#johnny soap mactavish blurb

[heavenbarnes]

dear god please I’m begging you on my hands and knees for more ghost soap reader action, you do it so right. I’m feral

“you do it so right” is a crazy compliment you’re going to make me AHHH 🫶🏼 (this is afab!reader btw just no pronouns)

simon knows his friend has a crush on you, didn’t have to be a fuckin’ psychic to work that one out.

it was written all over his fucking face from the moment he met you, still there when you wrapped your lips around the head of his cock.

“oh L.T, that’s fuckin’ nice”

you ignored the fact that, whilst you were the one with johnny’s cock in your throat, it was your boyfriend he’d chosen to speak to. you ignored it because you knew if you thought about it too long, you wouldn’t be lasting.

simon was practicing his patience on the other end of the couch, large hands gripping his thighs so he wouldn’t rip you off your knees and place you straight in his lap.

he was practicing generosity.

johnny had been whinging his ear off about how long it’d been since he’d had a good shag and he’d got a little too bold talking about how good L.T must have it at home.

“bet ye’ open the door and yer’ one s’already fuckin’ kneeling”

“that the first thing ye’ do when you get home? empty a couple loads?”

“gaggin’ for it with you, L.T- i bet”

simon had had enough, mainly because johnny was absolutely correct and he needed to go home and deal with it- but also because it was doing his head in.

the man had enough dirty thoughts about you to power the fuckin’ atom bomb and simon thought it might be worth putting it to work. there was gains to be made on multiple fronts.

johnny had one arm along the back of the couch and the other was at your face, fingers softly stroking your cheek as you made the most deplorable sounds.

somehow, you could make choking on cock a bit cute.

it wasn’t lost on simon the way your back was arching as you forced more of his friend into your mouth, your ass shaking a little bit as you stuck it out.

an invitation.

simon was practicing generosity but that didn’t mean he had to practice total altruism. there were gains to be made on all fronts.

so whilst you were knelt with your palms flat on johnny’s thighs, his hands coaxing your head in a rhythm, simon was on his knees behind you with your trousers around your knees.

two thick fingers took one long drag up your slit, prodding at your entrance and making you jolt forward. the sudden motion had you gagging on johnny, his head tipping back with a thick moan ripping out of him.

part of being so quiet meant simon would never say it, but maybe if you asked him at just the right moment he could tell you that, to him? he had the best view in the house.

best view in the fucking world.

johnny looked the picture of ruin as your spit dribbled down the side of his cock, matting his trimmed pubes to his skin. you were rolling your hips back into simon’s hand, reaching back to spread yourself a little for him.

“patience,” strong hand cracking down on your ass cheek. “you’ll get what you deserve”

your mouth was full but johnny could’ve sworn he heard you mumble “yes, si” around him at the order (it very well could’ve been “yes, sir” he was undecided)

when he didn’t think his evening could possibly get better, johnny felt a moan leave your chest and absolutely choke him up. his eyes flew open and he was met with a sight.

your eyes, squeezed shut and spit fucking flying out the corners of your mouth. simon- L.T on his fucking knees with his mouth buried in your cunt.

he thought he might die.

all the blood that wasn’t currently keeping johnny hard went straight to that spot and soon his head was spinning, resorting to closing his own eyes so he’d be able to make it through the night.

simon ate your pussy like a man possessed, two hands spreading your cheeks and tongue forcing its way into your entrance. pulling back only to spit on your clit before he dove back in.

giving it enough time and focusing on the sweet motions of your mouth, johnny figured it safe to reopen his eyes and take a another glimpse.

fucking silly move.

knelt before him was his L.T handling the biggest cock johnny thinks he’s ever seen this side of the internet, and he’s bullying it inside of your tight cunt.

johnny swears he didn’t mean to moan, it just slipped out the minute simon started to speak.

“hold tight, johnny- this one’s about to sing”

[writersdrug]

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

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

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

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

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ ex-friend with benefits simon 'ghost' riley & friend with benefits johnny 'soap' mactavish - 01

𝖼𝗐 : 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ㅤㅤㅤ collection - prev ⋆ next

simon hated how thin the walls of the barracks were. he hated the way he could hear your moans through the wall, hated the fact that it wasn't him getting those sounds out of you. but at the same time, he was the only one to blame.

from the moment you arrived on base, simon had his eyes on you—the cute new medic. he had been happily surprised when you told him you were not looking for anything serious; he wasn’t either. being military was complicated enough, no need to add a relationship into the mix. but it didn’t mean you two couldn’t have a bit of fun together, right?

at first, it was perfect. you spent your days patching up messy privates and bold sergeants, getting shouted at by your superior because you were not fast enough or you were being too nice. at the end of the day, you just needed simon to take control. he was not a selfish lover at all, always making sure you were well taken care of before he went for his own pleasure. after that, you'd be on your way to your own dorm, legs shaking a little. and it worked well, you didn't think you needed more.

simon didn't talk much. he listened when you ranted, but he always cut you off by kissing you or manhandling you onto his bed. that’s where you spent most of your time with him: his bed. and when you were done, he'd send you on your way. it didn't bother you; you weren't looking for commitment.

only one thing bothered you: he was hiding you. sure, you were not together, but he made sure his teammates didn't know he was rocking your world almost every night when you were on base. when you asked him why, it turned into a big argument—too big for just a situationship—so you had left his room without trying to talk him out of his misplaced anger. you thought you'd leave him be for a few days, and then you'd be back to normal. working on yourself, you accepted the fact that his team didn’t know about your arrangement. it didn’t matter.

it came as a shock when you made your way to his dorm, a couple days later, and stumbled upon one of the sergeants from another task force making her way out of simon's room on wobbling legs—a sight that reminded you of your own walks of shame. you had barged into his room, not caring that he might be naked, and demanded explanations.

"ya weren't 'round, needed a bit o' fun," was all he had said, shirtless and smoking a cigarette at his window. he didn't even look at you. it was like he knew you would be coming.

you weren't around? you had been working because two idiots decided to have a knife fight, leaving you with a lot of stitches and paperwork.

and it's not as if you were both back home; you were staying at the same fucking barracks.

on your way back to your room, you walked straight into johnny mactavish. and johnny being johnny, he flirted with you. and with you being hurt and humiliated, it worked. it didn't help that johnny was extremely good-looking and very friendly. hell, simon didn't even let you see his face.

now that you were having the same fun with someone who wasn't ashamed of you, you realized that it did pain you that simon wouldn't even dare look your way if he was with the 141. not only did johnny look at you, but he shamelessly flirted with you in front of whoever was around, calling you "his bonnie," even though he knew you were not official. it felt good.

so this was how you ended up in johnny's bed. to be honest, you were feeling petty, so you were being loud, not even trying to quiet your moans a little. every time you had sex with simon, his hands were always somehow muffling your moans. but johnny? oh, johnny thrived on hearing every single noise you made. and you thrived knowing simon was hearing it all on the other side of the wall. at first, you had been shy, expecting johnny to want to hide you the same way simon did, but you couldn't have been more wrong.

he stopped everything, looking up from between your legs with a bit of concern. "doesnae feel guid?" he asked. and after you assured him that it did, in deed, feel really good, he added, "then dinnae get shy on me, bonnie. want tae hear ye," a cocky smirk plastered on his lips. and you swore he had never been that attractive.

well, maybe he had been more attractive when, after you two were done, he cuddled you, begging you to stay the night. another thing you'd never imagined simon doing. it was easy with johnny. it wasn't just sex. he'd take you out to eat junk food, you'd go to the movies next to the base, and then you'd go back and have your fun. you even heard him talk about you with gaz. and you'd talk about him with your colleagues.

when simon was a shadow, johnny was the sun—his presence impossible to conceal.

the problem was that johnny still had no bloody idea that simon had been there first. every time johnny mentioned your name, simon's mood would shift. he'd snap more often, telling johnny to shut up—something that wasn’t new, given johnny's tendency to talk a lot. what was new, however, was the tone. normally, when he was fed up with johnny running his mouth, simon would adopt a light, almost joking tone. but now? it was pure anger and frustration.

"whit got yer panties in a twist, L.T.?" johnny had asked one time, too fed up with simon's behavior. "maybe ye should find yerself a little birdie to ease yer nerves, ye know?" simon's reaction was immediate. he got up so quickly his chair fell back. johnny could see the way his lieutenant's breathing had picked up, his knuckles white as if he were about to hit soap. but he did no such thing. he just left. communication had never been simon's strong suit.

as johnny watched him leave, he knew he had gone too far. but, god, how could you both think he was that dumb? his room was just next to simon's. he had heard you all those times. he had seen you leaving simon's room. he had seen simon take another girl back. he knew.

johnny just decided that if simon was too dumb to treat a sweet little birdie like a goddess, he wouldn't be caught dead doing the same thing. johnny worshiped, that was what he did. and if someone hurt the things he liked, he attacked.

he was dead set on making you forget everything about his lieutenant. what was it they said?

finders keepers, losers weepers.

[millzinterlude]

Soap is a pervert this. No, Soap is a hopeless romantic that. Well what if he’s both. Utterly and completely in love with his woman, so in love that he can’t help BUT be perverted when it comes to her. Yes he comes home with flowers, but while you’re bending over to smell them he’s humping your ass, getting off to you absolutely loving the flowers. He takes you to your favorite restaurant on your anniversary, the atmosphere all romantic and intimate. He’s staring at you like you placed the very stars in the sky, his voice a little shaky as he rattles on about how beautiful you are and how lucky he is to have you. Your eyes are dewy from his little speech and he can’t help but chub up a bit because he loves how you look when you cry. He drops to his knees as he’s done plenty of times before, taking your hands as he looks at you. There’s a ring in his pocket and a pair of your worn panties in the other.

A/N: abrupt ending I literally just had to get this out my head 😭

[partiallysame]

Prices lil wife buys a 'proud dependapotamus' shirt as a joke and wears it around the house (dependapotamus- an insult for a military spouse implying they're only in it for the benefits and deeply unattractive)

How you got the shirt: John came home one day and during his daily recap, which you def trained him on how to tell you about his day properly, details john details. He told you about how some of the men were teasing each other about whether or not a new wife was a ‘dependapotamus’. You, like any civilian would, asked what that was so he told you. No but that's funny. Jokingly you asked if you were on and jokingly he said ofc you were. Next day you ordered your ‘Proud Dependapotamus’ shirt (and a matching one for him that said ‘Proud husband of a Dependapotamus’). You had fully forgotten about what the shirt said, wore it as a pj shirt so much you stopped reading what was on it. Untilllllll.

Kyle: You came down the stairs wearing it, again not knowing what shirt you were wearing. He stopped dead in his tracks, like water glass halfway to his mouth, cocking his head to the side reading the shirt. And reading it again. Does that say? Ya it says that. He was so confused because no? No you were not a Dependapotamus. Then he got concerned, voice so soft, “Love did someone call you that?” Getting genuinely upset that someone might have referred to you as the insult, assuming you didn’t know what it meant. “Call me what?” His hands were on your hips pulling at the shirt a lil. “Oh this?” you pulled the shirt taught to show the words without any wrinkles, “Funny right? John’s got a matching one.” a lil excited gasp leaving you “I should get some for all of you.” Kyle was about to fight someone over what you later called your “favorite nickname.”

Johnny: You came down the stairs in your shirt and it brought a mischievous lil smirk to his face. Letting you walk past him before he reached out to grab your hand and pull you into him. His fingers traced the letters on the shirt. “This what ye are huh? Proud of it?” “Very” you nodded. “The Missus jus’ usin’ us?” His hands trailing all over your body. “If you get all the good stuff. What we get huh?” lips finding their way to your neck. I think he just needed an excuse to get you into bed. 

Simon: ok now you’ve heard Simon chuckle before, plenty of times (you called it a giggle and he is adamant he does NOT giggle). Butttt you came down the stairs in your shirt and he laughed, big loud belly laugh. The sound almost scared you. Man is clutching his stomach he laughed so hard. “S’a good shirt lovie. Gotta get me one to match ya.” (The other men may or may not have run in trying to find out what the fuck that noise was. Don’t worry boys just Ghost giggling.)

[oaksgrove]

hiiii! i just read your passenger princess fic, and i got an idea.

what about a reader who isn’t used to princess treatment?

opening a car door? john, why are you doing that? I can do it just fine.

gaz, why is there a dress in the bedroom? you bought it for me because we’re going on a date? why though? I’ve got plenty of dresses.

johnny, whats with the new flowers? they’re for me? why though?

simon, you don’t have to tell me ‘i’m beautiful’. it takes away from time you could be doing something important.

just ‘I know you can do it, but let me’ vibes

Princess Treatment

pairing: John Price x Reader; Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader; Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader; Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x Reader; Gary “Roach” Sanderson x Reader.

synopsis: You’re strong. Capable. Fiercely independent. And yet… your boyfriend seems determined to treat you like royalty—each in their own uniquely over-the-top way. Maybe “princess treatment” isn’t about weakness—it’s about being chosen, cherished, and loved without condition.

warning: Pure fluff, soft domestic moments, mild language, emotional vulnerability, excessive acts of service, unapologetic simping.

word count: 2018

John Price:

The click of the car unlocking was almost instant the moment you stepped outside. The cold nipped at your nose, the evening breeze catching the hem of your coat as you moved toward the passenger side.

Before your hand could even brush the door handle, John was there. Rounding the hood of the car in a few easy strides, one hand already reaching out, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat like he had all the time in the world.

“John,” you said, brows lifting, “why are you doing that? I can do it just fine.”

His hand paused mid-motion for a second, but he didn’t falter. Instead, he just smirked—warm, amused, a touch of mischief glinting behind his eyes.

“You can,” he agreed, pulling the door open for you with a little flourish. “But you don’t have to. Let me.”

You blinked, thrown off by the softness of it. Like it wasn’t a gesture he was performing for show, but something as natural to him as breathing.

Still, your feet hesitated, and John tilted his head, giving you a look like, Are we going to do this dance every time?

With a sigh, you slid into the seat, settling in as he closed the door behind you with careful gentleness. The quiet click of it felt… final. Intentional.

By the time he circled back around and dropped into the driver’s seat beside you, you were still frowning slightly, staring straight ahead.

He noticed, of course. John always noticed.

“You gonna argue every time I treat you well?” he asked lowly, voice dipping into that rough warmth that always seemed to unspool your defenses. His hand reached across the console, fingers sliding over your thigh and giving it a slow, grounding squeeze.

“…Maybe,” you muttered, too honest for your own good.

John chuckled, low and fond. “I’ll just have to keep convincing you, then.”

You turned to look at him. That scruffy face, the weathered lines that had deepened with age and war and laughter, the eyes that had always been more patient than you thought they’d be.

“Is this a campaign now?”

“It’s always been one,” he said. “You just didn’t notice.”

The drive started in silence, but it was the kind that felt like something blooming between you rather than anything heavy. His hand stayed on your thigh, thumb brushing lazy, soothing arcs.

And when he parked and jogged around the front of the car again to open your door before you could even unbuckle your seatbelt, you didn’t argue this time.

You just let him.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

You almost missed it when you walked into the bedroom—distracted by the lingering emails in your head, the mental list of things you still needed to get done, the ache in your shoulders from a day that just wouldn’t quit. But there it was.

Laid neatly across the duvet.

A dress.

Deep red. Silky soft, with a gentle shimmer that caught the fading evening light from the window. Elegant, understated, yet somehow—it made your chest flutter. The tag was still attached, dangling loosely at the neck, but the price had been carefully removed.

Your brows furrowed.

“Kyle?” you called out, voice echoing down the hallway. “Why is there a dress in the bedroom?”

A familiar pair of footsteps padded closer, slow and smug in their rhythm.

He appeared at the doorframe, shoulder leaned lazily against the wood, arms crossed, that mischievous grin tugging at his lips like he’d just played the winning hand.

“Bought it for you,” he said simply. “We’ve got a dinner reservation. Something fancy. You deserve a night out.”

You blinked at him, then looked back at the dress. Then back at him.

“But why?” you asked. “I’ve got plenty of dresses—”

“Yeah,” he interrupted gently, pushing off from the door and walking toward you. “But this one’s from me.”

His hand reached out, fingertips brushing the hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear with all the reverence in the world.

“And I like the idea of seeing you in it.”

You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to protest that you didn’t need a dress to feel beautiful or cared for—but the words didn’t come. Not when he looked at you like that. Not when his hand lingered just a second longer than needed, warm and grounding against your skin.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead, soft and slow, and you felt it ripple through your bones—the kind of affection that didn’t ask anything from you. Just wanted to give.

“Let me spoil you a bit, love,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours. “You do everything for everyone else.”

Your fingers found his shirt, curling gently at the hem. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

He chuckled, arms slipping around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of him. “Only if they’re happy tears. Otherwise, I’ll return the dress and take you out in your pajamas instead.”

You laughed against his chest, and when he kissed your temple again, you let yourself sink into him.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Dinner sounds nice.”

And in the mirror, later that evening, when you finally slipped into that deep red dress, you saw it—the soft smile on your face. The kind you hadn’t worn in a while.

Kyle noticed it too, when you walked out.

“That’s my girl,” he said, eyes drinking you in like it was the first time.

And for once, you didn’t deflect. You just smiled and let him take your hand.

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

The bathroom was quiet, except for the muted hum of the fan and the soft rhythmic motion of your toothbrush. It was a routine, grounding in its predictability—just one more box to tick off before bed. The lights were low, casting gentle shadows on the tile floor, and your shoulders were heavy with the quiet kind of tired that came after a long day.

You didn’t even notice him at first—Simon moved like a ghost, even out of uniform—but then you felt his presence behind you, the warm brush of air when he passed close.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and steady like a secret.

You paused mid-brush, blinking at your reflection.

A moment passed.

You leaned over the sink, spit into it, rinsed. Stared at yourself in the mirror and frowned.

“You don’t have to tell me that,” you said, not unkindly—just quiet, blunt, the way truths sometimes fall when you’re too tired to dress them up. “It takes away from time you could be doing something important.”

Behind you, Simon stilled.

The weight of silence fell over the room like a thick blanket.

Then, slowly, he stepped forward.

You watched him in the mirror as he came up behind you—broad frame solid and warm, his expression unreadable but not cold. He didn’t touch you, not yet, just looked at your reflection like he was trying to figure out how to hold something fragile.

“You are important,” he said softly. “This is important.”

Your fingers tightened around the toothbrush. The words hung there, heavy and simple.

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Maybe he didn’t expect you to say anything. Maybe he just knew how easy it was for your mind to convince you that affection was indulgence, that love had to be earned by usefulness. You stared at your reflection, trying to see what he saw. Wondering if you ever would.

He leaned down, finally, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Warm. Present. Gentle in the way you weren’t used to being handled.

“If I only ever did things that were necessary,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin, “I’d have missed the best part of my life.”

You glanced up, your eyes meeting his in the mirror.

“You.”

Your heart cracked a little in your chest—just enough to let the warmth through.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe him yet. Maybe it would take time, soft moments like this, repeated and repeated until the walls inside you gave in.

But you leaned back into him, just a little. Let him take the toothbrush from your hand and set it gently down.

Let yourself be held.

Because if Simon—quiet, careful Simon—could learn to make space for softness… maybe you could, too.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish:

You blinked as you walked into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, your socks quiet against the old tile floor.

There they were.

A new bouquet.

Sunflowers—bright and unapologetic in their joy—mixed with tiny white blossoms you couldn’t name, all tucked into a mason jar sitting square in the middle of the kitchen table. A ribbon tied lazily around the rim. Water droplets still clinging to the stems.

You stared.

Then turned slowly, already knowing who to blame.

“Johnny…” you started, voice laced with the kind of sleepy bewilderment that only came from early mornings and too many small surprises. “What’s with the new flowers?”

He was leaning against the counter, orange juice in hand, hair still damp from the shower, and a lazy smile already tugging at his mouth like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“They’re for you,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You squinted at him. “But… why though?”

Johnny chuckled, a soft sound that started in his chest and reached all the way to his eyes. He crossed the room in a few easy steps, set the glass down, and wrapped his arms around you from behind.

Your back met the warmth of his chest, and you sighed as he tucked his chin over your shoulder, his breath brushing your cheek.

“‘Cause your face lights up every time you see them,” he said, voice lower now, a little rough with sleep, a little tender with love. “And that? That’s worth the trip to the florist every bloody day.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stood there with him wrapped around you like a warm blanket, staring at the ridiculous jar of flowers like it was the most confusing, most beautiful thing in the world.

Then, softly, you pressed your face into his chest.

“Stop being cute,” you mumbled, muffled by the cotton of his shirt and the beat of his heart.

“Never,” he whispered against your temple, grinning. “You’re stuck with me.”

And you didn’t need to say it—but God, you were so glad you were.

Gary “Roach” Sanderson:

The kitchen smelled like garlic and thyme and something buttery-soft that had your stomach growling before you’d even crossed the threshold.

You padded in barefoot, hair tied up, sleeves rolled, fully prepared to take over and help—only to find Gary already elbow-deep in culinary excellence. A dishtowel slung over his shoulder, a pan sizzling on the stove, and that familiar hum vibrating in his chest as he stirred something with purpose.

“Smells amazing,” you murmured, reaching for the pot on instinct. “I’ll stir—”

“Nope.”

He gently nudged your hand away with the back of the spoon, not even looking up.

“Gary,” you huffed. “I can cook. You don’t have to—”

He finally turned his head and grinned, that boyish, crooked smile that always made you want to roll your eyes and kiss him in the same breath. He tapped the spoon lightly against your hand, playful but firm.

“I know you can do it,” he said with a wink. “But let me. Just this once.”

You narrowed your eyes, skeptical. “Is this one of your weird love languages?”

He shrugged, already back to stirring, back to humming. “Yeah. Feeding you until you admit I’m amazing.”

You watched him for a beat—watched the way he moved around the kitchen with that easy confidence, sleeves pushed up, forearm flexing as he tossed something into a pan, barefoot and casual like he belonged there, like this was his second skin.

The music playing low from his speaker was jazzy, mellow. The light from the kitchen window painted everything gold. The whole room smelled like something slow-cooked and careful. Like comfort.

With a sigh, you pulled out a chair and sat down, elbows on the table, chin resting in your palm as you watched him. “I’m not gonna admit it.”

“You will,” he said cheerfully, plating the food like you were a food critic instead of his tired partner who hadn’t eaten a real meal all day. “Eventually. When you taste this.”

When he set the plate in front of you—steaming, beautiful, perfectly balanced—your stomach growled audibly.

Gary smirked. “Told you.”

You took one bite, and your eyes fluttered shut. “Damn it.”

“Told you,” he laughed, leaning down to kiss your temple, brushing a hand over your shoulder. “Come on. Let me take care of you tonight.”

You looked up at him, heart swelling. “Just tonight?”

He raised a brow. “What, you planning on arguing with your private chef every night?”

You smiled into your fork, cheeks warm. “Maybe.”

He slid into the seat across from you, mirroring your grin. “Then I’ll just keep winning.”

And the kitchen stayed warm, full of the scent of love and butter, and the quiet sound of laughter between bites.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[3amfanfiction]

what about a johnny who becomes a proper ghost. can walk through walls, can't touch anything without a whole lot of concentration, basic ghostly vibes.

then you move into his house and he's pissed. this is still his space, why are you here, and you're moving everything around? absolutely not. he's not gonna stand for this.

so he puts in the work he's been procrastinating and learns how to properly affect his surroundings and gets to work on scaring you away. little does he know with the housing market as it is, you have no intention of leaving no matter how many ghosts are here with you. and it sure sounds like a lot with the ruckus johnny puts up.

so johnny gets more and more fed up. he eventually throws a full blows temper tantrum right as you're about to have guests over--throwing things, lifting them up into the air and letting them drop, ghastly wailing, running taps, the whole 9 yards.

you’re normally able to ignore him and set things to right after he loses steam but this time the clock is ticking. you’re at your wits end, up against a wall. you come to a decision and figure you've got a 50/50 shot of this working.

you raise your top and flash your tiddies at him.

silence.

everything falls from where it was hovering and quiets. the house almost lets out a sigh.

you take a breath and lower your shirt, happy that it worked only for it to be yanked off your head. you look down and watch your nipples extend, ghostly hands you can't see plucking at them. no matter how you try and fight, you can't get your shirt back down over your chest.

maybe this was a bad idea

Pt 2

[loveindefinitely]

johnny 'what's mine is theirs' mactavish with an oblivious reader. task force 141 x reader.

-> polyamory, afab!fem!reader,

when you first meet your boyfriend's friends, you see them as a good group of men. hard workers, maybe slightly jaded, but respectfully and generally funny. you can see why johnny seems to rant about them so much, and why he holds the other three in such high regard.

gaz is the first to talk to you. he compliments your apartment, the design -- comments on your hair, too. makes you smile wide and engage in light conversation, feeling nothing if not comfortable.

ghost -- the one johnny has talked about the most -- looks you up and down and gives you a short nod. that's all the recognition you get, before the towering man turns to talk to your boyfriend with little regard. you feel oddly jealous at the dismissal, and how animated johnny seems to be with the lieutenant.

price brings you in for a hug, brushing his lips over your cheek. it's a familiar gesture, one that sparks heat in your cheeks as his hand falls to your waist. when you look to johnny -- still in conversation with ghost -- his eyes shine with something you can't quite comprehend.

it isn't until you're all seated around your dining table, that johnny smoothly asks, leaning in to whisper in your ear,

"feel like sharin', gorgeous?"

[killerpancakeburger]

Something something about Soap having nipple piercings, putting them back on when he's on leave; Reader randomly finding out as he's wandering around in nothing but sweatpants after a shower, and becoming utterly transfixed by the two pieces of metal; demanding that he sits down so they can get a better look, settling down on his lap, asking how much it hurt (barely, really, y'know yer man can take a wee bit of pain), and does it still? Can they touch? ('F course ye can, Bonnie, hasn’t he told you already there's no part of him you don't get to enjoy?) Getting so caught up in the moment, pulling and twisting, that they don't notice the effect this has on the sergeant, how riled up he is, the sheer power of will it takes him not to squirm and moan and beg them to do more than just play with his tits, steamin' jesus—

[starsofang]

thinking about johnny being completely smitten with an extremely reserved reader <3

johnny was head over heels from the very beginning. he couldn’t pinpoint when it had happened, but maybe it was when you first joined the force. at the initial greeting, he’d struck you with one of his bright smiles, only for a blank canvas to stare in return.

you hadn’t said a word, not a peep, and while others would be turned off by such reclusiveness, he was in awe.

an enigma, you were, and johnny was someone who loved a good puzzle.

you were cold and distant, but not in the way that was cruel and unnerving. you didn’t throw out snarky comments, you didn’t show a single bit of rudeness when somebody’s ticked you off. you weren’t hard headed, nor did you pitch a fight. you were a calm sea with peaceful waves lapping at the shore. a light rain on a dry day, one where in ancient times would’ve been a blessing from the gods. as cold as snow, but the kind that layered the ground in a fresh sheet of white right after a blizzard, painting the earth with powdered beauty.

if anything, you weren’t cold at all. you were just so incredibly awkward that johnny couldn’t help but be smitten by it.

you were that type of awkward where social cues were nearly impossible for you to comprehend. jokes didn’t land quite right whenever somebody made them, and you’d give a blank look to whomever fell victim, added on with a dumb “what?” because you didn’t understand it.

johnny’s been an unfortunate victim on many occasions. he’s always the type to nudge you on the shoulder with a crooked grin as he spilled out whatever joke ghost had told him over comms, only to be met with your complete and utter confusion.

that never stopped him, though. if anything, it made him much more determined to search up more jokes on the screen of a burner phone, reading through every single one and noting them in the back of his mind.

you were also as stone-faced as could be. some theorized you were a robot, others thought you were a demon in disguse. an experiment, placed into 141 as a trial run.

really, expressing yourself just wasn’t your thing.

you felt emotions, sure. plenty of them. you could find the humor in the occasional bar night with the force, amused at the linger of carefree conversation that carried between the men. you just didn’t show it.

it wasn’t something you realized until johnny had made the point of asking you if you ever smiled. thinking back on it, you recalled never directly doing so. you’d do it in your head, but when it came down to it, no, no you didn’t.

johnny was determined when keeping a goal in mind, and found himself ruthlessly running towards that goal of seeing you smile. he was enamored in the thought of seeing the slant of your lips when they curved upwards, in seeing your eyes crinkle and glimmer with delight, and he’d go through every single joke website in order to make it happen.

it took him an approximate year of you being in the force to get it to work.

it was lame, really. hardly one of his best jokes, he’d drunkenly slurred out, “what rank are all cats in the army? corpurrral,” with a tongue roll effect to go with it.

you had burst into laughter, filling the bar air with ringing church bells that he swore made the drunken state of his mind believe he was truly on his way to heaven. the gates had opened, inviting him in. he was levitating, slowly floating his way to the clouds.

your smile was like a breath of air — refreshing. it filled his lungs with such purity that all the cigarettes he’d smoked over the years of being in the force seemingly melted the thick layer of tar away, leaving him clean and refurbished.

it was like a drug, and johnny found himself seeking more out to get another taste, even if it took him another year to do so.

this is lowkey self insert bc this is my personality offline and i think other people who are so painfully awkward with socializing are cute and deserve love. wrote this with no sleep and a dream, silly ramble before i go to bed

i also just really love johnny, goodnight

[dckweed]

tiktok made me do it gf! vs tf 141 bf

Your boyfriend gets cocky and agrees to try one of those period cramp simulators with you. Except what he doesn’t expect is for you to be completely unbothered. Chill. Unflinching. Meanwhile, he’s gasping like he’s been shot. And the longer it goes on, the more he realizes: this is your normal.

CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE — “Do I look like a man who taps out at level five?”

It started as a joke.

You were in one of your chaotic TikTok moods—messy bun, oversized hoodie, devious little grin—and John should’ve known something was up when you said, “Baaaaaabe… you love me, right?” while setting up the simulator on the coffee table.

“Not a chance in hell,” he said immediately.

You pouted. You begged. You reminded him of that time you made him a steak dinner and didn’t film him falling asleep mid-bite like a Victorian grandfather. He sighed. “Fine.”

You strap the simulator to both your stomachs, grinning like the demon you are. He glances at the controller like it’s a live grenade.

“Ready?” you ask sweetly.

He nods, all masculine pride.

Level 1: Nothing.

Level 2: Still nothing.

John smirks. “S’not bad.”

Level 3: He shifts in his seat. “Alright. Bit of tension.”

You’re completely chill, sipping your iced coffee.

Level 4: His eyebrow twitches.

Level 5: He lets out a grunt. “Okay. Now it’s… yeah, alright, it’s uncomfortable.”

You glance at him. “You wanna stop?”

He glares. “Do I look like a man who taps out at level five?”

Level 6 hits and he flinches hard. “Bloody—fuckin’ hell, that’s not tension anymore, that’s a punch.”

You’re still sitting pretty, scrolling on your phone.

Level 7.

He jolts. Actually jolts.

“Jesus CHRIST—" He’s gripping the edge of the couch, sweat beading at his temple. “What the hell is wrong with this machine?”

You: “That’s my Monday morning, babe.”

Level 8.

He growls. Growls, like he’s in a firefight. One eye closed. Breathing through his teeth. “How are you—how the fuck are you still—talking?”

You shrug, smirking at him a little bit. It was oddly satisfying watching your big strong man experience the things he and most of society brushed off as normal pain that you and billions of other women were forced to continue to live life through without acting like it bothered you. “I usually get nauseous around this point. Sometimes I puke.”

He blinks. Stares at you like you just told him you walk on glass every day for fun.

Level 9.

He rips the strap off. Rips it off. Slams it on the coffee table and stands, breathing heavy like he just ran a 5K.

You're really not shocked. “That’s your limit?”

He looks at you. Then slowly sits back down beside you, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

“You go through that. Every month?”

You nod. Shrug.

He just stares for a second.

Then leans over, presses his forehead to your shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

You kiss his head. “It’s okay. Now go fold the laundry while I bleed in silence.”

He does.

With extra snacks.

KYLE 'GAZ' GARRICK — “i'm seeing god, she's mad at me.”

Kyle thinks he’s tough.

He’s run half-marathons. Rucked uphill with a 70lb pack. Taken hits in training and grinned through them.

So when you say “Let’s do the period cramp simulator,” he laughs. Laughs.

“Easy win, babe. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

You just smile, quietly connecting the pads to his lower abs, and flip on the app. You’re both in sweats on the couch, your phone filming the whole thing. You press start.

Level 1: He shrugs. “Tingles. Cute.”

Level 2: “Okay, it’s a little weird.”

Level 3: He winces. “Bit stabby.”

Level 4: He clutches the throw pillow. “Okay—wow. That’s... that’s actually rough.”

You’re beside him, not even blinking, watching the show.

Level 5: He yelps. “Wait. People live like this? On purpose?”

You: “Not by choice, babe.”

Level 6: His eyes widen.

Kyle: “Oh my god. It’s like a cramp. Inside a cramp. And it’s angry.”

Level 7: “BABE I’M GONNA PUKE.”

You laugh a bit. “That’s normal.”

Level 8: He keels over sideways, curled on the couch, gasping.

Kyle: “I’m going to pass out. I think I’m hemorrhaging.”

You arch a brow at him. “Want me to go up another level?” You wiggle your eyebrows, teasing him.

He doesn’t respond. He just lifts a single finger like he’s drawing his final breath.

Level 9: He rolls off the couch entirely and lays on the carpet.

“I’m seeing God. She’s mad at me.”

You turn it off, having a good giggle to yourself as you watch him. "You okay down there baby?"

Kyle lays there a minute.

Then, very quietly asks “...You go through that every month?”

You nod. “Since I was thirteen.”

He blinks. Looks at the ceiling. Then at you.

“I don’t know if I wanna fight you or hug you.”

You: “Why not both?”

He crawls back onto the couch, pulls you into his arms, and whispers, “I’m buying you a heating pad and a Costco pack of chocolate tomorrow. I swear to God.”

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY — “That's internal combustion.”

Simon sits down like it’s nothing.

“You sure?” you ask, raising a brow.

He scoffs. “How bad can it be?”

He’s seen combat. Been tortured. He thinks he’s built different.

Level 1: “Huh. Feels like static.”

Level 2: “Bit annoying. Like pins and needles.”

Level 3: “Okay, bit of a pinch.”

Level 4: “...Starting to think this is a trap.”

You’re relaxed beside him, arms folded.

Level 5: His leg twitches.

Simon: “Did the setting change?”

“Mmhmm.” You munch on a cracker from the small bowl sitting next to the couch.

Level 6: “What the fuck was that? That’s not a cramp. That’s a curse.”

Level 7: He sits up straighter. “Nope. Nope. That’s internal combustion. That’s demons.”

You, sipping water respond calmly. “That’s ovulation cramps combined with regular ones.”

Simon looks at you like you’ve been suffering war crimes in silence.

Level 8: He rips the velcro off and tosses the simulator like it insulted his mother.

“Turn it off. We’re done. That’s it.”

You almost laugh. “Tapping out, pookie?”

He stares. Hard.

Then his voice drops low.

“You go through that. Every month. And still do everything.”

You nod slowly.

Simon doesn’t speak. He just walks out of the room.

When he returns, he has a blanket, painkillers, and a hot water bottle.

Then he pulls you into his lap and wraps you up.

“You ever need anything—anything—you tell me. No questions.”

JOHNNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH — “That's a dragonslaying cramp!’”

Johnny’s too confident.

“Piece o’ piss, lass,” he says, strapping the pads on. “I’ve dislocated my shoulder before, can't be any different. I’ll be fine.”

You smile sweetly. “Ready?”

“Bring it.”

Level 1: “Tickles.”

Level 2: “Okay. Weird. But nothing wild.”

Level 3: “That was a twitch. Did it twitch? Or was that me?”

Level 4: “Aight. This is... it’s makin’ my leg bounce.”

Level 5: “HOLY HELL.”

You watch him start shifting like a toddler who has to pee.

Level 6: “SWEET FUCKIN’—WHAT IS THAT?!”

You’re laughing. He’s grabbing your hand.

Level 7: “That’s not even funny anymore, babe. That’s a dragonslaying cramp.”

You: “It lasts 6–8 hours, minimum.”

He stops. Eyes wide.

Level 8: He’s wheezing, clutching his stomach like he’s giving birth.

“I—can’t—I need—a priest.”

You turn it off.

He flops sideways, panting.

Then lifts his head, looking at you like he just saw an angel of death.

“You deal with that every month?”

You nod.

He stares.

Then bursts into a fresh round of whining. “I AM SO SORRY. I’M BUYING YOU FLOWERS. I’M BUYING YOU A NEW CAR. I’M—I’M NEVER ASKING FOR SEX AGAIN IF YOU’RE ON YOUR PERIOD I SWEAR.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. “You said that last month.” You take yours off too. "I'll take you up on that new car offer if period sex can still be on the table..helps sometimes, with the cramps.."

He whimpers.

Then crawls across the couch and kisses your stomach gently like an apology to your uterus.

“Yer a fuckin’ warrior. My warrior.”

You forgive him for all the times he's dismissed your pains before, or asked why you hadn't put on real clothes, or why you were crying when nothing happened to make you cry..

But only after he does your chores for a week and buys you that new car like he said.

MORAL OF THE STORY:

your big bad bf is just as easily taken out by cramps as you and the rest of vagina owners everywhere have been. you feel bad, but only a little.

[heavenbarnes]

Why am I thinking about Johnny "You Can Take It" MacTavish helping you learn to relax your throat so you can take him all the way 👀💀 it's been 3 hours of this torture

no cause now i’m thinking about it and i might fucking scream 🫶🏼

johnny mactavish is a kind man. good man, patient man.

“thas’ it hen, jus’ li’that”

pillow under your knees, firm hand on the back of your head- johnny had been feeding his cock down your throat for at least an hour at this point.

patient man.

running his knuckle along the column of your throat, wry smile pulling at the corners of his lips. johnny liked how he felt- inside you.

he also liked you looking up at him, all wide eyed and eager to please. gleam in your eye like “am i doing good?”

johnny thought he’d died and gone to fucking heaven. pretty little thing between his thighs, learning to suck his cock just how he liked.

willing to put in the work to make it fit.

your throat tightened around him, a little gag sounding that had johnny’s cock twitching- drawing another gag out.

hands twitching where they were resting on his thighs, you pulled back off him with a trail of spit connecting to his tip. he watched you with a proud smile as you wiped away tears and a runny nose.

“y’alright?”

you nodded, smile wide and hands smoothing over his hairy thighs. johnny ran his hand along the side of your face, gently stroking his thumb over your cheek bone.

the other gripped the base of his cock, slapping the wet tip against your lips- poking your tongue out so you could taste the salty drag of precum.

“yeah, you can fuckin’ take it”

[writersdrug]

If you smack your boyfriend's ass...

Captain John Price will snap his head up, looking at you with a confused but intrigued expression, rubbing his behind in slight shock. "What's that for, luv?"

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick will throw back his head and laugh, rubbing his ass and smiling at you. "Been workin' out more - is it paying off?" He'll say, looking back at his own ass.

Simon "Ghost" Riley will let out a shocked grunt. "Oi, little wanker-" he'll quickly grab you by the waist before you can scramble away and give you a few sharp pats to your ass.

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish will chuckle mischievously, putting down whatever he'd be doing. "Right, askin' for it now, cheeky-" he'll say, chasing you into to the bedroom.

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ ex-friend with benefits simon 'ghost' riley & friend with benefits johnny 'soap' mactavish - 02

cw : sexual theme, public sex, voyeurism

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ㅤㅤㅤ collection - prev ⋆ next

it was so easy with johnny. it made you question why you had even been with simon in the first place. you still hadn't defined your relationship, but it didn't matter. mostly because it was just so easy. and also because johnny didn't treat you like a secret. he paraded around base holding your hand, without a hint of shame in his body.

he would kiss you on the tarmac before leaving on a mission and straight up made out with you in the med bay when he got back. all the nurses were betting on when he'd finally ask you to make it official.

johnny's team was the same-well, all except simon. simon still had no idea that johnny knew about your old relationship. though, if anything, it had been more of a situationship. which meant that every time johnny showed you off around the team, both you and simon still thought it was just genuine innocence. you'd meet simon's gaze, your cheeks turning red from slight embarrassment. but then you remembered-he never showed you off like that. you had no reason to feel embarrassed about johnny being proud of being with you.

johnny was also a little shit. he liked you-a lot-but the look he saw on simon's face every time he saw you two together was so satisfying to him. it triggered something primal in him, a possessiveness he hadn't realized was buried inside him. but you didn't seem to mind. you didn't push his hands away, didn't refuse his kisses, didn't lecture him over his excessive pda when he put you on his lap. you basked in his tenderness, and he loved it.

you were so different from what he was used to. usually, his partners would eventually push him away, saying he was too physical. but that was how he expressed his feelings—through touch. seeing how you thrived in his arms, on his lap, made him think you might be the one.

he even had the courage to ask you to go home with him on one of your mutual leaves. and you had accepted. you only had a week together, but johnny made that week matter. he showed you around edinburgh—his favorite places, pubs, cafes, restaurants, museums. he was so happy to share parts of his life with you. and he had fucked you good, in his bed. where you belonged.

one night, as you slept in his arms, he realized this wasn't just a fleeting moment—this was his normality. he wanted you in his life, for good. coming home from deployment to you cooking in his kitchen, swollen with his child. yes, he wanted that.

it had been torture when johnny talked about his little vacation with the cute medic after he got back to base. simon had realized pretty early that he had fucked up with you, but johnny wouldn't stop talking about you. and soap was miserable when you were away. he kept bringing you up, and it drove simon crazy. with how things were going with johnny, he knew he had missed his chance anyway.

when you came back to base, johnny was all over you. it wasn't even about simon anymore—his love for you was genuine. the time you spent together in scotland had made that clear. simon's anger and frustration were just a bonus now.

and right now, you were having a really shitty day. most of the soldiers coming to the med bay were either rude or flirty. it pissed you off—you hated how they always hit on your nurses but never followed through. all they were going to get was bad sex and a broken heart. your nurses were sweet souls; they deserved better. someone like johnny. so, as you finally got your break, you made your way to the training center, where johnny would be at this hour.

you were surprised to see it this empty. johnny was here, along with a couple of soldiers, but it wasn't as packed as you had expected. the moment you set foot in the gym, johnny locked eyes on you, like he had sensed you. happy but confused to see you, he made his way toward you, firing off a million questions. you reassured him that you were okay, that you just wanted to see him—to get away from the med bay.

you had the bad idea of telling him you needed to clear your mind, a distraction.

now you were against a secluded wall, in johnny's arms while he thrusted into you, groaning in your ear while you moaned in his, quietly. you knew you should have told him no, but he had looked so good, a bit sweaty, and you couldn't resist him. and he had been right—this was a good distraction. you had only accepted because he had taken you to a very isolated place, far from the main room.

johnny had a way with your body; he made you feel good without even trying that hard. he listened. he had come to know what triggered your pleasure, all the little things that made you fall over. he loved the noises you made—it was music to his ears. he wished he could record you. maybe if he asked nicely, you'd let him? he was already thinking about the lonely nights on deployments. you were his good girl, of course you were going to let him record you. he couldn't wait.

in your moment of bliss, you didn't know you were not alone. in a corner, simon was watching. he hadn't meant to—after all, you were having public sex in a gym. he had stumbled upon the scene, and weirdly, he couldn't look away. you were mesmerizing, but he already knew that. what was new was the feeling that hit him upon hearing johnny's groans. simon didn't know where it came from, but he couldn't ignore it.

the scene in front of him was filthy and pure at the same time. something in the way your bodies synchronized made him realize he had never had that with you. you had something truly genuine with johnny, something simon wouldn't have been able to give you.

as he was about to finally turn around, his trousers uncomfortably tight, he knew he needed to be alone. but before he could leave, he was met with johnny's knowing gaze. the little bastard was smirking?

"regrettin' whit ye lost, L.T.?" johnny said, keeping his eyes on simon, not stopping. that made you turn your head, meeting simon's gaze. you tried to stop johnny, to get off him, but he wasn't having any of it. if anything, his thrusts became erratic, his grip on your hips bruising. "naethin' he. has nae seen afore, bonnie, dinnae be shy now."

simon and you were frozen. you both had been so sure johnny didn't know about what you used to be. you watched as he tsked, shaking his head, as if reprimanding a little child. the hand that wasn't holding your thigh around his hips made its way to your neck, turning your head back to simon.

"nah, bonnie lass. let him hear whit he tried tae smother all thae times". johnny said gently, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your neck. a kiss that turned into a bite when you didn't listen to him.

johnny had a way with his dirty words that put you in a trance, and you just obeyed, not caring to quiet yourself down anymore. you were rewarded with a "g𝘰𝘰d g𝘪𝘳𝘭" and a sweet kiss on your neck, right where he had bitten you.

at that very moment, you didn't have it in you to care how this would change everything. and as you watched simon's hand disappear into his trousers, you realized maybe this was a good thing. what was the saying again?

he who dares, wins.

[millzinterlude]

Soap who misses his ex. Broke up with her because of work. A stupid ‘if you love them let them go’ situation. He’s fine at first. Surprisingly so. Then late at night when he’s in his quarters it hits him. Hard. He’s a bleary eyed mess. How could he be so stupid?? He tries to call her. He tries to text her. Everything. But he’s blocked. He can’t blame her. He broke her heart. It’s probably better if he just moved on. Continued his life like he was doing before. That’s what he would’ve done if he were sane. No no no. He has to get his hen back! That’s why he’s broken into, simply entered her apartment when he’s on leave.

He’s not empty handed of course. He has your favorite flowers! And of course you’re petrified to see your ex boyfriend standing in your living room. But how can you be upset when he went out of his way just to see you again? You’re easy, he’s sickeningly charming and the best boyfriend you’ve ever had so you take him back in an instant. He’s yours and you’re his, always and forever.

[lay-z]

tw: 18+; drunk!Johnny; drunk shenanigans; established romantic relationship; domesticity; abrupt ending (sorry🥺)

Picking up Johnny after he had some drinks with his teammates at the local pub—only to have him make grabby hands and groping you as soon as you're within arm’s reach.

You manage to manoeuvre him into your car like some drunk kitten, stumbling all over the place but right where you want him to go.

Eventually, you manage to bring him home—herding him once again like some German Shepherd who’s already sick of its job—but the real fun only begins there, when Johnny, the horny mutt he is, starts coming onto you again.

He's whiskey-dicking, which makes him even more whiny and needy as you sit him down on the closed toilet seat to get him undressed and ready for bed.

“C'mere, sexy, lemme make–make ye feel good,” he slurs, hiccupping in between words; his deep voice even raspier now and biting liquor thick on his breath. “Gonna rock–fuckin' rock yer world.” He groans into your neck as he makes you straddle him while you try to do his skincare routine (the one you've enforced); getting moisturizer all over your shirt and neck.

“Jesus Christ, Johnny,” you sigh, rolling your eyes with a chuckle at his attempt to get his limp dick to work as grips your hips and grinds his own upwards sloppily.

“Ye wet f’me, baby?” he asks huskily, bright blues glossy and half-lidded as you cup his face with both hands to tip it back and massage the face cream into his dry skin, scratching his stubble lightly.

You snort, drawing your eyebrows together in amusement. “No, I’m tired and you’re drunk… you silly man.”

Getting him to brush his teeth proofs even more of a struggle when he keeps sticking his toothbrush too far into his throat, causing himself to gag and whine and nearly throw up several times until you snatch the toothbrush from his hand with a huff to do it for him.

“Can’t believe I’m engaged to a toddler,” you mutter, clutching his jaw tightly in your left hand to brush his teeth with your right while he chuckles; broad shoulders shaking even harder when his drool and minty foam drip from his mouth.

“Ah f’exy ‘oddler,” he mumbles with his mouth full before puffing out his bare chest like a lovestruck peacock and flashing you a toothy, foamy grin.

Once you get him into bed and switching off the light, you heave a sigh of relief, though before you can even try to get comfortable on your side of the bed, Johnny is already scooting closer from behind; moulding himself around you and wrapping his strong arm around your waist to pull you against his chest in a vice like grip—knowing there is no escape now.

“John,” you groan in exasperation when he starts grinding his soft cock against your clothed ass while his warm breath puffs against your neck with a soft, needy whine.

“Luv’ ye, princess. Need ye,” he mumbles in between the sloppy kisses he’s peppering along the curve of your neck. “Always need ye so fuckin’ much. Cannae sleep withou’ my perfect wee teddy bear.”

Staring into the darkness with pursed lips, you try your best not to laugh at your man’s drunken antics and declarations of love while you let his greedy hands continue to grope and squeeze you, deciding that he simply needs the enrichment before he’s going to fall into a coma.

“Are you done yet?” you deadpan, raising an eyebrow when he huffs in return, and you feel the buzzed sides of his head brush over your skin along with the fluff of his mohawk when he shakes his head, nuzzling his face against your shoulder blade. His hand, already snuck under your top, splays over your lower belly before he dips his fingers below the waistband of your leggings.

“Jus’ missin’ m’stuffing now, don’t ye.”

A pause.

“Oh, because I’m your stuffed animal?” You chortle, squeezing your thighs together to keep his fingers from slipping between your folds to tease your slit. “Right… nice one.”

“Aye.” Johnny chuckles and nips at your earlobe while he rubs his fingers through the patch of your trimmed pubes insistently like a grizzly pawing at a bees nest, unable to get to your goodies while you feel him getting more riled up and frustrated by the second. “Och, please, hen–” he grouches, pinching your sensitive skin and tugging on your pubes until you gasp; arching your ass back into his crotch. “Jus’ lemme pet her f’a wee bit.”

“Ow, Johnny! Are you mental?” you squeak, cheeks flushing with warmth as you squirm in his embrace while he muffles his laughter by pressing his face between your shoulder blades; obviously having the time of his life.

“Nah, jus’ always crazy about ye, m’luv.”