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#Soap
journen · 3 days
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So, I have a couple artworks I did for a fic I wrote / am writing. Au where Simon leaves the army to raise his nephew Joseph. In this installment ahaha Soap, who is still in the army, is visiting for the holidays, and so here is Simon and Jo picking up Soap from the airport, and Joseph giving Soap a hug! Both are of little scenes in the first chapter. 😊🧡
I'm so weak for uncles Simon and Johnny!!!!
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lovifie · 1 day
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Ghost needs to know where Soap and you always run to whenever the heli lands.
After every mission, every single one; the moment they touch ground, Soap and you disappear. Only coming back for the next breakfast, lunch or dinner.
He always gets pulls back by Price, talking about finishing paperwork and he never gets to see where you hide.
Until today.
He finally was able to catch the two of you enter one of the rooms on base before Price called him. Curiosity forces him to finish in time record, almost running to the room to see what is going on between you two.
What he didn't expect, was to find the two of you laying on a sofa, with Soap laying on top of you. With his pants down to his knees and yours hanging from your ankle.
Asleep, but Soap balls deep in your warm cunt. Too horny after the mission to wait to fuck eachother, but too exhausted to manage to do it without falling asleep mid-fuck.
He closes the door behind him, locking it. He likes your little arrangement, and he wants into the fun the two of you has.
Two pathetics pups, needing a third to fuck you right.
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witchthewriter · 1 day
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Gaz: I sleep with a knife under my pillow.
Soap: Weak. I sleep with a gun.
Y/N: You’re both pathetic
Soap: What do YOU sleep with?
Y/N: Simon.
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yawnderu · 2 days
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My pussy would love to sit on soap's face😔
Sitting on Johnny's face, pulling at the long hair of his mohawk, not a single protest coming out of his lips because he's simply too busy and drunk off your taste, his tongue working wonders over your wet cunt, even rubbing up and down to feel the light stubble against your inner thighs while he eats you out like a man starved.
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sixleggedboar · 2 days
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Ghost or price with the Bonk or Bonfire Color pallet.
-your local dumbass 🐺
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I’m lovin’ it.
Ended up in the flowTM, so here’s the whole 141.
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skulldetergent · 2 days
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soap, seeing something written in hebrew: simon, can you read this?
ghost: just because i'm jewish doesn't mean i know hebrew
soap, jokingly: ... you suck at being jewish
ghost, half joking: you suck at being catholic, you're married to a man
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v1x3n · 1 day
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butterrose07 · 3 days
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Simon Says (Simon Riley x Reader)
Warnings: 18+ readers only, sexual themes, foul language, male dominance themes, gender differences
Johnny can't help but to wonder how Simon has an obedient wife like you. Because deep down inside, he wants it, too. If only he is willing to learn the very same lessons Simon learned from Price.
oOo
"How?"
Simon doesn't react to his question. The rose-patterned teacup looks comically small in his hands as he takes a sip of his tea, and Johnny can't help but to lean forward. Above the tiers of cake and other goodies piled high on the table, the smoke from his friend's cigar blended into the oak decor of the room. It wasn't much of a question as much as it was an expression of incredulity.
Simon doesn't need to know what Johnny asks. Because he was there before years ago, his very own stare being consumed by Price's. His friend. His mentor. A man who had a position relative to his woman that he knew deep within his gut that he craved.
Stewing against all he knew and was taught about man and woman.
He was there years ago, and he knew Johnny would be him years after.
If he accepted what he taught, that is.
He shifted in his seat. "What's the difference between a man and a woman, Johnny, besides the cunt and cock?"
Immediately, Johnny snaps his head to the left, to the closed glass doors of the study to where you are in the front dining room, nestled against the windows knitting strawberry hats for your babies. Twins. Due in three months time, and you're ecstatic enough to decorate the pink dollhouse Simon built for you as a project. Simon knows Johnny is making sure you didn't overhear his crass question, ever the gentleman, no matter how rough he was around the edges. The discomfort he sees in his eyes mirrored his own years ago sitting in front of Price's desk, in front of a sated man who told his pretty little wife to fetch them her homemade bon-bons and show them off. He couldn't forget the pep in her step and the rustle of her dress out the door to the kitchen in her fluffy pink slippers. After all, he was hit with the same questions, the same lesson that he was bestowing upon Johnny now. It was hard to forget his own nervous swallow when she came back to proudly show off her chocolates, ever so oblivious of the chauvinistic language.
Johnny awkwardly rubbed at his neck. "Hey, man, pretty sure she can hear us through those glass doors."
Typical response.
"And, uh, there shouldn't be a difference." God, he was so naive. "We are all the same."
And that's why Johnny didn't have what he had, yet. And that's why he asked the how and not the why. He didn't get it, and he wouldn't get it until he understood that there was a difference.
A big difference.
A difference that should've been obvious enough to override the indoctrination genteel society fed to children. And people wondered why they were so confused, so discontent, their soul hanging limp inside their bodies, stripped of worth. Until he ripped the blindfolds off his eyes and understood the core essence of what it was to be a man, he wouldn't get the woman he dreamed about. Or if he even knew that was what he wanted, because Simon could tell that's what he wanted. He could tell Johnny wanted a doe-eyed wife who would rub at his chest after a long day of work. She would wear soft tea dresses and coo at their newborn in a bassinet Johnny would build using his own hands. She would have flowers in her hair and smell of fresh bread and honey. He knew Johnny would retire in a heartbeat and whisk her away to a quaint village to live in by the sea.
He knew all of it because he wanted those things himself. He knew it because he had it all.
The house. The life. And his little adoring wife who made all the tea cakes herself that they were indulging in.
"What?" Johnny had much to learn. "Why are you looking at me like that?" So much to learn, so much to shed of the indoctrination. "A-Am I wrong?"
And Simon would teach him, if not light the matches in his mind. He knew Johnny would resist, at first. Ever so the merry chap, all for being a "good guy", a friend, a champion for classic equality peppered with old-time chivalry. But he knew deep down that it wasn't working. It wasn't garnering a woman who would fulfill his primal role as a true man, a man who felt profound joy at being a giver, a protector, a provider. He knew deep down his friend wanted an adoring wife anxiously waiting for him back home, watching out the window for his return so that his arms could lift her up for a loving kiss. He knew he wanted what he had.
He knew, just like how Price knew.
"Johnny, my boy, come take a seat."
And Johnny would know, too.
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tb-png · 3 hours
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Afterparty - 🖤🧼
Hc that most nights out, soapgaz end up in each others bed no matter what hehe
Patreon |
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aussiepineapple1st · 2 days
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Soap Tattoo Artist AU
Next (Coming Soon)
I hope you enjoy this AU I came up with. Heheh. I just posted part 3 on Patreon
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THE ABSOLUTE SCREAM I JUST RELEASED
Thank you all so much for all the love and support !!!
I'm so excited for future posts, commissions and suggestions.
It really means so much to me thank you all! 🩷💕💓🩷🩷💓🩷💓🩷💓🩷💓🩷💓💕🩷
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queenhunter102 · 1 day
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Master list
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Taglist
CALL OF DUTY
Our Omega PART 1
PART 2
PART 3
PART 4
PART 5
PART 6
PART 7
PART 8
PART 9
PART 10 PART 11 PART 12
Lore page
CHRISTMAS TIES - CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE, JOHNNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH, SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY.
CAPTAIN'S COUCH SNEAK PEEK OF NSFW - HERE
The 141-task force decided to get married. (Civilian) - Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Captain John Price, Johnny 'Soap' McTavish, Alejandro Vargas, Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick
Buying a house/flat with you for the first time - Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Captain John Price, Johnny 'Soap' McTavish, Alejandro Vargas, Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick
Getting you alone on your wedding night - Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Captain John Price, Johnny 'Soap' McTavish, Alejandro Vargas, Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick
The picture they use to show you off on base - Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Captain John Price, Johnny 'Soap' McTavish, Alejandro Vargas, Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick
First date - Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Captain John Price, Johnny 'Soap' McTavish, Alejandro Vargas, Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick
NSFW Links (My written work) - Simon, Johnny, Kyle, John
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moondirti · 41 minutes
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Your ghostsoap x preg!reader!!??? I'm in love I need more of this. You have more thoughts for that universe? I just fell in love with your writing.
Let me camp in this corner of your blog, I'm friendly and don't bite (⁠~⁠ ̄⁠³⁠ ̄⁠)⁠~
they're all i've been able to think about all day. of course i have more to say <3 if you're curious, anon is referring to this, which should be read before this part.
tags: DARK FIC. manipulation. vehicle tampering. planned abduction. pregnant fem!reader. established ghostsoap – who are not the fathers but would definitely like to be. mentions of somnophilia
Delusional as they might be, it's hard to justify something as egregious as blunt-force kidnapping. Though it briefly occurs to Simon – to pluck you from the parking lot and drive off the hour after they decide to keep you – the logistics don't iron out. Of chief concern, you're six months pregnant. What they'd typically use for POW's thus become's inconsiderable for you; Johnny's the wiz, but even he knows the effects chloroform can have on a foetus. The alternative isn't any better, either – his partner just balks at the idea of tying you up and throwing you in the trunk. (She'll never git ower it, Si. Dae ye want her tae hate us?)
So, things unfold in a far subtler manner.
They go home that night they first meet you. Can't coordinate without resting on it, they rationalise, without scoping their place to assure it's suitable for their soon-to-be-mother. They tuck away the knives laying on random countertops, air out the quilts gifted to them by Johnny's ma in an attempt to make their room cozier. And when they sleep, they dream of you tucked in between them, knocked out, sex-drunk. Dressed in nothing but a shirt, cunt bared for either of them to toy with throughout the night.
Hours upon hours later, well into noon the next day, Simon wakes to find his boy rutting into his thigh, still somewhat comatose, and sneaks a rough hand into his boxers to tug the tension out of the poor thing. They only get up as the fissures of dusk begin to spread across the sky, loading their car with a toolbox and making the drive back to The Dahlia, staking out in the parking lot as they wait for you to arrive for your shift.
(Johnny had deployed the old charm as you brought out their food in two baggies, disguising the trap with a lilting laugh as he audibly wondered why you picked up such a late shift.
You’d only shrugged and said you preferred to work nights.)
Sure enough, you pull up in a beat-up Kia at 2200, fussing with your bag as you stumble to the back entrance of the roadhouse.
"Forgot to lock it." He mutters, following your form until it disappears from view. Johnny only frowns, tightening his fingers over his thumb. A little nervous tick.
"Should we be doin' this?"
"And what is this?" Simon turns to appraise the scotsman, larger hand enveloping his, calloused fingertips smoothing over scarred knuckles. "Y'think they'd be kinder to 'er? The type of scum we know grace this earth? It's a wonder she made i' this far, Johnny."
He isn't convinced.
"Look a' me." Blue eyes widen to meet his, dark as their owner battles intuitions that have always been straighter than the Ghosts'. "Wanna give 'er a good life, yeah?"
"Aye. The best."
"Would she be so convinced?" But he knows the answer. They both saw the way you withdrew after being hit on, losing the effusiveness you initially greeted them with. Avoidant. Classic case of hyper-competency, perhaps the very reason you put up with such shitty circumstances to begin with. A stubborn knot they'll have to undo themselves.
And Johnny likes the challenge.
"Lass's got something tae prove." Moments pass in silence. Then: "Ah’ll get th' wire."
"Atta' boy."
They only enter the establishment an hour before the end of your shift. It’s 0600 and space is sleepy. At a point that had escaped their notice, someone had made the choice to shut the overhead fluorescents, and so all that functions to illuminate the dinette is the pale dawn outside. Johnny finds he prefers it like this, grumbling a tired endorsement, before branching off in search of the bathroom, hand rubbing the sore column of his throat.
The softening mass in his pants jumps once Simon catches sight of you, balancing two trays in one hand as you wipe down the serving hatch. He doesn’t need to say anything. You catch the dark blur of him in the corner of your eye, shuffling into a booth, where he occupies an entire side with the mere spread of his legs.
“Hello again. Just you today?” You’re twirling your pen, cradling your belly, and he notes the perpetual shadow cast under your eyes. Poor pet.
He shakes his head, then cocks his head toward the loo. “Think he’ll have a go at the toastie today.”
“Good choice. Hard to fuck up.” You give him a tired smile. “And for you?”
“M’good.”
“You sure? Look like you’ve been on the road again, and-" You pause, the water of your eyes rippling as you appraise his mask. Something seems to click just then, because you nod and tuck your notepad away. “I’ll ask again at the end. Maybe you’ll want something to-go.”
In the end, they do take something to go.
Not as greasy as the toastie Johnny spends the hour tearing into, glossing the pads of his fingers with oil. Nor as sour as the coffee he sipped on last night, burnt and way past freshness, just like you’d warned them about. But a much, much sweeter keepsake. Something that’ll sate them for much longer.
You’ve already clocked out once they leave The Dahlia, faces grim but as innocent as they can possibly muster. Sure enough, you’re out standing by your car, wiping tears with the back of your hand. They’re close enough that they can catch snippets of your conversation on the phone (No, I don’t– and It is old but never–).
They wait until you grow desperate, hiccuping – Don’t have that kind of money. Please – before intervening.
“Hey. What’s the matter, hen?” Johnny approaches first, concern no faux thing, smoothing a hand down your arm. What Simon said earlier comes back around (Wanna give 'er a good life?) and his chest tightens at the sheer despair he sees etched across your face. You shouldn’t be this stressed about anything this far along, should have someone taking care of you.
He, they, can be that for you. Could give you everything you ask for and more.
“M-my car. I-I don’t– I don’t know what’s wr-wrong with it, and–”
“Shhh, issalright. Not starting, eh?”
“No. And I have to- to get home before… before–”
Simon steps in, crowding you against the side of your car. You don’t have it in you to look for the red flags; the glances they throw one another, the subtle crinkle in the masked one’s eyes as he smiles. No, you don’t– can’t consider it dangerous. Not when these two wonderfully kind men, who tipped you 100% of their bill both times they came in, are one of your only means of getting help.
“Where do you live? We’ll drive ya if it’s on our way.” A lie. They’ll drive you regardless, and you won’t be taken home.
“Oh- no. That’s okay, really. I’ll just a-ask my boss if I can get a sub on my pay, and–”
Johnny smooths a finger across your cheek.
“Nonsense, hen. It’ll be a skoosh.”
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pupyr0arz · 1 day
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mermaid!soap x ghost. Unfinished Drabble.
He speaks thrice a week. He has it down to the ticking of the clock in his hut, the one source of noise down there by the rocks aside the wave and the braver sea-birds. Every Monday when the sun crests the horizon he takes the long path down to the docks and stops by Price’s inn. He greets him with a fatherly grunt and a comment about the weather, cautious and concerned. 
He doesn’t listen to any of Price’s warnings of bad weather, and Price knows it too. 
Wednesday is the next time he hears his voice, when he takes the catch in. Gaz comes by and if he didn’t count the handful of responses he gave it still would because he speaks for an entire village. Tells him what feels like every detail of every man, woman and child’s business up and down the country. Trots beside him on the fussy beast of a creature he calls a horse and sticks like a burr to his backside all throughout the afternoon. Gaz minds his business when it comes to him, though.
The third and final time is in the dead of night. He walks up the craggy path with a lantern and waits for the moon to rise to light it. He settles on his knees in front of the gravestones, carved deep and true so their names don’t fade for years, and he talks. Inanities, comments and jokes, the happening around town. Old and new, he speaks and speaks and speaks until his throat bleeds and his knees cramp and he nearly tumbles off the cliff when he gets up at dawn. It’s a long ranting, raving speech, he’s sure he’d look entirely mad to anyone stupid enough to follow him up there. He doesn’t let them get a word in edgewise, but it burns in his head nonetheless as he makes his way down, unsteady as a fawn.
Mum wouldn’t be happy at all, she’d be right cross. She was never a fiery woman though, all sad-eyed looks and mournful sighs when she found wrong in the world. She’d fuss over the state of the hut and sit by his bedside, offering wet rags like he’s a lad and sick with a fever like she always did when she wanted to help him. She’d fuss about all of this silence, the loneliness of the ocean. She never did like it when he went quiet as a youth, saying that nothing was worse for the head than filling it full of thoughts left to rot. She’d wanted better for him then, wanted him to go to the city and find work there, leave the craggy cliffs that scraped the sea with their claws and left the great widow-maker to her own devices. She’d wanted him to take that butchery apprenticeship and pack away, leave behind the salt and spray rather than be one of the many non-people to sink among the waves.
Tommy would just be pissing mad, that is. He had their fathers temper, both of them  when had to admit to himself in the quiet of the night. Tommy’s only flared brighter and hotter because he struck out at the world first, clawed at it for his place. Ever the older brother, determined to be the first. He had wanted out since the moment he heard of the city at all. He would’ve been miserable here.
He tries not to let it taint his days. It’s a losing battle, but his trade has settled in his bones now. He wakes and sleeps by the sounds of the tide and he’ll find himself at dawn with the taste of salt in his mouth. He keeps his boat towards the southernmost end, where the sea is as still as stone most days, silent quartz mirror broken by the gentlest of ripples. It reflects him, smoothing the turmoil in his head into quiet nothingness, clouds a blip on the surface of the water. Not once does he dip a finger in. There’s nothing under that calm surface but danger, he knows better than to try it.
He’s not married, and isn't interested in any of the girls that float though or anchor themselves in town. They don’t approach him often, eyeing him with caution. Better odds on picking the humble, inviting town boys than the silent, scarred fisherman. It doesn’t change a thing to him, even if Gaz and Price prod at him every once in a while.
Life is as it is, cyclic, endless in repetition, formation of a thousand possibilities in lockstep. The sun rises, yellow disc carelessly spilling over onto the ocean, flames at the bottom of his boat. The moon rises, perched high in the sky and watching over the rippling grasses. His name loses meaning, and he becomes that loss. Rumors rise and fall. Calm weather and storms trade turns, finding him unmoving as the cliff-stone.
It’s a silent day when the cyclic abruptly crawls to a halt. When the still, silent and waters of Ghost’s soul finds itself parted abruptly, tugged into a fierce upheaval. It comes without warning, without sense, swifter than any arrowhead and sharper than his knife. The apathy that colors his eyes vanishes when they meet his, all blues and greens like the ocean fed a bit of herself into two jewels and placed them for anyone to take in his head. It’s replaced so fast, Ghost doesn’t even notice. He doesn’t miss it, either.
One nameless day, the blue sheen of the water is cut by something, a foreign color that shimmers beneath the surface. He doesn’t recognize it immediately, that catches his eye more than any of its unusual features, blurred beneath the ripples of murky  water and the shadow cast by his boat. It’s slow moving, placid, then it thrashes once the net covers it, but Ghost is used to being jerked around and bites down on his tongue and digs his heel in, cursing to himself as he hauls it’s struggling form inch by inch. It’s almost respectable how violently it fights for its life. 
“I swear on the lord,” he snaps, twisting the net around his hands, the rope biting into his skin sharply, “I will gut you and eat you right bloody here right now, no matter how much you cost.” 
That is novelty enough, the fourth time already breaking the ritual, the strange appearance of the thing in his net that seems more wide-fins and shiny scales wrapped up in a ball than any sort of dish he knows, but then at the sound of his rough cracking voice it stills Ike a frightened rabbit. He nearly falls over from the sudden slack before he recovers.
The net spills open onto the deck, the mistake suddenly so minuscule Ghost forgets the net even exists as the catch flops onto the deck. It’s no fish he’s ever heard of, no eight armed man eating beast that idiot Graves once bragged about catching himself.
It looks almost like a man, almost, head and hair and hands even, but it’s body extends, serpentine and scaled like a fish. It glistens with copper red scales and bright blues, fins sprouting from its skin like any other creature from the sea. 
It looks up at Ghost, wide-eyed. Crystal blue, like sea-glass and the stones the town-men brought back from travels to adorn their brides throats, soft lips and nose.
The first thought, which is less of anything in any coherent language and more of an urge that builds in Ghost’s bones and tugs deep within him at his navel, is that he wants to touch it, cup its face into his hands and trace the contours of skin and scales and the boundaries where they blend and dance together. The second thought is that it’s trying to pull itself overboard. 
The third thought is lost when he leaps forwards to bind it, cut off amid the clumsy scuffle.
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stumisstability · 3 days
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How I think the 141 would react if you got shot in battle:
Soap, nervous for you: no, Y/N! *kneels next to you* Come on, be ok!
Ghost, downplaying it: come on. Get up. We got to move.
Gaz, concerned: Y/N...get up...please...
Price, annoyed and nervous: that was bloody reckless, Y/N...are you ok?
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femalefemur · 2 days
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MW II (2022)
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