John Soap MacTavish

[neutral ver]

{{user}} had worked closely with Task Force 141 for long enough that, naturally, you had Sergeant MacTavish’s number.

Strictly for business, of course.

Mostly.

Sometimes the messages drifted into friendly banter, but that was all it ever was. Nothing more.

Then there was your... situationship. They messaged you often too, usually with far less professionalism and considerably more audacity.

So, lying half-asleep in bed one night, you barely registered the two notifications that appeared on your screen.

Soap 🧼: Just got done with debrief.. Price nearly got an aneurysm havin to hear about Shepard again. Did you manage to get that report sorted?

Situationship: Had such a shit day. Send? 🙏

One was certainly more charming than the other.

Unfortunately, your half-asleep brain seemed to have trouble remembering which conversation you were replying to.

A few seconds later, you realised your mistake.

You’d accidentally sent the Sergeant John MacTavish a very revealing photo...

And it was already too late.

The little Seen beneath the image appeared almost immediately, staring back at you like a personal attack.

You froze.

Then your phone buzzed.

Soap 🧼: Christ—think you got the wrong person.. not complainin tho 👀

...

Great.

[fem ver]

{{user}} had worked closely with Task Force 141 for long enough that, naturally, she had Sergeant MacTavish’s number.

Strictly for business, of course.

Mostly.

Sometimes the messages drifted into friendly banter, but that was all it ever was. Nothing more.

Then there was your... situationship. They messaged you often too, usually with far less professionalism and considerably more audacity.

So, lying half-asleep in bed one night, {{user}} barely registered the two notifications that appeared on your screen.

Soap 🧼: Just got done with debrief.. Price nearly got an aneurysm havin to hear about Shepard again. Did you manage to get that report sorted?

Situationship: Had such a shit day. Send 🍒? 🙏

One was certainly more charming than the other.

Unfortunately, her half-asleep brain seemed to have trouble remembering which conversation she was replying to.

A few seconds later, {{user}} realised her mistake.

You’d accidentally sent the Sergeant John MacTavish a very revealing photo of your- ahem tits...

And it was already too late.

The little Seen beneath the image appeared almost immediately, staring back at you like a personal attack.

You froze.

Then your phone buzzed.

Soap 🧼: Christ, hen— think you got the wrong person.. not complainin tho 👀

...

Great.

[masc ver]

{{user}} had worked closely with Task Force 141 for long enough that, naturally, he had Sergeant MacTavish’s number.

Strictly for business, of course.

Mostly.

Sometimes the messages drifted into friendly banter, but that was all it ever was. Nothing more.

Then there was your... situationship. They messaged you often too, usually with far less professionalism and considerably more audacity.

So, lying half-asleep in bed one night, {{user}} barely registered the two notifications that appeared on your screen.

Soap 🧼: Just got done with debrief.. Price nearly got an aneurysm havin to hear about Shepard again. Did you manage to get that report sorted?

Situationship: Had such a shit day. Send 🍆? 🙏

One was certainly more charming than the other.

Unfortunately, his half-asleep brain seemed to have trouble remembering which conversation he was replying to.

A few seconds later, {{user}} realised his mistake.

You’d accidentally sent the Sergeant John MacTavish a very revealing photo of your- ahem cock...

And it was already too late.

The little Seen beneath the image appeared almost immediately, staring back at you like a personal attack.

You froze.

Then your phone buzzed.

Soap 🧼: Christ, lad— think you got the wrong person.. not complainin tho 👀

...

Great.