#Johnny MacTavish x reader

[barrackbitch]

soap’s ideal girl is an eldest daughter who low-key hates men, kind of tolerates him, and centers her career over all else.

“jus’ one night, birdie. i’ll take yuh ‘round the town.”

“give me one reason why i shouldn’t throw this drink in your face.”

oh, he’s hooked. wedding bells are playing and he’s searching up how quickly he can get price ordained.

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ father johnny 'soap' mactavish - 02

cw : angst, comfort, can be read in the same universe as this.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  collection

The house was quiet.

It was a rare moment of peace in the Mactavish home. Seven kids, it hadn’t been easy, but there was nothing Johnny would change about his life. He loved the noise, the mess, the laughter, the tears… all of it. If anything, he would’ve had even more kids. But that hadn’t been possible.

The last pregnancy had taken a heavy toll on you. After six deliveries, anyone would’ve thought your body was used to it. And with modern medicine, it should’ve gone smoothly.

But it didn’t.

You lost a dangerous amount of blood. The baby had nearly died, choking on his umbilical cord.

It had been a nightmare, for you, and for Johnny. It changed everything. Any desire for another child vanished overnight. He went as far as getting a vasectomy. He wasn’t going back to condoms, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to put you through any contraception that might mess with your body.

So, a vasectomy it was.

Now Johnny was enjoying a cigarette, sitting with a cup of tea in the middle of his kitchen. The night was winding down. His babies were safe in their beds, his wife sound asleep, warm, soft, waiting for him.

Only one was missing.

Callum had gone to a party tonight. He was due back in ten minutes, so Johnny waited. He always waited. He needed to know where all his bairns were before he could close his eyes. That nagging feeling never went away when one of them was out for the night—sleepovers, school trips, didn’t matter.

He couldn’t help it. It was just in him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of keys in the front door, right on time. He’d raised them well, his babies.

Johnny smiled softly, but the smile vanished the second his fifteen-year-old son stepped into the kitchen. Callum looked devastated, tired and scared. Johnny’s heart cracked at the sight.

He stood up quickly, hurrying over to him, eyes scanning from head to toe, searching for anything, an injury, a burn, a scratch, anything that might explain why his boy looked like that. His hands landed gently on Callum’s shoulders as he met his son’s tear-filled blue eyes.

It happened in an instant, Callum burst into tears and threw himself into his father’s arms.

If there was one thing Johnny had always been good at, aside from demolition, it was being a dad. He never raised his voice, never laid a hand on his bairns. He hugged them, kissed them, made sure they knew they were loved. Even his teenage boys weren’t ashamed to ask for a hug now and then. That’s how Johnny knew he was doing something right. His was his kids' safe place. 

He held Callum tight, steady and strong, the way he always had.

“What’s going on?” Johnny whispered, anxiety chewing through him like acid. He’d take a bullet to the head a second time if it meant keeping his babies safe. “Are ye hurt, baby?”

Callum shook his head between sobs, his whole body trembling. He clung to Johnny like a drowning boy clutching a lifeboat, desperate and terrified. Johnny could feel the panic radiating off him, could hear it in every broken breath.

Something had happened. Something bad. And Johnny’s gut twisted with a fear he hadn’t felt since his days on the battlefield.

That’s how they stayed for a few minutes, standing in the kitchen, the clock ticking toward midnight, while the youngest cried heavy, aching tears into his father’s shirt.

It was a sight Johnny never wanted to see, one of his grown bairns breaking like that, crying their heart out. To him, they were sacred. Precious. Pure souls who shouldn't have to carry pain of any kind.

Not his kids. Not ever.

“Tell me what happened,” Johnny asked gently, his voice low and steady. “Ye ken you can tell me anything.” He whispered again, softer this time, trying to soothe his boy. 

One hand moved slowly up and down Callum’s back, the other gently stroking his hair, reassurance in every touch.

“It’s Ethan…” came the answer, barely louder than a breath. If Johnny hadn’t been listening so closely, he might’ve missed it.

Ethan. Simon’s son. Callum’s best friend.

“Is he hurt?” It was the first thought that hit Johnny like a punch to the chest.

Those boys were tied together like true brothers. He couldn’t imagine Ethan ever doing anything to harm Callum. And he couldn’t imagine Callum breaking like this unless something serious had happened.

Johnny trusted Simon, he knew the kind of father he was. A bit more stern than Johnny himself, maybe, but firm in love and always ready to listen. Their sons had grown up in that shared foundation.

If something had happened to Ethan, Johnny needed to know. He had to.

“No,” Callum whimpered, barely above a whisper, looking up at his father.

There was something in his eyes. Something Johnny hadn’t expected. Fear.

Johnny’s chest tightened. It wasn’t fear for something, it was fear of him. And that shattered him.

For a moment, he just stared, eyebrows furrowed deep, trying to understand. Hadn’t he always been gentle? Hadn’t he held them through every scrape and heartbreak, never raising his voice, never judging? Hadn’t he proven, time and again, that he would protect them from anything?

How could his boy—his boy—be afraid of him?

“Tell me, baby,” Johnny whispered, his voice thick as he pulled Callum’s head back against his chest. He wasn’t ready for his son to see the tears gathering in his own eyes. That look, that fear,had cut deeper than anything else ever had. “Ye dinnae have to be scared, Cal. Not with me. Never.”

After those words, Johnny felt his son’s arms tighten around him, so tight it was almost suffocating. Callum clung to him like he was the last safe place in the world, and the tears didn’t stop. His sweet boy, always the pleaser, was trying to stifle his sobs, biting them back so he wouldn’t wake his siblings or his mum. Even in his own pain, he was thinking of others.

That only broke Johnny’s heart more.

“I’m scared to tell you, Dad,” Callum murmured into his father’s chest, his voice shaky and muffled. He still couldn’t bring himself to lift his head from the comfort Johnny gave him. “I don’t want you to think different of me.”

Johnny sighed softly, shaking his head against his son’s hair. “What are ye on about?” he whispered. “Ye could kill someone and ye'd still be my sweet son, Callum.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his boy’s head, slow and steady, hoping it would soothe him enough to speak.

“I need to ken, son,” he added quietly, not wanting to push, but aching for answers. “It’s killing me to see ye like this. Ye can tell me anything. Me and yer mum, we’re never gonna judge ye. Never.”

Callum took a deep breath, sniffing one last time before finally pulling back from the embrace. He looked up at his father, eyes wide and glassy, big tears threatening to spill down his flushed cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose red from all the crying and rubbing.

“Ethan, he…” he started, voice barely a murmur. Johnny could see how much it cost him to even begin. “Me and Ethan… we, um…”

Callum closed his eyes, gathering the last of his courage. His chest rose with another breath, this one deeper, shakier.

“I’m gay, Dad.”

The words slipped out in a whisper, hanging in the stillness of the kitchen like a secret finally set free. The clock ticked quietly past fifteen minutes past midnight.

After a few seconds of silence, Johnny let out a long, relieved sigh.

“That’s it?” he asked, brows lifting slightly.

“What?” Callum opened his eyes, blinking in confusion. “You’re… you’re not mad?”

Johnny frowned, but this time not out of confusion, this time, it hurt. Deeply. That his boy could think he’d be angry, or worse, disgusted just for loving someone. There was nothing his kids could say that would ever make him stop loving them. And certainly not who they loved.

“Baby,” Johnny murmured, shaking his head. He reached for Callum again and pulled him into his arms without hesitation.“I dinnae know what I did, or didnae do, that made ye think I’d be angry because ye like boys,” he said gently. “And I mean this in the kindest way, I truly dinnae care who ye love, Callum. As long as they’re good to ye, good people… that’s all that matters to me.”

He pressed another soft kiss to the top of his son’s head, holding him close like he had when Callum was little, like he always would.

“I was so scared, Dad,” Callum whispered, another heavy tear sliding down his cheek. “And Ethan said he didn’t want to hide anymore, but I didn’t know what to do… so he left, so angry. And he hasn’t been answering my texts…”

“Shhh, it’s alright,” Johnny cooed softly. “Everything’s going to be fine, Cal. If Ethan’s anything like his dad, he gets angry fast… but then the guilt eats him alive.”

Johnny chuckled, remembering all too well how Simon’s temper could flare.

“You really think so?” Callum looked up at his dad, eyes wide with hope and trust.

Johnny brushed a stray tear from his son’s cheek and nodded slowly, a soft smile spreading across his face. “I ken so.”

After a few seconds of silence, Johnny gently guided his son to sit at the kitchen table. He filled a small cup with the still-warm tea, adding just the right amount of milk and sugar—just how Callum liked it.

The moment the cup was set in front of him, Callum’s phone buzzed. Then again. And again.

Messages. From Ethan.

“Told ye,” Johnny smirked, pressing one last kiss to his boy’s head. “Don’t forget to turn the light off. I love ye.”

And with that, Johnny headed upstairs, feet quiet against the floor. He crept into bed, careful not to startle you as he slid in beside your warmth. Slipping an arm around your waist, he pulled you close, breathing you in. He had longed for this all evening, the comfort of your presence.

But even as he lay there, wrapped in everything he loved, one thought refused to leave him. Callum had been scared to tell them he was gay. And that, that would sit with Johnny for a long while.

“You alright?” you murmured against his neck, your hand slowly caressing his chest, feeling how damp it was with the remnants of your son's tears.

“I dinnae think so,” Johnny sighed, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “Callum was scared to tell me something… and it broke my heart a little.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his neck and tightened your hold around him.

“They’re kids, Johnny. They’ve got a whole world outside this house. So many voices in their heads, telling them horrible things. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Your voice was thick with sleep, but still steady, still sure. “Society’s just pure shit, my love.”

Your words made sense. Johnny could shelter them all he wanted, but the outside world would always be vicious. All he could truly do was be their safe place, their comfort, their reassurance. Just like tonight. That was what really mattered.

Because in the end, Callum had come to him. Scared, vulnerable, but trusting. He’d still sought out his father’s arms, his love, his words.

And that meant everything.

“Yeah… yeah,” Johnny whispered, his voice thick with sleep. “Ye're right, my darling.”

happy pride month !

[the-librarby]

Big fan of the idea that Johnny does not care what his partner wears in public because he’s not afraid to take anyone on in the room.

He’s not overtly cocky, he’s just self assured— and rightly so. So when his girl dolls herself up, it’s more of a show for him and a promise that he will get to tap that later.

I headcanon that one time an acquaintance—and that’s a generous description—said you were doing too much on a night out, and Johnny degraded his masculinity to the point that he just left. And when you came over to check what happened, Johnny just sits you down in his lap and tells you not to worry your pretty little head about it.

He takes care of everything for you, peering eyes, dickhead men that don’t know what they’re talking about, and most importantly, he takes care of that pussy when he gets home.

[dmitriene]

welcome, here you can see a selection of all my works related to call of duty and divided into different writing categories so you could pick what interests you. character's that i recently writed about — simon ghost riley, könig, john price, johnny mactavish, kyle garrick, phillip graves, nikto.

previous masterlist

DIFFERENT AU WRITINGS ―

𝗦𝗨𝗚𝗔𝗥 𝗗𝗔𝗗𝗗𝗬 𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡

╰ 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁 𝗱𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲

OTHER ―

𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗛𝗔𝗦 𝗔 𝗤𝗨𝗜𝗧𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘 𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗖𝗘𝗣𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗢𝗙 𝗥𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗣𝗦

simon ghost riley x fem reader

𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗦 𝗧𝗢 𝗠𝗘𝗦𝗦 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗕𝗥𝗔𝗧𝗦

simon ghost riley x fem reader

𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗛𝗔𝗦 𝗦𝗢𝗠𝗘𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗔𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗦𝗘𝗘𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗖𝗥𝗬

bf simon ghost riley x gf fem reader

𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗙𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗦 𝗜𝗡 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗗𝗨𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗔 𝗗𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘

simon ghost riley x gn reader

𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗙𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗦 𝗔 𝗠𝗢𝗠𝗠𝗬 𝗜𝗡 𝗬𝗢𝗨

simon ghost riley x fem reader

𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗦 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗬 𝗡𝗢𝗢𝗞 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗖𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗡𝗬 𝗢𝗙 𝗬𝗢𝗨

bf simon ghost riley x gf fem reader

𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗜𝗦 𝗗𝗘𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝗢 𝗠𝗔𝗞𝗘 𝗦𝗨𝗥𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨'𝗥𝗘 𝗦𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗙𝗨𝗟𝗟

bf simon ghost riley x gf fem reader

𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗜𝗦 𝗔 𝗠𝗔𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗘𝗟𝗬 𝗪𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗥𝗧𝗦 𝗔𝗧 𝗛𝗢𝗠𝗘

bf simon ghost riley x gf fem reader

𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡'𝗦 𝗪𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗦 𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗘𝗦 𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘

bf simon ghost riley x gf fem reader

𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗠𝗔𝗞𝗘𝗦 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗗𝗘𝗣𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗢𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗚𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗧𝗢𝗨𝗖𝗛

bf simon ghost riley x gf fem reader

𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗔𝗦𝗞𝗦 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗕𝗔𝗕𝗬

bf simon ghost riley x gf fem reader

P LINKS ―

𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡 𝗔𝗗𝗢𝗥𝗘𝗦 𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗬𝗢𝗨'𝗥𝗘 𝗔 𝗕𝗜𝗧 𝗠𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗬 𝗗𝗨𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗦𝗘𝗫

bf simon ghost riley x gf fem reader

OTHER ―

𝗝𝗢𝗛𝗡 𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗟𝗘𝗗𝗚𝗘𝗦 𝗦𝗢𝗔𝗣 𝗔𝗦 𝗔 𝗚𝗢𝗢𝗗 𝗦𝗢��𝗗𝗜𝗘𝗥

captain john price x johnny mactavish

OTHER ―

𝗡𝗜𝗞𝗧𝗢 𝗜𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗔𝗡 𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗬 𝗠𝗔𝗡

nikto x fem reader

[femalefemur]

18+ minors do not interact!

so you know that stupid tradition of the groom sticking his head under the bride's dress at the reception to pull the garter off? yeah that but every single one of the 141 would kiss your pussy while doing it.

johnny's full on making out with it over your underwear, leaving it sticking to you from a mixture of his spit and your arousal.

simon's got it pulled to the side so he can plant one directly on it and you can hear the deep rumble in his chest when you gasp in surprise.

kyle would place a kiss right over where your clit is under your underwear before running his tongue up the length of it.

and john would stuff his fingers in you while he gives your clit a harsh suck before letting go with an audible pop, comes out from under there with the garter in his teeth and licking his fingers.

[tintitw]

Was just sitting on the bus stop and saw a man with THE WORST mohawk possible

"Even worse than Soap's" ran through my mind. Fym worse...

Ahem, never mind. Imagine fucking Soap Mactavish. I mean, actually

He's shorter but buffer than Ghost in the chest but his waist and legs are soo fit and skinny in a good way that makes you wanna RIDE. I can even depict it in my mind: him smirking, sitting with his legs spread, cock hard, waiting for you to indulge. And you let his cock sink in your wet, prepared pussy and he lets out an impatient groan, slamming your hips down, filling you up to the brim with his dick.

LAZYPOSTING

[girlfromflor]

your flatmate johnny just loves to leave little voice notes for you to listen.

it really doesn't matter the subject or where he is – or where you could be, too –, whenever there was something he needed to tell you he'd voice message you straight away.

"we're outta milk, lass. buy us some on yer way back, will ye?"

"jus' got at work, so i'll put my phone on silence mode, aye? if i don't answer, that's why."

but then his messages started to grow sweeter, his words and initiatives started to carry more meaning even though, mostly, it just seemed like he wanted to check in on you.

"ye wan' t'grab some food after work, bonnie? i'll pick ye up. we're outta dinner at home and i don't wan' t'cook."

"didnae see ye today because i left early, so: good morning, bon. i've made coffee and i left ye some toast too."

all sweet voice notes became a part of your routine, you got used to it. he was always sweet with you, but these felt like little, special gifts you received everyday.

it made sense that he was a voice actor. his honeyed, practiced voice always made you feel so comfortable and welcome, you wondered how it'd be to receive a more intimate type of voice message.

blurb from ALL FOR ME: COLLECTION

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

So I'm responding to your ask prompt about my going out attire + how if rizz a cod man, and I just have to know who I'd bag.

I typically wear something between bimbocore, or something that your childhood friend's older mean cigarette sister would wear in the early 2000s.

I'd probably rizz them up by being bashful at first, all doe eyes and shy smiles. Eventually I would get some courage though, and I would be ultra sweet while dropping some jokes (I'm literally a comedian) and some innuendos.

(these requests are now closed, btw, ty <3)

UM (♥ω♥ ) cropped baby tees, denim minis, choker chains?? that's Soap-bait. you look like the girls who ignored him in high school. he can't resist. 

he sees you across the bar with your whole lower-lip-nibbling, faux-innocent, "teehee i'm just a girl" act. you paw through your bag with all the cute dangly charms and pretend not to notice him. he pretends not to notice you noticing him. the long game. 

when you finally slip up and make eye contact (and damn are his eyes blue) it's all you can do to rip your gaze away, whisper something in your friend's ear--hand cupped to hide your lips--and laugh like you're so unbothered about sharing a little joke about the guy across the bar.

please, Soap knows better. that gets his blood up and going in a good way. 

you can only ignore him for so long. in fact, you just happen to walk by his table on your way to check out the pool cues. 

he kicks the stool out next to him--slung back, a boot up on the seat like he owns the place--just enough to block your way. 

"do i look funny, hen? got somethin' on my face?" he asks you with a loose, wide smirk. 

you go wide-eyed, blink slow, and tilt your head like a confused cherub. so sincere he almost frowns.

"thought ya liked jokes."

"i do," you answer. "but i like them better when they're on you."

the doe-eyed smile you flash him at your own punchline does half the work. he folds inward and laughs.

"c'mere, then, i'll buy the next round if you keep makin' a fool outta me." 

you know way too many pickup lines. all awful. yet they seem to work dangerously well with how quick he sneaks his hand around the back of your chair. 

suffice to say the next day he has several pictures of you with and without your club fit on. y'know, for the group chat <3

more Soap / masterlist

[arabellasfvv]

When you blow johnny and just keep gagging and choking he'll most likely laugh at you. But because you don't just let things slide–that man needs to be put in his place anyway–you pull out one of your dildos, and tell him to suck it. He laughs incredulously at first, though not totally opposedto the idea. But once he saw the expression on your face he knows you're serious. And he was never one to turn down a challenge.

Safe to say he's gagging like a bitch. Can barely take half the thing without tears stinging at his eyes. And if you're mean you tell him, "well, that's pathetic, baby." In a mocking tone. (lt makes his cock twitch dw) and if you're even meaner you decide to 'help out'. Forcing the toy down his throat with your hand. Do it over and over. Like he does when fucking your throat without consideration. He's a mess by the end, sweaty, eyes red with tears flowing from them, drooled all over the toy, down on himself like some mutt. But some time during it he came without even being touched.

He doesn't make fun of you again.

[leyavo]

| I am my father’s daughter | 13 |

PART THIRTEEN 💖 Dad!Price & Daughter!reader, eventual Soap x reader. 3k+ words

Previous parts -> [series masterlist]

TW: hurt/angst/mentions of abuse/ complicated father-daughter relationship

🔈Readers view of John is different, he’s come and gone in her life etc so she thinks he’s not that great. So don’t send me hate

| Please be aware that manipulative people are really good at twisting the narrative to look good and make others look bad! They know their targets, can be two completely different people that you wouldn’t realise what goes on behind closed doors. Trigger warning: LENA!! |

Lena’s POV:

Vodka lemonade. Lena Marston’s drink of choice, a companion she’d kept since her teen years. Where John had whisky, she had vodka and a kid, you. She likes to think that she’s a decent mother, enough to prepare you for the bad people in this world. You’re resourceful, a tad hopeful but it always works in her favour. So desperate for love that you believe every word she coats with sugar and when she does snap, you’re reminded of the harsh reality. Lena’s a realist, taking things for what they are. Whereas you’re an idealist, hoping that those around you will change for the better. That your mother will stop drinking and choosing men over you. That your father will come back and make everything right. As if taking her youth wasn’t enough, you’re still causing trouble for her now.

She thought she raised you better, maybe you are your father’s daughter. Someone who thinks they can change the world. Nobody changes, it’s laughable to imagine John any different, but as he sits opposite her with a non-alcoholic drink she can’t help, but laugh.

It’s been years since Lena’s seen John, a few phone calls here and there to lay the foundations. To complain about you, ask John when he’s going to pick his daughter up and have a word. Such an ungrateful girl. John’s age hasn’t ruined his looks, a head full of thick hair and beard. Doesn’t have to cover the grey hairs, dye his roots every month to appear younger. He’s not the one carrying stretch marks on his stomach or a scar from birthing you.

“Well how’s the wife, John? The boy…you always wanted a boy,” Lena asks, swirling the vodka around in her glass, ice cubes clinking together. She can’t remember the kids age or name and doesn’t care much to be honest. She’s thankful that she never had another.

John nods, “yep, all good. A three year old girl too.” His fingers drum against the table, sipping his beer without breaking eye connect with Lena.

Oh, that must ruin you. No longer daddy’s little girl and now you see John being the present dad that you’d only dreamt of growing up with. Another fantasy Lena told you to let go of years ago. Dreams don’t come true for girls like you.

He's not bothered to shred his jacket or remove the knitted scarf around his neck. Still the same man, gaze trailing Lena's features for any tells. John always reading too much into things or people and getting lost in the tiny details. Trying to connect them, losing the bigger picture completely. Not everything has to be so complex.

"You took money from our kid?"

And there it is…

Lena scoffs, “my kid, John. Ain’t seen you raising her.” She slams the glass to the table and points to her chest, sharp red nails jabbing herself and reminding him that she was there, not him. He’s always been too proud, wanting to be seen as a good and decent man. And in some ways maybe he is.

John leans back in his chair, gaze on his beer as if he wondering if it’s half full or half empty. There’s no way you’ve told him, he’d probably be less calm now than if you had. No, he doesn’t know everything and as per usual you’ve made it too easy for Lena. She’d thank you, but she doesn’t want to ruin the surprise. That or let you craft an excuse or hint at the truth.

“She didn’t tell ya? Of course she wouldn’t,” Lena chuckles, chasing the last remnants of her drink, vodka and lemon not as strong with the melting ice. “That ungrateful little shit stole that money from me, the last time she went back to him.” She sniffs, back of her hand swiping her nose. Her eyes sting, lashes clumping with tears and she feels the weight of John’s hand on top of hers. A heaviness she hasn’t had in years, but she’s laying the foundations. Dropping little pieces for John to pick up, make him overthink and draw his own conclusions. Anything to get him off her back.

His thumb brushes over her knuckles, light and soothing. “I didn’t know,” John says and Lena dares to glance up at him, his hand retreating back to his lap.

Phase one, plant a seed of doubt. Turn a bad thing sour. The moneys technically hers anyways, for all those years she had to raise you on her own. It’s not easy bringing a kid up without a father or the usual bricks and mortar. Half the time you were the reason Lena had to pack up her life again and search for the next place to settle. And as you grew older she noticed the way men’s eyes lingered on you instead of her. You were the one picking her up off the floor though, dragging her into the shower and sobering her up. You looked after her better than any man had and she wondered where you’d learnt that from. It wasn’t her, maybe that’s why Lena can’t stand you. She’s never been cut out to be a mother, didn’t have one like that either. So, how can you care for her better than she can?

Sometimes she sees her younger self in you and it twists her insides. A poison that coats the back of her throat, weighing on her tongue that she resorts to unleashing that venom on you. Lena tries not to think of being a teen with a toddler, lying on a mattress as you scream a fever. She can still hear those cries in the depths of a night terror, because to her you were a terror. No life and isolated from everything she once knew. The week days merging together till John called on a Saturday or Sunday, offering Lena a piece of her old self. His money the one thing giving her life.

Your teen years are what she loathed most. Lena refused to get you certain clothes, bought you a size too big so it swamped your body and said it would save her money in the long run. You are your mother’s daughter after all, she doesn’t want to compliment or encourage you in fear you’ll do better than her. There’s that spec of your father though, the spark of fire you strike back whenever one of her boyfriends tried to lay down the law. Never did learn.

“Fancy a smoke?” Lena asks, pulling a pack menthol cigarettes from her handbag. She slings her coat over her shoulders and smiles as John nods.

Another distraction, a break between the forced conversation and Lena wonders if you’d smell the lingering scent when John gets home. It’s distinct, something you despised.

The rain pelts on the awning outside the pub, wind whipping through the patio and Lena wades through the tables to heater. A warm orange glow illuminating above johns head as he stands in front of her and lights her cigarette, he reluctantly accepts one of her menthol ones, sparking the end alight with hers. He hates the smell of mint and tobacco merged, but Lena knows he’s too stressed not to smoke. His fingers have been twitching against his pint glass since he sat down an hour ago.

If he wasn’t married and loyal like a dog, she’d probably sleep with him. Anything to get him off her back. You’d definitely leave if you knew she’d had her claws back in him. The one scrap of hope you hold onto, John.

John exhales a cloud of smoke, head tilted as he watches the wind carry the fog away. “How much?” He asks, turning the cigarette in his hold.

“Don’t matter, we sorted it out. She’s an adult now John, needs to learn there’s consequences. Lord knows she should’ve learnt ‘em six bloody years ago,” Lena says, flicking her ash into the nearest tray on the table. She glances to John out of the corner of her eye, the muscle in his jaw flexing at the mention of six years ago. A testy subject for all involved, especially you. A turning point that solidified your hatred for John.

“Spit it out Lena,” he snaps, never one to beat around the bush with her. Hook-line and sinker. “You and her are always dangling that in my face, but I’m yet to be told what actually happened.” His nose wrinkles as he takes another drag of his cigarette, eyes narrowed at Lena.

His gaze doesn’t waver from her face, she’s not even sure he’s breathing as he waits for the verbal blow. Ash burning his fingers. He doesn’t want to miss anything.

“You really wanna know your kid?” Lena cocks her to the side, arched brow rising. He nods, crushing the cigarette under his boot. “She was arrested for the possession of drugs at fifteen, John. Went to a young offenders institute for months until I managed to get the charges dropped.”

John opens his mouth, but she waves him off. She relays the details, telling him of that night and the months that followed, answering his questions in between. Exaggerating certain parts to prove a point, that you’re not the good kid he thinks you are.

“That boyfriend of hers, you can thank him. She gave me hell for years John, I don’t blame you. I know you were working that huge case and couldn’t be home, but I did my best,” she says, wiping the salty tears rolling down her cheeks and leaning into john’s embrace as he wraps an arm around her. Too easy.

"I'm here now, let me help," he says, palm smoothing up and down her arm. She tucks her head under his chin and wraps her arms around his torso. It’s like she’s a teen again, clinging to John for warmth.

Lena releases a trembling breath. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still using. You know those mood swings and lashing out,” she mumbles into his chest. He tenses, slipping out of her hold and stepping back.

“What really happened between the two of you?” He asks, leaning down to try and catch her wandering gaze. “Kid, can’t even talk about ya’ without…”

“She’ll bleed you dry John and be gone before you realise,” Lena’s voice muffled, cigarette balancing between her lips as she dug through her handbag. “Your kids actual phone number, she’s got two.” She hands him a faded receipt, blue ink smeared on the crumpled paper.

John’s POV:

John thought if he saw Lena face to face he’d know, some sort of gut instinct to untangle the mess in his head. Dad intuition or whatever it’s called, but he doesn’t have that with you not yet. If anything, all he’s sees in Lena is you. You can’t be doing drugs, he checked your bag whilst you were in the hospital and if you had Toff would have added it to your medical notes. The mood swings, John knows are more trauma related. If Lena is lying what does she gain from doing so?

The smudged ink of your second phone number burns a hole in his pocket. Already stored in his contacts list just incase. He’s not going to bring it up with you either, knowing you’ll get rid of it and he won’t be able to reach you one day.

The mist of rain blurs John’s surroundings outside his truck. Window cracked open a fraction as he tries to get rid of the fogged up glass, old heater ticking away. Your bedroom light is still on, but John doesn’t want to enter the res house, not till he’s got his head sorted and he’s prepared. The last thing he wants it to scare or push you away. He knows if he reaches out too fast and close, you’ll withdraw. Maybe even leave him and never look back. Part of him doesn’t want to dig up that police report, it’s probably been cleared off your record by now as you were a minor and the charges were dropped. Doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about it though. His stomach twisting as he realises how alone you must have felt and he now understands why you think he wasn’t there for you. He knows he wasn’t there.

Lena’s minty scent clings to his clothes, he can smell it on his moustache and fingertips. The alcohol gel in his car not giving him much help, if anything he doesn’t even think it has a particular aroma to it. He curses himself for leaving his cigars back in his office, locked away in the top drawer. Meeting Lena wasn’t planned, the whole evening throwing him off as he sat in his truck at three in the morning. The missed calls on his phones unanswered, he’d warned Angie of that though and wasn’t expecting her to ring anytime soon. No, Simon’s number appears in the chain of notifications, on and off for the past two hours. A text of his return soon, always giving him an estimated arrival.

The next op isn’t his main worry though, but it should be. He hates to think it. There’s a niggling feeling that if John goes away now, you might not be home when he returns. The thought alone making him not want to have the have the talk. He has to though. A light tap against the glass draws him out of his thoughts and he rolls the window down. One skeleton gloved hand rests against the truck as Simon leans down to greet John.

“Work or the kid?” Simon asks, his gaze flitting to the line settling between johns brows as if he already knows. He wrinkles his nose, swaying in his spot as if the stench of minted tobacco has just invaded the thin layer of his mask. The cheapest cigarettes that are supposed to be left on the shelves, well that’s what Simon says.

John nudges his head to the passenger seat, watching Simon circle the truck and open the door. The old vehicle rocking as he fell into the seat and closed the door lightly. John’s lost count of how many times he’s had to fit the handle back on whenever Simon slams the door. The engine sputters to life and they don’t say anything till they’re out of the military base. Nothing but the open road and the darkness wrapping around them.

“Went to see Lena,” John says, the red light glaring at him and he slams the brakes, both of them lurching forward in their seats.

“And you came back with more questions than answers?” Simon replies, raising a blond brow at the captain. He’s never been a fan of John’s ex.

John fills him on the evening and everything Lena told him. Simon silent, nodding along as he listened. John can’t help, but see you in another light now and he tells Simon so. His mind wandering back to the shattered lamp, did you knock it off or break it? He knows you’re lying about your mum and he hopes you’ll pluck up the courage to confide in him. He doesn’t even want to go into the whole Johnny and you situation with Simon, he’s not ready for that yet. The one thing he definitely has to pull you up on.

“I just don’t know what to think,” John mumbles, fingers pressing against his temple and the dull pulsating ache. The past few weeks were weighing on him, work escalating and your unpredictable moods around him made him try ten times harder to accommodate your needs. Lowering his voice, stepping back and offering you more space in hopes you’ll come to him. He can’t keep saying later with you. He’s running out of time.

“She’s gotta have a reason to lie,” Simon pauses, holding a hand up and silencing John before he can offer his thoughts. “Think about it, she’s not had a stable upbringing and well, you don’t know the full story. You need to talk to the kid before you jump to conclusions.”

John nods, looping back round the streets and driving to the military base. The back of his throat burns, mouth dry as Simon’s words sink in. He doesn’t have all the information and you deserve to be heard. He owes you that much.

The truck rolls to a stop outside the res house, the light from your bedroom off. John removes the keys and holds them in his palm, elbow on the door panel. Simon exits the truck, walking round to johns side and he reaches over the door and pops the handle down opening it for him.

“Take a breather, then talk to her. It’s all fresh and amplified mate, just don’t interrogate the kid. With the right questions you’ll be able to figure out the situation.” Simon nods, advice given and he disappears down the gravel path to the main building without another glance.

John's lucky to get two hours sleep, giving up as soon as the sunlight filters through the blinds. He makes his bed as usual, tucking the sheets under the mattress and sits on the edge. His suitcase stares at him beside the chest of drawers, his fingers turning his wedding band deep in thought. He glances to the clock reading seven forty and he rises from the bed, pulling his door open.

He walks into your room, expecting the the door handle to rattle and the lock to click, but it swept wide open.

“Come on, up you get Kiddo,” John says, tugging the duvet off you. “You’re coming home with me, no discussion.” He tosses the flimsy duffle on your bed, pulling your clothes from the hangers in the wardrobe.

You catch the hoody he throws at you, mumbling under your breath as you shove it over your head and accept your fate. He thought you'd fight him on it, but he doesn't give you the chance to.

Lena stirring things up 🥴 johns going to have the talk with kiddo in the next part 🫡 please note I am dyslexic so there may be errors/mistakes. I do edit multiple times but miss out things - Leya

Taglist: @unclearblur @enfppuff @elita1 @tired-writer04 @kaoyamamegami @gallantys @leon-thot-kennedy @trulovekay @harley101399 @misshoneypaper @rpgsandstuff @tomatto1234 @lolyouresilly @madsothree @astrothedoll @grandfartvoid @delaynew @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @little-mini-me-world @exitingmusic @majocookie @elegancefr @jesskidding3 @thepowers-kat-be @frangiipanii @ye-olde-trash-panda @sleep101 @bluebarrybubblez @shitaaba @muraaaaaa @vajjaa @rafaelacallinybbay @jeannieboys @poetoflawed @idleviewer @darling006 @itsleeq

[lilolram]

IDK what it is about Johnny, just in general, but mixed with the whole growing up together, living on the same residential street, kicking about in lower and upper school trope - something about that just ticks in my head cause you know that fucker was 100% sure at some age, "I'm gonna marry you someday." And he would, It'd be set in stone.

I JUST THINK IT WORKS, out of all the guys, this one belongs to Soap.

They would also share a mutual hate for Jamie Oliver for taking away turkey-twizzlers and fried Mars bars from school in the 2000s. Fight me.

[lolplatzhalter]

Soap no-fuckboy-AU:

(with a little sprinkle of religion)

The whole tf141 thinks soap is a playboy. I mean he's outgoing, flirty with women and men alike and touchy as hell. He always finds a reason to be close to people, places hands on their lower back and touches their thighs during jokes. You're no exception to his behavior and sometimes it seems like he especially has his eyes on you.

And well, he looks like he was carved by God himself for people like you to sin and you feel a little bit sinful today. So you flirt with him during a night out with the boys and take him outside of the bar for a smoke (aka make out)

He stops you wide-eyed JUST when you lean in to kiss him and you're confused. Did you read his signals wrong? Did you accidentally bother him?? SHIT

But no, he just tells you that he wants to take you out on a date first. Kissing isn't something he wants to do before knowing someone on a more personal level. It feels wrong. His mam did raise him catholic, even if he’s not exactly the most devout one in the family - rather the "sin and confess later" kind of man. But some things he takes seriously

His flirty behavior? Huh? He's just nice??? Is that wrong? 😔

And so you end up on a romantic date with Soap, where he's just the sweetest gentleman while you have to shut your brain down which just thinks about getting laid 🥺

[stargirlrchive]

some bad traits i think the cod men would have are:

if price is in a bad mood, you know it. like cannot for the life of him play it off or tamper it down. and he’s not mean to you but he’s definitely in a mood. like slamming the cabinets a little too hard, stomping across your house, grumbling about not being able to find shit. (even though it’s right in front of him)

he loves his men but goddamn can they stress him out. and unfortunately sometimes he takes it home.

simon is stingy with money. but to a point where it is excessive. always telling you, s’okay, we got tha’ at home. comes from a good place, but like let a girl buy what she wants, you know?

it truly stems from him trying to be resourceful, man’s hasn’t had an easy life or an easy upbringing. money was tight. but his jeans and shirts and shoes have tears or holes in them and he refuses to buy himself more things because it’s too expensive.

gaz (not always but) can be really close-minded, stubborn. knows he’s wrong but just won’t admit it. doesn’t gaslight you but is trying to prove why he thinks he’s right (even though you both know he’s wrong!)

and won’t really drop it unless you decide to agree to disagree. it irks you especially if it’s something trivial because it’s like you can be wrong sometimes. but you’ve come to realize it’s hard for him to accept any mistakes on his end, because a mistake out in the field can cost him and his boys everything.

and johnny is messy. especially after returning from a mission. which is why it’s a bit harder because you get used to having a clean, organized house and now you come home to dirty clothes strewn on the bedroom floor or bathroom floor.

dishes piling up and dirty. you’ve literally seen him go to the kitchen, grab a cereal box and decided to not want to eat it but instead of putting it back in its place, will leave it on the counter.

[writersdrug]

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish is the kind of dad who throws your kids around for fun, tossing them into the air and catching them just to hear their infectious laughter, ignoring the worrisome protests that you call out from the kitchen when they get a little too high.

Captain John Price is the kind of dad who convinces your children to ask you for pizza for dinner, acting all surprised when you tell him to call the local pizza place, eyebrows rising with "What's the occasion?" despite the obvious grin that his plan worked. You aren't fooled.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is the kind of dad who chases your kids around with a nerf gun, relentlessly pelting them with styrofoam bullets and ganging up on your oldest son with your youngest daughter. Waits behind the front door for your son to get home from school and immediately fires on him.

Simon "Ghost" Riley is the kind of dad who holds your toddlers like footballs, your daughter tucked sideways under his arm and dangling your son by his ankle. "Found these mice sniffin' 'round the cookie tin." He says with a deadpan expression, but you don't miss the way his mouth twitches when they giggle and shriek.

[sillyswriting]

──  ✩ father johnny 'soap' mactavish

johnny mactavish has always wanted a big family. this is an anthology of slice-of-life moments shared between johnny, his wife, and their wee bairns. status : on going

01 ⋆ 02

can be read as separated work.

[rottingpink]

cod men with fussy wives

cw. fluff, innuendo, cunnilingus, lovemaking, reader is a bit insufferable but she means well. SMUT

synopsis. price, simon and johnny with very naggy wives who show them love and care they've never experienced before

john price

john is the typical gruff, stern guy who knows when to be serious, calm, or regulated, but around his wife, all he is is soft. he spends all day gritting his teeth during combat, pushing through with wounds the size of golf balls and scolding recruits when they fuck up, and so when he's on leave for a few days to see you, all he wants to do is relax, make love to you, eat your cooking, and maybe go fishing or do some home renovations. you, however, have a different plan. you're on his ass the second he gets home. not that he minds too much. you're too beautiful to be annoyed at.

he's sitting on the couch trying to eat a biscuit, and you gently pry it out of his hands mid bite. "john, did you take your omega-3s today?"

he signs, hand grazing your hip as you stand in front of him. "no, love. not today. but i used that nicotine patch you told me to use to help with the smokin'."

your eyes light up. "you're using them, darling?"

his heart thuds pridefully at your reaction, like it usually does when you call him darling in that dreamy little tone of voice.

"wore 'em everyday for ya, m'love," he murmurs, reaching for your hips so he can tug you gently to stand between his knees. "damn if i don't like a good smoke, but i like my woman's happiness a little more."

you giggle, nuzzling your nose into his hair, relishing in the pleasant, clean scent. "just a little?"

he laughs, bringing you into a sitting position on his knee. "a lot, love. y'said it's no good for m'lungs, and i wanna be around long enough to see our grandbabies. can't have that if 'm coughin' up ash everyday."

your lip wobbles. "oh john," you coo, lacing you arms around his neck tightly. you're so proud of him that you feel your eyes start to well up. you nuzzle your face into his neck to hide the way you're getting so emotional. you're so proud of him. "there there..." he bounces you in his lap a little to soothe you. "you're the sweetest lil' thing, aren't ya? takin' care of me so good. wouldn't know what to do without you."

you sniffle and snuggle into him so tight that you're nearly suffocating.

he tries to act like the fussing annoys him most times, but really, he relishes in it. he rarely smokes unless he's very stressed and isn't a heavy drinker. after all, you told him, "don't drink if you're looking for an escape from your problems, m'kay? 's what i'm here for."

his health's never been better.

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he's been on edge all morning. one of the younger dogs knocked the sheep pen open early this morning and let half a dozen of them loose, and price has been running around like his head's on fire trying to corral them back inside and soothe the other distressed sheep. he just got back in all sweaty and stressed, drinking a large mug of coffee. then a second. third. on the fourth, you stepped in, suggesting that he might wanna slow down, and he snapped. "god's sake woman, d'you ever let up? i don't need a bloody nanny all the time. enough with the naggin' "

you shut up immediately, drawing your hand back with your brows scrunched.

slowly, you stop asking about his vitamins. stop shoveling extra greens on his plate. stop massaging rosemary oil into his hair at night. you stop. it's relieving for about fifteen minutes. then, he's disturbed. the silence brings him no peace whatsoever. he lasts until the evening of the same day, and he corners you while you're making dinner, hugging you from behind. "darlin'," he murmurs into your ear, mouthing at the lobe.

no answer. he huffs, dragging you against him and pressing soft, open mouthed kisses down your ear, along your jaw, to your throat, where he licks a broad stripe back up to your sweet spot. "c'mon darlin', 'm sorry. you know i get heated fast, hm?" his big hands travel along your body, his left now splaying on your breast, and the right squeezing your hip. "just had a terrible morning, nearly lost our sheep, had to run around like an idiot for an hour... 'n i lost my cool with you. 's not okay, i know."

"hate it when you raise your voice at me, john." you say softly, and his heart just about breaks. he didn't mean to, really. he loves when you're bossy with him. it shows you care and it's incredibly sexy. he'd just been very irate this particular morning. he's been with you years and hasn't complained seriously about the nagging ever, and he's not about to start now.

he squeezes your tit in his palm and kisses your cheek. "i know beautiful, i know. i love you s'much, hm? gonna make it up to you..."

he's on his knees behind you soon after, eating your pussy under your dress while you try to cook. his tongue laps at your soaked hole, causing his beard to get soaked with your juices. the thick hair scratches pleasantly against your folds while the spoon you're holding clatters onto the counter, your eyes fluttering shut and hands scrabbling forwards for something to hold - you settle on the heavy stand mixer ahead of you.

he's apologizing with a mouthful of your pussy, hands squeezing your ass and giving your thighs a little pinch any time you try to close 'em.

" 'm sorry. need you fussin', darling, alright? don't ever stop." your breath hilts each time his tongue drags upwards and flattens over your clit. his nose keeps nudging your ass because his big hands keep you spread wide for him.

you sway a little, thighs trembling with the overwhelming amount of pleasure he's inflicting on you, but all he does is grunt and pull you back against his face harder. "this what it takes t'get you talkin' to me again?" he rasps against your cunt. "fine, i'll eat this sweet fuckin’ pussy 'til you forgive me."

you gasp when he sucks on your clit and tips you forward so you're fully presented for him, tongue fucking in and out of your sloppy hole. the food you were tying to make is long forgotten at this point, but he doesn't care at all. all he wants to stuff his face with anyway is your sloppy cunt.

"john, mmh!" you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, but he smacks your ass hard and shoves your thighs wide once more.

"no, no, you'll take it," he grunts. "this is my apology, yeah? let me make it right an' show you how much i love your fussin'. "

you cream onto his face with a loud whine. grinding against his chin and into his mouth, and even then, he continues for a second round, mouthing at your folds and mumbling, "couple more, wife. apology's not done."

johnny "soap" mactavish

johnny's a firecracker and a wildcard. he lives on the edge and likes the unknown that comes with being reckless and unprepared. but when he met, dated, and then married you, he did have to learn to exert some degree of control over himself and his life, because damn you're a very meticulous, bossy little thing. not that he minds. having his woman fuss over him and baby him and give him extra special treatment all day, every day doesn't really feel punishing. your fussing is basically foreplay for him.

you'll tell him, "johnny, you're not going on a run with a level 6 UV outside with no sunscreen on. cmere so i can put it all on you."

"...whatever tha' means."

you frown. "johnny, you're not funny. a level 6 is dangerous. cancerous without protection."

he chuckles. "you just want an excuse to rub y'lil hands all over me, ain' that right?"

"johnny!"

you literally have to tackle him onto the living room floor sometimes to rub sunscreen on his face, because he keeps dodging you and laughing. squirming like a kid while you try to get his ears and nose. "you won't wanna shag me if i've got white goo all over m'cheeks, lass, 'm not havin' it."

"you'll thank me when you don't have skin cancer in twenty years," you huff, massaging the liquid into his cheeks while you straddle him. it's the only way he'll ever sit still anyway. his hands reach up to paw at your hips, and he tilts his head, smiling up at you.

"y'look s'cute on top o' me, don't ya?" he coos, giving your ass a playful slap. you roll you eyes and squeeze his cheek in retaliation, and he laughs and continues. "do y'love me more now that i've been properly slathered?" he teases, raising his brows as you finish rubbing in the last bit of cream.

you kiss his forehead. "only a little."

he smiles. "hm. maybe i should scald myself in the sun so you can love me up more."

"johnny."

"…right, right. responsible. m'havin' a growth arc for m'wife,"

"are you?"

"…no. but m'health has improved dramatically since y'started bullyin' me into slatherin' my skin twice a day."

you lean in so your lips brush his "that's cause i want you around forever, dummy."

johnny smiles softer at your words, tugging you down so your forehead rests on his and his beefy arms wrap around you. "i know," he hums, kissing your lips softly. " 'm not goin' anywhere, bonnie. not if i can help it."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

he'd got home only yesterday from being deployed for several weeks. he hadn't seen his loving wife in ages, and the distance didn't do to well on him mentally. he's really not in the mood for fussing. he just needs to eat, fill you up with his cum a few times tonight, and go to bed.

you, however, had been nagging him the minute he came home. needing a breather, he offered to go grab groceries and run errands, hoping that the little break would help him cool off so he didn't snap at you. he's never raised his voice at you, and he doesn't plan on it today.

but when he got back with a dark bottle of bourbon...

"baby? did you only offer to go so you could buy that nonsense? i told you i hate when you drink-"

he interrupts you. "for fuck's sake, can I breathe without you hoverin'? you're not my mum."

you glare at him. not the sweet glare when you're admiring him, or the shy one, or the deadpan one when he does something dumb and you pretend to be mad at him, the angry wife one. oh, he is not a big fan of this look.

weirdly, though, instead of telling him how rude that was and that he knows you're just trying to look out for him, you turn and walk away in an eerie, icy silence. fuck, this isn't good. "bonnie, c'mon. i didnae mean that. c'mere,"

you swat his hand away lightly, deciding you won't be "mothering" him anymore. and so in the following days, you don't tell him to put on sunscreen. you don't pout when he only sleeps four hours. you barely touch him or look at him.

he tries to charm you at first, knowing how much of a sucker you are for his flirting and pretty words, but it doesn't work this time. you don't bite or get on his case or boss him in the way that makes him hard as hell. no shoving his chest when he gets too close or mewling "johnny please," when he teases you. none of it.

you've been eerily polite, and it's driving him mental. on the second day of this, he tries to nuzzle into your neck while you're folding laundry, whispering, "miss you s'much baby, 'm gonna make it up to you properly tonight."

you pull away and hand him rolled up socks. "drawer." he watches you for a moment, hands slack by his sides, socks limp in his grip.

you're distant. johnny's not good with distance from you. the next day, he's extremely restless, wandering around you like a lost puppy in only a pair of sweats sitting low on his hips, hoping you'll come put that greasy spf you always fuss about all over him. he even lies out on the balcony chair for a full twenty minutes in the sun just to bait you, but you give him nothing. you do spare him a glance periodically through the glass door, but you say nothing. he ends up with a sunburn on his chest and the bridge of his nose.

that night, when you dont wiggle into his chest like normal or ask if he had a vitamin after he ate dinner, he turns to his side to face you, needing to put an end to your stonewalling. "bon."

you hum. he can't tell if it's acknowledgement or just the sound you make when you're falling asleep.

"c'mon," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you into his chest. "i wasn't nice to you, i know that. didn' mean to be a dick. just been so stressed 'n on edge 'n i spoke outta turn."

while you're deciding whether or not to believe him, he gets closer, forehead nudging yours. "i'll pour the bourbon down the sink tomorrow," he says quietly. "swear it."

your fingers toy with the hem of his sleep shirt. it's the first time in days you've touched him without pushing him away. "you can drink if you want to." you murmur, twisting the fabric in your hands. " 'm sorry if i'm being overbearing."

"y'not, baby." he kisses your cheek. "just wanna do whatever makes you happy. you're the boss, aren't you?"

you wake up the next morning with his head between your legs, slow and steady, taking his time kissing down your body, from your tummy, to your hip, down to your inner thigh, and then your tender core.

his big palms wrap around the backs of your thighs and pull them over his shoulders, locking you in place while his mouth sucks and works at your pussy. he's so focused that he's making pleased little groans, crotch rutting absentmindedly against the mattress. he's grateful to have you back in his arms and your pussy, dripping and sweet as nectar, accessible to him once more, but he needs to make you cum to really feel forgiven.

he's slow and paced, kissing on you like he's starved. the slow drag of his tongue through your folds and the way his lips close over your clit and suck just softly enough to make your thighs tremble is euphoric, and you find yourself blanking on why you were mad at him to begin with.

his arms are wrapped around your thighs so firm you can barely move. and every time you try to squirm, he groans low and pulls you right back down, nose buried, face flushed and mouth messy. you can feel his beard brushing you, scratchy and warm, and your fingers automatically slide into his hair. "that's it, baby," he mumbles between pussy kisses. "lemme say sorry proper."

you whimper, back arching when he flattens his tongue against your clit and gives it a slow, firm swirl. he just groans again with enjoyment when you close your thighs around his head. he loves being smothered. he doesn't even care if he breathes, as long as you're happy and in love with him. when your pleasure crests and you cum on his face, he licks at your folds firmer, dragging that orgasm out of you. he keeps his mouth on you, gentler now. just soft licks and little kisses, tongue soothing over your puffy folds while his big hands rub slow circles into your thighs.

he doesn't stop until your hand in his hair goes limp. you sigh, letting him kiss back up your body to give you a little break before he goes back for more. he rests on your chest, nuzzling into your flesh gently. "you're forgiven, johnny." you huff, a little tired.

he grins, mouth still wet, eyes gleaming with relief. "thank fuck. boss me all you want, love. swear it gets me hard, anyway."

simon "ghost" riley

simon riley is commanding. he’s the most domineering presence in any room he walks in. makes the greatest of men lower their gaze when he approaches. he's taken down large enemy groups all on his own, has killed men with his bare hands, and… he comes home to you telling him "you can't eat that, baby. it's got monosodium glutamate in it. that makes you sick, remember?" and listens every time.

"…right," he'll say after a pause. "forgot abou' that. what d’you want me to eat then?"

he'd drop the bag of crisps he picked up on his way home with the god forsaken MSG in it the second you mentioned it and would nod. "mm. wouldn' wan' to spoil my dinner anyway, right love?" while gently taking you into his arms and pressing his lips to yours.

you're not controlling, either. the fussing is very particular. typically just a soft, offhand reminder from the only person in the world who really knows and prioritizes him before anything else. you love him so much and this is part of the way you show it. how could he complain?

you know everything about him, which is huge, considering he is a man of few words and is dreadful at being vulnerable. you know what wrecks his stomach, what gives him headaches, how he gets irritable and loopy when he doesn't sleep at least six hours in the night. you know his favorite clothing fabric and how he just wants to hold you when he's upset.

your voice is so warm and quietly certain that he has to listen every time. once you advise him not to do something, everything in him short circuits. his brute force logic disappears. because you say no, or "you shouldn't si, take this instead," and it's a done deal.

you don't even realize what it does to him, how something as simple as your concern twists itself into a soft knot in his stomach, how it makes him ache, not because you're bossing him, but because you're taking car and watching over him in a way no one else does.

he often glares at you and raises a brow ever so slightly at the way you, a tiny thing with big, expressive eyes and pouty lips just told a tank of a man what to do and expected him to listen.

he does though. listens to your bossy ass every time. and for all his stoicism, the man melts under your fussing.

he's in the shower with you brought that annoying cleanser you insist he needs to use every night and wash it off after thirty seconds because he's got sensitive skin.

"love. this shit's greasy."

"it's hydrating, si. good for your skin. protects the barrier."

"don't wan' hydrating."

you rub into his cheekbones anyway while his eyes are locked on you and his breath comes out slow and heavy. you're standing between his legs in the steam, having him lower his head slightly so you can reach your hands into his short hair once you've finished with the cleanser. you're squinting up at him, so serious as you massage something into his scalp like you're not both bare, soaked, and pressed up against each other.

simon has both massive hands holding your waist while he backs you into a corner of the shower, letting you fuss about exfoliants and scalp health with your tits smushed against his body and your eyes fixed on his face and not his cock nudging against your body, aching and swollen from the sight of you. he's trying to focus but he's so distracted by your body, the way you smell, and how soft you are in his hands.

you tilt your head up, rub a little cream into his hair, mumbling, "gotta keep your scalp health up to par, si", and he loses it.

simon grabs your face in both hands and pushes his mouth against yours, catching you off guard. you squeak into his mouth, and he groans and takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, water pouring down both of you, beard scratchy on your chin.

"god," he mutters hoarsely between kisses, "you fuss over me like I’m your bloody housepet."

you let out another noise in his mouth, not knowing if that means he hates it or not, but he nips your lower lip, trails his lips along your jaw and up to your ear. " 's a good thing, love. don't pout."

you moan softly, tilting your head to give him more access to your neck and jaw. the reassurance felt great, and you find yourself melting into his touch.

" 'm gonna fuck you," he mutters, voice cracked with need, hand already sliding down your back to grip your ass. "righ' now. can't take it anymore." you look up through your lashes, lashes wet, lip caught in your teeth.

"but you still have conditioner in," you stare up at him coyly.

"finish after. s'not like 'm goin' anywhere."

what happens if he doesn't wanna be nagged one particular day?

simon didn't mean to snap at you. the harsh tone came out by itself. it's just that he's so tired and sore, joints in his body stiff with exhaustion. all he needs is a breather for five minutes, but you're there by the kitchen counter when he gets home. "hi baby! why don't you start with some of the stir fry i made! dunno if drinking black tea on an empty stomach is the best idea."

normally, he'd melt for your nagging and let you tug the tea bag and mug out of his hands and shove a plate of the lunch you made and a cup of water in his hands instead, and then kiss you stupid for giving a shit, but today, he bristles.

"jesus christ, can i just eat what i want for once?" his voice comes out sharp and cold in a tone he's never used on you before.

you blink, lips parting as you stand frozen in place with the wooden spoon you were using to cook laying limply in your hand. your mouth opens and then closes, and you give him a faint little nod and turn away.

he immediately notices your silence. you're never silent like this, so when you give him a faint little nod and walk off, he knows he screwed up bad. he stews on his stupidity for hours, up until you're laying in bed beside him and not once have you reminded him to put on that charcoal mask you always insist "draws out toxins."

you're just sitting beside him. not even sulking, just indifferent. you know what you're doing, of course. and it's working. he stares at the ceiling for a while, grinding his molars, heart pounding in his chest. he clears his throat in hopes of getting your attention and fails.

"not g'na remind me about the mask tonight?"

you flip a page. "no. thought you didn't want to be nagged."

he winces.

"didn’ mean it like that, sweetheart."

"right." you're still not looking at him or touching him.

he can't survive without your fussing much longer. he doesn't have your eyes on him or your little giggles or your hands all over him and sweet night routines and it's making him crazy.

he sits up and breathes in deeply, before reaching for you quietly. you glance over with confusion just as he peels your book out of your hands. "what are you..?"

he's already tugging you across the bed, laying you down on the bed before peeling off your clothes. "simon! wh-what are you doing?" you glare up at him with confusion, squirming under him as he shimmies your panties down your legs and tossing it to the floor.

"apologizin' to m'wife."

he scoops you up and places you on his face with no warning, your pussy lined up with his mouth. he holds you there, palms spread over your ass, fingers sinking into your soft flesh, before diving in.

he groans like a starved man the second he licks into you. his tongue is slow at first, sliding between your folds, and lapping at your soft, juicy pussy. you're still half mad but you can't stop the way your head tips back as he sucks your clit into his mouth and holds it there. you squeal, bucking your hips to try and get away from the overwhelming amount of pleasure, but he doesn't let up, tilting you hips up a little so he can slip his tongue into your soaked hole.

he tongues your entrance and licks you open messily, making you squirm into his mouth. you pull at his hair and try to lift yourself off, whining. "s-simon... s'too much..!"

he slaps your ass. "you don't get to leave me like that, love. won't let you be mad at me."