#soap fluff

And sure he has hyperspermia and it doesn’t mean people who have it always have a high sperm count but god damn it, that Scottish man could get your pregnant anytime you want. And maybe you weren’t trying, but you’d finally let the man turn you into a little cumdumb instead of making him pull out. Groaning your name while his fat and girthy length is pulling your sopping wet walls apart everytime he rails into you, your hand going down his tattooed and slightly hair chest, clenching down on him hard when he hits the perfect spot, your uterus practically begging to get knocked up.

You feel every fucking ounce, ever glob that paints your walls white, till it’s leaking out, always groaning that it’s too much, too full. But you take all of you, going dizzy at how good it feels.

“Sorry hen, can’t help m’self.” Soap shudders but he only pulling you closer by your legs, calf’s thrown over his right shoulder, watching your weary body only succumb to the pleasure of it. The man just loves being inside your tight heat, dragging him further inside your warm walls.

He gives you a brutal thrust, hand palming your stomach where he can feel his pulsing tip, before kissing your knee, blue eyes glossed over, “Bet ye a wee babes already in there, aye Bon?”

Didn’t even take a fucking week for you to start feeling symptoms, a pregnancy test already positive before you’d even realize, you weren’t even ovulating.

He’ll tug your standing form in between his legs, covering your face in embarrassment and shock. Johnny will kiss your stomach, “Knew it wouldn’t take long f’me t’meet ye baby, bloody mental. Don’t worry though, Da ‘nd mummy are ‘ere.”

"What?" You stand up from where you'd been digging in the pantry, and run a hand over the back of your leggings. "Do I?"

"Come here, I'll take a look."

Shrugging, you go and stand in front of the couch where your husband is planted before bending over for inspection. After a few seconds of appreciative silence, your brain finally processes the situation you find yourself in.

"There... isn't a hole, is there?"

It takes him a few days to remember people when they visit him in the hospital, but once he does it's like nothings ever changed. The doctors say he should make a full-recovey memory wise.

You...you've been putting off visiting. Mostly because you're not sure you won't burst into tears the second you see johnny in a hospital bed. It doesn't matter that he's the same guy that rejected you multiple times, you still care about him. You never really stopped.

You last about two weeks before gaz decides to grag you kicking and screaming to the hospital. You genuinely expect it to end horribly, maybe in awkward silence or yelling when soap finally remembers you.

Only for soap to light up the second you enter, smiling wider than he has since the bullet. He tries to sit up from his recliner position, shining eyes pinned to you "christ, kyle, ye didn't mention bringing me a pretty thing!"

...pretty? Your face heats at the words, but soap is already reaching for you, despite gazs frantic please to lay back down, "did ah know ye too? Please tell me i married you. Past john would be a fool not to!"

Oh...oh gosh. You're not sure what to do, only focused on soap while nurses rush in as his heart monitor keeps rapidly. You try not to let your voice waver "uhm...no. you...rejected me."

"What? Fuck– no, give me another chance. Why the hell would I pass a gorgeous thing like you up?" Soap begs, ignoring the chaos of gaz talking the nurses down.

"You won't like me when you remember." You point out.

"Ach, let me decide that, aye? Right now, you look like the person of my dreams." He coos, grabbing your wrist "come sit with me, let me get to know ye?"

...you do. He's still the same johnny as ever, able to talk with you for hours and hours. God, you love him.

“Way,” Simon replied bluntly, staring at his captain with a dead expression behind that mask. “Screamin’ ‘is head off, on ‘n on about a lass who: ‘knows how to throw me around’. Not quite sure what that means.”

Finally, John slowly looks up from his paperwork and furrowed his brows, “…what?” he asks, tossing his pen onto the paper and lets out a surprised scoff, leaning against his seat. He stares at his teammate with his eyebrows completely raised now. Simon glanced at his brows, counting the wrinkles on his forehead. Was there a new one?

Never in the forty-plus years that John has been alive, that he’d ever think Johnny MacTavish found himself with someone who he could settle down with. Much rather, screaming at the top of his lungs about.

And… There he was— blabbering on about his new love in the mess hall while John and Simon stood at the door, watching in awe as he talks Kyle’s ear off. “Bites like a dog, hits like L.T!” Johnny says, slapping the table with a grin.

John blinked in confusion then looked over at Simon who was still watching the scene unfold.

“I’m right where I wanna be, Gaz! Wee bit aggressive when drunk but who isn’t!” Johnny continues, followed by a dramatic, loving sigh.

The talks go on for months. Random English words combined that made no sense— some concerning, others confusing. Talked about how you can “throw him down” and “he’s right where he wants to be”.

They were concerned. Because the more Johnny spoke about you, the more it sounded like just straight manipulation and abuse. Kyle spoke to him first. Asked him quietly if “he’s ever been hit” by you. To which, Johnny looks at him in bewilderment and asks him why he says that…

Before the question Kyle asked, Johnny said (in verbatim) “bonnie almos’ pummeled me las’ night cos I was wearing ‘er favorite shirt out”.

The next was John. After one evening, he had overheard Johnny telling Laswell that he “had to make it up to the missus because he left his boots by the door and had ta’ get’a spanking.”

The last to ask was Simon. Of course, the quiet and gruff man didn’t care that his fellow teammate and friend was in a relationship. Quite frankly, he forgot. That was, until Johnny expressed that his back was hurting from you kneeing him repeatedly.

They wanted and planned to have a sit-down conversation with their friend. Wanted to express how relationships don’t work that way.

Well—

That was, until they had met you. A sweet, pretty thing with the warmest smile as you gave them a little gift basket for returning Johnny safely from the most recent Op.

They soon learned that the shirt incident? Pure nasty sex because you loved seeing Johnny in that shirt. Kyle cut that conversation short the moment he saw how red your face got when you tried to explain without saying too much.

The boots that got tripped on? You had tripped on them and dirt flew everywhere on the floor. You had to spank the boots (not Johnny) till there wasn’t any more gravel or dirt on it, while (kindly) lecturing Johnny about kicking his boots clean at the patio before entering.

And the back incident? You tried massaging Johnny’s back but your hands did you no justice— Johnny just loves a good, hard massage. Which resorted you to having to use your knees… His request.

“Cannae believe yah lot really think the lass lays a hand on me!” Johnny says in bewilderment while the other three watches as you go fetch them some water.

Simon snaps his attention over to Johnny and gives him a deadpanned look behind his balaclava, “you make it seem like she knocks y’round.”

Johnny shakes his head, “I dinnae ken where yer gettin’ this information from. All I’ve done was compliment the lass.”

You’re on the couch with a green face mask on, hair clipped back, fluffy headband in place, cucumber slices balanced like you’re starring in a low-budget spa commercial.

Soap walks in.

He stops.

“…what the hell is that.”

You don’t even open your eyes. “Skincare.”

“It looks like you fell into swamp water.”

You slowly peel one cucumber off and stare at him.

Five minutes later he’s in a headband.

It happens fast. Too fast for him to react. You drag him down by the sleeve, Gaz laughing in the background like this is the best day of his life.

“Hold still,” you command.

“I will not!”

You smear clay across his cheek.

Soap gasps like you’ve shot him. “It’s cold!”

“Beauty is pain,” you reply calmly.

Gaz is filming. Traitor.

Then you turn to him.

“Oh no,” Gaz says, already backing up. “No, no, I’m just here for moral support.”

“Sit.”

He sits.

Soon he’s got under-eye patches sliding down his cheekbones and a lip mask that makes him look permanently pouty. Soap is wheezing. Gaz is trying to look dignified and failing miserably.

Price walks in mid-chaos.

He surveys the scene. Takes in the headbands. The neon masks. The fact Soap looks like a spa gremlin.

“…absolutely not.”

You just look at him.

Big eyes. Silent. Devastating.

Price exhales like a man surrendering to forces beyond his control.

“Five minutes,” he mutters.

He ends up in a charcoal mask. Arms crossed. Pretending this is beneath him while very carefully not smudging it.

Then there’s Simon.

He stands near the doorway like this does not concern him.

You approach cautiously.

He’s still wearing his little surgical mask underneath everything. Protective. Habitual.

“I’m not taking it off,” he says before you even ask.

You nod once. Respectful.

“Fine.”

He relaxes slightly.

That’s when you reach up and gently push his hood back instead.

Hair mask. Thick. Glossy. You work it in carefully while he stands there, stiff as a statue.

Soap makes a noise. “He’s being domesticated.”

“Shut up,” Ghost mutters.

You stick under-eye patches beneath his mask, adjusting them carefully so they sit just right.

There’s something deeply unserious about Simon Riley standing there with spa patches on.

Price is pretending not to look. He is looking.

Gaz is smiling softly. Soap is taking mental notes for blackmail.

You step back, proud.

“There. Hydrated.”

Ghost huffs. But he doesn’t move away.

An hour later, you’re all rinsed off, hair soft, faces clean.

Soap admits his skin feels “kinda nice.” Gaz is glowing. Price will never speak of this again. Ghost’s hair looks unfairly smooth and he refuses to acknowledge it.

Self-care night complete.

soap is feeling major baby fever.

it's usually something that only comes from sex, a 'im gonna knock yeh up' punctuated by hard thrusts that had your bones like jelly and your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

but this is different.

he doesn't even feel this way when you've got his newborn niece in his arms. a little baby doesn't feel him with the same need for you to carry his children.

it's literally just baby socks and it has him going crazy. a coworker asked for a blue set and a pink set for her sisters' babies. knit, crochet, however you wanted to make them, it had johnnys full attention.

"look." you held up the first finished sock, a blue one. a pretty, baby blue that you had in your yarn stash. it was so damn tiny and so damn cute.

soap took it from you and placed it in his hand. such a large hand and such a tiny sock. he imagined the tiny foot for such a tiny sock - a little boy that looked just like him. crying and whining and whatever else.

"yer incredible," soap mumbled as he put the sock down. you were already working on the second one, pausing when soap sat beside you. "lemme get ye pregnant, please," he whined, a pout on his face. "just one baby, one little mactavish."

you'd had this conversation with johnny before, when your minds were much clearer. when his wasn't clouded with baby fever. it was much earlier on in the relationship, when an unexpected breeding kink had terrified you the first time it reared its head.

you laid down what you wanted: two at the most when you were married. johnny told you what he wanted: he didn't care the number, he had a lot of love to give. he agreed on the marriage part, only because he knew back then that you were the one for him.

"'s just practice, john," you mumbled and laid your head on his chest. "for when it finally sticks."

Prompt: What scares them worse? Addressing them by their full government name, or addressing them by their military callsign?

Featuring: Task Force 141 (CoD: MW2) - John Price, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (separately) x GN!Reader

Word Count: 0.9k

Warnings: none

John Price

Government name.

Calling him Captain or Skipper just ends with him sauntering to where ever you are and ask (in an obnoxiously self-satisfied voice) what you wanted. Like a cat pretending it can’t hear the urgency in your tone when you say to get off the counter.

“If you want me to ‘shake a leg’, call my name, luvie.”

Now if you holler “Jonathan Price”, he’ll drop something. Either the newspaper in his hands, or his heart into his stomach. He sure as hell moves his ass with a purpose, and he’s peering into the room with an apology on his lips.