#johnny soap

[druap]

johnny in his fav hoodie doodle

was playing around with some textured brushes ive made :P

[elysianightsss]

Something something Johnny returns to the highlands whenever he’s on leave. It’s freezing and stinks like seaweed but it’s home and he loves it all the same. Plus there’s something laughable about seeing a beefy SAS sergeant wearing a duck feather stuffed coat.

He helps his parents out, fixing things around their old house, cooking in the kitchen at their pub and just being around for them. It’s the same routine every time he’s home, he likes it, likes the steadiness of everything being the same.

But this time when he comes home on leave, arriving at his parents pub to help out, he sees you there. A new person taken in under his parents wings. You’re just arriving to start your shift with a cheery “Evening all!” Johnny’s instantly drawn to you.

Like it’s not even funny. Whenever you enter the kitchen in your cute little black apron tied around your waist, he’s looking up from the fish he’s grilling to stare at the way your hips sway side to side as you walk. He burnt so many meals that night.

Johnny doesn’t recognize you until his mum asks if he remembers the girl who used to push him in the sandpit all the time at preschool. Then it clicks who you are. His childhood crush, all grown and so fucking gorgeous. You used to live there when you were young but when your parents drowned after a trip on a boat, you were taken away by your aunt.

He wonders why you’ve come back now but puts it in the back of his mind. He’s more focused on how prim and proper you are, sticking out like a sore thumb in the pub. Johnny’s learned you’re feisty and a little bitchy the hard way, but he fucking loves it. Makes him so damn horny. Your Scottish accent is still there but soften by years in the English countryside.

And of course he flirts with you, woos you, asks you on a date and you end up sleeping together. The little cottage you’re living in for the time being is luckily far enough away from town that no one can hear you screaming Johnny’s name. The headboard hitting against the wall with each punishing thrust. His thick, slightly curved cock pumping in and out, in and out, in and out after he spent a good hour with his head between your plush thighs. Best night of your fucking life.

When you wake though he’s gone, a note left on your pillow explaining he’d been called into work. An emergency. Worst day of your fucking life.

He’s back to saving the world, fighting to survive, living on base, joking with his task force. It all seems so mundane to him. He can’t ignore the itch in the back of his head, the knot in his back he can’t reach. He can’t rid you from his mind, not when he’s training, not when he’d just sniped someone’s brains all over the wall, and especially not when he’s in his bed, hand wrapped around his cock.

He cries out your name when he finishes in his hand, globs on stickiness coating his stomach and he prays you’re there waiting for him when he returns.

But when he does returns home, he doesn’t see you at the bar or the cottage and his mum is scowling at him like he’s kicked a puppy and his dad has this disappointment in his eyes that Johnny is transported back to his teenage years when all he saw in his dads eyes was disappointment.

He asks whats happened, what he’s done wrong but his parents shake their heads and stay silent. It wasn’t their story to tell. Johnny’s confused and hurt, thinks about just going back to base. Would brace the drive back over dealing with the icy stares from everyone in the pub.

Needing a drink to dilute his feelings, he heads to the local little market to grab a pack of beers when he sees you standing in front of the milk aisle, a sad look on your face as you decide if the three pounds you have left will be enough for both chocolate milk and strawberry milk. Even though they are two pounds each.

He starts towards you, but as soon as you turn back to your trolley he stops in his tracks. Your hand strokes over your swollen belly, a bigish bump there for five months pregnant. You know your baby is gonna be big headed just like his father.

Johnny feels as though he’s been shot. His world spins and he’s nearly sick. He knocked you up and left you. No wonder he’d been receiving so much hate everywhere he went. He hesitates, wondering if this is the best place for you to see him again, thinking up the different scenes that might take place. But he’s too late to make a plan when your eyes move to his.

He’s frozen in place watching the way your face contorts, all manner of emotions buzzing through you until they land on one that Johnny knows well. Anger. You rush forward and he gets this need to run niggling in his chest, but he stays rooted to the spot even when you slap him hard across the face.

He bites back a grin, you slap harder than Simon.

Oh yes, he’s gonna keep you for sure.

[v1x3n]

reader who says sorry way too much, that bad to the point you overly apologise even during sex.

then johnny 'soap' mctavish comes along and whilst eating her out, she lets out a loud moan. one that would surely get her and him caught in the barracks. he pauses and glares up at you, "whatd yer say?"

"s- sorry"

then he refuses to move or continue until you take it back. everytime u say sorry he stops and waits until you mumble "i-i take it back"

you apologise for getting cum on his chin? he stops

you mutter sorry for gripping his hair too hard? he stops

you whine an apology for cumming all over his face? he stops

he wont continue fully unless theres no stupid 'im sorry's' for ages!!!!

[thatoneautisticshark]

(Inspired by the fact that Macdonalds in the Pentagon has been stuck in my head)

Simon hummed a lot, only when he is alone. It's relaxing, he has a bunch of random little songs he has made up at different times he murmers under his breath while working on paperwork.

But he'd never do it around people, he masked to heavily for that. Or so he thought.

Once he got comfortable with the 141, he didn't even realise he was humming/singing them quietly out loud when he needed to calm down.

Sitting in the heli after a long mission? "There's a Macdonalds in the Pentagon. I work at the macdonalds in the Pentagon"

141 thought it was and is hilarious, and at this point all know a bunch of the songs he hums more often, and are able to do sing them themselves.

And the dumb songs are catchy, so at somepoint laswell comes by, and is trying to work out what the hell is up with the macdonalds in the Pentagon.

[readgoods]

A THOUGHT

hey is it just me or does it look to anyone else that soap is trying to grow facial hair specifically in the same shape/style as price but he's not quite getting it

[ryuzakemo128]

Goodnight & Sweet dreams

Pairing: Poly 141 x Australian Female Reader

Content Warnings: Cheating, Affair, remarriage, no mention of y/n or the variation of 'you', Possible prequel?, third person written. Angst.

Words: 1707

Masterlist

Credit for Dividers: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Credit for the Divider Template: @cafekitsune

Note: You have many code names. Many. Many of them are used by certain people. Like the devil. You have many names. Boomer, Opal, Crimson and Emerald are the main ones used to refer to you. As your real name is covered in layers of black ink and confidential files restricted to the higher-ups.

Note 2: The only defining factors, I will give you, are the following: Codename. As labelled. Height. You are not small. You are rather tall, at least six feet and four inches. Roughly the same height as Ghost. Your voice is also quite deep, for reasons you can come up with yourself. As no answer is wrong or right. Might make an oc version sometime.

Note 3: I suggest listening to Moon Shadow by Cat Stevens when you read this.

Summary: “I don’t see you the same way anymore. I don’t respect cheaters, no matter the reason you might have had. You ruined this home by yourself.”

Boomer grew up on a farm in the Australian outback. Her father is an Australian Commando. Thus, she didn't see him nearly as often as her mother, who happened to cheat on her father while he was deployed. Her excuse was the lack of affection making her cheat with his older brother, Marcus. The CEO of a tech company he started up in America.

“I don’t see you the same way anymore. I don’t respect cheaters, no matter the reason you might have had. You ruined this home by yourself.” Boomer told her mother once her father came back on leave. He was immediately told by her.

Boomer decided to stay with her father, even though the divorce, and she hadn’t spoken to her mother since the end of the divorce had taken place. Her father, even though heart broken about the affair and the eventual divorce, he tried to keep a positive attitude through it all. Boomer saw right through quite often.

Pulling things apart, fixing them regardless of what it was, became Boomer's silent mantra as she grew older, mirroring the tireless work ethic of her father.

The farm grew quiet without her mother's laughter, but it grew stronger with the echoes of her father's footsteps and the occasional clank of tools as he taught her the ropes of being a true Australian commando.

She took to the training like a natural, her determination fuelled by the anger she felt towards her mother's betrayal. Each push-up, each mile run, every target hit, was a declaration of her loyalty to the truth and the man who never abandoned her.

“I don’t want to become my mother and cheat on any potential spouse, man or woman.” Boomer, adamant in wanting to be reliable regardless of any circumstances she would encounter in her life.

Her father often came home to small things fixed like the broken tractor, a leaky sink, and even a few upgrades to the farm’s security system.

Even reading into carpentry DIY projects like the bee aviaries she built from scratch. Her dedication to self-reliance grew, and so did her skills, a silent promise to never become what her mother was.

Her aunt, Alyssa, came over a few times a month to keep the house from going up in flames. Boomer showed her all the DIY things she made, often wanting to rescue bees from abandoned areas, unwanted areas and sometimes even from people’s backyards.

Her father had a slight smirk on his face when she brought home her first queen bee, a rare breed she had found in the forest. He knew she had her mother’s charm and beauty, but he was proud she had chosen a path of honesty and reliability.

Alyssa’s work as a beekeeper rehoming bees from areas where they aren’t wanted became an unexpected bonding point for Boomer. Her aunt’s gentle nature with the creatures and the way she spoke about them as if they were soldiers in a grand army, protecting the future of the planet, sparked a fascination within Boomer.

She began to see the world through a different lens, one that valued every creature’s contribution, and the delicate balance that needed to be maintained.

Her father noticed the change in her, the way she had found peace in the buzzing of the bees and the precision of their movements. He knew this was something more than just a phase; it was a piece of her soul finding its place in the world.

The farm grew not only in crops but in life as well, with more bees thriving under Alyssa’s guidance and Boomer’s care. It became a sanctuary for those who needed a second chance, a reflection of Boomer’s own spirit.

Boomer took the bee’s safety and health seriously, researching how to take care of the bees better and what ways to keep them happy as well as healthy.

Setting up a mini lab to study the bees in their natural environment without disrupting them became a weekend routine. The bees had become more than just a hobby; they were her silent companions, a symbol of her resilience and unyielding spirit.

One thing her father noticed was the ebony wood varnish on the bee aviaries, making them look more like a piece of art rather than a simple shelter for bees.

He knew his daughter had a creative side to her, but he never knew it would be expressed in such a way. Her creations weren’t just functional, but aesthetically pleasing, a reflection of her respect and admiration for the bees.

Each aviary was named after a character from an X-Men comic she loved as a child. She had found solace in their stories, in their struggle for acceptance and fighting for what they believed in despite their differences.

Her favourite, the Wolverine aviary, housed the most aggressive bees, which she found quite fitting. Each name was engraved in a small brass plate at the entrance, adding a touch of whimsy to the otherwise utilitarian structures.

She would then sell the honey on the farmer’s market for her pocket money. As she grew older, her love for bees remained as she got more invested in the military. She enlisted at seventeen, she told her father she wanted to because it felt like it was the right thing to do.

“I’ll give it my best shot, I promise.” Boomer pinky swore, her eyes gleaming with excitement and determination as she held her father’s hand tightly. His calloused grip returned the gesture, a silent promise of support and belief in her.

Her expertise in heavy weaponry like heavy machine guns, grenade launchers, rocket launchers, miniguns, anti-material rifles, and even the rare use of the Predator drone grew from her time in the military. She had always been a good shot, something her father had noticed when they used to go hunting together back in the outback.

Boomer dove into electrical engineering, electrical technology, nanotechnology and even robotics. During her military training, it was an eye-opener to an even bigger world. A world she is more than a little keen on learning more about day by day. Even reading more about in her downtime.

Growing up, her pets were bees and the blue Merle Shetland Sheepdogs that her aunt brought with her, which grew into a small pack over the years. They became her loyal companions, protecting the farm and the bees from predators. The dogs had an uncanny sense of when Boomer was upset, and they’d often sit by her side, offering comfort with their soft, warm presence. Her father named her first dog, Blue, after her mother’s favourite colour, hoping it would bring some peace to their lives.

Other than beekeeping and pulling things apart. The extracurricular activities she got into before she turned seventeen were gymnastics and ice skating.

Gymnastics was a way to keep her body in tip-top shape, she was always a fast learner and had a knack for acrobatics. The strength and flexibility it gave her were surprisingly useful in the field, allowing her to navigate tight spaces and pull off stunts most wouldn’t dare.

Ice skating, on the other hand, was her escape. The cool rush of the wind against her face, the sound of the blades cutting through the ice, it was her silent battlefield where she faced and conquered her inner demons, pushing herself beyond her limits.

Boomer, at sixteen years old, rescued a nine-month-old blind cat on the way home from school once, her father saw her with it. She was determined to care for the blind cat and named her, Shadow. The cat's full name is Moon Shadow. Naming it after the song Moon Shadow by Cat Stevens.

One of her father’s favourite songs. Thus, it became one of her many favourite songs as well. A classic ‘60s song amongst the many she would listen to on repeat. She listened to it when she got ready for bed, even after he passed months after her 24th birthday.

Her father’s death was a blow she never saw coming. A heart attack in his sleep, the doctor’s said it was peaceful. But for Boomer, it was anything but peaceful.

Her entire world had crumbled around her. The one constant, the one person she had always relied on, was no longer there.

It took a while to mourn her father, taking on many short term to keep herself from going off into the deep end. A distraction to keep her moving, both in mind, body and soul.

The farm remained her sanctuary, but now it was filled with the echoes of her father’s laughter, her aunt’s gentle guidance, and the ever-present hum of the bees.

She continued her military service with renewed vigor, channeling her grief into her work, seeking solace in the structure and discipline it provided.

Most of her dead dad jokes were made to help her cope with her father’s death. If he were around to hear them. He would most likely face palm himself. Followed by an even darker one in return.

“I loved my father. He’s got a darker sense of humour than I did and possibly ever have.” Boomer told her therapist. “I have my pet cats and my dogs. But I live on my own on the farm now.”

The therapist nodded, scribbling something down on her notepad. “How has that been for you?”

“Too quiet. I don’t particularly like the quiet as much as I used to. Maybe it was the fact I had other people around me?” Boomer answered, her voice filled with a tinge of sadness.

The therapist, Dr. Krovic, nodded thoughtfully. “It’s common to feel that way after a loss. The quiet can be deafening when you’re used to the noise of a loving home. Tell me, have you considered getting involved in any social activities? Maybe reconnecting with your mother?”

“If she wanted to, she would have made the effort ages ago.” Boomer replied.

The thought of her mother still brought a bitterness that lingered in the back of her throat. She knew the woman had moved on, living a life of luxury with her aunt’s husband, Marcus. It was a life that didn’t have room for her, not anymore.

[izgnanik-a]

Drunk Ghoap thoughts

Cw — absolute saps, the fluffiest fluff, downright adorable

After being together for so long, Ghost and Soap just became Simon and Johnny again. There were no ranks, no rules or regulations, no boundaries that they couldn’t cross.

They had become one. One home, one car, one soul. The only thing they hadn’t done was share a single last name. It had been a talk they had a few times, if they’d become the Riley’s or the MacTavish’s or even Riley-MacTavish — it’d be a mouthful for anyone.

They spent their long awaited breaks nestled in the other’s comfort, wading in their silences, and basking in warm mornings.

They always had each other to come back to at the end of every night.

Usually when Simon and Johnny went out for drinks with the others, one would drink and the other would be the designated driver. It was common understanding. So they alternated between which would do the driving.

This week it was Johnny’s turn to drive.

Simon kept in the booth with the others, gentle circles rubbed into Johnny’s knee beside him. It was a sort of anxiety stim he could enjoy while also touching his person. Soundless and, most times, unnoticed by others, he could reach over to check in with the other lad.

Johnny nursed a chilled can of soda, nearly being the head of conversation at the table every time. But he was warm and relaxed, loud and painted in the overhead lights.

And Simon couldn’t help but watch the side of his face. His. Johnny was all his. He would’ve never imagined that kind of thing before Johnny, never would’ve thought someone could look at him the way Johnny does. He thought he was incapable of loving someone like he loves Johnny.

Johnny.

Flickering his eyes from the table, Johnny smiled at Simon, clasping a hand over his on his knee. He rubbed up his forearm. “Alrigh’, Si?” He leaned in to speak into the side of his face.

Simon nodded. “Warm.”

Johnny, mother-hen, reached up to touched the back of his hand to Simon’s forehead. “You feel a little warm. Do you wan’ some of my bevy? Or some water?”

Simon watched him reach across the table to the pitcher, pouring globs of ice and water into a cup, and bringing it to Simon’s chest. He took it in hand, though he didn’t want it, and lowered his mask to sip. He set it down but not before dragging his mask back in place.

It’s not like everyone hadn’t seen his face already , those who sat at the table were trusted friends and work companions. But the mask was comfort, it was safe and warm, and smelt like Johnny’s detergent.

Johnny watched Simon put his glass down. “Better?”

Simon peered into his eyes, glancing back and force, and nodded. Eyes so full of hearts, Johnny could’ve sworn the man was just about to re-confess his feelings for him. He leaned forward, bumping his head against Johnny’s temple, and keening like a purring cat when Johnny gave his jaw a squeeze.

If he could, Simon would tuck his face into Johnny’s neck and sleep there. Curl up in his collarbones, sleep over his heart, and watch the world go by him.

His love was exponential, overflowing, and overwhelming. But he was soft and sweet, gentle when it came to Johnny.

Simon found himself leaning into Johnny’s side when he sat forward, first with his hand on his spine, rubbing up and down. Then dropped that hand on the other side of him, leaning his cheek against the back of Johnny’s shoulder. Johnny’s voice and laughter vibrated in his ribs, echoing against Simon’s face.

If Simon could show any indication that he was in love, it would be him resting his eyes and his head on Johnny’s back while Johnny leaned his forearms on the table unbothered. There was no greater sign of complete and utter devotion and vulnerability than that.

Johnny’s soothing touches broke Simon from his drowsy trance, rubbing his shin softly before squeezing his hand under Simon’s outer thigh. He looked up at his partner with a lazy smile. “Tired?”

Simon nodded softly.

“Wanna go home?”

“I don’t want to take you from this.”

“It’s late. Dinnae think they mind.” Johnny insisted. “Come on.” He patted Simon’s thigh before turning to the table to say their departing ado’s.

Hand in hand, they left the pub with the night sheathed over them, and a slight sway in both of their steps.

“Did you have a good night?” Johnny asked.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Johnny pulled into his side at the crosswalk. “Anything fer you.” Kissing the exposed skin beside Simon’s mask, he looked up at the man knowing he couldn’t resist a proper kiss.

Simon’s mask was already unhooked from one ear the moment he settled back on his heels, and he was leaning in to steal a kiss.

Johnny hummed in contentment. “Let’s get you home.” He smiled against Simon’s mouth, “Then you can show yer gratitude ‘ta me in plenty ways.”

Simon’s face broke into a slight smile, only growing as Johnny chuckled against his tongue. He clasped both hands on Johnny’s neck before pulling away. “Promise?”

Johnny wrapped his arm around Simon’s back and lead them towards the car.

[staytrueblue]

I was thinking about why I really can’t see Soap in Neil in these photos and I realized it’s because….

SOAP NEVER FUCKING SMILES

NOT ONCE. NOT A SINGLE TIME.

[juwandiko]

I'm back...

The way I love him...

[dirtfullofwork]

I had to make this edit bc it’s true

Not suppose to look good

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

taking one (& another & another & another) for the team | soap x reader x ghost | inspired by: @softaestluv johnny's pent up blurb

It started as a joke. "I'm gonna die if I don't get my cock wet soon," Johnny whined, sprawled backward over the couch, legs spread, hand draped over his forehead like he was seconds away from his last breath. *"Swear I can feel it in my fucking molars, mate. I'm gonna explode."

At first, you and the others ignored him. Typical Soap — loud, dramatic, a walking sexual frustration PSA. But it didn't stop. If anything, it got worse: every mission debrief, every meal, every late-night sit around the barracks, Johnny lamented his poor, poor cock like it was a national tragedy.

When he started describing how tragic his wanks were — "My hand's too fuckin' rough, not the same, need something wet, something tight—" — you snapped. Loud enough for everyone in the room to hear: "Christ, Soap, I'll fuckin' take one for the team if it'll shut you up."

Johnny sat up like you'd just offered him oxygen.

Which is how you found yourself bent over the nearest flat surface, jeans yanked halfway down your thighs, Johnny pressed tight to your back, rutting into you like a man possessed.

"Fuck—fuckin' hell, love, yer savin' my life," he groaned, hips slamming into you like he was trying to crawl inside. "Warm 'n tight, fuck, could stay here forever."

You barely bit back a moan, hands braced hard enough to hurt. You weren't supposed to enjoy this, just do your duty to the squad’s sanity.

But then Johnny started whining again — not his usual loudmouth bitching, but these needy, half-choked sounds against the back of your neck.

"Need ya," he rasped, like he couldn't help himself. "Need yer cunt, fuck, not gonna be enough, need it again—'m not done—"

Even after he came — hot, messy, filling you to the brim — he didn't stop. Still rocking against you, still murmuring desperate filth into your skin, already hardening inside you again.

You realized then: You hadn't fixed the problem. You'd made it worse.

He barely pulled out before he was pushing right back in, thick and slick with his own cum, grinding into your overstretched walls like he could merge the two of you if he tried hard enough.

"Fuckin' perfect," Johnny slurred against your neck, teeth scraping along your skin. "Mine now, y'know that? Filled you up good—fuckin' claimed you—"

You tried to push him off, half-hearted at best — muscles trembling, brain fogged from how full you felt — but Johnny just wrapped an arm around your middle and held you there, hips rolling slow and filthy, fucking his own mess deeper inside.

"Nuh-uh, love," he muttered, pressing kisses to your shoulder, messy and possessive. "Said I'd lose my mind if I didn’t get to fuck you. Y’think one load's enough to fix this? After all that sufferin’?"

You whimpered, feeling his cock twitch again, fully hard despite just cumming. He chuckled low against your skin, voice dark and wrecked.

"Told ya I'd go mad. Now yer stuck with me, sweetheart."

He fucked you slow the second time — not like the frantic, desperate slamming from before, but a grinding, possessive rhythm, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you properly. Every time you clenched around him, he gasped, praising you in that ruined, filthy brogue.

"That's it, good girl," he breathed. "Take it all, take it like y'made for it. Fuckin' born to milk my cock, huh? Gonna pump you so full you won't remember what it feels like to be empty."

You felt him bulge even thicker inside you, grinding down into your cervix, every thrust stretching you wider, making you feel owned in a way that had nothing to do with orders or duty.

Johnny growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. You barely registered it before he was moving — hands gripping your hips, manhandling you onto your back like you weighed nothing.

"Wanna see," he panted, almost delirious. "Wanna see how fuckin' ruined you are for me."

Your legs were shoved open before you could think to protest, ankles tossed over his shoulders. Johnny leaned back just enough to look — and groaned, obscene and ragged.

"Fuckin' hell, look at that," he hissed, watching his cum leaking out of you, your cunt red and puffy, still clenching greedily around nothing. His cock throbbed in his hand, still wet, still ready.

"So messy, love. Drippin' for me already. Y'know what that means, don’t ya?"

You shook your head weakly, breath stuttering in your chest. Johnny just grinned, all teeth and danger.

"Means I’ve gotta fill you up again. 'Til you can't take any more."

Without warning, he lined himself up and pushed — forcing his cock back inside your sore, sloppy cunt in one thick, slow thrust. You cried out, back arching, and Johnny moaned like you were his whole damn salvation.

He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. Started fucking you immediately — deep, grinding strokes that had your whole body jolting with each brutal snap of his hips.

"That's it, that's it," he gasped, head tipping back, sweat dripping down his temple. "Take it all, pretty thing. Gonna make sure yer stuck full of me. Walkin' round leakin' my cum for days."

Your brain barely worked anymore. Just open-mouthed whimpers, toes curling, walls spasming around him like you wanted it — wanted everything he was giving you and more.

Johnny's pace turned frantic again, slamming into you harder, the sound of skin against skin filthy and wet between you.

"Belong to me now," he growled, words punching out of him with each thrust. "No one else. Fuckin' mine."

You couldn’t even pretend to fight it. Couldn’t think past the way he filled you so perfectly, the overwhelming heat, the way his cock dragged along every sensitive spot inside you until you felt tears spring to your eyes.

He buried himself to the hilt one final time, grinding down against you, hips jerking as he spilled deep again, thick and endless. You could feel it — the heat, the stretch, the way he pulsed inside you like he was branding you from the inside out.

Johnny didn’t pull out. Just collapsed over you, mouth hot and messy against your jaw, still twitching inside your wrecked cunt.

"Fuck," he whispered hoarsely. "Still not enough. Need you again, love. Gonna fill you 'til you’re round with me, swear it."

Johnny stayed buried in you for a long moment, hips grinding lazy, slow circles, as if trying to force every last drop even deeper. You could feel it leaking out around his cock — hot, sticky, obscene — and you whimpered, overstimulated and wrecked.

Johnny noticed immediately. Growled against your throat, feral.

"Leakin'," he muttered, almost offended. "Can't have that. Gotta keep it all in, love. Need you drippin’ full for me."

He finally, finally pulled out — and the flood of cum that gushed out made you sob, weak and broken. But Johnny didn’t give you a second to recover. He dropped between your legs, shoving two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep and obscene, scooping the mess back up.

"No wastin' it," he rasped, fucking his cum right back into your cunt with slow, filthy thrusts. "Take it all, greedy girl. You fuckin' need it."

Your legs kicked weakly at the overstimulation, but Johnny just grinned — wild and unhinged — before spreading you wider, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit while he stuffed you full with his fingers.

"Gonna breed you proper," he whispered hoarsely. "Fill you so deep you’ll be round with me. Belly all heavy, stuffed full of my fuckin' load—"

You sobbed, hips rolling despite yourself, body desperate for more even as your mind shattered into static. You should have known it’d be like this — Johnny didn’t do anything by halves.

He leaned down, mouth dragging messy, possessive kisses along your trembling stomach like he could will it to swell.

"Mine," he murmured. "All fuckin' mine."

And that’s exactly when you heard the door creak open. You barely had the strength to lift your head, vision blurry — but you saw a tall shadow in the doorway.

Ghost.

He stood there, silent, unreadable behind his mask — just watching. Johnny didn't stop. Didn’t even slow down. He curled his fingers inside you again, making you cry out, making more of the mess spill down your thighs.

Ghost's head tilted slightly, almost curious.

"Problem?" Johnny barked over his shoulder, voice wrecked but cocky as hell. Like he wanted Ghost to see — to know.

Ghost said nothing. Just crossed his arms slowly over his broad chest.

Johnny smirked and turned his attention back to you, dragging his fingers out with a wet squelch just to stuff them right back in — slow and possessive.

"That's right," he said lowly, clearly for Ghost’s benefit now. "Had to take care of it myself. Filled her up so good she's fuckin' leaking. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?"

You whimpered in response — too broken, too full, too wrecked to argue.

Ghost watched you for a long, heavy moment — chest rising and falling — before he spoke, voice flat and unreadable: "You better clean up after yourself, Soap."

Then, calmly — without another word — Ghost shut the door behind him with a click.

Johnny barked out a wild, breathless laugh against your stomach. "Come to help, mate?" he panted, fingers still lazily dragging through the wrecked mess of your cunt. "Think she needs it. Poor thing's so fuckin' stuffed already, can't hold it all."

Ghost didn’t answer. Didn't need to.

He stalked closer, heavy boots thudding against the floor, until he was standing right at the edge of the bed — looming over your trembling body. You watched through blurred eyes as he popped the button on his cargo pants, dragging the zipper down slowly, deliberately.

Johnny shifted you slightly, spreading your legs even wider, thumbs digging bruises into your hips to keep you open — presenting you like a ruined offering.

"C'mon, Ghost," Johnny muttered, voice rough and wild. "Don't leave the girl waitin'. Look how pretty she is—drippin' fuckin' ready."

Still silent, Ghost wrapped a hand around the base of his cock — thick, flushed, already leaking — and lined himself up.

He didn’t ease in. Just pressed the fat head against your already-used, dripping hole and pushed.

You screamed, body arching off the bed, overwhelmed instantly by the stretch, the pressure, the unbearable fullness of taking another man inside you without even a second to adjust.

Ghost let out a low, broken sound, not quite a grunt, not quite a moan, and buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

"There we fuckin' go," Johnny whispered against your ear, laughing breathlessly. "Take him, love. Take us both."

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Ghost fucked you without mercy — slow, devastating thrusts that forced Johnny’s mess and his own spit to spill down your thighs in filthy, wet streams. He said nothing — just breathing harshly through the fabric of his mask, hands brutal on your hips, using you like a living, breathing fucktoy.

Johnny kept whispering filth into your ear — encouragements, praises, commands — while Ghost destroyed you from the inside out.

"That's it, good girl," Johnny crooned, petting your hair while Ghost slammed into you. "Take it like you were fuckin' made for it."

You felt your mind fracturing — pure overstimulation, pure broken pleasure — as Ghost fucked you harder, grinding deep, his cock stretching you to the point of tears.

And then Johnny shifted again — ducking low between your legs to lick around where you were stuffed full, his tongue dragging over your overstretched rim every time Ghost pulled out just a fraction.

"Fuckin' hell," Johnny gasped, almost reverent. "Look at that, Ghost. Cunt's swallowin' you like she needs it."

Ghost let out another low, broken sound — and picked up the pace. The bed creaked violently under you, your body jolting with every brutal, punishing thrust.

You could feel it building — some dark, overwhelming climax you couldn’t fight — tightening low in your stomach, burning up your spine.

Ghost suddenly reached down and gripped your throat — not tight, just heavy, possessive — and that was it.

You shattered. Clamping down around him so hard Ghost actually groaned, thrusts going sloppy, brutal. And then you felt it — hot, thick, spilling deep inside you, Ghost’s cock pulsing violently, joining Johnny’s mess inside your ruined cunt.

You lay there twitching, barely conscious, as Ghost finally pulled out — slow, heavy — and watched as his cum immediately leaked out after him.

Johnny's hand was already there — catching it, stuffing it back inside you with lazy, satisfied fingers.

Ghost pulled his gloves back on silently, redressing with mechanical efficiency. Said nothing. Before he left, he pressed one gloved hand to your trembling thigh — firm, approving — and then disappeared out the door without a word.

Johnny leaned down over you, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

"Told ya, sweetheart," he whispered with a wicked grin. "Was gonna fill you proper."

And from the ache in your gut and the obscene mess between your thighs —you knew he wasn’t lying.

Morning hit like a slow, heavy sledgehammer.

You barely even remembered falling asleep — just flashes: Johnny fucking his cum deeper into you with lazy, loving thrusts while you sobbed into the sheets; Ghost’s heavy hand gripping your thigh one last time before disappearing without a word.

Now your entire body ached. Your thighs were sore, trembling even at the slightest twitch. Your pussy was a wreck — raw, swollen, still leaking a slow, lazy drip of milky white that soaked into the crumpled sheets beneath you.

You tried to shift — to roll onto your side — and whimpered immediately. Everything hurt. You could feel the mess drying on your skin, inside your cunt, coating your thighs.

And Johnny, of course, was already awake.

He lay stretched out beside you, arms tucked behind his head, a smug, satisfied smirk spread wide across his face.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he drawled, voice rough from use, eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "Sleep well?"

You glared at him weakly, too exhausted to even muster words. Johnny just grinned wider.

"Y’look wrecked," he said cheerfully, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from your sweaty forehead. "Proper job, that."

You tried to move again — a pathetic, sluggish attempt — and Johnny laughed, full-bodied and warm.

"Aw, poor thing. Can’t even fuckin' walk, huh?"

His hand drifted down — over your collarbone, the bruises he’d left, the fingerprints, the possessive marks — until he palmed your lower belly, pressing down just slightly.

You gasped, muscles clenching reflexively around the lingering mess inside you.

Johnny's grin turned wolfish.

"Still full, are ya?" he murmured. "Good girl. Holdin’ it all for us."

He sat up slowly, bare chest gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat, and pulled back the sheets.

You whimpered as cool air brushed your ruined, sore cunt — thighs automatically trying to close, to hide yourself.

Johnny tsked softly, spreading you open with two rough hands like you were something precious to be displayed.

He hummed low in his throat — a sound of satisfaction.

"Ghost’ll be pleased," he muttered, almost to himself.

You blinked sluggishly at him, confused.

Johnny chuckled and gestured toward the nightstand. There — sitting neatly next to a bottle of water — was a simple piece of paper. No name. No explanation. Just three short words, written in Ghost’s heavy, blocky scrawl: “Hold it in.”

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest.

Johnny laughed again — delighted, wrecked — and leaned down to press a filthy, claiming kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh.

"Guess we’re not done after all, love," he whispered against your skin. "Orders are orders."

And from the wicked glint in his eye, you knew you weren’t getting a break anytime soon.

[druap]

some recent sketches from twitter

[softaestluv]

Johnny who makes it everyone else’s problem that he hasn’t got laid in weeks, that he’s so fucking pent up he can feel it in his teeth. Won’t stop his Scottish whining that his hand isn’t enough, needs a warm cunt to fuck or he’ll go insane.

So, you take one for the team, let him fuck all his pent up cum inside of you because you don’t think you can hear another description of how sad his hand feels. Hope to get him to shut the hell up.

But now he just won’t stop whining about needing to fuck your cunt.

[v1x3n]

ONLINE - 141 social media au

୨୧ 𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 : you meet johnny mctavish on tinder.

୨୧ 𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 : suggestive, fluff - suggestive texts.

[thatoneautisticshark]

Well I saw that you’re bored and wanted to ask maybe we can get Johnny after a long sleepless night (bc of nightmares) finding Simon smoking outside. Just both of them sharing a smoke and the silence. A bit of fluff and just existing together.

Also love your writing!! I always get excited seeing your notification🤭🫶🏽

Cw warning for smoking

Such a cute idea!! Yes absolutely adore it!!

Soap groaned, wacking his head into a pillow as he still failed to sleep. He'd went to bed at a decent time too. 9pm in the hopes to get some semblance of sleep, but no, he'd had a few fitful nightmares and over all got about 30 minutes and it was now, what?

He rolled over checking the time. 3am. He'd been laying here for a whole six hours, as had barely gotten any shut eye, he was feeling worse then when he went to bed.

Deciding there really was no point in staying laying in bed, when all he was doing was getting more riled up and frustrated, he slipped his shoes on.

Soap quietly slipped out into the cool air, hoping a calm walk would settle his mind and allow him to get at least an hour conked out before the morning. He sighed as the cool air rushed over his skin, much better than the stuffy room he was tossing and turning in.

He started off mindlessly, not really paying attention to where he was going, just wandering around the base absently, letting his mind wander.

As Soap walked he saw a dark shape he immediately recognised as Ghost, and considering the small bit of smoke he could see, Ghost was either smoking or on fire. Soap reckoned it was the first, but you could never be sure with the lieutenant.

He slid up beside the hulk of a man. “Cannea bum one?”

It was only when he actually looked over he realised Ghost didn't have his mask lifted above his mouth like usual, he wasn't wearing on at all, his face was bare, something Soap had never seen.

A cigarette was pushed gently into his hand, and when he put it between his lips, Ghost leaned forward, lighting the top with his own.

Soap nodded, “Preciate it, LT” he murmured taking a drag, letting eyes wander over the skyline, and the way the light reflected on Ghost's features.

A thick hand brushed against his on the railing, not holding, just resting against. A subtle support, before Ghost finally spoke. “What are you doing up at this hour sargent?”

Soap paused taking another drag as he considered his answer, considering one of his typical responses, a joke to brush it off, but there really wasn't a point. “Couldn't sleep… nightmares”

He received a soft hum from the other as a comfortable silence settled over them, the biting chill of the air, and watching the smoke swirl and spiral. It was calm, and nice. Soap didn't have to pretend with Ghost.

He knew he could expand further if he wanted, and Ghost would listen. But he also knew Ghost wouldn't push.

He would be content to just exist with Soap.

And Johnny thought he could just exist with Simon at any point in time, anywhere, any universe.

[devil-in-hiding]

something something reader is a bartender at a popular little pub, and night after night you are hit on by men so plastered you often have to sigh and call over one of the guys you work with the idiots end up vomiting all over themselves (sometimes it’s worse than vomit but thankfully you can count those incidents on one hand)

you think by slipping on your grandmothers old wedding ring, it will sway men from hitting on you at work. And it does, there’s still some that try to test their luck, but the minute you flash that pearl on your finger they’re scurrying off to find their next target.

Cue four new regulars, four attractive military men that always flash you a polite smile and leave you a nice tip. Price comes in more than the others, claiming the stool near your register for himself, Ghost doing the same the rare nights he slinks into the pub. Soap and Gaz come in together some weekends, sitting themselves in front of you with big grins on their faces as they watch the game on the tv overhead.

They’re all sweet, a little cocky at times but nothing that one of their grins or sly remarks can’t make up for. They ask how their favorite girl is doing when they return from longer missions, genuinely listening as you fill them in on the things that have happened since they’ve been away.

Perfect gentlemen.

Until one night you forget your ring, having had to rush your shower and sprint out the door to make it to the pub before the nightly rush.

You filling glasses when you hear the chime of the bell and a familiar laugh fill the pub.

“Was wondering if I’d see you boys tonight.” You smile, motioning for them to give you a moment as you serve the other patrons.

When you slide back over to them, you immediately reach for their usual glasses, grabbing your cloth to wipe them off, when a hand clamps around your wrist and you jump, nearly dropping the glass as Ghost turns your hand over in his.

“Trouble at home pretty?” Price comments, concern etched on his face and it takes a moment for you to catch on, and you can’t help the little giggle that spills out.

“Oh! My ring… It’s kind of a funny story. I uhm.. I’m not actually married.” You laugh, expecting them to laugh along with you, but all you feel are four pairs of eyes piercing into you.

“Come again?” Gaz asks, voice a tad deeper than usual and you ignore the chills it sends down your spine.

“I started wearing it so some of the drunkards would leave me be, kind of forgot about it, just became habit.” You chuckle nervously, hand still in Ghost’s grasp and he’s eyeing you in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Hm. Interesting.”