#TBI soap

[quarterlifekitty]

Post TBI Johnny who’s been making up all sorts of shit to keep the COs happy. Make them think he’s incredibly well adjusted and fit for service. Make it seem like he does more than just stare at cracks in the ceiling until his head pounds when he’s sent on leave.

His evaluations are well constructed plays. Talk about new hobbies, sports— axe throwing, failed attempts at crochet, making a mess of the kitchen with baking, trying a new drink every time he visits his favorite coffee place. Making it seem like he’s living his life to the fullest and has a healthy, engaged mind. He’s been slacking a little in the social engagement areas, though.

So he invents a girl. Talks about what he loves about her hair, how she’s so gentle with him, how they can barely keep their hands off each other, how she’s always reminding him to do his PT stretches and exercises. Soon enough he ticks that box as well.

Price knows about what goes on in these evaluations. Doesn’t approve necessarily, but doesn’t disapprove enough to bring it up as an issue. He has no proof, anyways— but he is worried. He knows what isolation does to a man who’s had chunks of himself torn away by combat.

So he subtly needles Johnny. Bring this bird around sometime, hm? Wanna meet the girl who’s been babysitting you, lad— give her my thanks for keeping you in check.

And Johnny could do a lot of things. Say she’s gone somewhere for work. Say they’ve broken up (this would only raise more concern as to his mental wellbeing). He’s in the middle of a rather narrow grocery aisle, lost in his dilemma, when he hears a gentle voice and a hand on the small of his back.

“Sorry, love— I’m just squeezing behind you,” you say as you nudge your way through to reach some marmalade. He looks your way and stares. You look back, not with fear or discomfort like he’s used to these days (with his sharp blues and the bright pink scar on his temple), but with a sort of surprised concern.

“You feeling alright there, love?”

Same hair and eyes. Gentle just like he’d said. A body he couldn’t be dragged off of, if he ever got his hands on it.

Maybe there was an easy solution for this.

Maybe someone up there likes him.

[captainpriceslilwife]

nnnggghhhhhuuhhhhh tbi!Soap who gets a little weird after his injury. (CW: yall this is like DARK...idk where this came from, so uh, dark themes, gore description at the end, soap is a freak, he's literally obsessed with you, stalker vibes but he lives with you, dark smut made its way in there so 18+, soap is literally batshit crazy and he wants you to be like him) dead dove do not eat, probably

maybe you're his sweet girlfriend who he's been dating for almost a year already, but when he comes back from that life-changing mission, he fully expects you to break up with him. He's too different now - too high maintenance. He needs meds and physical therapy and counseling...not to mention he'd never be a soldier again. Plus, doctors said he'd never be the same.

But you love your Johnny so much. How could you not help him when he needs you the most?

So you're there at his side, every single day, to try to get a smile back on his face. Always at every one of his PT appointments - cheering and giving him a little applause for each milestone he reaches ('good job, baby!' 'see? I told you you'd heal quick since you're so strong! isn't he so strong, doc?'). You refill his pill box every week without fail, and you always add a little candy to each compartment to reward him for taking his meds. Sometimes he finds a little note on there with a heart or a smiley face on the days when you aren't home to remind him to take his medication - but it's always gone by the time you get back. You figure he's just throwing them away, and it stings a little, but you don't think twice about it.

You don't seem to think twice about your dwindling underwear drawer, either.

You cook for him. Clean for him. Help him walk around when he's having a particularly rough day. And he falls more in love with you every day because of it.

But there's something....off....about his new layer of admiration for you.

You brush it off as the 'personality changes' the doctors had warned you about. Of course had can't possibly be normal after what happened to him. I mean, who would be?

But sometimes he scares you when you blink your eyes open in the morning, only to see him already staring at you as if he had never slept to begin with. Or when you get up to pee in the middle of the night and he insists on standing silently in the doorway, refusing to go back to bed until you're done and can lie back down with him.

He always needs you in his line of sight. Always needs to be near you.

Even when you cook dinner and try to encourage him to rest on the couch, he just sits on the floor of the kitchen and disassembles and reassembles his gun - something the doctors encouraged you to let him do. 'It'll be good for him, to do things he used to do. Might help him get back to normal.'

It doesn't make it any less unnerving when he feels the need to stare at you while he does it.

As time goes on, he eventually finds himself drawing again - much to your relief. He's switched out the silver metal and bullets for his old charcoal and paper, and you finally find yourself breathing easier as you step over his legs to stir the pot on the stove.

You try not to notice that he only draws you.

You in bed, you in the shower, you cooking, you cleaning, you naked, you napping, you changing - just you.

If he's having a hard day - one where his scarred skin is throbbing and he struggles even to remember what had happened that morning - he'll just draw parts of you. Your hands holding his pills, your hair in a ponytail, your nose, your eyes-

Whatever he can remember.

Sometimes you try to encourage him to draw other things - showing him pictures of the trips you guys used to take together to get his memory flowing, but it always puts him in a mood. And you try your hardest to keep him happy, so you always drop the subject.

Unfortunately, the only way to get him out of those moods is to let him fuck you.

And you still love him, of course - still love to be wrapped up in his arms as he works himself inside of you.

But lately he's just more...rough.

He'd never hurt you. Not in a million years. Not even a bullet could take away his love for you.

But his hips slam hard and fast against you as he ruts inside of you, pushing you up the bed as you desperately try to hold onto him to ground yourself. And he always makes sure you're staring into his eyes when he cums, otherwise he'll keep you locked in his arms until he's ready to go again. It's a ritual for him - like he'll die if he doesn't get to have you like this.

And he's always been a munch, everyone knows it. But now? He tells you he can't sleep unless he eats you out before bed. And you just want him to be happy and healthy, right? So, you let him.

Except he doesn't stop unless he feels like it, or until your pushing his head away, crying and begging for a break. He eats like a man starved, not coming up to breath until he sees silver spots coloring the edges of his vision - and even then he'll just dive right back in. He's messy with it, too - slobbering like a dog and ruining the sheets as he creeps his tongue as far back as he can get before your squealing out a "Johnny, don't, that's gross!"

He's weird. And offputting. And sometimes he makes you nearly jump out of your skin.

But he's your Johnny. You love him to death. And he could never actually scare you.

Not until you end up deep cleaning your shared bedroom - finally convincing him to shower on his own so you can finally have a moment to yourself.

You're blindly sweeping underneath the bed when you hit something hard - and your brows furrow in confusion when you lean down to see an unfamiliar wooden box hidden beneath his side of the bed.

You cast a glance over your shoulder to make sure he's still occupied in the shower before you slide it out quietly. There's not a speck of dust on it, unlike everything else that's made its way beneath the bed, so clearly it was something he used. Something he cherished.

You push it open with a soft click, silently thanking whatever god was listening that he hadn't bothered to lock it shut with the padlock that dangled from the latch opening. But your gratitude was quickly swallowed up by something much darker when your eyes fell down to see what was in the box.

Your missing underwear is bunched in the corner, coated in his own spend that he had made sure to specifically aim at your already dirtied gussets. It strikes you with the realization of just how many times you've caught him digging in your laundry basket, claiming he's looking for something - or how many times you could've sworn he was smelling you when he stood too close.

When you finally manage to get over the initial shock of seeing such an obscene display of his obsession towards you, you're gaze trails down to the pile of papers tucked beneath your soiled panties. At first, they seem just like all the other drawings he's made of you, and you can't figure out why they're tucked away. But when you look a little harder, you see the small keloid that sneaks its way into every drawing - a scar on your temple to match the one that adorns him.

You flip through the drawings quickly, your movements growing more frantic as you realize each one of them features the same disfigurement in varying levels of detail. Some of them are just a dash of his charcoal against the paper, and some of them are so detailed that you could swear he had taken a picture of his own just to copy it onto the page.

By the time you get to the last drawing, tears are slipping down your cheeks and falling in fat drops into your lap. You choke out a silent sob when you see what artwork he felt the need to bury so deeply, and you aren't even sure what you could possibly be feeling as you pull out the paper with trembling hands.

It's the only picture that isn't just of you.

He drew himself too.

He's got your head in his lap as he brushes his fingers through your hair, and he drew himself leaned over like he was whispering something in your ear.

It would be a sweet drawing if it wasn't for the gun he was holding - the same gun he took apart and built again in the kitchen while you took care of him - or the fact that he drew you with a hole in your temple. He had drawn the blood that poured from your wound - drew it on his hands and on his lap, down onto the floor as the penciled version of you looked up at him with nothing but love and understanding.

You felt like you couldn't breathe.

Bile was rising quickly in your throat as you forced the drawings back into the box - crinkling the papers and shifting the other stuff around as you tried to hold back your sobs.

A glint of metal rolling around the wooden floor of the box catches your attention - especially when it disappears beneath his horde of obsession and clinks gently against something else.

You're entire body is trembling at this point, and your mind is screaming at you to get out. To leave him and go as far as you can.

But your hand seems to move on its own as you reach down into dark corners of the box, feeling around for the tiny object that was pulling at a curiosity that you should've just buried along with your love for Johnny.

Once you make it past the underwear, past the drawings, past the notes that you had left him that you thought he had thrown away - your fingers wrap around a tiny glass jar and something much smaller. Something cold and metallic.

You can barely bring yourself to look as you pull it out slowly, but the second your eyes land on it, you can't hold back the panicked sobs that escape your lips.

In the jar is the bullet they had removed from Johnny's brain during surgery - a trophy, the doctors had called it. It was marred and crumpled, but it still clinked around lightly as you stared down at it.

This tiny little thing is what took away your Johnny. Your Johnny. The sweet man who always had a smile on his face and more love to give than he knew what to do with.

This is the tiny little thing that led him to carve your name into the bullet that lies in your other hand - meticulously written and finished with a tiny heart at the bottom.

A matching set.

"Oh, fuck...oh my fucking god." You whisper under your breath as you choke out another sob, completely frozen in horror. "Jesus fucking-"

It isn't until you feel cool drops of water dripping down your back that you realize the shower has stopped.

You can't bring yourself to look up at him - as though you're willful ignorance of his presence will somehow make him disappear. But your trembling sobs give away just how scared you are as you try to curl away from him.

A frightened yelp tears from your throat as he sinks down onto the floor, wrapping his bare, dripping form around you and holding you tight to keep you locked in his embrace.

"Ah'd never hurt ye, hen. Ye know that, right? Ah'm only thinking about it." You can barely hear him over the pounding in your ears as you continue to sob loudly, but you can feel the way one of his hands travels up to run through your hair in what you can only assume is meant to be a soothing gesture. But you aren't sure how soothing it is when his thumb brushes over your temple, right where he always drew your scar. "Ah just...ah wish ye knew how it felt. Just so we can be closer."

"...Ah just want to be close to ye..."

[ceilidho]

Soap slowly going crazy during his isolation during the apocalypse, talking to himself, scratching the crooked scar on his temple raw to chase away dark thought's. All up until he meets another survivor and makes her life hell: always too close, too grabby, too loud, too obstinate but too useful to actually push him away. And you'd ubderstand -- if the whole thing hadn't started two weeks ago

I wrote something like this a little while ago but damn I love the traumatic brain injury angle.........

[sigh-tofm]

i lovelovelove it when in soapxreader stories the first thing reader notices about soap is the nasty scar on his temple. it always means some deliciously unhinged shit is coming up

[soaqrudyz]

soap who continuously ignores any medical professional’s warnings that the next concussion he gets could cause serious damage until ghost brings up one of their more recent inside jokes and he can’t remember why it was supposed to be funny

[soapcloth]

Love the thought of post-medical discharge soap being a big gamer.

[atopvisenyashill]

💀💀 it’s crazy how you’ll say “i think corlys will use this as a chance to solidify his own power” and someone will purposefully misunderstand you to be like “so you think daemon isn’t power hungry huh? you think he’s not some crazy evil fuck? come on you think-“ that’s a whole different sentence homie

[guhbwuh2]

Moose moodboard :]

[drgnflyteabox]

WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT 💔

😜🫣🤭

[quarterlifekitty]

Today in the shower I was thinking about how absolutely insane soap would be in a sleeping beauty scenario

Meeting you at the celebration of your birth, when he’s just a little boy himself. Markedly unimpressed. And yet, when you’re spirited away to live with your fairies— he feels strangely robbed.

He chases a fulfillment that cannot come to pass. A soldier in many battles, many quests under his belt, all in pursuit of purpose. A stray arrow tucks itself into his skull, and the emptiness grows more cavernous and hungry.

Then, to see a gorgeous thing like you dancing with his cloak, reflected crisp and clear in the pond water of the glen… he’s just a man. Maybe something less, actually. But even if he is a beast, doesn’t he deserve to live?

He delights in how you nearly scream when he pulls you against him.

“Ah’m no stranger, bonnie. Ye said yerself, nae? We met before— jus’ in yer dreams, hen.”

He has half a mind (in more ways than one) to pin you to the forest floor against your precious wildflowers and ravage you senseless, but he’s able to restrain himself when you say you want to see him again. Tomorrow, in the same place. He likes this little game of courting— the wait is bitter, but the fruit is sweet, isn’t it?

And he felt it, when he was with you. The pinpricks of a doll maker’s needle gliding between his ribs. Suturing the tear left in his chest. He’s done being rearranged inside. He’s ready to be put back together.

Thus, the lengths to which he goes to find you. The thorns that bruise and tear, the dracofire scorching his shield.

He’s going to kiss the sleeping princess if it’s the last thing he does.

[devil-in-hiding]

I imagine that Ghost would be super into sharing but only with his teammates. Only with people he trusts DEEPLY.

He has his little bird, who he dotes on like a doll. But sometimes duty calls and he can't finish em off. His go to is Soap, obviously. When he just needs to tag out. Price when he when he wants his little bird to be finished slowly and intensely. Gaz whenever he needs someone to bury their tongue in his little birds weeping sex, because he's seen him do it and he knows his little bird adores it.

Sometimes, he doesn't even need to go anywhere. He just leans up against the wall, watching. Keeping you in his line of sight with a little smile, watching as Johnny desperately thrusts into them. Or chubbing when Price draws those little mewls from your lips, pushing himself off the wall to join him.

"Look at 'em. All sloppy and desperate-- you like when cap'n plays with this pretty little cunny? You like bein' passed 'round like a whore? Yeah you do, sweet girl. Turn 'er over. Wanna make sure she doesn't walk tomorrow."

🍒🍋‍🟩

good fucking good i have nothing to add tbis is fucking yummy

[ceilidho]

Soap lowkey being so deranged he isn't actually severed. (TBI just makes him hyperfocus on that macrodata refinement). Drools over both your innie and outie day in day out. The question isn't if he prefers making your innie uncomfortable by leering at you across the office out or making your outie cry by groping you on your commute home. No. The question is which one does he get his paws on first.

Okay, I do like this, BUT...there's also something so disgustingly romantic to me that it doesn't matter if he's been severed and has no memory of you from the office or from the outside world, he's still just as obsessed with you.

Has no recollection of the time he cornered you in the supply closet at work and bent you over the photocopier when his outie sees you at the grocery store picking up a carton of eggs, but Soap still can't pull his eyes off you. Already thinking of the best line to approach you with and whether or not you'll complain if he follows you home.

[velvetchrry]

━━━━ IT REMAINS

pairing: johnny “soap” mactavish x psychiatrist!reader

4.3k. after being shot in the head, johnny works with a psychiatrist to get his life back. **contains dark themes - read at your own risk.

It’s a tick.

Nine. That’s how many hash marks make up the upper margin of your notes. That’s how many times Sergeant MacTavish has rubbed the spot on his forehead where he was shot months ago. If you listen closely you can hear the pad of his thumb race along the grown out hairs of his mohawk.

It’s how he gives himself quiet comfort. When you ask him a question that makes him feel squeamish, he absentmindedly runs his finger along it. You’d have more hash marks if you deigned to keep track at the beginning of your session but this is only the first time you’re meeting him. You’ve also gotten farther than any of his other psychiatrists thus far. 32 minutes in.

His first psychiatrist, Dr. Williams is great. Phenomenal, actually. Old school, nearing his late fifties — he showed you the ropes when you started here. You thought for sure his calm demeanor would be just what MacTavish needed. He made it approximately 17 minutes into the session.

You’re not even sure Dr. Williams was able to get an answer out of him that day. You were here; heard the raised voice of Sergeant MacTavish. Watched as one of the Lieutenants who accompanied him dragged him out. Dr. Williams left his office a few minutes after that, pink-faced and flustered. The only time you’ve ever seen him like that.

MacTavish went through two other psychiatrists before landing in your lap. Why me? you couldn’t help but think. What could I possibly have that they don’t? You’re the youngest psychiatrist here by a mile. Fresh meat. A larva who has yet to transform, metamorphose.

He’s been staring at the same speck on your carpet for a few minutes now. You saw this faraway look in his eyes at the beginning of the session. Those piercing blues fogged over, mist on the lake. Pupils pinpricked.

His leg bounces slightly. Sweat glistens on his upper lip. Talking about what happened, bringing up that day is what has set him off in other sessions before. You weren’t ready to breach the subject until a few minutes ago.

“Johnny?” you try again, gingerly. He didn’t like when you called him Sergeant MacTavish earlier.

“Doc?” he says calmly, as if you haven’t been waiting in silence for him to answer your question.

“Would you like me to repeat the question?”

He sucks his teeth. Ponders. You let him. If there’s anything you’ve observed about his behavior thus far is that he does not like to be pushed, likely due to the fact that he simply needs more time than before. With a TBI like his, it’s not shocking. Memory loss and concentration issues are almost a guarantee. Along with the other symptoms he’s been experiencing — mood changes, difficulty sleeping, sensitivity to sound — and that’s only what you’ve been able to gather so far from his own admissions this session and the notes from those very brief prior ones.

“I dinnae want ta talk about it,” he finally says.

“Alright,” you answer simply. Calmly.

His shoulders visibly slacken at that.

You wonder if he expected you to push him. And, had this not been your first session, you may have. But not this time. He’s not ready for that yet.

He does surprise you, however. When Sergeant MacTavish makes it the full hour, you award him with an honest smile.

“This is a great step forward, Johnny. I’m proud of you.”

You look down at your slightly smudged notes, the air still heavy with the scent of fresh ink. Notes on Johnny’s sisters, parents, home. How he imagines his life in the future — back home to the Highlands, maybe a little cottage in the woods, walking distance to his relatives. Surrounded by family — a wife, children. Animals. Fending for himself and his family. Providing.

It’s… sweet. His fantasy of the future. You imagine in different circumstances he might have been an ideal husband. He has a protective instinct that drives him in everything he does. A wolf defending his pack. Maw dripping with the blood of those who would stand to hurt anyone he loves.

“Thanks, Doc.”

He scratches the scar again as he stands up. It’s still raised — pink flesh that draws your eye in. He waits for you, maybe the most awkward you’ve seen him thus far. You stand and offer your hand. His engulfs yours. He holds it tight, like letting go of you will make him slip out of reality again.

“Next week, same time?” You hate the phrase as soon as it comes out, making you sound like every movie shrink ever, but routine is important for him right now.

He swallows thickly and nods his head, finally letting go of your hand. You walk him to the exit, to the waiting Lieutenant. He goes without a fuss.

You don’t run into any problems until a few sessions later.

He’s agitated, but hasn’t told you why yet. You give him time, give him space. Let him work out what he wants to tell you. The Newton’s cradle that usually occupies your desktop is shoved in a drawer. Silence envelops the two of you, other than his ragged breathing as he tries to get ahold of his emotions.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been holding your own breath but you allow some oxygen into your lungs. You feel like you’re standing at the door of an airplane and he’s the one strapping your parachute. Checking for rips and tears. Making sure the deployment handle is secure.

“Johnny?” you murmur. Wait.

He rubs his scar.

“Lonely,” he blurts out.

“That’s to be expected,” you hum as your finger absentmindedly brushes across the large CONFIDENTIAL in red ink that runs across his folder. He hasn’t been allowed to talk to any family or friends. They all think he’s dead until the man who killed him is in custody and — while you have your disagreements on whether or not that is the best course of action for him — you don’t outrank the military men who made this decision.

“Yer the only friend I get ta see.”

You hesitate and realize that was your error as soon as his face drops.

“We’re friends, no?”

You give him a genuine smile. “I’m your psychiatrist, Johnny.”

“Said ya wanted what’s best for me. Said ya cared.” He’s agitated, fist clenched and shaking against his thigh. He strokes his scar in quick succession with his other hand. His usually serene, handsome face is contorted, as if what he’s hearing is causing him physical pain. He is seconds away from another episode.

“That is true and I meant it when I said it.”

He unfurls his fist but his fingertip never leaves his head. “So we’re friends then?”

You shouldn’t placate him with confirmation. If it were any other patient, you wouldn’t. You would stop this in its tracks, before anything has time to bloom. Cut out the dead root before it rots the rest of the plant. But it’s him — and you can’t be another in a long list of people who have failed him.

“Yes Johnny. We’re… friends.”

He beams at you and you think you see a piece of Johnny from before the accident. The golden retriever energy you suspect made up his personality. The finger on the scar stills.

“I knew you were the right one for me, Doc.”

You make it through three months with him.

“Bonnie flowers,” he nods towards the vase on your desk.

Lily of the valley, baby’s breath and red roses encompassed in a simple glass vase with a lilac satin bow. No note, but it was your birthday week and you figured one of your friends or parents just forgot to add one. You’ll figure out who sent it later.

“Mmm, they are.”

You level him with a look.

“You’re avoiding my question, Johnny,” you remark. He’s had enough sessions with you, become comfortable enough for you to be able to challenge him a bit. He sinks further into the couch and you sit up straighter, closer to the edge of your seat, not letting him run away from the question with physical distance. “Can we talk about this?” you ask his permission.

There’s a tick in his jaw as he mulls it over, eyes never leaving the flowers. You wait, unsure what his reaction will be.

“Can I say no?”

You nod. “You can always say no to me, Johnny. Though, it’s easier for me to help you if you say yes.”

He looks down at his lap, hands folded neatly. The hair on his arms escapes from his long sleeve a little bit. He rubs a knuckle.

“Ya ken I trust ya, Doc, it’s just…” he pinches his brow together, eyes shut as he brings a hand to his head. He hunches over slightly.

“Johnny?” his name lingers in the air. The physical distress he shows gives you heartburn, acid creeping up your throat. He groans, and pushes his fingertips so hard against his forehead you’re sure it’ll bruise.

The bottle of water is in your hands before you realize what you’re doing — standing from your seat and sitting next to him on the couch in your office. You offer it and he lets his hand idle on yours for a second before removing the lid and taking a long sip.

He sighs in relief and lets his muscles relax, leaning backwards into the sofa. A warm, massive hand settles on your knee and you startle but don’t recoil. It would set him back if you pulled away.

“I’m not ready, Doc,” he croaks, and the crack in his voice breaks your heart.

“Alright, Johnny,” you soothe. You grab the back of the hand resting on your knee and squeeze before standing up to return to your chair. “That’s alright. Take your time.”

A knock on your office surprises you a few nights later.

It’s late on a Friday night — you should have been home by now, but you had few things to wrap up before your week off. Notes to finish, information to chart. You were only slightly worried about Johnny, hoping one week off wouldn’t regress him any. At the end of his last session, you made sure to spend some time telling him that you wouldn’t see him next week. You emphasized that you’d be back the following week and would resume as normal.

There’s nothing you hate more than disrupting his routine. It’s been paramount to his recovery thus far. Last week his physician requested an MRI to update his brain imaging, since there hasn’t been any since the incident and it set him off. He only calmed down once you were paged and arrived — stripped yourself of any metal, put on two different pairs of ear plugs and sat vigil next to him on the scanner — your hand brushing against his exposed leg in a soothing motion as his head was inside the tube.

You wonder who could possibly be here at this time of night. As far as you know, you were the last one, but someone else could have easily had a late patient that you weren’t aware of.

The doorknob turns before you can reach it.

Johnny stands in the opening to your office. He is visibly distressed, sweat glistening on his brow. His fingers flex and squeeze as he walks in and closes your office door behind him, hard enough that you jump where you stand.

“Hello, Johnny. What brings you here so late? Where’s your escort?”

He’s still looking off in the distance as he approaches you. You hold your ground, tilting your chin up slightly to look at him. Now that he’s in front of you it’s easier to see how ragged his breathing is, how hard he’s fighting for control over his emotions.

“Do you want to sit?” you try again.

He doesn’t respond, simply holds his ground as you talk. His eyes flicker back and forth as he ponders something. Is he trying to use the calming techniques you’ve taught him?

Your fingers twitch, almost reaching out on instinct to grab his wrist. He sucks in a large breath, his chest nearly brushing against yours as he does. The hairs on your scalp tickle as you feel his exhale caress your face. Patiently, you wait for him. You’re used to this. Sometimes he needs a moment.

“Ye cannae just…” he starts then stops, pinching his eyes shut as he gets his thoughts together. He inhales deeply again before continuing, his voice more desperate. “Why’re ye leaving me, Doc?”

“I’m not leaving you, Johnny. I’ll be back the week after next.”

The line of his jaw sharpens as he clenches his teeth. His fingers continue to flex and contract, half moons indenting the skin of his palm as he does. The thin wire holding him together is about to break and you’re standing in the middle of the debris field.

“I’ll tell ye about it,” he pleads. He brings his hand up to cup your jaw and you hold your ground. Johnny has never frightened you, no matter how many times you’ve seen him agitated. You know, down to your core, he would never hurt you — so you stay still, let him make physical contact. “I’ll tell ye everything.” He dangles the bait over you like you’re a starving animal. The thing you’ve been waiting for all these sessions. A thumb traces the slope of your cheek.

“Okay,” you agree, bringing your hand up to lightly hold against the one stroking you. You wrap your fingers around his and pull his hand off your face. “We’ll talk about it when I return, alright?”

Wrong move.

He snaps.

Before you can react, Johnny grips the back of your neck and pulls you firmly to his chest. His other arm locks itself around your waist. You gasp, breathing in the scent of him as your face is pressed tightly to his body. Your hands fly up to push yourself away but it’s no use. Johnny is carved from stone, immovable, statuesque. He doesn’t crush you, only holds you as his arms lock in place. Your stiffened frame moves with his chest, his rapid breathing competing over the sound of your own.

Panic creeps into your throat, tightening the noose. You know Johnny would never harm you, but you’re not quite certain the lengths he would go when he’s feeling threatened — and right now he’s feeling very threatened.

Fingers wrap around the hair at your nape as he pulls your head back. He kisses you hard and it’s a battle of teeth and tongue as you try to back away from it, remove yourself from the situation. You whine in protest and Johnny groans.

Finally his mouth releases yours. Panting, you gasp for air.

“Johnny… this is… highly inappropriate,” you wheeze.

He looks into your eyes lovingly, as if his stare could keep you in place forever.

“Kept the flowers I gave ye,” he breathes.

Your eyes widen in realization. “You? You’re the one who sent those to me?”

A wide grin splits his face. “My girl’s birthday. ‘Course I did.”

You try not to focus on the fact that he knew when your birthday was — something you definitely did not share with him. “Johnny… I’m your psychiatrist.”

“Yer my friend. Said it yerself. Said a lot of things, hen. ‘We’re in this together’, ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to help ye’, ‘Rely on me, even on bad days’,” he leans in, nose pressed to your hair and taking a whiff. “Cannae let you go… no’ now.”

You try pushing yourself off him again to no avail. “Johnny…”

With both arms now wrapped around your middle, he lifts you with ease, setting your ass down gently on top of your desk. He brushes a stray hair out of your face. “Said I can ‘always say no’ to ye. I’m saying it now. Cannae let you go, hen,” he repeats.

“Johnny,” you echo, strained as you attempt to wiggle out of his hold. You try to keep your voice strong and even but it’s becoming more and more difficult the longer you’re stuck in his hold.

He shushes you before you can continue talking, a massive palm covering your mouth. “Know ye want it too, pretty girl.” His large knee forces your legs apart, bumping it against your clothed center. You startle and he chubs up — your jump barely moving you in the strong grip of his arm. “Take such good care of me. Let me return the favor,” he murmurs, pupils blown out wide as he replaces his hand with his mouth.

You try to push him away again as he kisses you, but it’s no use. You’d have better luck tipping over a skyscraper with your bare hands. Defeated, you submit — not by kissing him back but no longer fighting him either.

“Tha’s it,” he coos when he decides to back away. He takes you with him, sliding your bottom across the desk and supporting your body weight until your legs are firmly underneath you. Suddenly you’re turning around and he’s forcing your face down to the cool wood. The action causes you to screech and he lays his body against yours and shushes your cries, smoothing a hand along the exposed skin of your cheek.

“S’alright, pretty girl. S’alright. Nobody’ll ever touch ye again. Safe with me, always.”

A shiver races down your spine. Johnny hums in delight, his hips crushed firmly to your ass. His thick length is pressed against you and he shudders. Impossibly, he pulls you by the waist against him even more and wraps a massive paw around your middle to tear your pants down your body. Your panties come with it and you can’t help the moan that escapes at the sensation and sudden coolness.

“Johnny…” you start again, knowing that kissing him is beyond innappropriate but fucking him on your desk is a different monster entirely.

A few thick digits in your mouth quiet you and you gargle at the sudden intrusion. “Shh, bonnie,” he pacifies you, before wrapping his arm around your front and swiping a long stripe up your core with his spit-moistened fingers.

He braces your squirming body down with his large forearm. You yelp as he continues to swirl around your sensitive nub, the motion getting his fingers wetter and wetter as your body responds to his touch. He continues his ministrations with deft and experienced fingers that have your legs trembling underneath you. Eyes closed, you cry out in pleasure — and then come back to reality when you realize you’re about to be fucked by your vulnerable head trauma patient.

“Johnny! We can’t do this,” you plead.

“Why no’ hen? We both want it.” You can’t see him with how you’re positioned but you just know he’s doing that little head tilt thing he does when he’s genuinely confused.

“It’s not right, I’ll lose my job,” you whisper.

He huffs. “Don’t need it. I’ll take care of ye.”

A bulky finger slides into you and your knees knock together. “You’re my patient,” you reply, breathless.

“Gonna help me at home from now on,” he responds effortlessly, stretching you with another finger, continuing his slow, lazy pumps.

Home?

“W… what do you mean by ‘home’, Johnny?” your psychiatrist brain asks, waiting for your patient to define his train of thought like you would in any other session. As if you were across the couch from one another — instead of his fingers spreading you wide as your body is splayed on your desk.

“Home,” he replies simply, like the word should explain itself. A third finger enters you and you suck in a breath at the slight burn. You whimper.

“Pretty baby,” he coos, accent thicker than you’ve ever heard it.

Your nipples pebble but you attempt to resist giving him anymore physical responses. “We can’t do this Johnny,” you tremble — from his fingers or the situation you currently find yourself in, you’re not sure.

“This beautiful body is telling me otherwise, Doc,” he practically purrs, his fingers picking up speed.

“Please Johnny… I…” you gasp.

He rips his hand out and you bite down hard on your cheek to prevent yourself from crying at the loss of contact.

“Want more, baby?!” he beams, the sound of his zipper your only warning before his thick, warm cock rubs lengthwise against the entrance to your cunt, hard length massaging your clit as he pumps.

‘No,’ your mind thinks, but your traitorous body says ‘yes, yes, yes,’ as you draw in a sharp breath, legs pushing your ass back without asking your brain.

Johnny makes a pleased grunt as he continues, lubing his cock with your wet, pulsing pussy. You can’t help it — you moan. A sharp slap on your ass pushes you further into the wood and Johnny soothes the sting by hitting your reddening cheek with his sticky cock a few times in a row.

His hand wraps around the back of your neck, keeping you in place but he’s surprisingly gentle. “Meant to be mine,” he declares as he enters you slowly. You suck in a large breath. “Only good thing that came outta this,” and you know he’s tapping the side of his head with his other hand without looking back at him. You whine and he groans when he enters you to the hilt, squeezing the flesh of your hip with the hand not securing your neck.

That’s it.

You’re fucked.

In more ways than one.

Johnny’s fingertips dig into your skin as he picks up the pace slightly. You grip the side of your desk, not bothering to stop him now. It’s too late for that. Arguments die on your tongue as Johnny pounds into you from behind, the bony protuberance of your pelvis hitting bruisingly against the hardwood with every thrust.

You resort to holding on as best you can as Johnny slams against you, like his anger is seeping out of his skin by doing it. The slapping of flesh and your combined pants sucking the air from the room. Johnny bucks into you until his pace gets sloppy and then he stills, pulling himself out with frustrated groan.

His hands leave you and you lay there, boneless, but watch as he drags your chair around the desk, cock bobbing and glistening in the light as he walks. He supports your weight effortlessly as he places you in your chair, like a delicate piece of china. He grunts as he drops to his knees in front of you, and you watch with hooded eyes as his arms come up underneath your knees and pull you to the edge of the seat — right to his waiting mouth.

Johnny swirls and curls his tongue around the sensitive flesh of your pussy, wrapping a strong arm across your lap to keep your bucking hips down. It stings a little, his solid arm pressing into the bruises forming on your hip. You pant and whine, unable to control the noises spilling out of you.

He doesn’t stop, licking and sucking until that little bundle of nerves can’t take it anymore. With all your strength you try to back away from his mouth but the effort is fruitless. Tears stream down your cheek, the sensitivity making you plead with him. “I can’t… Johnny please… please…”

He hums, the vibration sending a shockwave up your spinal column. He slows down but only slightly and you see stars, head floating as you cum on his tongue. He hums again and you shiver violently in reaction. Pulling back now, he smiles drunkenly at you and kisses your pussy before standing and lining himself back up with you.

Your legs are firmly secured and he throws your calves onto his broad shoulders. He teases your entrance before he lets out a sputtered groan. “Bonnie little thing,” he sighs before spearing you on his cock. You're contorted at an impossible angle, one you’re definitely going to feel later, as Johnny relentlessly drives himself into you.

Voice cracking, you can’t stop the sounds of pleasure that escape from between your lips. Sweat drips down Johnny’s brow as he concentrates. One of your hands grips the arm of your chair and the other finds your lower stomach, feeling Johnny’s cock push into you. The thick hair covering his muscular body tickles but it’s barely noticeable over the pleasure coursing through your system.

Your toes curl as another orgasm rips through you, and you bite down hard on the forearm braced beside your head. Johnny whines in pleasure, hips stuttering before resuming their normal brutal rhythm.

“‘M close, bonnie,” he pants. His motions become more flustered as he approaches his climax. The hand gripping onto the arm of your chair now curls around his forearm as you hold tight to him.

He releases, his spend coating your walls in thick spurts and he drops his body on top of yours. You can feel him twitching inside of you as you wrap your arms around his shoulders.

After a few moments, Johnny catches his breath and snakes his arms under you. He lifts you out of the chair and brings you to the couch he’s sat on countless times before, letting your limp form curl against his. He pets your head lovingly as you lay against him, humming softly to himself.

When you fall asleep, Johnny whispers his plans of the future to you. The house he’d purchased in the Highlands a couple of weeks ago is ready to move into. You won’t have to worry your pretty little head about a thing. The plane is chartered, and you’ll both be on it. He’ll be able to last longer next time, and you’re going to give him the most beautiful family — together you’ve already started to.

[bluelizard100]

Here’s a WIP I had sitting in my notes app for forever that I finally got around to finishing

Study abroad reader x Soap (my beloved) !!!

Warnings: kidnapping, non-con, bondage with a belt, post TBI Soap, very little editing, obsessive & unstable Soap, poorly written Scottish accent lmao

4.1k word count

Studying abroad seemed like the best opportunity you ever could’ve gotten. You were ecstatic, packed up and ready to fly over to Scotland, knowing there was a room at the university of Edinburgh waiting for you. 

It all seemed so perfect. You got to travel without having to worry about missing your studies, and this was a wonderful opportunity to meet new people and make connections.

Just as you had wanted, everything was perfect. It would’ve stayed perfect if you hadn’t met Johnny.

“John MacTavish, but a bonnie thing like you can call me Johnny,” he’d said to you.

He was a flirt, and to you it was harmless, temporary fun. The two of you grew close fast. You ate lunch with him, hung out with him during your breaks, and you even spent the night at his place a couple times. You’d spend evenings texting or calling, unloading your stresses onto him while he cracked jokes to make you feel better.

He never talked much about his own problems with work— you understood, though. How much can he really talk about his problems with the military? He was special forces, after all— SAS. He never even told you how he got the gnarly scar on his temple. He talked about his team sometimes, but rarely ever a few words. He always just seemed happier to listen to you.

It was a wonderful thing, your friendship with him. There was an obvious connection between you two, an unspoken chemistry. You entertained the idea of something more with him, but you never brought it up; how could you? You had to leave eventually, so what was the point? What if he didn’t feel the same way, and you were just reading too far into things? He seemed like the type to flirt with his friends. If you went for it and asked him out, and he said no, you’d ruin the entire friendship. He probably wasn’t interested— you’re just a friend to him. Right?

After an entire year in Scotland, it was finally time to pack up and fly back home. You didn’t want to leave, but you missed home. It’d been a whole 365 days since you had seen your friends and family back home, and you longed to sleep in your own bed again.

When you told Johnny it was time for you to go back home, his eyes flashed with a dark intensity. You should’ve acknowledged the subtle shift, should’ve known something was wrong. You shouldn’t have ignored the unease building in your gut, but you didn’t.

He’s probably just pushing down his emotions. He’s a soldier; I bet he’s not even allowed to have feelings. You rationalized your disquiet away as you shoved haphazardly folded clothes into a stuffed suitcase.

It was the night before your flight that he finally showed you how he felt. You don’t remember much other than a prick to your neck, and then darkness.

—

You wake up in what you think is Johnny’s sitting room, sat on the couch with your wrists tied behind your back and your ankles bound together. Your head is pounding, your eyes burn, and your mouth and throat are dry. It’s too painful to think. Your tongue feels like sandpaper in your mouth, desiccated by whatever concoction was injected into your veins.

It takes you a moment to realize that you are, in fact, in Johnny’s sitting room, and not some random person’s house. It’s both relieving and terrifying to wake up in your friend’s home; you know where you are, you know you’re with someone who’s supposed to be safe… but you’re tied up and you were very obviously drugged.

Thoughts race through your head. Why am I here? And where is Johnny? What did he give me? Is Johnny okay? Did a terrorist capture him? Am I being used as a hostage?

Your thoughts spiral out of control with each scenario you came up with. Each new hypothetical has your blood pressure spiking and your heart fluttering. Just before you can open your mouth to scream, you hear footsteps.

Johnny emerges from the kitchen, stepping through the doorway lightly and almost calmly. You melt with relief, so glad to see that he’s okay that you don’t even notice his lack of panic.

“Johnny!” You nearly weep. He walks towards the couch, giving you a warm, loving smile. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he kneels down in front of you and wipes a tear from your cheek.

“Oh, baby, ye dinnae need tae cry,” he coos.

You squirm on the couch, tugging against the ropes that keep you immobile. “J-Johnny,” you stammer, “you gotta untie me.”

His expression darkens, the warmth fading away.

You’re still panicked, though. You haven’t realized yet that there isn’t any danger except for the man in front of you.

“Johnny, we have to hurry.”

The danger in Johnny’s expression fizzles, replaced by confusion. “What?”

“Before they come back,” you sniffle. “The men who took me— they’re terrorists, right? We have to leave!”

Again, Johnny smiled at you. Poor thing. So naive.

“No terrorist, baby. We’re safe, aye?”

You break down again, crying with relief. Johnny sits himself on the couch and pulls you up into his lap, gingerly untying your wrists and ankles.

“Just you an’ me. It’s okay, ye dinnae need to cry.”

You babble into his neck, blaming your tears on whatever drugs you were given. He only shushes you, rocking you gently in his arms.

You cry for what feels like an eternity, but Johnny holds you tight. To you, he’s comforting you, offering himself as an anchor to your out of control emotions.

To him, he’s holding you tight so you can’t run away. He’s the anchor that’s going to keep you here, with him.

Where you belong.

—

You wake again, this time in Johnny’s room. In his bed. Wrapped in his arms.

He’s already awake, staring at you with unnerving intensity. It disappears as soon as he catches your eye, replaced with another one of his warm smiles.

It takes a moment for you to remember what happened, and even then, your brain decides to focus on your flight.

“Holy fuck!”

You spring out of Johnny’s bed so quickly that you stumble, the too-sudden postural change making your vision spot. Johnny hurries after you, wrapping an arm around your waist when you wobble.

Then his grip tightens. You’re being dragged back to the bed.

“Johnny,” you gasp, “I gotta- I gotta go. I missed my flight!” He pushes you back into the bed, grumbling when you slap at his arms.

“I need to go now!” You shout. You’ll have people waiting for you, school expecting you. You have to at least call.

You don’t get a chance to explain any of it. Johnny pushes you down onto your back and clamps his big hand over your mouth.

“Stop fuckin’ moving,” he demands, frustration turning his tone rough and mean. He stares into your wide eyes, his face inches from yours. You freeze out of pure shock, and when Johnny’s sure you’ll listen, he pulls his hand from your mouth.

“There we go,” he hums. “You’ve got nowhere ta be, baby. Ah took care o’ everythin’ for ya.”

The fuck does that mean?

“You… what? No, Johnny, I have to—“

You’re cut off again by him clamping his hand over your mouth.

“I said nae. Yer’ stayin’ here.”

You push at his shoulders, trying to get him off you, but he collects both your wrists in his free hand and pins them to your chest.

“I cannae let ye leave.” Johnny’s voice is thick with emotion, so intense that it scares you. You’ve never heard him like this. He’s always so lighthearted and unserious, turning everything into a joke. Now here he is, so genuine that his voice is unsteady.

“I need ya. I need ye here with me, by my side. They dinnae need ye; I do. They don’t deserve ye. They— they abandoned you, let ye come to a strange country all by yerself. Who fuckin’ knows what could’ve happened if I hadnae found ye so early on?”

He’s rambling, almost like he’s speaking to you and to himself. Like he’s trying to rationalize this, forcing it to make rational sense to you and ease his own guilt.

“I’d never leave ye. I’d never let ye get yerself in danger like they did. I’ll protect ye, keep ye safe and sound right here wi’ me.”

Johnny grew more and more distraught as he rambled, spilling his delusions while you tried to keep your tears at bay.

Finally, it all clicks.

Johnny— your friend Johnny, who was warm and kind and funny, had kidnapped you.

He drugged you, tied you up, and dragged you back to his house. He made you miss your flight back home. And now, apparently he’s holding you hostage.

Amidst his breakdown, Johnny notices the tears welling up in your eyes. “No, baby, no, no tears,” he coos, uncovering your mouth to cup your cheek instead. “It’s okay. Ah ken it’s a lot of feelings right now— love is a lot tae feel.”

For a moment you just stare at him. You just have to stare. Dumbfounded.

He thinks these tears are because I love him? He think I’m, what, overwhelmed with joy?

“…Johnny,” you say, voice shaky yet full of conviction, “you need to let me go.”

You watch Johnny’s face fall, see tears turn his eyes glassy. You almost feel bad.

Then he snarls, his expression turning vicious.

“Fuck no,” he growls, slamming your wrists above your head. He presses down until his nose presses against yours, until the breath he exhales is the breath you take in.

“I already said I’m not fuckin’ losing ye. I’ll no’ let ye go back to another—“

His voice cracks, and you feel hot tears drip onto your cheeks.

“…another man. I’m cannae let ye go back home. I cannae let some other lad sweep ye off yer feet and take ye from me, while I’m an entire fuckin’ country away from ye, helpless tae stop it.”

He takes a ragged breath and buries his face into your neck. “You’re mine. I said willnae lose ye.”

You don’t get a chance to even utter a response before Johnny snaps again, pressing you down harder against his mattress.

“If ye don’t want tae stay, I’ll make ye,” he snarls.

His free hand goes to his belt, and your cry of protest does nothing to deter him.

“I’ll show ye,” he mutters. “I’ll show ye how good I’ll be to ya.”

While you thrash and scream underneath him, Johnny loops his belt around your wrists and secures them to the headboard.

“Johnny stop! Stop it! Fucking let me go!”

Your shouting again does nothing. Johnny’s in some crazed state, not hearing anything— and if he is hearing it, it’s not affecting him.

Fabric tears, the sound drowned out by your screaming. Cool air hits your belly, and Johnny stuffs a ripped half of your shirt into your mouth.

He undresses you wordlessly, tearing the rest of your shirt off and then your bra. Your pants don’t get torn— simply yanked off your legs, your panties dragged along with them.

When you’re fully naked, tears streaming down your cheeks, is when Johnny finally stops. He pauses, sucks in a full breath, and stares.

God, he fucking stares. If you could, you’d curl in on yourself, hide from his burning gaze.

When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle. It almost startles you, the contrast between his earlier snarling and his current loving rumbling making your hair stand on end.

“Oh, baby,” he breathes. “My sweet, beautiful wee bride.”

A shocked cry escapes you, the sound muffled by the scrap of shirt he shoved between your lips.

“Shh shh shh,” Johnny shushes you gently. “No cryin’ now. No more cryin’.”

His hands, rough with callouses, roam over your body. He starts at your hips, sliding up over your waist, feeling each individual rib, tracing the sides of your breasts, up your chest, gentle at your neck, until he finally cups your face in both hands.

“I’ll be the best husband ye could ever ask for, bonnie.”

You whimper, shake your head no, and he frowns.

“No?” He asks incredulously. “I ken what the problem is. Ye cannae turn that big brain o’ yers off. Are ye thinking too much again, baby?”

He uses his hold on your face to nod your head yes.

“Aw, I ken, baby. Ye’re always so nervous’, lettin’ that anxiety ruin everything.”

Johnny presses his lips to your forehead before he descends, making his way down your body. When he settles between your thighs, wrapping his arms around them to keep you still, he meets your teary eyes with his own intense, piercing blue stare.

“Let yer husband make it all better.”

He licks a long stripe up your cunt, from slit to clit, eliciting a sharp squeal that stays trapped behind your gag.

He’s gentle about it, laving his tongue against you in slow, gentle strokes. He’s making out with your pussy, kissing at your clit and sucking on your lips while you wail into your gag.

He pushes his tongue inside you, tasting you with an appreciative groan that vibrates around your pussy. You squeal again, and you swear he puffs out an amused breath through his nose.

Johnny alternates between those gentle licks and experimental plunges until your breath turns shallow. Your body succumbs, giving in to the desire you’ve harbored for so long even while your mind screams that this is wrong.

Against all your inner turmoil, your efforts to control your body’s responses fail. Your hips twitch and a tiny moan sounds from your lips, nearly imperceptible with the cloth muffling your voice.

But Johnny caught it.

And the air shifts.

He pauses, and you look down to see him staring up at you with a devious, excited glint in his eyes.

“There we go,” he growls, satisfaction spilling from his tone. “All warmed up.”

Your brow furrows with confusion, but Johnny answers your wordless question so quickly it gives you whiplash.

In what feels like a mere second, Johnny reaches up and rips the cloth from your mouth and returns to his spot between your thighs, latching onto your clit and sucking hard.

Intense, overwhelming pleasure shoots through your belly like electricity, ripping a startled scream from you.

He latched on tight, refusing to let go even as you buck your hips and cry out into the room, begging for a break.

Johnny releases your clit with a pop and looks up at you with a proud grin. “Told ye, baby, I’m gonna make it better— gonna take care of those racin’ thoughts. I’ll make sure ye cannae think about anythin’ at all.”

It should be a threat, but he said it so sweetly; It was like a loving promise.

Johnny dips back down, only this time he starts flicking his tongue over your poor clit, tormenting your swollen nub.

Again you cry out, unable to keep quiet. Johnny’s attacking your most sensitive spot, tormenting you with your own body. While you squirm and cry, your hips buck and roll in time with his tongue, searching for more.

Your efforts are rewarded with a satisfied grunt from Johnny, and he doubled his own. You didn’t think it was possible, but he proves you wrong— his tongue moves faster, harder, and he tightens his grip on your thighs to keep you from wiggling too much.

Your wails turn to moans, each sound that leaves you more desperate than the last. Tantalizing warmth floods your belly, along with a pressure that keeps building and building.

Each sound Johnny forces from you is taken as encouragement. Although your logical mind hates every aspect of this, you know that if he stopped now you wouldn’t be able to keep from begging. You’re too close for him to stop; the want has reached the tipping point to a primal need. Luckily for you, Johnny wants to deliver.

If you were paying more attention (read: if you were capable of paying attention), you’d have noticed that Johnny was losing himself, too. He’s rutting his hips against the mattress like an animal, matching the beastly way he devours your cunt.

Your abdomen tightens and your thighs fight to squeeze shut, cueing the band in your core to snap.

In a panic, still conscious enough to realize that you’re about to come on your friend-turned-kidnapper’s tongue, you glance down between your thighs.

Johnny had looked up at your face as soon as he felt your thighs squeeze. When you met his eyes, glazed over with need, that torturous band snapped.

Head thrown back in a strangled moan, molten pleasure rolling through your body like magma forcing its way to the surface, your body surrendering itself to Johnny.

Johnny refused to let up, lapping at your entrance to get every last taste of your release. You feared he wasn’t going to stop, uttering a breathless “please” with the last of your energy. Your plea was like music, the sweetest melody he’d ever heard, and he finally pulled away.

You let your head flop back against your pillow, muscles finally going lax. Johnny crawled back up your body, caging you in with his arms, elbows propped on either side of your head.

“There ye are,” he hums, looking down at you with nothing short of adoration. “Not thinkin’ so much now, huh?”

You don’t answer— can’t answer, really— but Johnny doesn’t mind. He smiles and cups your cheek again. Then, he’s leaning down and kissing you. Kissing you for the first time.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about this before; what it would be like if you took the chance and told Johnny you had feelings for him.

You’d thought about how it would feel to kiss him. Would he be gentle, play it safe for the first time? Or would he be rough and passionate? Would his lips be soft, or would you have to tease him into using chapstick?

Every scenario you’d come up with had been domestic. Nothing like what you’re experiencing now, trapped underneath him with your wrists secured to the headboard. The taste of your own arousal lingering on his lips.

Johnny is gentle as he kisses you. He takes his time, savoring the feel of your lips against his, the way you go slack and just accept it.

Accept his affections.

Accept him.

He nips at your bottom lip before pulling away and strokes his thumb over your cheek.

“The sweetest bride I could ever ask for,” he whispers.

Bride. The title has you squirming again, tugging against the belt at your wrists and using your legs to try and buck him off.

“Och—“ he huffs, pressing his hips down against yours. “Quit that.”

You stiffen. His hard-on presses down against you through his pants, which shouldn’t be surprising, but actually feeling it is enough to make you go still.

He grins at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Now he looks like the Johnny you know. The Johnny you befriended. His expression is incongruous— he shouldn’t be looking so playful right now, so unserious. But here he is, looking like this is all some practical joke.

The worst part? It makes you feel better.

His playfulness is familiar. It offers you the comfort that you so desperately need right now, acting as a subtle reassurance that— despite all of this— everything’s going to be okay.

“That’s a good girl,” Johnny murmurs, giving you a little peck on the lips.

“You’re thinkin’ again, though. Gotta do something about that before ye work yerself up again.”

He pulls his shirt off, throwing it down to the floor. His pants and boxers follow. He doesn’t take his time undressing, stripping himself down just as quickly as he did you.

Your breath hitches when you catch sight of his hard cock. It looks almost painful, ruddy at and around the tip and leaking.

He wraps his big hand around it and strokes it a few times, pumping up and down his length with a groan.

“Gonna make it official, baby,” he groans, lining himself up with your cunt. “Gonna make ye my wife.”

With that, he pushes in, groaning again as your warmth envelops him. He moves slowly, again savoring the feel of your bodies joining.

Your earlier orgasm prepped you enough to take the edge off, but the stretch of his cock was still enough to burn.

A whine sounds from your throat and your eyes squeeze shut, an instinctive reaction to the sudden burst of pain.

Johnny coos, but he doesn’t stop. “Poor thing. Ah ken it’s big, but Ah also ken ye can take it.”

He keeps pushing in, in, in, until he finally bottoms out and his hips meet yours. Johnny finally pauses, then, giving you a moment to get used to him.

You’re so full, stuffed so tight with him that he’s almost all you can think about.

Johnny practically trembles, his restraint hair-thin. “Ye feel so good, so warm,” he rasps, dipping down to nip at your neck. “My wife. Mine. Gonna treat ye right, better than anyone else ever could.”

He reaches up and, to your surprise, unbuckles the belt and frees your wrists.

“C’mon, baby, touch me. I know ye want to.”

You don’t move, your arms just laying above your head where he’d let them flop. Johnny sighs and grabs ahold of your thighs, hiking them up and wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Stop thinkin’,” he huffs, grabbing your wrists next. He brings them up to his shoulders, holding them there until you finally touch, grasping his firm muscles.

“Good girl.”

You get another quick kiss before Johnny starts to move, and you feel your belly muscles flutter. That weird rippling sensation, like butterflies but better, and a moan catches you by surprise.

Just like before, Johnny takes it as encouragement. He moves a bit faster, changes the angle of his hips until you squeal. He growls like an animal, feral for your pleasure.

His big hands cup your tits, squeezing and kneading before he switches to rolling his thumbs over your pebbled nipples.

“Such a good girl,” he growls, getting lost in you for the second time tonight. “So perfect. M’ sweet wee baby, my bonnie wife.”

He zeroes in on that spot, the spot that makes you squeal, and targets it over and over. It’s too much, worse than when he went down on you. The sensitivity from then spills over to now, heightening everything he makes you feel.

The wiry hair at his pelvis tickles to your clit each time he fucks into you.

Too much.

He nails that perfect spot deep inside you over and over.

Too much.

His pinches and teases your sensitive nipples until they’re puffy.

Too fucking much.

Your jaw goes slack and sounds leave you freely, moaning and wailing without restraint.

You dig your fingernails into Johnny’s back, clawing him up like a scratching post, and he fucking loves it.

He fucks you faster, harder, twists your nipples almost meanly and bites down on your neck.

That bit of pain sends you hurtling over the edge, coming so hard it feels like the air is punched from your lungs.

Your pussy clamps tight around Johnny, gripping him tight like you never want him to leave. His hips stutter and he curses, nearing his own end.

“Oh- fuck-!”

He slams into you one last time before spilling his hot load deep inside you, filling you up.

He collapses on top of you, squishing you with his weight just long enough to catch his breath before shifting to let you breathe better.

The two of you lay quiet for a moment, too busy panting to try and speak.

Johnny gets his breath back first, propping himself back up on his elbows. He pulls out slowly, hissing when your cunt squeezes him again.

He looks down at you, spent and sleepy, and smiles again.

“Got yer head nice an’ empty now,” he says, his voice full of mirth.

Johnny slips out of the room, returning with some ice water and a damp washcloth.

He cleans you up, gives you sips of the cold water, and then crawls into bed with you.

“See?” He murmurs, his own voice turning rough with sleepiness.

“Ye belong with me.”

[soapcloth]

Fisherman Soap being immune to siren reader’s song either via TBI or just being straight up too hardheaded, but still brute-forcing his way to the front of the line in order to be the first (and only) sailor to dive in

[captainpriceslilwife]

little masterlist (under construction)

mandatory intro post

John Price

Oh Darling (price x pregnant!reader)

Guppy (fisherman!price x mermaid!reader

a little bit of price comfort

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Gaz x Insecure!reader [pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3] + general ideas (anons and asks abt it)

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish

torturing poor Johnny with the silent treatment

tbi!Soap x reader (dead dove do not eat 18+)

Simon "Ghost" Riley

spirit guide simon

djungelskog....

Nikolai

little drabble on flight attendant!reader x nikolai

daddy kink with nik (18+ nsfw)

Random HC

tf141 as knights

tf141 + nik with hybrids!! (18+)