soap x reader
needy soap / breeding kink inspo from @soapysoapysoapysoapy
“Think I’m gonna die,” Soap muttered from the floor, arms flung out
“I think my balls are about to explode,” Soap groaned, collapsing onto the floor like a fallen warrior, one massive hand dragging over his face in frustration. “This is a medical emergency. I need relief.”
At first, everyone ignored him. Typical Soap — huge, intimidating, and apparently constantly horny. He’d been whining about it for weeks. After every mission, every briefing, somehow his thoughts circled back to his aching body like it was some kind of personal crisis.
You’d rolled your eyes so many times it felt like a reflex. But when he started describing the color, the shape, and even the emotional texture of his cum — “like very sad yogurt” — someth
like he was waiting for a chalk outline. “This is medical. I’m not even being dramatic this time.”
You didn’t even look up from your report. “You say that every time we come back from an op.”
“Aye, but this time it’s real. I’ve got… pressure. A build-up. It’s like a ticking bomb in my bollocks.” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m a hazard, lass. A walking threat.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You want me to add ‘blue balls’ to your file under injuries sustained?”
“Serious question—if a man hasn’t come in three weeks, does he legally qualify for disability?” His voice dropped into a pained, breathy whine. “I need to put it somewhere. It’s not even horny anymore. It’s primal. Instinctual. If I don’t get it out soon, I might start humping the wall like a bloody terrier.”
You snorted, shaking your head. “You’re disgusting.”
“And yet,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow to look at you with that dangerous smirk, “you’re still here. Still listening.”
That part was true. Against your better judgment, you were still here. Still listening. Still thinking, God, if he keeps talking like that, I might actually let him.
Something in your face must’ve slipped, because Soap’s smirk deepened.
“Oh?” he drawled, voice low now — a little too low. “You thinking about it? Bet I could split you in half, bonnie. You want that, yeah?”
Your breath caught.
He stood, slow and deliberate, towering a little too close. “Want me to fill you up so good you can’t walk straight? Pin you down and make you forget your own name?”
He waited just long enough for you to stammer something — maybe a protest, maybe a challenge — before he had you backed against the wall, large hands gripping your thighs and hoisting you like you weighed nothing.
“You’re lucky,” he growled against your neck, breath hot. “I’m a generous man. And I’m done being patient.”
You barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on yours — biting, consuming, owning. Everything about him was heat and pressure and pure, restrained power.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to.
He took his time getting you open for him, whispering filth the whole way through — how tight you were, how much he’d thought about this, how he was going to make you take it.
By the time he finally rolled his hips in and filled you to the brim, your head was already spinning.
“You feel that?” he rasped, one hand at your throat now, firm but careful — just enough pressure to make your eyes flutter. “That’s mine now. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”
And he did.
Every thrust was sharp, unrelenting, punctuated by dark promises. “Gonna breed you so full they’ll see it in your walk. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Filthy little thing.”
Your nails left marks. Your moans turned to cries. He didn’t stop.
Didn’t even slow down when you clenched around him, begging for a break.
“Nah, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough. “You started this. And I’m not stopping until I’ve filled you proper.”
