#another fortune

SERIES

“fitting a square peg into a square peg” or “and they both were tops”

- COMPLETED -

summary: a riveting tale of two horny tops navigating the challenge of both wanting to fuck each others’ ass, not vice-versa. Unless…

ao3 link

rating: E

tags: crack, terrible flirting, first time bottoming

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CH5

How about another Fortune?

- WIP -

summary: "Soap is a heterosexual man in love, and everything is great. Really, it is. Factually speaking, no less." Alright, so we all know that ain't sticking. This is a weird one (me writing F/M aside)—we're telling this story with Facebook posts, comms transcripts, search histories, and (fictional) PornHub Wrappeds—all in service of telling the tale of one relationship gone wrong, and another gone right (?)

ao3 link

rating: M

tags: Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Straight? John “Soap” MacTavish, Cheating, Non-Chronological, this is a (gay) lovestory, Self-Discovery, on god this is the strangest shit i have ever written, Captivity, Implied/Referenced Torture, Forced Bonding, Forced Kissing, Metafiction

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CH 2

CH 3

CH 4

ghost’s ghost

- WIP -

summary: Johnny is KIA, which sucks, except he never really…leaves? Rendered with shitty humor to counter the (intended to be) actually-sad inner plights vis-a-vis mourning and shit, this tale tells the adventures of Ghost and his boyfriend, Soap who, coincidentally, is also a ghost. Consider it something of a MWIII campaign fix-it fic, though it was initially written pre-MWIII’s release

ao3 link

rating: T

tags: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Body Horror, Main Character Death, Not Really Character Death, Ghost John “Soap” MacTavish, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Crack, Dark Crack, Fluff, Eventual Smut, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Changing Tenses, Not (always) chronological

CH 1

CH 2

CH 3

CH 4

CH 5

here we go ‘round the prickly pear

-WIP-

ao3 link

summary: T.S. Eliot-inspired (whaaat?) reincarnation fic. Welcome, to Death's Dream Kingdom, baby!

rating: T

tags: Temporary major character death, Reincarnation AU, suburban AU

CH1

CH2

(in the interest of) burning (everything down)

-WIP-

ao3 link

summary: I started this fic with an unrelated-to-anything fight (as in an emotional fight. A very heated discussion, if you will) and the rest of the fic kinda contextualizes and grows from it

rating: M

tags: angst, fighting, swearing, alcohol abuse/alcoholism, emetophobia

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ONE-SHOTS

he is so soft

-COMPLETED-

summary: Jilted, short, awkward sentences mark this endeavor to write a non-sexy sex scene.

ao3 link

rating: E

HELL, MIDDLE OF

“Ma, I hardly see how this is any of your business.”

“You’re right, you’re right. It’s just,” her mother bows her head, peering into her empty mug. These conversations, Joan Mitchell found, never got easier. Always fawn-legged statements, always pushed forward with a stick, offered in the same placating voice. “Seven is years is a long time, Ellie.”

“And what’s it matter to you? You’re not getting married to him.”

“By the looks of it, neither are you,” Sarah interjects with the exasperation of someone who’s heard the same shit play out time and time again.

“Fuck, Sarah, leave it out.”

“I’m just saying,” Sarah explains, “Ma’s right for fucking once. If he hasn’t bleedin’ proposed by now, who’s to say he ever will?”

“Well, he’s been very b—“

“busy lately. Yeah, I remember. But won’t he just be getting busier and busier?”

Ella looks away, arms crossed. It’s dead silent in the kitchen, the seconds hand of the clock counting down the heartbeats, the heaving breaths, the indecisions, etc., etc. Eventually Ella speaks up, still boring a hole into a seam on the vinyl floor. “Do you always have to be so fucking negative, Sarah?”

“Well, do you always have to be so naive?” Joan is a smart, prudent woman and has not said a fucking word. “C’mon, Elle. I’m not sayin’ all this to hurt you. Fuck, I say it because I know you’re hurting.”

Joan is a mother, and above all else, gives a damn when her daughters experience first-hand how shit the world can be. She cares because she loves, and also because she’s been there, too. She takes Ella’s hand. “Are you, Elliebelle?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

STAGE PLAY: DREAMSCAPE

SOAP AND GHOST are shackled to one of the four concrete walls that make up what appears to be a prison. Watching over them is a cruel-looking man, the CAPTOR as well as his burly henchman, GRIGORIY. The CAPTOR is speaking to SOAP who, like GHOST, has his head hung low in defeat. The two captives are bruised and beaten, a stark contrast to their well-kempt captors. Standing UC is the CHORUS and NARRATOR, all of whom are unseen by the other named characters.

CAPTOR

Go on, give your Lieutenant a kiss, pretty boy. You want to save him so bad? You love him? Well, go on, then. Kiss him

SOAP

No

NARRATOR

You see, John—or Soap. Whatever you please—says “No,” and he means it, in a way, but not the way you think.

NARRATOR

Right now, his heart his racing

CHORUS

Racing!

NARRATOR

And his stomach feels like it’s swarming with butterflies

CHORUS

BUT-TER-FLIES!

NARRATOR

And you might call it fear, but it is

CHORUS

Antici-PATION

NARRATOR

But yes, also a bit of fear. Because surely, his Lieutenant doesn’t want to kiss him—

CHORUS

Oh nooo!

NARRATOR

Least of all now

CHORUS

Shit timing! Shit timing!

NARRATOR

Well, enough from me. Let’s see how this plays out.

CAPTOR

What?

SOAP

I said no.

CAPTOR

Well, that is a shame, boy. Because now I have to kill him

(the CAPTOR cocks his gun)

GHOST

Fuck!

(ALL turn to look at GHOST, who is shaking his bowed head, resigned to the situation. One member of the CHORUS gasps.)

GHOST (cont.)

Fuck, Johnny. It’s fine. Just fucking kiss me.

(SOAP nods, knowing this is the only way.)

SOAP

Alright, then.

(SOAP crawls slowly across the room until he is at GHOST’S feet, but he pauses)

CAPTOR

Do you not love him, boy? Do you want to see him die? (a beat) Grigoriy, take his mask off.

(GRIGORIY crosses the room in long strides and yanks the mask off GHOST’s head. SOAP startles at the commotion, and is transfixed by the sight before him: GHOST’s bare face—bruised, sweaty, but captivatingly handsome)

SOAP

I’m sorry.

GHOST

It’s okay. Just do it.

(SOAP leans in and presses a ginger kiss, like a child, to GHOST’s lips. GHOST’s eyes are closed the entire time)

NARRATOR

The time, the place—it’s all wrong, but somehow, it feels right!

CHORUS

So right!

NARRATOR

For Soap, at least. Who’s to say how his Lieutenant feels? One thing’s for certain, though. Their captor is not pleased.

(the CAPTOR laughs)

CAPTOR

You call that a kiss? Pathetic. Do it again, like you mean it, or else you both will die.

(SOAP curses under his breath and repositions his arms for better leverage, trying his best to give GHOST space)

CAPTOR

Don’t stop.

CAPTOR (cont.)

Big one, kiss him back. Touch him.

(GHOST acquiesces and the CAPTOR watches on as, unbeknownst to himself or anyone else, the background is transformed from an underground, cement-walled prison cell into a cramped, but cozy officer’s dormitory. GRIGORIY exits SL and as the new set finally slides into place, the CAPTOR follows GRIGORIY offstage)

(SOAP pulls away from the kiss, breathless, and swiftly removes his own—and then GHOST’s—shackles with an almost-frantic excitement)

SOAP

I’ve never felt—

GHOST

Me neither.

SOAP

Fuck, I think I love you. I think I fucking love you.

CHORUS

Throwback! Throwback to Chapter 1!

NARRATOR

Throwback, indeed! How could it be? John MacTavish is once again proclaiming love? In the very same fic but to a very different person?

CHORUS

But isn’t he straight? Isn’t he straight?

NARRATOR

Put not the cart before the horse, my dear friends. Give it a second.

GHOST

You’re out of your mind, MacTavish.

SOAP

Am I?

GHOST

Soap, love isn’t for men like us.

CHORUS

It’s a self-indulgent reference…to another fic!

NARRATOR

Shh!

SOAP

Says who?

GHOST

Does it fucking matter? You know how this goes. You know all the reasons we can’t, so just…

GHOST (cont.)

Drop it.

SOAP

No, I’m not dropping it. Not when I feel like this, not when I know you feel like this, too. What are you so afraid of?

GHOST

This isn’t your fucking life, Soap, and you fucken know it. You’re supposed to fuck off and retire and have pretty fucking babies with some pretty fucking woman in Scotland, and that’s it.

SOAP

(quietly) and what about you?

GHOST

I die.

SOAP

Then I’ll be by your side when that happens.

SOAP stands defiantly and offers his hand to GHOST, who takes it after a tremulous moment of consideration. Once GHOST is on his feet, SOAP grabs GHOST’s hands and walks them to the cot, where they sit side-by-side, hands still entwined)

SOAP (cont.)

I don’t want to get married. I want you, you thickheaded piece of shit.

GHOST

No you don’t.

NARRATOR

But he does.

SOAP

But I do.

SOAP (cont.)

If you won’t give me forever, just give me tonight. That’s all I’m asking for. If you want me.

GHOST

Okay.

SOAP

Okay.

(SOAP lets out a soft, abrupt laugh, as if he cannot believe his luck. GHOST answers him in kind before taking him by the chin for a deep, sweet kiss, though it soon grows more passionate. Just as GHOST hoists SOAP up by his thighs and throws him to lay face-up on the cot, the curtains close)

A spotlight descends on the curtains and the NARRATOR returns, standing in the center of the stage.

NARRATOR

A glooming peace this morning with it brings;

The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;

Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished:

For never was a story of more woe

Than this of Johnnyboy and his darling Ghost.

CHORUS

Justice for Ella!

- SCENE -

HELL, MIDDLE OF (BUT SLIGHTLY TO THE LEFT. TAKE IT BACK NOW Y’ALL!)

“Wait!”

John jolts forward, thin bedsheets pooling where he hinges at the waist.

He’s alone in his room, just himself and the repetitive, familiar chirping of his alarm. In fact, all of it is familiar. He remembers this bed, how it feels, remembers the walls and the linoleum floor and the smell of it, too. But where’s Ghost? He was just there.

John pats his mattress, as if Ghost was somehow hiding beneath or between his sheets and unsurprisingly finds nothing.

Right. Because he’s alone in his room, just himself and the sheets and the cot that struggles to fit his body, let alone his and someone else’s. He rubs at his sleepy eyes and forces his mind to reacquaint itself with reality, but the dream he’d just had was sticky—clawing it’s way impossibly back from the aether, begging, scrabbling to linger even if just for a few moments longer.

The dream was sticky in that way, and also in another.

John decides that it’s a beautiful day to curl up and die and then die again just to be safe.

HELL, MIDDLE OF (CHARLIE BROWN!)

Hell on Earth exists, and it is Verdansk. Freezing fucking cold, windy as all hell, and dark, dark, dark.

Luckily, Soap has an angel looking over him, but he’d rather not think about that right now.

The angel’s voice comes through tinny and flat and terribly familiar through his earpiece, which does little to mellow its rasp. “Soap, you’ve got three enemies moving in East.” Reliable. The angel is reliable and also professional, and its voice is simultaneously the very same and so radically different from how it sounded a handful of hours ago.

Soap takes a moment to nod to no one in particular before checking left, then right. Indeed, he can make out three figures ambling his way, assault rifles cradled lazily in their arms as they shoot the shit on patrol.

“Copy,” he says, very calm, very collected. In reality, he is very nauseous. “Permission to engage?”

Already anticipating the go-ahead, he readies his muzzled sidepiece and pats the handle of his knife for good measure. He knows it’s there, of course, remembers slotting it in its sheath, but shit has a terrible habit of happening.

“Give ‘em hell,” says the angel, AKA Ghost, FKA Simon, AKA the very last person Soap trusts himself around at that given moment.

To make a long story short, Soap does indeed give them hell. They get to their exfil location. They exfil. Soap doesn’t look at Ghost’s hands (too familiar) or his eyes (also too familiar) and doesn’t get close enough to smell him (too familiar) or anything else, really.

Ghost doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t act like anything’s amiss at all.

(familiar)

SPOTIFY

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Your weekly mixtapes of fresh music. Enjoy new music and deep cuts picked for you. Updates every Monday.

Made for John MacTavish

1h 43m

Careless Whisper

George Michael

Careless Whisper

George Michael

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George Michael

Careless Whisper

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Oops! I Did it Again

Britney Spears

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George Michael

Careless Whisper

George Michael

HELL, MIDDLE OF (REVERSE! REVERSE!)

An accident becomes several, which in turn become the gateway drug to your deepest desire. Nice guys don’t finish last. They generally don’t finish at all: A Collection of Haikus

oops (sensation)

they’re not your hands (not

hers or yours) but they feel, of

course, so good, so good

i (and sound)

call to me, that voice:

more like thunder (like i). i

needed, yet need more

did (and sweet)

secret taste of salt

and taste of sin. oh, soothe me.

my love, forgive me

it (and scent)

you’ve laid down your arm—

just the one—for me to find,

and covet, and drink

again (and see how fucked you are)

fingers follow your

eye (I’ve caught) and I pull down,

push forth the issue

John MacTavish with Ella Mitchell

💙

In a relationship with Ella Mitchell

February 14, 2014

67 Likes | 14 comments

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Ella Mitchell Congrats, Johnno. Really lucked out with that one :P <3 Like | Reply

PARADISE

Life is good. Can be, rather. So good that you’re drawn out of the moment for a split-second of awe, some shattering clarity of how fucking right things can be sometimes. And then you’re back in it, and somehow it’s even better.

“God, I fucking love you,” John breathes, not a post-nut bout of romanticism, short-lived. There she is: Ella. Sweaty, beautiful, and smiling. Sex on perfect fucking legs, and sweet. So damn sweet. “Fuck, I love you.”

He think it again when she looks away, shy, and looks back again with that wry smile, the one that has him love drunk and stupid every fucking time. “I love you, too, Johnny.”

And then the fucking minx rolls her hips, “but I’ve only cum twice. And you, my dear,” she muses, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek “promised me three.”

“Bleeding hell,” John thinks. “I’m gonna marry her. Mother of my future children.”

He makes good on his promise, of course. Lets her take his iPod and play the music she likes as he settles between her thighs afterwards, and throws in another for good measure, because of course. For her, it’s fucking nothing. Anything. Forever, and always, and all that other bullshit.

Time is a pesky bitch, is the thing.

And proximity is one hell of a drug.

HEALTH STATISTICS (UNOFFICIAL)

ORGASMS PER CALENDAR YEAR: 2021

SUBJECT: JOHN MACTAVISH SEX OF SUBJECT: MALE (REPORTED) SEXUAL ORIENTATION OF SUBJECT: HETEROSEXUAL, STRAIGHT

ORGASMS FROM PARTNERED SEXUAL INTERCOURSE

VAGINAL, receiving: N/A VAGINAL, giving: 8 ANAL, receiving: 0 ANAL, giving: 0 ORAL, receiving: 3 MANUAL, non-penetrative: 4 MANUAL, penetrative: 0 TOTAL PARTNERED SEXUAL INTERCOURSE: 15

ORGASMS FROM SELF-STIMULATION

ANAL, manual, non-penetrative: 0 ANAL, manual, penetrative: 0 PHALLIC, manual: 172 PHALLIC, oral: 0 VAGINAL, manual, non-penetrative: N/A VAGINAL, manual, penetrative: N/A NON-GENITAL STIMULATION, manual or oral: 0 TOTAL SELF-STIMULATION: 172

YEAR TOTAL ORGASMS: 187

COMMS TRANSCRIPT

VERDANSK, KASTOVIA 02 11 2022 21:07:33–21:07:38

21:07:33 G: Soap, you’ve got three enemies moving in East. 21:07:36 S: Copy. Permission to engage? 21:07:38 G: Give ‘em hell.

TROUBLE IN PARADISE, PT 1

They aim to call every week, even though they both know more often than not, it’s more of a monthly occasion. But it’s a low key Thursday, and for a change, John actually has time.

“So, how’d it go?” Ella sounds flat and tinny and terribly familiar over the phone. It feels like half the time they speak, her voice is like this. Compressed, still rising and falling with the gesticulations he can’t see, and wrong.

“Good, good…”

He can’t exactly say, “Nah, but don’t worry. The other guy got off much worse. Blew his head clean off his shoulders, actually,” so he tells her everything went well instead. It doesn’t exactly suck, and it isn’t exactly lying. “Yeah,” he continues, “can’t say much, but it was a tight operation. Clean.”

“And that’s why they call you Soap, eh?”

“Pretty and smart. I’ve won the lottery, haven’t I?”

“Mhm. Just gotta come and cash in your winnings is all,” and John’s stomach sinks because the anticipation he should feel is definitely anxiety. Any talk of coming home had slowly and consistently fallen from grace in his mind, and what used to be a respite feels more like faffing about in fairy land. For better or for worse (and in sickness and in health), he is married to his job. Thats how it goes with shit like this: too high-stakes to be anything other than wholly committed to.

Morality aside, two-timing is exhausting business and as John sees it, it just gives you two cakes that you can’t have, and can’t eat either.

PURGATORY

“Happy birthday, Johnny.”

Pulling away from Ghost’s lighter, Soap exhales that first draw, acrid as always, before chuckling. “Aye, cheers. Not how I expected it to go, but…”

“What did you have in mind then, eh? A little pub crawl out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Ghost manages to look nonchalant as he scans the blackdrop forest, leaning into the safe house’s dilapidated siding where he and Soap had posted up not too long ago. There’s bare little to see, bare little to do, so they smoke and shoot the shit.

Happy Birthday, indeed.

“Ha, fair. No point in making plans in this line of work.” He leaves out the part about Ella at home somewhere, filling the bin with pound shop birthday decorations. No use in reusing them. You only turn 30 once, after all. Ghost’s quiet, so he amends, “at least, not personal plans.”

“Had me worried there.”

“C’mon now, the planning is your’s and Price’s domain.”

“Watch it, sergeant. Arsekissing will only get you so far.”

“And how far it’s gotten me.”

“Ungrateful bastard. I got you the candles and everything.”

Soap snorts. “Aye, and you’re always hauling cake, so I reckon I’ve got that, too.”

“Fuckin’ hell.”

Thank god there’s no HR department in Arsefuck, Russia. Soap’d be toast by now. Or maybe not. This isn’t the first time he’s pulled this shit, and the reaction’s just about the same.

“I‘m just sayin’, ‘s not my fault you’re addicted to deadlifts.”

“Fuck—I wanna let you see another birthday, MacTavish, but you’re pushing your luck.”

“So you do like me.”

TROUBLE IN PARADISE, PT 2

“Hey, good-lookin’. How does this sound? You, me, a little takeaway, maybe a movie?”

John glances up from his phone. “What?”

“I was wondering how you felt about a night in.” Ella groans, noticing John’s eyes are still glued to his phone. A couple of snaps in his face, and John finally looks up. “I’m sorry,” she begins before he has a chance to apologize. “Am I interrupting something?”

John shakes his head. “Baby, no. Fuck, I’m sorry. It’s fucking work shite, shouldn’t take me too much longer.”

Ella doesn’t look appeased. Not remotely. Eyes burning mad above the dark circles, fingers tapping testily where they rest on the waistband of her joggers.

“How many times are ya gonna be sorry, John, eh?” Exasperated, she runs a hand through her brown hair, messing it up even more than it already is. “You’re gone for months on end, and that’s fine. I knew that was what I was getting into. But then when you’re actually fucking here, you couldn’t give a damn.”

“Elle, c’mon, don’t say that. I promise I want to deal with this shit even less than you do. You know I care, ba—”

“I don’t know that I fucking do, John. I don’t know that, and honestly, I don’t know if you really do care.”

John’s since put down the phone, but stands to wrap Ella in a gentle, rocking hug. She only fights him for a second before slumping against his chest. He likes it here, likes resting his chin on her shoulder where he can smell the lavender of her shampoo and her unwashed sleep shirt.

“Ellie, my darling. Give me five more minutes and I’m all yours. Put the order in on my card, and we can crack open the nice wine in the coat closet.”

“Dinner and drinks won’t just make it better, John,” she protests, muffled and half-hearted.

He leans back just enough to catch Ella’s eye, “No, it doesn’t.”

He jerks his head to the side, indicating she ought to let his hands guide her, turning until she’s facing away. She sighs and curses “that fucking MacTavish charm” when he starts kneading at her small shoulders. “That’s why I’m also planning on giving you a massage,” he begins to her answering hum, “a long one, and when you finally feel nice and relaxed and pampered, we can play that game you’re so fond of.”

“Which game?” she quips back despite knowing already what he means.

“Well, all you have to do is sit back and look pretty and let me see how many times I can get you off.”

“Mm, right, that one.”

“So, how does that sound for a night in?”

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HELL, UPPER CIRCLES

“Alright, fuck, get the fuck off me.”

Ghost relents and rocks back on his haunches, offering a hand to help Johnny roll to sit cross-legged. “You’re getting better.”

“Fuck off,” Johnny pants.

“Stronger, yeah. But smarter.”

“I’m plenty smart as is.”

“Weren’t always. Ya used to run in headlong, make stupid mistakes. You still do, granted, but not as often.”

“If that’s so, how’d I end up flat on my arse?”

Ghost shrugs, scratches the back of his neck through his damp mask. “I’m better.”

“Cocky bastard.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Soap rolls his eyes, wincing as he pushes himself up to stand. He squeezes a long stream of water into his mouth, missing near half of it before chucking Ghost’s water bottle across the gym.

He feels neither pleased nor surprised when Ghost turns the other way to lift his mask and drink. It’s what Ghost does.

“Five minutes and we go again,” Soap says, because it’s just enough time to catch his breath, “and this time, I’m fucking pinning you.”

“Fat fucking chance, sergeant.”

Enjoy what you have, hope for what you lack.

How about another Fortune?

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