Cod Soap - Blog Posts

2-27-24

this vid was taken last year but it's still good

*posts and runs away*

can anyone notice the very small (not that) hidden detail

Soap wasn't allowed to play with Alex after this

Saw this and absolutely cackled

Gaming with Soap would go like this 😭

Soap, Ghost, and Gaz are so used to knowing Nik as a pilot that the day they see him beat someone fucking bloody without so much as blinking there's a wave of realisation that washes over them. They all want a turn with the Captain's boyfriend. Each of them wants a chance with Nik in bed.

Then they look at Price, the sheer want in his eyes and the obvious hard on he's making no effort to hide as he stares at Nik.

And suddenly, they're all considering if there's enough room on that bed for three.

Been thinking about my GOG AU for the MW2 remake.

Ghost is a barn owl, originally a soft brown but his feathers have been dyed by soot and ash. He wears an owl skull built into his helmet. Nobody knows if it’s a real skull or not.

Soap is a tawny owl. He has a line of puffed up feathers that resemble his mohawk. He has a thin scar over his left eye, can still see out of it though.

König is a Eurasian eagle owl. Big, scary looking lad.

Price is a snowy owl, claws and beak chipped. He still has his hat but will swap it for a helmet when needed.

Gaz is a northern hawk owl.

hi um so two of my fav writers on this platform literally reblogged another of these drabbles as i was writing this one so?? I'm buggin.

It’s the long-drawn snapping of neurons that prickle at you, eyes closed and forearm thrown over your face. A slow peel of eyelid after eyelid, foggy thoughts wisping away at a moment’s notice in the blackness of the bedroom; the ceiling is more a theory of shapes inferred from moon-coerced shadows than its usual cragginess, and you unhook your arm from the dip between your nose and forehead to reach up. Comb your fingertips through the air. 

Was it the breeze through your ever-closed window? Open now, a new development, but surely one that would rouse you like a bear from slumber. You feel large enough to be a bear, warm enough to feel tarped in fur, lethargic enough to clamber off your mattress and land on all fours and grunt like an animal. 

Maybe it was the slice of light underneath your bedroom door. You never forget to turn off the switches in your living room, the LED bulbs too glowy and insistent to sleep the way you do, curled up on one side and facing the doorway. 

Or maybe it’s because you’re not sleeping the way you always do. Not at the moment. Right now, you’re tipped onto your back, each limb swallowed up by an inch of cushion, flat like a slab of carbonite. Your body and the bed are inseparable—each pore on your skin is looped through with a stitch that dips into the sheets, rises back out and finishes with a double knot. 

All you can do is lay there. Willingly, you suppose, despite the spasms. 

A new ozone layer has settled around you, consistency of molasses, and hot to inhale. It stinks of past activity, like breaths that have been used up and tossed out. All of it cloys against your skin, maintaining a sheen of sweat to add to the discomfort. 

You’re awake now, though. 

Unhappy, but no longer unconscious. A bit bitter that you’re all alone. 

But a sharp trill pierces the air, and it hits you—that’s it.

That’s what had awoken you. 

Roused this grumpy, sticky, sore form of you that’s polyfoam-bound, torn too quick from a fundamental repose period. You’re too exhausted to moan, gripe, curse like you should. 

Even as the lights under the door flicker out, and something pushes it’s way inside with various scuffling movements. The room returns to stagnancy with a soft click, save for the lone gust of wind invading and receding at an unsteady tempo. 

Your next breath is a roiling mix of oxygen saturated with sodium and garlic. You hum aloud, a vague attempt to dissuade the bile crawling up your throat. Each time your tongue scrapes past your teeth, the morning grime collects and taints your tastebuds. 

You need water, and a toothbrush, and two tablespoons of toothpaste. Five minutes for an alcoholic rinse, too. 

Definitely don’t need the robust wafting of a pepperoni Hot Pocket up your nostrils at the ass-crack of dawn, as the mattress dips with a bulky outline. 

“Sorry, Bonnie,” a Scottish voice that is not apologetic in the slightest mumbles beside you. “Didnae mean to wake ye. Fuckin’ makes me ’bit peckish.”

We’re not gonna talk about how I wrote this instead of finishing part two of what’s in a virtue. We’re not even gonna talk about what this is. I’m just gonna… yeah, here ya go.

!Trigger warnings: dubcon

Body swap au with soap who just wakes up one day and says, “no fuckin’ way.”

Soap who thinks it’s the best fuckin’ dream he’s ever had.

Soap who solemnly agrees with you in the mornings that yes, the two of you do need to work together to fix this as soon as possible, but who spends his nights in front of a mirror stripped down to nothing, masturbating because it’s fucking you, and you’re so pretty when you’re panting. Soap who was always convinced that making you come would feel just as good as coming himself, and now he doesn’t have to figure that out anymore.

Soap who, fuck, has his cake and eats it, too.

Soap who grins so proud at the awkward way you stumble around in his body, too big for you. Soap who, after discovering you’d had to——ahem——relieve yourself for the first time, feels his skin fucking buzz at the fact that you can’t meet his eyes, your eyes, anymore without a schoolboy blush spreading across his own damn face.

Soap who knows you liked what you saw.

Soap who makes your body come again that night, not even thinking of your body anymore, but of your mind fumbling around in his body, experimenting with touches and caresses. Soap who imagines you knowing how to pleasure him inside and out when this is all over.

Soap who records the sound of your voice saying his name, because the lines are getting so damn blurry, and emails the video to himself. Takes pictures, too.

Would never blackmail you with them, no, no, no.

But he deletes them from your phone after sending them all to his drive.

Soap who, after everything is over, after you’ve both found your ways into your own bodies, trots after you like the dog he is wherever you go.

Soap who, after you check the deleted folder of your photos app, gets a good and proper scolding.

Soap who managed to record the entire reprimand, listening to the anger in your voice, the how dare you do that to me——to my body?! That’s so fucked up, Soap!

Soap who rewards himself yet again that night, teeth gnawing at the hem of his shirt that he hadn’t bothered taking off, just pulling up high enough to jack himself off with his back against his front door. Panting at the dash he’d made up his flat’s stairs, then panting your name, whimpering disingenuous apologies to your chiding voice.

Soap who doesn’t stop, who won’t stop until he’s got the real you screaming his name.

idk what I’m doing but call me a duckling bc I be following all the ppl who use this format and it looked like fun

Soap who meets you, a medic for the Shadow Company, after he’s injured on the mission. Soap who’s dragged by Ghost up into the chopper, who you lean over and promise you’ll do your damn bestest to make sure he looks pretty by the end of this.

“Let me know if you see the light at any point, Sergeant MacTavish. That’s usually a bad sign.”

Soap who won’t stop looking you in the eyes as you work, mumbling to himself in such a thick accent you figure it’s best to ignore him, especially while finishing a suture on his chest that draws out an excessive groan.

Soap who flirts with you the entire time. Soap who’s ignorant to the gaping wound on his chest, and is much rather invested in the way your smell washes over him as you hover, ponytailed hair dangerously close to his hand. Soap who lets his head fall onto your shoulder on accident, Bonnie, so sorry, even as he sniffs for more of that shampoo and tang of sweat, because you’d been working so damn hard to keep little old him alive.

Soap who lets you wrap around him, pressing your hands against the wall and the cushion next to his thigh to get leverage to lean him up and off the cot.

Soap who clings a little too tightly to your shoulder as you lead him down and away, safely back to his base and into his CO’s protection.

“Thank you for not dying on me, John,” you say as you guide him back to Ghost.

Soap who watches you still, dazed little grin on his face even as Ghost grapples a hand at his shoulder——to hold him steady or hold him back, he’s not really sure.

Soap who wouldn’t mind staying with you, though. For a little longer.

“Anytime, Bonnie.” And he throws you a cheeky wink despite his sickly flush.

“Screwball,” you mutter fondly, waving a dismissive hand over your shoulder as you make your way back up the Shadow heli’s ramp.

Soap who grins as you go, eyeing your ass as he leans over to Ghost with a whispered, “What ‘oes screwball mean?”

“‘Fuck would I know, Johnny? Now let’s get a fuckin’ move on.”

Ghost hates Roosters (GhostSoap)

Tw: Swearing, use of Ghost's and Soap's real names, fluff

“Johnny, you feed the hens yet?” Ghost asked as he carried the potato’s into the barn while Soap milked the cows that lived within the barn's red walls. “No, not yet. Is yer turn anyway.” Soap chuckled, blowing Ghost a kiss as he finished milking the last cow. “Ah don’t wanna deal with yer rooste’.” Soap smiled picking up the milk bucket as he patted the cow's backside with one hand. “Yer know that bird hates mah guts M’eudail.” Soap smiled, kissing Ghost's cheek as he walked past. “Hmph. Fine I’ll feed the hens today.” Ghost chuckled as he set down the sack of potatoes, picking up the basket full of the chicken feed. “I’m only doin this because I love you Johnny.” Ghost waved a finger at his husband. “Ah doubt yer would let yer beloved hens starve Simon.” Soap snickered. “Yer love those critters te death.”

“I suppose.” Ghost nodded, as he exited the barn, walking over to the chicken coop where the hens had already gathered. Ghost smiled as the chickens flocked around him, letting out annoyed chirps and squawks of offense at being fed later than usual. “Relax you feathery bastards.” Ghost laughed as the chickens angrily flocked him. Ghost hummed as he sprinkled the chicken feed all over the coop. The hens scattering to go eat their fill. The sounds of annoyed squawking died down as the creatures had their fill. The feathered creatures going back to roaming the coop or sitting in their nests once they had their fill. After making sure the hens were fed, Ghost moved on to the roosters. Quite frankly Ghost didn't quite like the roosters and the roosters didn't like him. However the roosters loved Soap, they were never aggressive with the smaller scottish man, however they would always try to tear out Ghost’s eye sockets. Deciding against entering the rooster house Ghost just threw the chicken feed through the mesh walls. “Feed you insufferable bastards.” However upon spotting Ghost on the other side of the wall a rooster attempted to attack him. “You violent creatures.” Ghost grumbled retreating back to the barn where he found his husband sorting through potatoes. “Alright Johnny, you are feeding the roosters. I hate them and they hate me.” “Simon yer overreactin’ them rooster’s are sweet.” Soap chuckled, “An don say yer hate em. Yer gonna hurt their feelin’s.” “Those bloody cocks don’t have feelings!” Ghost growled sitting down next to Soap, “One of em tried to claw my eyes out.” “Yer over exaggerate so much M'eudail.” Soap chuckled leaning against Ghost. “Der roosters are nice yer just don’t get along with ‘em.” “They don't get along with me.” Ghost scowled as he helped Soap clean the potatoes. “Whatever yer say Mo chridhe.” Soap laughed at the pout on Ghost’s face. “Ah still think yer just bein mean ter der poor roosters, maybe that's why they hate yer.” “Can’t believe you take their side, love.” Ghost huffed, “those things are bloody monsters.” “Maybe that’s why they don’t like yer.” Soap rolled his eyes. “Yer keep callin em monster’s and vermin.” “I’ve never called them vermin. But that’s a good way to describe them.” Ghost replied, glancing at his husband. “Ah m’ just sayin, maybe if yer didn hurt they feelin maybe they'd like yer better.” Soap chuckled. “Maybe they should just stop being pricks.” Ghost growled as he stabbed a potato. Soap laughed at his husband's antics. “Maybe yer should be the bigger person and just befriend the roosters?” Soap suggested with a grin, eagerly waiting for his husband's grumbly response. “I don’t want to be the bigger person.” Ghost hunched over angrily stabbing the potatoes. “…right. An remin me who’s the human in this situation?” Soap asked teasingly. “…me.” “An who has to be the bigger person?” Soap asked again. “…me.” Ghost groaned in annoyance.

This is so real

Thought of this at work today lmao

h-HELLO???😭😭 My eyes went so wide at that, like... it did everything to me and more I just had to share it somewhere