back in his mouth. He moans when you sink down, when your hand lifts, pinching your nipple as he delves inside your core.
His control breaks when you grind your cunt over him. Hands tighten, fingers digging into your flesh, and then he shatters. His mouth is liquid when it seals over you, tongue laving against your clit, eyes rolling back into his head. Johnny moans again; the low groans spilling from deep within his chest.
It's sloppy. All of that curated control obliterating in his ire, his neediness to have you. To make you cum.
Make it good, you'd said.
The challenge in his eyes reared. I fuckin' intend to.
