Would Ya'll Like To Read Some Gaz And Price As Well? I Honestly Don't Know Too Much About Them But I'd

Alive / Part IX

Word count: 156

The walk down the stairs was rather awkward. Soap was grinning to himself, Ghost desperately trying to make his boner go away.

The table was set with fresh bread, strawberries, cheese, sausage and all kinds of delicious food. Ghost suddenly felt how hungry he was.

"I don't know what you boys planned to do today", Molly said between bites, "Callum and I are going to the fair, and Isla and Alec wanted to go to the city and buy some new clothes for the kids, they are growing so fast", she gently pinched Archie's cheek.

Soap thought for a moment, smirking at Ghost. "We're gonna take it easy today, mum. Maybe go for a hike later, yea?", he looked at Ghost. A million thoughts raced through Ghosts head, most of them on how much he wants Soaps hands on his body again. "Yes, sure, hiking. Love that", he said awkwardly.

Molly grins. She really loves weddings.

Alive / Part II

Word count: 377

The air was filled with the clean, biting smell of antiseptic, the gentle, warm sunlight flooding the room through big windows a stark contrast against the stench.

Despite his tall figure and broad shoulders, he looked ridiculously small and lost next to the hospital bed. It had been two weeks since Soap got shot in the head, and somehow survived. He’d been unconscious since then, hooked up to an array of different machines.

It took Price and Gaz a lot of convincing to get him to at least go back to his room to change out of his blood stained clothes. He didn’t want to leave Soap alone. He’d already lost him once, and he’d fight God bare handed if anyone tried to take him away again.

Watching the now in bandages wrapped Soap was a monotonous task, but there was nowhere he’d rather be. The doctors said he’d wake up any time now, and Simon would be damned if he wasn’t there when he did.

His head lied on the bed, gaze fixed onto Soaps still face. He slowly started to drift off, eyelids heavy. Suddenly, the muscles of Soaps thigh flexed under his head. Simon was wide awake in a split second. His eyes searched for a sign of consciousness in his face, finding his brows slightly furrowed and eyes carefully blinking.

„W-what- happened?“, his voice was hoarse and croaky, glancing through the room without focus. „You, uh, got shot. In the head“, he said, a sudden nervousness overcoming him. A shocked expression flashed across Soaps face. „Oh“. Simon fumbled with the string of his hoodie. „Do you need something?“ Soap nodded, and pointed to a water bottle on the nightstand. Simon grabbed the bottle, opening it and handing it to him. Soaps hands were weak and shaky, struggling to grasp the bottle. “Wait, I’ll help ya“, Simon mumbled, tilting the bottle so he could drink. He wiped the water around his mouth off with a napkin, eyes fixed on the pink slightly parted lips.

The door opened, a nurse stepped into the room, making his way towards Soap. The urge to flee, to run away overcame him. „I‘ll, uh, leave ya to it, then“, he stuttered, leaving the room before Soap could say anything.

I by the way take requests, so if you guys have any ideas, feel free to send them, I love writing for ya'll! I write for (almost) all characters, ships and x reader. It may take a bit until I get to your request, since I have to study a lot, but I'll eventually get to them all.

Alive / Part I

Word count: 244 Simon firmly believed that regret was one of the most painful things someone could experience. It set his body ablaze, burned through his skin and into his bones.

The few seconds it took to run over Soaps limp, unconscious body, all of the things he wanted to say flung through his head like shrapnel from a bomb, boring their sharp edges into his mind.

He knelt down next to him, shaking hands desperately trying to find a pulse. There was none.

„I‘m sorry, Johnny. I‘m so sorry.“, his voice strained with shock and despair. „I love you. I need you. Please don‘t die, please.“ The black fabric of his mask was wet with tears.

Through the painful ringing in his ears, he could hear Price order a medevac over comms.

He held him in his arms until evac arrived. Softly cradling his head, silently praying for those storm blue eyes to open again.

His fingers rested on his pulse the entire time, trying to conjure up a faint rhythm, even though he knew that it would not come.

His forehead rested against Soap‘s, nobody daring to pull him away. Suddenly, there was something. A weak, light throb under his gloved fingertip. His head jerked up, eyes wide with a mixture between hope and despair.

Hastily, he pulled the glove off his hand, pressing his finger into Soap‘s neck. There it was again. A pulse. Weak and unsteady, but it was there.

Johnny was alive.

This was the only drawing I could find rn, drew this a few years ago (I was fifteen, so it ain't a masterpiece). Enjoy a 09 Captain John Soap MacTavish.

(His eyes are brown cuz I didn't know it was Soap back then and just used it as a random drawing reference.)

Also, do not repost.

Pain

Word count: 422

He thought he knew what pain was.

God knows he had experienced enough of it. Whether it be physical or psychological pain, it was as if the universe decided that there must be one person who'd be destined to collect all the different types of pain and suffering like other people collect stamps.

But the pain he felt the second he saw the bullet hammer into Soaps head, life slipping out of his eyes in the fraction of a second was nothing he'd ever known before.

In the second it took for Soap, Johnny, to fall to the ground, a vivid image flashed through his mind. Not of the things that were, but of those that could've been. Their eyes locked onto each other, hands entertwined, lips pressed against the other's. A ring on his finger.

The amount of regret that filled his body was unbearable, it felt like flames burning through his skin and into his bones. He regretted so much. Things he never dared to say or do, out of fear of allowing himself to feel again, feel vulnerable for loving someone. It seemed so foolishly insignificant now. He'd do and give anything to hear that stupid scottish accent and see that stupid smug grin again. To get a chance of telling him what he meant to him. That he was the only good thing he had. That he had a reason to return from his missions.

That he loved him.

But now, it was too late. He wanted to rip the skin off his bones in despair.

His body was on autopilot as he made his way towards Soap, the black fabric of his mask wet with tears. "Johnny!", he yelled, voice straining, trying to contain the raging sea of emotions that flooded every fiber of his being.

He held him in his arms, and for the first time in a long while, he screamed out in his mind to God, pleading, begging for a pulse. For a shaky, unsteady breath. For his Johnny.

But nothing came.

The highlands were as beautiful as Johnny always said. The sunset bathed the landscape in a golden light. As they poured Johnnys ashes from the cliff, letting the wind carry it away, his mask was soaked with tears.

The one thing he wanted, craved, the only man he ever loved, was reduced to nothing more than ashes.

It cost him every ounce of self restraint not to throw himself after those ashes.

What was his life worth, if Johnny wasn't in it?

tw: simon's mean and a sexist.

Simon who doesn't like you. He respects Laswell, who's intel is vital to their missions. Price as the leader of the Task Force. Gaz because he's proved his mettle time and time again, and Soap whose stubborn self has burrowed under Simon's thick, knotted flesh.

Not you, though.

You've yet to do anything substantial.

As a sniper, your job is to aim and kill; provide overwatch. Why Johnny insists on giving you praise for doing what is required of you is beyond him.

You aren't taken to below-zero temperatures as emotional support. Why you're taken at all is also another mystery.

Without your gun, you're utterly useless. And Simon proves it, time and time again during training spars at base.

He comes at you as if you're the enemy, with dangerous precision and quick movements. Simon gets enjoyment out of seeing your eyes widen when he moves, like an injured gazelle who's just spotted a ravenous lion.

His grip is bruising— the force that he slams you to the ground with devastating.

Simon can hear the air punched out of your lungs once your back hits the mat, and the time it takes for your vision to sharpen, he's already pinning you down viciously with a knee to the sternum.

Useless. Women don't belong in combat. He's seen that big brute from KorTac. He'd crush your pathetic little head under his palm, he'd kick your ribs hard enough to crack and the splintered ends pierce your lungs.

He'd kill you without a hint of effort.

And Simon intends to remind you that there is no place for weak, bitty things like you in the front lines. Unless you're to be used as a distraction by flashing your tits at the bad guys.

Out of place.

Every time you go up against him, he uses his size and strength against you, just like every other person will. He launches you across the floor with a single arm, only to watch you struggle to get up and continue this sham of a fight.

Confidence born of ignorance.

As if sheer will would ever beat physical prowess.

If your feet won't touch the ground, then the rest of your body will. Through spilled blood and bruised flesh, may you learn.

He whistles at Johnny, gesturing at him to take his place, only for the end result to be the same, albeit much more gently.

Simon watches you through half-lidded eyes as he leans up against the wall. You fight against inevitability.

Pathetic.

And then one day, you come at him with a snarl on your lips. Blunt teeth that have never had to sink into someone's neck and rip a throat out, out of utter desperation. An unblemished face that's never felt the sting of a sharp blade as it's sliced open contorted into 'rage.' Frothing at the mouth like a lap dog with rabies, barking out words that are as empty as your future.

A forceful wave of his hand abruptly halts you mid-sentence, causing you to involuntarily flinch in response. Good.

"If ya have a complaint, take it to Price. I am not obligated to humor your stupidity."

He spins on the balls of his feet, leaving you to sputter indignantly.

Then on a mission, you get shot. Simon grabs the handgun that's holstered on his chest, and places it in your bloodied hands. "Keep them off of us, or we're both dead!"

His fingers are curled around the thick strap of your tac vest as he drags you toward the LZ; his pace never faltering even while getting clipped by stray bullets. But you?

He'd think you got your legs cut off. Wailing like a cat in heat over a wound above your hip. A clean in and out, nothing vital hit.

Simon has seen Gaz fall out of a helicopter, dangle from a rope, and still use his gun. He's seen Johnny cross a town full of Graves' Shadows bleeding from his shoulder, armed with nothing but the makeshift weapons he crafted on the way to the church. Price inhaled toxic gas and made it out just fine. Even Laswell was taken hostage and didn't crack under the pressure, going as far as killing her captor with her bare hands.

And you're decomposing in front of his very eyes over a superficial wound.

Landing at base, he walks out without a glance back and heads straight for Price's office. He didn't join the 141 to babysit anyone, least of all someone who belongs in either intelligence or a kitchen.

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