soda

helloo i am soda and i write cod fics!! i’m currently only on tumblr and ao3 (creamsodalite)

🫐 9teen

🍨 she/her

🍒 gmt/bst

🍨 askbox is always open for requests!! i do mainly write ghoap but i’m a filthy filthy multishipper, so

🍋 don’t use any of my work for ai chatbots and the like

🍨 ok thatsit feel free to scroll and stay a while :)

He woke up from a brutal nightmare long before his alarm went off, and spent the rest of the morning in the gym trying to distract himself. Then Price sent him to go help reorganise the armoury, which meant hauling around heavy boxes of weapons and gear for the better part of 4 hours, and then Soap had tracked him down and practically dragged him to the sparring mats under the promise of a ‘blowie actually longer than 5 minutes’ to the winner. He hasn’t eaten all day. He’s had maybe an hour of sleep.

So, needless to say, he’s not at his peak form.

He hits the mat hard enough to knock the air clean out of him, and before he can even think about getting back up, Soap’s weight is already settling over his lap, knees bracketing his hips, one hand pinning his wrist to the mat above his head.

“Oi,” Soap says, grinning down at him, breathless and visibly delighted with himself. “Oi, that’s - that’s a first, that is.”

Ghost bucks. Or he tries to. His hips come up as he twists his weight sideways, his free hand shoving at Soap’s ribs, and it should work, it’s always worked, Ghost’s got 6 inches and 30 pounds on him- except he doesn’t have anything left in him. He can feel his forearms shaking with exertion of it, spreading up into his shoulders, a tremor he can’t push through no matter how hard he grits his teeth and tries.

He shoves again. Soap barely moves.

“…Si?”

He tries once more. Real effort this time, hips snapping up, twisting, trying to get a knee between them and buy himself the inch he needs to flip the position the way he’s flipped it on Soap a hundred times before. His body answers with nothing. A shudder, a burn in his muscles, his wrist trembling uselessly under Soap’s grip. He can’t move Soap at all.

The realization hits him hard, stealing what little air he’d managed to regain from his lungs. He can’t. Not won’t, can’t. There’s no strength left to push with, no reserves to draw on, and Soap is still there, warm and heavy and very much not going anywhere, watching him with barely-concealed glee.

“Interestin’,” Soap murmurs, looking down at him like he’d grown an extra head. “Didnae think I’d ever see the day.”

“Don’t get used to it.” Ghost tries and fails to channel his usual deadpan. Instead the words come out breathy and quiet, and Soap’s grin widens in response.

He should say something else. Something to put the usual distance back between them, some flat remark to remind Soap this is still just sparring, still just Tuesday, still just the two of them being idiots on the mat like always.

What comes out instead is a low, mumbled, “…get off.”

It doesn’t have any teeth behind it, they can both tell. Soap’s grin shifts into something sly. “Say please.”

“MacTavish.”

“I mean it. Ye’re at my mercy, Lt.” He leans forward, hovering, just enough that Ghost has to tip his head back to keep looking at him.

Ghost’s free hand is still resting against Soap’s ribs from his last failed shove, and he’s abruptly, painfully aware of it. The heat coming off Soap through his shirt, the rise and fall of his breathing, quick from the fight and not slowing down.

“You’re enjoying this,” Ghost says. “Get off.”