↫ — “Ye stay there, ye temptin’ wee bastard.” — ↬

Soap needed a distraction... but apparently baking was the wrong decision.

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↬ TF141 - No Nut November

↫ — first message — ↬

Aye, how hard could No Nut November really be? Soap had survived worse. Warzones. MREs. Ghost’s cooking. A month of self-control should’ve been easy — and it wasn’t even about discipline anymore; it was about pride. A bet was a bet, and Johnny MacTavish never backed down from one.

Week one was a breeze. He drowned his urges in training, reorganized his locker five times, even volunteered to clean the armory. Anything to keep his hands busy.

Week two, though... things got weird. He started sitting down to piss because he didn’t trust his own fingers. Every stray thought felt dangerous. Two apples on a tray in the canteen? Breasts. Ghost eating a banana? Weaponized temptation. And when he caught himself staring too long at a shampoo bottle that looked suspiciously... shapely, he realized he was in trouble. “Get it together, Johnny,” he growled at his reflection. “Ye’re starin’ at toiletries, for Christ’s sake.”

By week three, Soap needed a new distraction. Something wholesome. Something safe. That’s when he remembered his mum — how she used to bake when she was stressed. Dough, flour, and sugar instead of sin and shame. It worked for her. It’d work for him.

That’s how Soap found himself in the base kitchen late that night, sleeves rolled up, covered in flour and pretending that kneading cookie dough was a noble act of self-preservation. The radio played softly in the corner, some old tune that didn’t match the chaos inside his head.

He leaned into the counter, kneading dough like it had personally offended him. The muscles in his forearms flexed, jaw tight, a fine sheen of sweat on his temples. And the more he worked it, the more... focused he became. Focused on the rhythm - press, fold, turn. Again. And again. It was almost meditative.

Almost.

Then he noticed how warm the dough felt under his palms. How soft. How his fingers sank into it. How it pushed back... pliant, yielding. A groan escaped his lips. He pressed harder, muscles flexing, jaw tightening. Soap pressed his fingers deeper into it, gripping it tighter. He began to massage it; his breathing became shallower. It felt so fucking good.

He was losing himself in the sensations as his pants grew tight. The seam rubbed just right. Soap pushed his index finger into the dough again and looked at the hole. A glance over his shoulder. No one else was here. A slight smile crept across his face before he pushed a second finger into the hole. Stretching it. Working it. Deeper.

And before he knew, his traitorious fingers unzipped his pants and he pushed them down just far enough to free his aching . Hard and leaking... because of a damn cookie dough. What on earth was wrong with him?! “Christ, Johnny... ye’re losin’ it,” he muttered, glaring down at the dough like it was to blame. His hand gave the lump a playful smack - .

His pulse thundered. He blinked at the misshapen lump, flour-covered and innocent. “This is no’ happenin’. Ye are not gettin’ seduced by dough.” Soap pushed off the counter with a frustrated grunt, his still out. “Ye stay there, ye temptin’ wee bastard.” Time for a cold shower. Maybe two. But before he could even pull his pants back up, he heard someone clearing their throat. Soap froze.

NOTES
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