#soap Mactavish x f!reader

[brewed-pangolin]

Gym Rat Soap doesn't help you recover from a bender by simply giving you fluids and an Advil.

His mindset is much more elaborate.

You have to sweat out the overabundance of alcohol prior to beginning the recovery.

And what better way than expelling the toxins then by riding his cock.

He'll guide you for the first half. His hands glued to your hips as you aimlessly bounce on top of him.

But the remainder is all on you.

And if you're unwilling to go the distance, be prepared to feel the full force of him as he flips you over and wraps your legs around his waist and shows you what it means to completely cleanse yourself of all unnecessary and over indulgent concoctions within your inebriated system.

[reveluving]

Ok, so Soap and shy wife. We all know he's the definition of sunshine/happy puppy and has the energy of an entire class of kindengarden. Imagine when they first meet the couple and he's all loud and jolly, and wife quietly shakes their hand and says "Nice to meet you" and he INSTANTLY quiets, because he's proud of his Darling to meet his friends/family, also because they're all wondering how she puts up with him🤣❤

LOSING MY MIND AT "they're all wondering how she puts up with him" BECAUSE THAT IS BASICALLY THEIR DYNAMIC 🤧💗💗

Includes: tooth-rotting fluff!

COD x shy!wife thots closed! Thank you, everyone, for your time & amazing minds! I sincerely hope I can do this again with y'all soon! 💌

Come & check out my COD m.list!

You just know this man does not shut up about you every time he meets up with his team for work. 

And then, one day, he surprises them with a “she’d love y’all to come over one day.”

“Didn’t you say she’s a lil’ shy?” Kyle voiced out everyone’s thoughts, so to be offered not by the man himself but the meek lady in question was a little surprising, to say the least.

“She is, yeah, but she’s open t’meeting a few pals o’mine.” Johnny meant it to sound casual, but with his mates knowing him for a long time, it wasn’t hard to catch the hint of care in his voice.

And, well, it would be rude to decline a lady’s generous offer, now, would it?

Johnny’s hyped, no doubt, his friends—no, brothers, and his other half finally meeting in person. They didn’t even have to ask, just by the way he was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel or the way he hummed to the radio, likely a playlist the two of you shared.

And with the boys holding some sort of gift for you, just as a thank you for the invite, you greet them by the door as soon as your husband announces his and his friends’ arrival. 

With Simon physically being the closest to you, you wiped your hands on your apron before holding your hand out. Simon nearly struggled with his strength, not expecting your lack of hesitation to greet him, out of all of them.

You introduced yourself, “It’s nice to finally meet you guys.”

Ah, such a sweet voice. So sweet that had Johnny not gone on and on about your shyness, they would’ve thought you were scared of them. But, you weren’t and the proud smile on Johnny’s face says it all. 

Why wouldn’t he? With your warm smile and even willingness to shake Kyle and John’s hands as well. Albeit, you had a habit of looking down every once in a while, especially if they tried to show their respect, i.e. complimenting your cooking, the decor or you in general, it was hard not to find you endearing.

But God knows how you, of all people, manage to put up with his nonsense. 

In the words of Johnny; “Opposites attract, after all.”

And seeing it now, to say Johnny was whipped…. Was putting it lightly.

It’s funny to see Johnny trying his best when it comes to lowering his gruff voice for you, even if you loved it just the way it is.

Though he has a lot of things to tell you, so much love to give you, you have his full attention the moment your lips part.

Each time you open your mouth, he closes his. As if fearing that one word from him would mean talking over you entirely, and he couldn’t bear the thought of that. The hearts in his eyes were tough to miss. He’s expressive, too, hanging on your every word like you were giving him a task when it was just you talking about how you learnt to make the lasagna you served for dinner.

‘SHUT UP, MY BABY HAS SOMETHING TO SAY’ type of beat, but it’s the man who’s saying it that has the loudest voice (and the gentlest heart).

But they’d be lying if they said they didn’t enjoy listening to the stories of how you met and how emo Johnny gets when the dates or outings don’t go his way, even though it all went well in the end.

Why wouldn’t they enjoy seeing his soul leave his body when you mentioned his baby pictures that his mother not only showed you but gave some to you as well?

“Johnny, c’mon, now, she’s a part of the family! She’ll need some photos o’you for when you move in together soon.” Says his mother, gifting you probably a stack of them, as if unfazed by the sight of you and Johnny covering your faces, the temperature of your body heat rising that even you feared you might pass out right then and there. He couldn’t even find the energy to stop his sisters from teasing him.

But besides allowing you to embarrass him a little, even if it wasn’t your intention, your home is another.

A small unit, located on the second floor. The candlelight colour, the cute indoor plants in each room, and the seats. 

Oh, the seats.

John nearly passed out just moments after he sat on it. 

Just by the way you maximized the apartment space, it’s no wonder Johnny always looked forward to returning home. Not necessarily the apartment, but to you. 

Dare they say, the visit felt like a ‘cultural reset’ (is that what the kids are saying these days?). Largely because one; they were able to finally confirm that Mrs MacTavish is a real person and two; one cannot simply ignore the dynamic you and Johnny have. It may be eye-roll-worthy to some, but Johnny learns it isn’t something worth fighting about. So long he has you, those people can yap and nag about it all they want. 

Bonus: John’s definitely the type of person to tell Laswell about it like it was some kind of a mission—like it was almost unbelievable to see you, well, you!

“M’tellin’ ya, Laswell. As soon as his wife had something t’say, he shuts up faster than when I tell him to.” He chuckled before taking a sip of his drink.

“Sounds like a keeper to me.”

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

[celestialwhoree]

Can you please do an anemic reader on who her lack of red blood cells are getting worse enough that she has to be hospitalized?! And we have to see soaps reaction?!

OHH He shits his pants

It's a routine blood draw, nothing you're not used to. Just a cell count to make sure everything's working properly and that your supplements don't need to have their dosage increased.

"So this here is the red blood cells.." The nurse drones as you sit in one of the consultancy rooms of the local hospital, chin resting in the crook of your palm. "They're low enough that we'll need to keep you in for a couple of days for an iron transfusion and monitoring before and after."

"I'm sorry?" You choke, snapped from your reverie as you look at the nurse and your results paper she currently points at.

"It's really nothing to worry about. We'll keep a good eye on you, you'll probably be in for three days, tops." "No but I have work." The woman across from you looks frustrated at your resistance as she raises an eyebrow your way. "I'd really strongly advise you not to go back to work like this. It'll only exacerbate your condition." "Right. Fine. Can I just make a call quick? Get my boyfriend to swing by with some essentials." "This isn't prison. You can call who you like when you like."

You tap your foot anxiously on the linoleum floor of the hallway as the phone rings persistently, waiting for Johnny to pick up.

"Bonnie! How'd it go?" John's Scottish brogue still manages to send flutters to your tummy, even after three years of dating and just having received bad news.

"They're keeping me in for a few days." The anxiety in your voice is obvious, and John can practically picture you worrying at your bottom lip.

"Why? Wha' happened?" "Just a really low red blood cell count. They're going to monitor and do a transfusion on Wednesday. I was wondering if you could bring me some stuff? Toothbrush and pyjamas and whatnot?" "Course I'll bring ye a bag. Text me what ye need and I'll be there in a half hour." "Thank you Johnny." "You dinnae need to thank me. I love ye, bringin' a bag is nothing." "Well, thank you anyways."

Johnny must've sped with how quickly he gets to the hospital, conveniently sporting his tags on the outside of his khaki hoodie and a pair of military issue boots. If his charm isn't enough to wriggle the visiting hours around, his job most certainly is.

You give a little soft 'Hi' and he's already dropping a black duffel to his feet, scooping you up, trying to ease the tension from your back by rubbing soothing circles between your shoulder blades.

"Bought all yer things. Clean clothes, washbag, laptop, chargers." "You're an angel." "Am no, 'm just very worried for my woman."

[undercoverpena]

yours to keep

johnny 'soap' mactavish x f!reader

wordcount: 4.6k || dedicated to @guyfieriii an: teensy smut, fluff, banter, friends-to-lovers babeh summary: You’re in a dress. Your legs are fucking out. His throat all of sudden dry, suddenly unable to focus on anything—hand grasping his glass, the ice clinging and clanging against it. Then your eyes land on him. The rest of the room faded to nothing. He can feel his cheeks warm, his smile beginning to rise—all of it natural, all of it without thought.  other soap work.

“Why’d they call ya, Squid?” “‘Cause I’m tiny and can swim well.” “Seriously?” You smirked. “No. I kinda… maybe took out a room full of people with a knife. Nothing really. Just… My old Lieutenant said I must have had eight arms or something. So, Squid.” He watches as she looks down. “They tried Octo and Pus for a day, but… realised even within the military, the latter bordered on an HR complaint.” “Steamin’ Jesus.” 

Soap remembers when the rumours swirled about you and Gaz. 

The two of you were—and are—just good friends. He knows that, believes it, even. He knows there’s nothing but innocence when Gaz’s arm is slung over your shoulders, pulling an easy laugh from you—even if you were bruised and covered in blood, dirt and whatever else. You both knew one another—the only two out of the whole 141 that did—before it was formed. 

It didn't matter how good you were, the whispers still followed. They pricked at you. Soap remembers how you’d dip your head when you passed certain tables in the mess. How you only walked a little taller if you were with him, Ghost or Gaz. 

Now, the rumours were about you and him. 

The two of you having shifted and changed. One minute work colleagues, and then two people who’d needed the other for body heat. He hadn’t meant for the jokes to flow when the only thing that separated the two of you was underwear. But, your eyes had been shimmering, surrounded by snow tinting your lashes. Your beauty was apparent to him before, but harder to ignore when he looked down at you close to him. 

“You d’this with all the boys, lass?”  “No. Just ones from Scotland, it seems.” 

Truthfully, he’d thought you were stunning the moment he first saw you. But, there’s something about seeing the specks in someone’s eyes that makes things feel more intense. Been given the rare chance to study each angle of your cheeks, nose and brows—the way your lips curl when he makes a joke you clearly don’t want to laugh at. Letting him commit you all to memory, in case he never got a moment quite like it again.

Then evac rescued you both, and he half-expected things to go back to how they were. 

But they didn’t. 

The two of you remaining close, flirtatious banter flowing even in a room full of people. He thought you’d be less bothered, but you were more riled by the rumours. Especially at the beginning—when they first began—making your head dip, fists clenching and your eyes struggle to meet his. 

Now, he’s sure you lean into them, practically desperate for someone to dare egg you on so you can tell them he blows your back out. 

Not that he’s had the chance. But, fuck, would he. 

He’d do more than that given half a chance. Not just because you’re beautiful, not just because you make him laugh—but because you make his whole fucking heart soar. You make him better without doing anything, easily able to pull the good parts of him out. 

It had all been gradual, having crept up on him. The way you’ve embedded yourself into his thoughts. 

At first, it was in admiration at your hand-to-hand, the way you use your smaller frame to bend and twist. Then it was because you let your hair down, your head bent back, and your neck all exposed. The dark and dingy inn is full of weightless laughter and thudding music in some country far from home. Gaz pouring a clear bottle directly into your mouth. The way your eyes hit the light and how big your smile was when you stood straight, doing something instantly to him. Making him almost cross the short distance and wipe the vodka from your chin and lips with his tongue. 

Before, you were just Squid. 

Now, you’re more than that. 

You’re paradise and perfect days—and a messy bunch of emotions and snark he hates being away from.

Has been since you let him call you a nickname he’d only ever heard Gaz use and Gaz alone. He’d tried it, tested it, rolled it around on his tongue before he even said it to you. Almost having said it at the inn, when your eyes were glazed and your tongue loose. But, he’d waited—wanting you alone, all to himself so he could watch your reaction. 

See if he’d earnt calling it you. 

“Mari.”

“You know that's not my name, right?”

Your face having turned, the slyest smirk on your face. 

And he had hoped you don’t know he’s been working up to saying it. Almost getting lost in the odd twinkle of your eyes.

He knows, down the path of whatever the two of you become—if anything—this would be the moment he realised he liked you, liked you. That he imagined, for a brief fucking moment, that there could be a future. 

“Oh? Aye? Heard Gaz call it y’… just assumed.”

Shrugging, you stabbed your food again, a soft laugh escaping the air, blessing the space between them. “No, no, no. But it’s okay, you can call it me too. I mean, we did share some floorboards and a ratty blanket, the least I can do to thank you for keeping me warm.” 

He can’t even remember what he wanted to ask. The image of you against him—slightly shivering, eyes staring into his as your hand clutched his back—at the forefront. 

Everything else had vanished, stolen from his mind. Plucked by your beautiful eyes and brain-wiping smile. 

“What is your name?” 

“You know that’s classified, Johnny.”

“You know mine.” 

You had shrugged again, smirking. “If you keep letting me steal your fries, I might let you know.” 

He pushed the rest of his plate towards you, “Y’got it, lass.” 

“Why you want it so bad?” 

He leaned close, even if the rest of the mess hall wasn’t listening—not even paying attention. “Just be nice t’know what t’call y’when I’m fake blowin’ yur back out.” 

Your eyes met his. 

Time all of a sudden frozen. His own flicking from your eyes to the rest of your face, watching, waiting. The two of you have been towing this line so well, recently; dancing on the line of will-they-won’t-they flirtation. And sometimes, he’s not sure if he’s gone too far—if they’ve gone too far. 

So he hopes for a message. One from your face directly—cause it can never lie. 

And he sees it, a twitch of your lips, a slight narrowing of your eyes, before you steal another one of his fries, and bring it to your lips. 

“You’d learn it quicker if you actually blew my back out, Johnny-boy. I’d be like putty in your fuckin’ hands,” you had said, soft, sultry, and so low it took him a moment to realise what you’d just said. 

And then, like all good moments, it broke—Lt appearing, looming over the table. 

Since then—when shit really hits the fan—he seeks you without question. Your eyes land on him, instantly knowing—as if he’s a book and you already know all of his pages. 

When it’s you, he knows from the way your shoulders are sunk, the clear need to be held being written into each muscle. Mostly, it’s the dullness sitting in your eyes. Usually, they sparkle. Not quite a disco ball, but something close to it. When they shine bright, they make the darker days easier and the good days that bit better.   

He won’t admit it to anyone, but he loves having your head on his chest. For a moment able to dream—think—of a time when you’d be here for reasons not so sad. That you’d be here because it’s the two of you, against it all. 

Not just as friends. 

As something so much more. 

Then you leave before he wakes, the reminder it’s not quite that yet, feeling something close to a blade making tiny cuts—not enough to bleed him dry, but enough to make it sting, singe and ache. 

He really does hate the rumours—mainly because he wishes they were true.

“If you could eat anything for breakfast, what would you choose?”  “Gotta b’ a Scottish brekkie, ain’t it?”  “Streaky bacon?”  “Aye. Not a brekkie without it.”  “I guess.” “Y’not a fan?”  “Prefer cock for breakfast, if I’m honest.” “Fuckin’ hell, Mari.” “What? You forgot for a moment you’ve been stabbed, mission accomplished.” 

It’s rare. Unusual. 

The whole lot of you crammed in a bar, never mind some small pub in Manchester. Even more unexpected that it was booked out—a specific request for the group of you to bask in the success of the last mission. The one which had taken weeks—stole more from you all than you’d known you could give. 

It had been hard. Long. Difficult. 

So many more words he couldn’t quite think. But in all of it there were moments, tiny fragments he clutched onto. You seek him out, your face sunken and sad, burying your head into his chest as you hold onto him for what felt like hours. Him on a rooftop, staring out into the dark with Ghost, the two mindlessly talking, thinking, and planning, before he asks him where he wishes he could be. 

Now, as he sips his first drink, he replays it. Smiling to himself, because while Lt didn’t say this place, he suspects the name he whispered belonged to the person behind the bar. The one who keeps side-eyeing him, the occasional half-smile gracing their mouth. 

He takes another sip as he thinks of you. 

You who Soap had watched lose sleep. Finding you huddled over a map or screen with Gaz, low whispers, reluctance to rest. Using the few free hours of any given day to train—needing to be better. 

You didn’t ask him—or even Gaz—you’d asked Ghost. 

It ate at him. Chipped away. 

Soap blamed the lack of sleep for where his mind went. Using the same time stuffing down his jealousy over the fact you didn’t ask him. The wallowing peppered with thoughts of being inadequate, making his jaw clench, making him unravel just that bit more. 

In a way, they were all protective of you—not that any of them needed to be. But, it wasn’t something bizarre, out of character. It was something they all felt, tied together by the simple fact they’d come to care for the five-foot-something Squid. 

Even with that, he knows he feels something more. 

It’s been churning, twisting and transforming inside of him for weeks—months. His heart almost leapt from his chest when he thought you were in the building he’d watched being blown up. The compass he relies on to keep him north, disintegrating, dark shadows coming down around his eyes until he sees you emerge from smoke and flames—without your pissing helmet. 

Y’know how to scare me, lass.  Keeping you on your toes, Soapie. 

Now, he’s waiting for you. Paying attention to the hands on his watch—side-eyeing the door until it opens, blasting in cold, Gaz leading you in. 

And—

Fuck. Shit. Bollocks. 

You’re in a dress. 

Your legs are fucking out. 

His throat all of a sudden dry, suddenly unable to focus on anything—hand grasping his glass, the ice clinging and clanging against it. 

Then your eyes land on him. The rest of the room faded to nothing. He can feel his cheeks warm, his smile beginning to rise—all of it natural, all of it without thought. 

Punctuating it all is the soft lulls of Friday I’m In Love playing as he takes the moment to truly drink you in. It feels like minutes, maybe an hour—and he isn’t going to squander it for a second…

And then you blink, stepping up to the bar. 

“Hi, could I order—wait, you are beautiful,” you say to the woman behind the bar—your eyes staring at her. 

Gaz steps in, apologising, but all he’s focusing on is you. 

You’re here. 

Looking every inch radiant from head to fucking toe.  

And he needs another drink. He needs a shot. 

He needs…

A fucking hope and a prayer because he’s not sure if he can pocket his feelings anymore—unsure if stuffing them down will go well with alcohol, bitterness, and the smoothest scotch he’s had in ages. 

So he orders another. 

And three drinks down, and Soap is sitting across from you. A wobbly table between you both, your elbow leaning on it, rocking it from side to side occasionally. 

The scent of fusty ale and brass having faded, swapped for a floral perfume and the elements of his drink. 

You’re focused, even with slightly glazed eyes, on the bar—on the others behind the two of you. Likely on the girl behind the bar, the one you keep staring at—the one who keeps shooting Ghost smiles. 

And he’s jealous. 

He’s jealous because he’s wondering if you’re jealous.

If you want him—your two’s Lieutenant. The one who trained you, sparred with you, and made you go to sleep. 

“C'mon, lass. Desert island, who’d y’want with you?” 

“It’s her.” 

“Wha—?”

You blink, staring at him—your glass in hand as you shake your head. “What?” 

“Who’s ya best friend, lass?”

Your hands play with your glass, spinning it on the wooden table—the one with chipped and glass rings all over its mahogany surface, “From that, I’m guessing you’re hoping it’s you.”

“It’s not?”

“No.”

His throat dries. 

Suddenly realising he shouldn’t have pushed this button. Not sure his frame of mind can even take it. Alcohol bubbling in his stomach, his throat—

“Who then?” 

“Gaz. Obviously.

“Why is tha’obvious?”

“He lives closer.” 

“Is that wha’ makes a friendship, then?”

“Well, my best friend wouldn’t willingly choose to live further away from me, would they?” 

He smiles, realising you’re pulling his leg. Winding him up. Teasing him. 

“Don’t you live closer to, Lt?” 

Leaning closer, you take a purposeful sip, staring him down. Searing down to the core. “Yes, but he can’t be my best friend.” 

Tell me why. Tell me it’s me. 

Choose me. Pick me. 

His heart thumping more, almost in beat with the song. Thump. Thump. Thump. It almost rises up, almost in his throat, pounding against the space he needs to breathe through.

“And, why’s that?” 

You drain your glass, clanking it down. “I can’t be best friends with someone who calls me ‘Squidlet’, Soap. It’s demeaning enough that I let him call me that, never mind rewarding him for it by giving him more of my awesome personality. He can be third in line.” 

And it sinks. 

That feeling. The hope. The want. 

“Well,” he says, quickly. “Ah, I’m glad y’pulled y’self away from Lt to drink with me then, ya fourth.”

“What?”

“Nothin’”

Your hand clutches his arm, stopping him from raising his own glass. “Tell me.” 

“Yur’ always wit ‘im. Before. Could n’va find ya.”

“Who? Gaz?”

“Nah, Lt.”

Inwardly, he cringes. Hating the alcohol, hating how it makes his tongue loose in his head. Letting all of it, each festering feeling, bubble to the surface. 

Because you’re more than his friend. 

You’re so much more. 

“Johnny… it… we were just sparring.”

“Yea, it’s alright—“

“Wait. Are you jealous?”

“No!”

He doesn’t mean to snap. 

Your eyes stare at him, hand dropping from his arm as you slowly reel back. And then you stand, and he inwardly pleads for you to sit. 

Please, Lass. Please. 

Your mouth opening, words all set to be spat, but then you shake your head, walking until you’re out of his sight—the cold draft on his back is enough of an indication of where you've gone. 

Leaving him with a choice. 

One that begins to grow inside of him as the song begins. One he’s heard already, but now it feels different. It’s motivating, it’s making him down his drink, slamming it back down. 

It’s making him stand, turning, watching the other three men staring at him, two with a knowing smile, one with a knowing stare. Even the woman—he doesn’t know the name, who he’s sure is fucking Ghost—leans against the pumps has that look. 

And he knows.

Like they all do. 

His feet move him to the door as Price grabs him around the forearm. “So, the rumours true, or?” 

“Aye, well ther’ about to be, sir.”

“That so?”

“Yeah… I’d apologise, but, excuse me.”

It’s cold. 

That’s what he thinks first when he steps outside. Eyes adapting to the dark, to the mist from the rain—letting the bitter feeling coat his bones. The dread, the fucking ache caused by even letting you go. 

He pleads. 

Hopes, too. 

Please don’t have left, lass. 

Scanning, looking, and then he hears it. Pacing—pacing that he knows so well it’s burned into his brain. Finding you, watching you down the side of the alleyway, turning to face him as you stop, hands flexing at your side as you stare at him. 

“You’re very annoying.” 

“Aye, probably,” he says, stepping closer. “But, that’s cause y’drive me crazy, and I canne’ stop thinkin’ bout ya. And then, your wir’ him and…” 

Your eyes roll, strands of hair sticking to your face. “Oh, shut up. You know it’s you. You know I like you. You have to.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. Because it’s woven neatly between my faux-contempt and sarcasm.”

“Well, y’can probably see how I may have missed that, ay?”

“Not really. I think it’s pretty obvious. Personally. I don’t share a bed with Gaz. And I’m not standing outside as it fucking pelts it down in a ridiculously thin dress because I like British weather. I’m stood out here because the guy who is my best friend, and that I’m pretty sure I could be in love with, is being a dickhead.”

Staring, he steps closer, watching you fold your arms. “Y’in love with me?”

“Of course, that’s the part you heard.”

“Mari—“

You cut him off, not just with your eyes, but with your words. “I mean, as big as Ghost is, it’s not him I ask to lie in bed with after a difficult mission. It’s not him that I go to when I need to smile or laugh. Fuck, I only chose him for sparring because he doesn’t go easy on me, and… and I can’t have you thinking you need to save me.”

“I don’t—“

“—but you do. You practically ripped up Urzikstan to find me.”

“Cause y’were ambushed, lass. Not cause I dunna think y’can handle y’self. Shittin’ Jesus, I know y’can. Y’terrify me because I canne’ lose you. Not cause I dunna think y’can do it.”

It sits there. 

His words. Yours. The two of them ferment, shifting. The space between the two of you gets smaller until his hand is on your cheek, and yours is on his waist, and he wants nothing more than to close the gap. To kiss you. To taste the drinks you’ve been sipping from your lips. 

But he pauses. 

Needing to capture this, the two of you. 

“Soap…”

“Yea’, Mari…” 

He watches you swallow, how your eyes flick from his own to his mouth. “I’d be lost without you, Johnny.” 

He’s not sure who moves first. You, or him. 

But you taste like sweetness and alcohol—your lips cold against him, tinged with the droplets from the sky. Your perfume envelops him, swirling with his, making a concoction of something he thinks he wants to bottle. You and him. A scent he’s both never smelt before and yet had been craving as his hand slides around your cheek—clutching you close as he feels your hands dig into his waist. 

You moan against him, soft, low, almost vibrating through him. Your soft, fucking lips and he slides his tongue against your teeth, and he almost loses his goddamn mind. 

Because it’s happening. 

And he doesn’t want it to slip through his fingers. Not now, not ever. Moving you, as you suddenly begin guiding him, his back against the wall of the pub. 

For a moment, he stops, and then your fingers crack open his belt. The sound loud, so loud, in the silence of the night and the rain making puddles. Your mouth capturing his, your hand sliding down the space and nestle of hair between his stomach and cock. Your hand wraps around him, and it’s…  

More than he thought it could be. 

Even more so when you stroke him, pumping him with your hand, eliciting a groan as he feels your grip tighten, teeth rolling over your bottom lip as you slowly lower to your knees in front of his very eyes. 

“Fuck, Mari. Y’dont even know what y’do to me.” 

“I can feel it, if that helps.”

“Ay, behave.”

Your tongue clicks against the roof of your mouth, lips practically touching the head of his cock as your breath dances over the tip. 

“Make me, Johnny.”

He blinks. 

Stares. 

And then your mouth is around him, taking him into your warm fucking mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip of him. And it’s everything. The image of it alone almost makes him come down your throat until it hits him—

“What the fuc—“ you snap.

His hand dragging you off him, up onto your feet. 

“No girl o’mine is suckin’ me off on her knees in this shite weather.” 

Your lips part, rendered silent as you just stare. “Your girl?”

“Aye, if you want to be?” 

Just the wind blowing down the alleyway, your perfume hitting his nose like it has done all night. Scratching the back of his brain, coaxing him closer with its scent-filled fingers. 

“Did you… did you just stop me from sucking you off?” 

“Aye.” 

“Fuckin’ hell, you love me, you love me back...” 

He runs his tongue over his teeth. Because fuck, he kinda does, but, also, fuck. 

“This fuckin’ dress—“ he groans instead, turning you, pressing your back against brick as you smirk. “—that fuckin’ smile.” 

You clutch his waist as he winds his hand up your thigh, his belt clattering against his legs as his trousers slide down. “All for you, Johnny.” 

“Steamin’ Jesus, Mari. Call me that again,—“

And then you say your name. 

Surrendering it, presenting to him. It’s the best thing he’s ever been given. It almost mingles with your breath, it’s that silent. The only evidence of you speaking it is the wisps of your exhale swirling with the air. 

He rolls it around his mind, as he did with your nickname, and then he says it as he slips his fingers under the band of your lace. Sliding two inside of you, groaning at the feel of you—of how much you want him. Not Simon. Not Gaz. Him. 

“Only you,” you say, all breathy, eyes closed. 

As if you can read his thoughts. Like you’re living in his fucking head. 

“Only ever you.” 

“Fuckin’ hell.” 

Your eyes open, lust boldly staring at him as he finds that spot—the one which makes you grip his shoulder, nails digging in through his shirt. 

And he’s going to ruin you. He’s going to fuck you until neither of you can take anymore. 

He promises it to you with each stroke of his fingers inside you, each ghostly kiss he gives you as you chant his name and he catches each one. 

He will. But not here. 

That’s what hotels are for. 

“Hey, none of that being cute, shit, today. I’m in enough trouble with Price as it is.” “Ay. Alright. But, y’think I’m cute?” “Shut up, Johnny.” “Got it, lass.” A beat happens, him staying as he watches you. “You don’t have to stay, Soap.” “I want t’.” “Okay.” “Alrighty.” 

He awakens to a knock. 

It’s not loud, but dull. 

And very bloody insistent. 

Slowly, he opens his eyes, half-hoping his mind hasn't lied to him, before finding your face close to his—turned to him, watching him. 

It’s not a dream. 

“Hi…”

“Hello,” you say, rocking your hips as you smile. 

If you ever try to tell him you don’t look beautiful in the morning, he’d pull up this image of you—right here. 

“Someone’s at the door, Johnny.” 

“Y’got legs, Mari.” 

“No, I don’t, actually,” you say with a smirk. “Someone fucked me to the point they’re broken. I almost knocked myself out getting to the bathroom for a wee an hour ago. You did this, so you go.” 

It blooms in his chest as he stands, throwing on his underwear as he heads to the door. 

The smirk not fading, not just because of the knowledge he’s done that to you—made your legs weak—but that you were staring at him how you just had been doing. The realisation that your body is naked under those expensive, Egyptian bed sheets—the same ones he’d fucked you under, on top of and likely around throughout last night. 

If you’re trying to blow my back out, you’re succeeding.  Y’know I don’t like t’fail missions, hen.  Call me that again. Wha? Hen?

It’s different, unique. 

A look he’s never seen. It’s almost content mixed with adoration, happiness trying to be hidden by disdain—the latter something you’ve perfected over time. 

Am I your best friend now?  No. You’re something else. Oh, upgraded, am I? What is it you say? Aye?

He looks back, finding you watching him, hand up, close to your face, trying to shield your face. Maybe hiding a smile, a devious smirk. But, it’s the look in your eyes he almost can’t place, it almost stops him. Makes him ask what is wrong. 

But they knock, again. Interrupting a moment he’s been wishing for more than he does a shower after being covered in guts and blood. Whoever they are, impatiently bothering them. 

It’s not until he opens the door, the person standing with a cart and metal dishes on it does he realise—

“Room service.” 

The minx. 

The beautiful, fucking minx.

He grins, almost to the point it makes his cheeks ache as he takes it from them. Trying to guide it back into the room with minimal clanging and difficulty. His hands are desperate to pull the lid off, finding your hand on top of his—body covered in pulled sheets from the bed, teeth biting your lips. 

“What’cha done ‘ere then?” 

His hand brushes your cheek, finding it as soft as it always is—your eyes softening, lips widening as you move into him. It’s different, and he’s glad. It’s closer, with no space between the sides of your body, no remaining space left purposefully because of friendship. 

“Streaky bacon…”

“Aye?” 

Lifting the tin, seeing a whole plate full of it. His head turning, looking at you, watching you smile up at him—your hand on his chest, drawing those soft shapes—the same ones you did when the two of you caught your breaths after the third… maybe fourth… time he made you come on his cock. 

“Y’still like t’ same thing for breakfast, Mari?” 

“Only if it’s yours.” 

His cheeks burn—his ears too. “Y’heavenly, you are.” 

“I try” 

You lift the other tray, his eyes finding an array of fruit. Watching you take a piece, popping it in your mouth. His questioning look must be evident, your eyes watching him as you swallow. 

“Ghost once told me sugar is good post-workout—refuels the muscles or something,” you say, swiping your tongue against your bottom lip. “And we still have this room till 11am, don’t we? And I thought, since we’ve already wasted a lot of time—” 

He captures your lips. 

The sheet falling from between the two of you, like paper to the floor—effortless and silent. His body flush against you, feeling your giggle bubble through you to him. All light, airy—and fucking perfection. 

“Mine,” he whispers against your lips as the two of you fall back into bed. 

“Yours,” you whisper back, throwing your leg over him as you straddle him, hovering your lips over his. “All yours, till you’re sick of me.”

He moves your hair from your face, grasping your hip—thump fitting over the growing bruise he’s already left. “‘never be sick of you, Mari.” 

an: reader is called mari... because of calamari... squid joke ;)

prequel jealous!soap fic here

[your-local-simp-writers]

Unexpected

Word Count: 406

Warnings: None

Soap x Fem! Hispanic! Wife! Reader ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

The engines of the C-130 Hercules cut through the silence of the airstrip, heralding the return of Task Force 141 from a grueling mission. Among the crowd, a lone figure stood out—Y/N, Soap’s wife, her vibrant presence a stark contrast to the military precision around her.

As the soldiers filed out, the air was thick with anticipation. María’s heart pounded in her chest, her eyes eagerly searching for Soap. When he finally emerged, her joy was uncontainable. She dashed towards him, her laughter echoing across the tarmac. “¡Mi amor, te extrañé tanto!” she exclaimed, leaping into his arms.

The members of TF-141 halted in their tracks, their battle-hardened facades crumbling in disbelief. Ghost’s eyebrow arched behind his mask, Roach’s mouth agape, and even Price’s eyes softened, a rare occurrence. They had faced countless dangers together, but this was uncharted territory. They exchanged glances, each silently asking the same question: “Soap’s married?”

“So, lads,” Soap began, his voice betraying a hint of bashfulness, “this is the better half I’ve been keeping secret. Y/N, these are the brothers I’ve told you so much about.”

María beamed, her energy infectious as she greeted each member with a warm embrace and a flurry of Spanish. “¡Hola! Soy Y/N’s, es un honor finalmente conocer a los amigos de mi esposo,” she said, her words flowing like a melody.

The men of TF-141, known for their stoicism, found themselves at a loss, charmed by her vivacious spirit. Ghost, usually a man of few words, found himself engaging in a playful banter, while Roach couldn’t help but chuckle at Soap’s evident pride.

Ghost’s usual reticence gave way to a rare chuckle. “Never thought Soap would manage to keep a secret this delightful,” he remarked.

Price, ever the leader, stepped forward. “Well, I’ll be,” he said, his voice gruff with a hint of amusement. “Soap, you’ve outdone yourself. She’s quite the gem.”

As the evening unfolded, Y/N’s laughter became the soundtrack of their reunion. She listened intently to their stories, her eyes alight with admiration, and they, in turn, saw a new side of Soap—a man deeply in love, his heart belonging to the spirited woman who had effortlessly woven herself into the fabric of their tight-knit group.

The TF-141 left that night with a new story to tell—not of war, but of the unexpected joy found in a comrade’s hidden life, a reminder of the world worth fighting for.

[schrodingerscougar]

Summary: roommate!Simon is possessive.

Simon is practical. Why would he have an apartment of his own when he’s away so much? It would be better to rent a room, have someone who collects his mail and keeps the place clean while he’s gone. It doesn’t even bother him that his roommate is a woman in her twenties because they barely meet anyway. But when Johnny finds out, he goes feral and can’t stop bugging him about it. 

“She’s cute,” he notes after his superior showed him your Instagram profile. “And you say you haven’t made a move on her? What a shame. If you won’t do it, I will. Could use a pretty little cock sleeve like her.”

He has no idea why, but Simon gets mad at the Scotsman for calling you that. If he wasn’t so good at controlling himself, he would have punched him in the face without much consideration. You’re a nice girl; smart, kind, beautiful, and understanding. You don’t get mad at him if he arrives home in the middle of the night and wakes you up by accidentally kicking something loudly in the dark. You don’t get mad if he forgets to help out around the apartment with the chores when he’s home. You don’t get mad if he forgets something that was on the shopping list. 

Letting out a sigh, he leans against the wall and puts his phone back into his pocket. “She wouldn’t let you close enough for that,” he finally tells Soap. 

But he doesn’t seem offended, in fact, he takes it as a challenge. “Just introduce me to her. Let’s see if I can get into her pants.”

“Not gonna happen, Johnny.”

And just like that, you remain his well-guarded secret. You remain his, and only his.

(part 2)

[shotmrmiller]

No one look at me as I think about cbf!johnny that two days ago wrecked you on your parent's couch, and now that you've given him your hand, he's taking your arm. Whenever he asks your parents if he can stay over, they don't mind, of course.

"Just keep the door open."

And that's exactly how he fucks you at night, with the door wide open. He'll have you on your knees on the floor with his belt in your mouth to muffle your whimpers and mewls. If he's feeling adventurous, he'll bully his cock into you on the bed, making it creak— maybe it'll wake your parents, maybe not. Now isn't that just exhilarating?

He'll coax an orgasm out of you with his mouth, flicking your swollen clit with his tongue and he'll slurp up your sweet nectar when you come. When your mom calls you both down for dinner, he'll look at her square in the eye as he says, "I willnae be havin' too much, I had dessert first." You'll refuse to look up from your plate.

Johnny will persuade you to let him record you from behind, as his thick length splits you wide open. "Such a pretty pussy, bonnie, s'like ye were made fer me, hm?" His large, calloused hand will push you into your plush rug— spine curved into an exquisite arch— and fuck you until you can't even think. By the time your gummy, puffy walls start to flutter around him, he'll press a saliva-slick thumb on the tight ring of your arse, and you'll shatter and milk his cock for all he's worth. He'll tell you to push out his cum, that he wants to see it dribble out— flow from your abused hole to your sensitive clit. With a last, gentle drag of his fingers over your pussy, he'll stop the recording, and help you put your sleeping shorts back on.

Once he hears your breathing even out, he'll pick up his phone and rewatch the video, before sending it to Simon. He knows Simon hasn't had a woman in his bed in years, and Johnny is benevolent—he'd be more than willing to share some of the love with LT.

how did i end up here?

[cordeliawhohung]

Of Sea Foam and Iron [1]

general masterlist | series masterlist | taglist

Hephaestus!ghost x Aphrodite!reader x Ares!soap

your beauty was meant to be a blessing, not a curse. the only way your father can keep you safe is by marrying you off to an ugly, scarred blacksmith. at first, it seems like your new husband wants nothing to do with you. you eventually learn that's not the case at all.

wc: 4.8k

warnings: historical au with lots of inaccuracies, blood/gore/violence, minor self-harm ideation (no sh happens), arranged marriage, reader is a virgin, reader is very shallow, nudity, fear of sex, ancient standards of women (the characters aren't actually gods, but rather god-coded. they're mortal, but still fit the symbolism of said gods)

When you were a child, people often told you that your beauty was a gift from the gods, and for the longest time you believed them.

Certainly, it was only by Aphrodite’s grace that you were able to hold yourself with such elegance and outshine even the most precious of gems and metals. Even as a young girl your father adorned you with flashy jewelry as if to prove to anyone who laid eyes on you that you were the only creature in the world that could make gold appear dull. You enjoyed every moment your father spent parading you around because that’s what love was supposed to be; the unconditional admiration of all those that were so far beneath you. 

It wasn’t until you became of courting age that you learned better. Gifts of fine silk and flashy jewelry were commonly sent to your father by countless suitors, and while they were beautiful, he sent every single one of them back. Simple gifts of cloth and metal were not good enough for your fathers beautiful daughter. If a man were to wed you, he would have to offer up something that your father could not provide for you himself. 

Countless suitors visited your abode where they would drink wine with your father and eat the freshest fruit while they attempted to gain his favor. Sometimes, you were permitted to sit in on their discussion, though you were not allowed to speak and no one was allowed to speak to you. You sat silent and unwavering like a transformed tree nymph, capable of only observing the events that unraveled around you as you stared at the man who sat in front of your father. 

His name was unremarkable, something you didn’t think you could remember even if it had been carved into your skin. He was not handsome nor ugly, but you could tell by the vibrant color of his chiton that he was of nobility. A philosopher's son, or even a politician. Personally, you guessed a politician due to his sharp tongue and even sharper gaze. Every instance in which his eyes landed on you, you felt as if you needed to check your skin for cuts. 

All the silver in the world couldn’t gild his tongue enough to grant him the ability to convince your father to let him take your hand in marriage. There was no amount of cattle or coin that your father seemed content in trading you for, and you watched in silent horror as the man stood from the table with his finger pointed in accusation. A finger turned into a blade all too fast, and it wouldn’t take long for blood to stain the stone floor of your home. 

In either anger, frustration, or arrogance, your suitor had dared to pull a blade on the man that raised you. His blade was well made, built for killing men, but even in his old age your father picked up the very same knife he used to cut up fruit to carve into the man's stomach. The odor of his offals was putrid and you covered your mouth as you watched the man attempt to keep his organs within the confines of his skin. He failed miserably, and his body joined his insides as he collapsed on the floor as a bloody and gasping mess. 

It was then that you learned love was not at all something gentle and sweet. Love was the spilling of blood in a brash act of violence and the decaying scent of rotting intestines. Love was what started the war of the Trojans where countless men lost their lives in gruesome battles. Helen of Troy brought the end of an empire simply by existing. You had brought the death of a man for that same crime. 

As your father turned to face you with red and sticky hands, he finally realized what a suitor could provide to you that he could not; protection. Because despite his reflexes, and the body that laid on the floor in front of him to cool, his age would soon catch up to him. There would be a day where you would be alive and he would not, and should that day come before you were to find a husband, he was certain no one would live to tell the tale. Your beauty was not a gift from the gods, but a curse that could damn a nation to ruin, and it was his responsibility to ensure you were protected no matter the cost. 

After that day, your father would not accept any more suitors into his home. No matter how much they groveled at the door, or begged to see even the faintest glimpse of you, they were all cast away back into the streets in which they came. For months, your father combed the city himself in search of a man who came even anywhere close to being worthy of your hand. During that time, you only ever set foot outside if you were in the enclosed courtyard of your fathers estate, otherwise you spent most of your time hidden away on the second floor where no visitors, man or woman, was allowed to see you. 

Trapped in your own home, your mind began to wander to places even darker and more morbid than the Underworld itself. If you didn’t walk with such grace and have an air of beauty about you, then you would have never found yourself in that predicament in the first place. Some frustrated and upset part of you was tempted to disfigure yourself. Maim your face with a knife and become something no one could bear to behold. Maybe then at least you’d be able to pick your own husband. But if your beauty truly was a gift from the gods, and not at all a curse like it felt, you wouldn’t dare to cast their grace aside, lest you face the consequences. 

Eventually, your father found a suitable man for you to marry. You had begun to think that he would never be able to find anyone that would meet his standards, and yet one day he returned home with the triumphant news. Your soon-to-be-husband’s name was Simon Riley, and you were to be wedded to him before Apollo drew his chariot across the sky the next day. 

You knew nothing about this man besides the very few things your father would tell you over your last meal together. Simon Riley was an artisan, a blacksmith to be more specific. He often spent his days slaving over a fire as he bent iron and bronze to his will. In your mind you could already see his hands darkened from burns and skin wet with sweat from the heat. A man who could shape something as cold and unforgiving as metal certainly was a man to be reckoned with, yet plenty of artisans before him had asked to wed you. 

What made him so different?

That question plagued your mind in the early hours of the morning as you washed yourself in the cooling water of your bath. Usually a nuptial bath would be given under much brighter circumstances, both literally and emotionally. As a young girl you always imagined that the sun would stream through the window and light up the water in the same way ocean waves sparkled at sunset. Instead, you bathed by candlelight as you purified yourself for your marriage, because marrying off a soiled daughter was unforgivable, no matter how beautiful you were. 

Once you were clean and smothered in as many fragrant oils as your skin could hold, you donned your peplos and veil for the ceremony. Beautiful garments, the white fabric hung off your body and cascaded down your legs like foam, and the veil was as red as a blazing fire to ward off any ill spirits. If this was any normal wedding, people from leagues around would come to see you in your attire, to get a chance to attempt to bask in your beauty, yet it was no normal wedding. The only people who would see you dressed like that would be your father and your new husband. 

“It’s safer this way,” your father attempted to soothe you. The night air was cool against your anxious skin as the two of you snuck through abandoned streets. It had felt like an eternity since you were able to travel along the worn stone, and it was only because you were to be transferred off to the care of another man. “There will be time for proper celebration later. No one will dare lay a hand on you under the care of your husband.” 

An odd tingling sensation plagued your skin the closer you got to Simon Riley’s home, and the moment you laid eyes on the structure, you knew it was his. It felt like it was prophesied in a dream. Approaching the steps to the door felt strangely like coming home, yet it was wrong. This abode would not be a home, but a prison in which to keep you safe. 

As if he sensed your presence, the man who you assumed to be Simon Riley stepped through the door and into the dim street. Darkness shrouded his figure, making it difficult to discern specific features through your veil, but his height was easily noticeable. He towered well above both you and your father as if he were a titan, and he was just as broad as an ox. Power and confidence exuded from him, and the only weakness he showed was a limp as he walked down the steps to the street. 

“Quickly,” your father prompted as the man approached, “lift the veil and she is yours. Yours to cherish. To protect.” 

Simon stopped in front of you and stood still for so long you feared he second guessed the whole arrangement. As much as you didn’t really want to get married, not like that in the darkness of a street in front of a stranger's home, you knew it was necessary. You would not be the reason more blood was spilled over pathetic jealousy. A part of you just wished that everything was as glamorous as was once promised to you. 

Eventually you watched as his fingers pinched the sheer fabric of your veil and he peeled back your disguise with so much care it was as if he was afraid to harm you. There in the dim glow of the impending dawn, you saw your husband for the first time. He stood as tall as a warhorse and just as scarred as one. His nose was large and crooked and adorned with puffy, raised tissue that threatened the thin skin of his eye and tender rose of his lips. Dull eyes scanned the features of your face as he let the veil fall along your back. Despite your beauty, he almost seemed uninterested in you, and you weren’t sure if you should have been grateful for that. 

“It is done,” your father concluded. He held out the leather pack that he had gathered a handful of your items in. Clothes, a few necklaces and bracelets, and a hairbrush was all you had to your name. Should you need anything else, your new husband would provide for you. “Hurry, inside. She is yours, now. Keep her safe.”

Without hesitation, Simon took your pack from your fathers hands before he rested his hand on your low back. Even through the fabric of your dress you could feel the coarseness of his palm as he urged you up the stone steps towards the entrance. You glanced over your shoulder and took in the view of your fathers features. For all you knew, it was the last time you would ever get to see him. 

“You have my word,” Simon promised. Those were the first words you had heard him speak, and they were an oath. 

Pale candlelight consumed you as Simon closed the door behind the two of you, locking you in your new home. It was only then that the true panic began to rattle its cry within your ribcage. You had been given away to a man you had never met before in the name of protecting you, and yet you had still been wedded all the same. There were certain expectations given to a new wife, one that you knew a man would be stupid to not take advantage of with a woman of your blessing. The very idea made your hands clammy, and you found yourself running your palms along your peplos in an attempt to rid yourself of the moisture. 

“Come,” Simon urged as he crossed through the entryway. 

Obeying him, you followed close behind him with careful and light feet as he led you through your new home. There was a vague scent of sweet fruit and warm bread that trailed behind you as he climbed the stairs up to the second floor. Though you tried to ignore it, your eyes couldn’t look away from the obvious limp in his step. His short chiton revealed several gnarly scars on his left leg even more fierce than the ones on his face. It was as if someone attempted to hack his knee off with a dull blade and pitifully failed. Was this man, this battered and ugly man, truly supposed to be your protector? 

Simon brought you to a room that was obviously his bed chambers, and had you not felt slight terror about the events that might unfold in that room, you would have been utterly stunned. Never before had you seen a bed so large. Sure, the man himself nearly scraped the ceiling with the top of his head, and so it only made sense that his bed matched his size, but it was near ridiculous. Its width spanned nearly from wall to wall, wide enough to fit three grown men comfortably, and the length had a good foot on Simon, if not more. There was hardly enough room for anything else in the area because the object took up the entire space of the chamber. 

“Rest. You look exhausted,” he said as he sat your pack on the end of the bed.

Confused, you looked up at him with narrow eyes as he gestured to the bed. You had the strange feeling that he would not be sated until you were at least seated on the bed, so you followed his outstretched hand and sat on the edge of the bed next to your pack. It was strangely comfortable, and dipped in low enough to swallow you whole. You wondered how much wool was used to create such a plush mattress. 

Instead of joining you in bed, your husband took a step toward the doorway before he turned to face you once more. Early dawn light bled through the closed wooden shutters on the window, which illuminated his face but didn’t make his features any less dull. 

“Help yourself to anything. What’s mine is yours. Plenty of food in the kitchen when you get hungry. If you can’t find something you need, ask,” he explained simply.

He spoke to you as if you were some lowly slave, and not his wife. His wife who had caused the death of a man just by beauty alone, a woman who had men lining up for miles for the chance of laying eyes on you, and he spoke to you like that? 

“Where will you be?” you questioned. 

“Working,” he answered gruffly. “My forge is in the courtyard. Don’t walk out there barefoot.” 

He didn’t give you the chance to ask any other questions before he limped out the doorway where his footsteps fell heavy against the wooden floor like thunder. There you sat, at the edge of the bed, still in your wedding clothes, abandoned by your husband. Still, an odd relief washed over you at the realization that you were alone. He had not stripped you bare before him and fucked you into that ungodly large bed like you had expected him to. Grateful that you had not yet had your virginity taken from you, you did as Simon had instructed. It had been over a day since you had last properly slept as you spent the entire night getting ready for your rather depressing wedding ceremony, and that weight bore down on you relentlessly. 

Removing your peplos, you donned a much lighter chiton before you stood at the side of the bed. Wool and animal skin blankets laid across the bed in layers and you peeled them back to crawl underneath. As you sunk down into the mattress, you were enveloped by a scent of musk and fragrant oils that was oddly intoxicating. The weight of the blankets on top of you held you in place, willing your eyes to close. Simon Riley was a strange man, but at least his bed was nice. 

There were many things you learned about your husband that day, none of which he told you himself. He was a very quiet man who truly spent most of his time working at the forge. On the first day you had been wed, you snuck a glance out of one of the windows to watch him work over sweltering coals and steaming air. Though his legs seemed lame, his arms had no such problem. Thick muscles flexed and went taut as he brought his hammer down upon white hot metal to bend it into shape. Sweat lined his brow, which he would wipe at with his forearm every now and then, and though his face was a right mess, you realized the rest of him wasn’t too bad to look at. He knew how to make a variety of things, from tongs to signs to swords, and he was paid handsomely for his work, judging by the large pile of coins and bartering items you would find on the table at the end of the work day. 

He never sat down for proper meals, but while he worked he ate enough to feed two grown men, which only made sense given his size. Lamb seemed to be his favorite, and there was plenty of it. Dried and seasoned jerky, a leg he would roast on a spit to then shred and add to bread, or even some he would fry in a pan. Your help with anything was unnecessary. He never asked you to cook, or clean, or assist in selling his products; Simon was completely self sufficient. 

The thing that caught you most off guard about him was the fact that he slept naked. Your first night together, while you were already in bed, he shamelessly stripped his dusty chiton off and tossed it on the floor, baring himself completely to you. It was your first time ever seeing a man naked, and even in the darkness you could make out the silvery scars that tore through his skin. He was completely covered in them, and you couldn’t help but wonder which of the gods had cursed him with such a body; something that could have been strong, beautiful, and powerful, only to be covered with errors. 

When he climbed into bed next to you, your eyes couldn’t help but glance further down to where his cock hung heavy between his legs. He wasn’t even hard, yet the size of it matched that of the rest of him, and you could feel your heart jump in your throat. Yet that night he still did not take you. Instead, the two of you slept on opposite sides of the bed facing away from one another with nothing but empty space between your bodies. He would not fuck you, and that confused you. Something must have been wrong with his body, littered with scars and abnormalities. Or maybe he was the only man in the entire world who was immune to your gift from Aphrodite. 

If you remained a virgin for much longer, perhaps you could escape and become an acolyte. 

The next month went by like this. He would speak a few words to you, spend his entire day working, and then sleep naked next to you in a bed large enough for a bear. He was not cruel, at least, in fact he was quite the opposite. There was always enough food for you that he would set aside on a special plate, and he bought you a new chiton when you had accidentally torn your old one, but no matter what, he did not seem interested in you. It was as if you were something for him to take care of, rather than something for him to love. 

But that was what your father had wanted for you, wasn’t it? 

Like a caged dove, you spent most of your days peering out of the second story windows to gaze at the city. Busy streets bustled with traders and artisans alike, and you would watch them mingle as they weaved between buildings like ants. On windy days you could smell the salt of the ocean, and you would long for the days when you were a young girl, collecting shells along the shoreline as sea foam gathered around your ankles. Things seemed more colorful back then. As a married woman, everything in your world seemed to only be the shade of stone. 

One day after a heavy rain, some excitement had been brought back into your life. It started with the sound of triumphant horns followed quickly by cheering. Deep, bass drums echoed throughout the streets, drawing you to your window once more where you saw countless men in a march spanning further than you could see. Their red chitons and leather armor branded them as soldiers, and you watched in awe as they paraded through the streets after what was obviously another successful campaign. 

But there was one soldier above all others who towered over them upon a warhorse adorned with armor and a mighty spear. Even from a distance you knew that this man was John MacTavish. He was a soldier bred and born for war as if the only thing he knew how to do was kill. People often said he was bestowed his gifts of war by the God of War himself, Ares, and it was a tough speculation to deny. Countless lives had been taken by his hands alone, and no matter the odds of the battle, he always came home victorious and smiling. You had seen his face only once before in the last victory parade he marched in, but you could never quite get his grin out of your mind. 

“I’m heading into the city,” Simon said behind you. 

Despite his sheer size and thunderous footsteps, your husband had managed to sneak up behind you, startling you half to death. You spun so that your back was to the window to face that goliath of a man with a racing heart. 

“Will you be alright on your own?” he asked. 

Still trying to calm your racing heart, you nodded. 

“Good,” he concluded as he began to walk away. “There is a sword in the kitchen. If anyone attempts to harm you while I’m gone, use it.” 

He didn’t give you any time to explain that you had no idea how to wield a sword, let alone kill a man, before he vanished down the stairs. Moments later you heard the doors to the courtyard open and close, and Simon’s body melted into all the other figures in the streets below you. It wasn’t his first time leaving you alone, after all, he had to get materials for his work somehow, but it was his first time instructing you to use a sword to protect yourself. You figured the countless soldiers that flooded the city had him on edge.

But if that was the case, why would he leave in the first place? 

As you waited for him to return, you couldn’t help but meander down to the kitchen in search of this sword he instructed you to seek out. It didn’t take you long to find it, as he had left it right in the middle of the table next to your lunch. Beautiful iron extended strongly a good foot or so in what was the most well crafted shortsword you had ever seen. Dark wood formed the grip, and there was a flared base made of gleaming brass for the pommel. This looked different than his other works. There was more flair to it, like it was more of a gift than something he would sell for coin. 

With tender fingers, you reached for the grip and took it in hand. Its weight was heavy, more so than you had anticipated. Holding it was awkward as it felt like it wanted to fall forward no matter how high up you held it, and you huffed as you attempted an amateur swing. Unsteady, your strike would have hardly broken the skin of any intruder. When you set the blade back on the table, the memories of your dead suitor bubbled up in your mind. The sheen of his blade as he drew it on your father, the blood and offal that spilled on the floor shortly after, and the reeking stench of death that followed. You weren’t sure if you could ever do such a thing. 

Simon was gone for only half an hour before you heard the sound of the courtyard doors swing open with a creak. You gazed down at your half empty plate where you had snacked on fresh fruits and cheeses while you waited for his return. Sticky juices coated your fingers which you quickly cleaned with your mouth before you stood from your seat and left to greet your husband. 

He wasn’t alone. Another man accompanied him clad in light armor and a sword strapped to his hip; a soldier, likely one of the men who had just returned home. This man’s chin bore a hefty scar, and still despite it he was one of the most handsome men you had ever laid eyes on. Battle hardened muscles bulged out of his uniform, and your gaze couldn’t help but fall to his powerful thighs as he took a few steps into the courtyard. It wasn’t until you saw him smile that you realized who this man was; this was John MacTavish. The hailed hero of your city, its greatest defender, a man who could cut down hundreds and come back smiling through the blood.

Simon hardly had the time to shut and lock the courtyard doors behind him before John’s hands gripped the fabric of his chiton. Words escaped you but your mouth opened in a silent plea. Were they about to fight? Was this soldier, Ares’s wild dog, about to slaughter your husband right in front of your very eyes? Your hands flew to the doorframe to steady yourself as you watched Simon stumble forward while John yanked him closer. You could already smell the gore, imagine the pink intestines and organs that would spew from your husband’s body and all you could do was stand there and watch in horror as John… kissed him?

This man, this near mythical being who had won countless battles in the name of your city, pressed his lips against your husband’s with such passion it left you stunned. And it was not at all unwelcomed, it seemed, as Simon’s hands rested on the man’s waist and returned the notion, curving his spine enough to meet the man's height more comfortably. As they embraced one another in front of you, the horror on your face quickly melted into confusion. 

“I missed you,” John muttered as his lips separated from Simon’s. 

“I’ve dreamt of this day ever since you left,” Simon countered, his voice more tender than it ever had been with you. 

But John would not be the highly acclaimed soldier that he was if he hadn’t felt the prying eyes staring at their intimate moment. Eyes as blue as the ocean turned to land on you, and your jaw slammed shut underneath his inquisitive gaze. He was not secretive in the way he looked over all your features, scanning first your face and then lower, over the curve of your hips and the hidden flesh of your thighs. While he nearly licked his lips at the sight of you, his obvious attraction did little to cover the confusion hidden in his eyes. 

“I didn’t realize we had a visitor,” John admitted humorously as he glanced at Simon. 

As you waited for your husband's response, you glanced at him in hope to receive an answer to the storm of questions that raged in your mind. But there was something different about his gaze. Rather than contentment, something else ignited in the darkness of his eyes that blazed just as bright as the forge he slaved over day and night. Whatever flat expression he normally gave you transformed into something so shining it almost looked like love. 

“She is no visitor,” he claimed with pride. “She is our wife.”

[brewed-pangolin]

MDNI 18+

Gym Rat Soap is so outrageously possessive of you that if he comes home to you pleasuring yourself, he takes it as a personal challenge and will go out of his way to make you come solely for him.

And he's not holding back. He'll pull out all his pleasure tricks (except pulling out. That's a possessive no no.)

He starts with his usual tried and true method of fingering you so good against the wall that your legs turn to numbed jelly within minutes. Holding yourself up against his chest while you moan his name into the fabric of his sweat ladened shirt.

"Tha's it, bonnie. Ya come for me. And only me."

Next is his feast. Tossing you onto the dinner table like a sacrificial lamb and delving immediately between your thighs. Lapping at your folds like a starved and dehydrated animal. Hell bent on consuming you whole for his own pleasured ego while you cry his name to the heavens and writhe in steady overstimulation.

"Oh my God, Johnny!"

"No God 'ere, lass. Only me."

To finally close out his pleasured torture and culminate in his ultimate taking of you, he throws you over his shoulder and stomps his way to the bedroom to begin his pièce de résistance. Your calves hoisted onto his shoulders, his hands griping like a vice into the sides of your torso as he pistons his cock at just right angle, making you see stars and completely losing the capacity for speech and all other thoughts until all you could think of was him. And only him.

"Jo-, Jo-, John-"

"Tha's it. Say my name, bonnie."

"JOHNNY!"

And with a series of roars that would undoubtedly have the neighbors calling to report an escaped lion, he empties himself completely into the silken walls of your cunt. Marking you as his own as his hips falter. His hands grabbing at your limp form as he cradles you against his chest and reassures just how good you are for him. For him. And only him.

Gym Rat Soap Masterlist

[reveluving]

don’t know if you’re still taking shy!wife requests but if you are what about soap x shy!wife where he sits her in front of a mirror and makes her watch as he plays with her 🤭 but he stops if she looks away

WHY ARE YOU ENCOURAGING FICTIONAL ME’S ULTIMATE KINK UNPROVOKED

Includes: mirror kink (minors DNI!), petnames ('baby'), fingering/fingerfu~cking, thigh-slapping, praising, teasing, edging, mentions of overstimulation

COD x shy!wife thots closed! Thank you, everyone, for your time & amazing minds! I sincerely hope I can do this again with y'all soon! 💌

Come & check out my COD m.list!

It should’ve hit you why he had a sinister smile when you suggested adding a large mirror in the bedroom. Just an innocent idea, you wanted to make the space look bigger.

That was until he came up behind you, toying with the hem of your shirt as he purred.

“Y’don’t possibly think we wouldn’t have some fun with it, did’ya? Just imagine; holdin’ ya in front o’me, appreciatin’ these sweet curves with nothin’ coverin’ ya.”

Your wide eyes weren’t from mortification or anything the like, far from it. But it did make your heart jump like crazy. You were already a little ‘skittish’ at the thought of fully exposing yourself under a bright light, though Johnny, bless your husband, never giving up in showing you what he sees in you, body and soul.

And as he kissed your shoulder, judging by your silence, he knew he got you.

He was leaning against the headboard, his legs spread for you to occupy—handing the spotlight for you to dominate as he worked his wonders in the background.

He had a knack for slapping your thighs whenever his touch jolted you into covering your legs. Not painful ones, not unless you were feeling a tad naughty, just surprising ones, but a warning nonetheless. It contrasted with the way he was kissing you, alternating between soft kisses, the ones where he’d leave ticklish smooches on the corner of your lips, and then sliding his tongue against yours, a sign that he could barely conceal his patience.

Sighing in appreciation each time he spreads your lips with his middle and ring finger.

Murmuring praises against your neck in between his kisses.

“Ah-ah. You know the rules.”

“Y’hear that? Fuck. Y’already clenchin’, baby? Just one finger?”

“Eyes on the mirror, baby. That’s it. Such pretty eyes lookin’ a’me.”

“Can y’feel me throbbin’ against ya? If I just… roll my hips… Oh, y’like that, don’t ya?”

The expressiveness of your husband, his eagerness to please you while making you watch yourself didn’t help. Not especially when he doesn’t hesitate to stop, to tease you further whenever your eyes roll back to the point of nearly closing them.

His middle finger was soaked, and so was his ring. The band glistened in the dim light, having played and plunged in your tight heat like his life depended on it so he could hear your whines grow at a higher pitch whenever he’d pick up the pace. Stopping as soon as you closed your eyes whenever it got too much, too good.

His ring played a huge part in it at the start, feeling you jump each time he pressed the initially cold metal against your burning skin.

He found your attempts to wriggle away from his adorable, with one of his muscular arms folding your chest. All while his hand switched between kneading your beautiful breasts and digging his fingers into your soft skin, just enough for you to feel them the next day.

Your voice came out in a long, pathetic whine before you forced out his name, “Nghhh—Johnny…”

Music to his fucking ears.

His fingers were relentless, continuing to rub your clit feverishly, even when you were already three orgasms in. There was something about the way your lips parted every time, or how addictive how juices felt as they smeared most of his fingers or how ruined the sheets were.

Just how he liked it.

And unless you used your safeword anytime soon, he was already planning on laying you on your back, longing for a taste. The mess you had made on his fingers was just the start, shamelessly licking them off by your ear, and with a pop while locking his eyes with your glassy, fucked-out ones in the mirror.

He wanted, hell, he needed to taste you. The real deal. To flick your clit with his tongue, to tease along your lips from your tight hole and up, to nose at the stain you had left on the blankets from just his fingers stretching you.

Oh, his cock swelled just as his mind grew lighthearted just at the very thought of it.

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

[ghouljams]

Sin Summer (Ghost) Rating: E (MDNI) Words: 3.8k Tags: Ghost x f!reader, tinder au, oral (f!receiving), piv sex, fingering, dirty talk, meet and fuck, pwp, reader sleeps around and no one blames them Summary: You finally meet up with your faceless tinder guy and he quickly takes the number 1 spot on your hookup list. a/n: When I say nothing is abandoned I mean NOTHING. Part 1, Part 3

You're a little nervous when Saturday rolls around, but not any more nervous than you usually are. You're meeting in a public place, and if things break bad you can always scream. Hell if things break good Ghost promised to have you screaming. So one way or the other you get to be loud.

You don't even know who you're looking for, standing outside the bar and waiting for someone to... grab you? Usually you have a photo and can look around but Ghost was insistent that wasn't going to happen. You stare at your phone, at the open tinder dm and the promise from Ghost that he'd find you. He better not be a catfish or you're going to have to do some serious soul searching on your ability to be fooled on this app.

A large firm hand touches your shoulder and you quiet your startle response to something more reasonable for someone camped outside a bar.

"Easy love," his voice is so deep and rough, you pray this is Ghost, because you have to hear this voice dirty talk you. You have to look up to meet his eye. Which is just about the only thing you can meet since he's wearing a mask. You recognize the bottom of it, sort of, from one of his pictures. If nothing else the skeletal jaw print sort of lends itself to a name like Ghost.

"Ghost?" You ask hesitantly, if it's not him you'll sound like an idiot but the way his brows raise at your question give the same answer his voice does.

"The one and only."

"Faceless in person too, huh?" You really don't know what to say, never know what to say at the initial meeting. You both know what you're here for, but it's not like you can really say it.

"Try to be. Still got a mouth under here though, don't you worry." You feel the heat bloom over your cheeks at the same time you notice his eyes crease at the corners. You think he might be teasing you.

"You pull it up to drink I guess," you fish for something to say. Ghost shakes his head.

"Only comes off for one thing tonight sweetheart, and it's not drinking." His voice, God his voice, you think he could read the ingredients on a shampoo bottle and you'd get off on it. Your stomach clenches, eyes darting to his army fatigues. You really hope those are just for fashion.

"What the fuck are we at a bar for then?" You ask a little breathless. Ghost stares up at the bar sign.

"Gotta at least pretend I'm a gentleman," he tells you, "you said we were near your hotel, yeah?"

You grab his hand and very nearly drag him back to your hotel. Fuck it. If he is army you're not getting fucked in a barrack when you've got a perfectly good mattress at the hotel. You're sure he'd appreciate a shower with just the two of you in it as well. If he even wants to spend the night... do you want him to spend the night? If it means morning sex then absolutely.

It turns out Ghost's mask goes up for more than one thing, though you're given very strict instructions to keep your eyes closed for at least half of them.

Eyes closed when he kisses you. His hands are so big, rough with scars and callouses when they cup your face and tip your head back. You think you feel scars on his lips too, the softness of them cut with a raised lines of something, but you can't bother paying too much attention to them. His kissing leads you to believe some very promising things about his head. Lips sliding against yours firm and hungry before you try to get a breath in and he doesn't let you, deepening the kiss with an insistent tongue that makes your head spin from more than just lack of oxygen.

You love a confidant man. A man who kisses you like you're all that he wants, that he needs. You both know you're more than willing, but he still kisses you like you need convincing. His tongue slides against yours, licks into your mouth; he groans when you suck on the wet muscle. Ghost makes a quiet noise into the kiss, soft and a little desperate. You don't know if you'd considered how much he might want you when you'd started this.

"Ghost," you sigh when his lips leave yours and attach themselves to your neck. He hesitates, like it's the first time he's heard his name said like that, before diving in to bite you, hard. You tip your head back further with a gasp, the ache of his teeth against your skin makes you squirm, makes heat pool between your legs. You shiver as his tongue rolls over the bruise, his hands tugging at the bottom of your tee. You're careful to keep your eyes closed when he lifts it over your head. "Pants too," you hum.

"Don't gotta remind me," he tells you, fingers already skimming your belt. He barely gets it undone before he pushes his hand into your pants. His tongue clicks admonishingly, fingers skimming your wet panties. You do your best not to follow the firm strokes. "You're really desperate for me, aren't you?" His low tone hits you right where his fingers do. You're glad you're looking at the ceiling and not him, the way he makes your skin heat.

"You're my type," you tell him honestly, hips following the rub of his fingers. Screw it, if he's going to tease you, you're going to enjoy it.

"You should get better taste." You wish you could argue with that, but considering who you brought home he's probably right. You settle on humming, not willing to make a solid noise of agreement or disagreement when he's got his hand down your pants.

You close your eyes when he moves, when he hauls you up to position on the bed. His hand covers your eyes, warm and calloused, and big. It's firm, steadfast, you're almost enjoying the makeshift blindfold situation. Ghost's lips latch onto one of your nipples, sucking and rolling his tongue over the hardening bud. The heat of his mouth makes you squirm, the bite of his teeth just at the edge of too hard. He sucks and laves his tongue over you like he can't get enough of the feeling. You let a whine slip free and he moves his attention to the other one.

His fingers rub you through your underwear, working you up to soaking with practiced precision. Three firm fingers dragging up and down your slit, stopping to circle your clit with each stroke. It's warm pressure that makes your hips cant, chasing the movement. He's teasing you, keeping you just at the edge of eager while he enjoys himself with your breasts. You squirm a little and his touch slides further up to occupy itself with the waistband of your panties. You pull your legs up to help him get them off.

Ghost seems to switch gears as soon as they're gone. His hand leaving your eyes to grip under your knees, settling your legs on either side of him and pushing them up towards your chest. He trails his mouth down your stomach, nipping and licking at the soft skin, leaving his mark against your hip before he slips between your legs.

Keeping your eyes closed makes it hard not to flinch when his tongue drags over your slit. Broad strokes as he tastes you, his fingers spread you open so he can wiggle it between your folds and you press your hips into his touch. The hot drag of his tongue as it circles your hole makes you squirm, which makes him chuckle, deep and dark.

"You want me to hold you down?" He offers, the sound of his voice making heat rush over your skin. You shake your head and feel his broad shoulders shrug, you slide your legs over them and squeeze your thighs around his head. You feel him turn and bury his teeth in the soft flesh of your thigh.

It distracts him, you think, when he releases his teeth he runs his tongue along your skin, kissing and sucking at your thigh. His lips are appreciative, even when you squeeze him again. He's teasing you, he's so close to where you want him, working you up without ever touching your pussy. Your stomach jumps, warmth from his breath ghosting against your wet cunt. "I know baby," He groans, "gorgeous-" He cuts himself off, his lips pressing against your leg again before they leave you.

You almost open your eyes again when he fastens his mouth over your clit. You're so on edge waiting for him to touch you that you curl into his mouth, your fingers gripping his short cropped hair. His tongue rolls over your clit sending shocks up your spine. Your stomach jumps and you gasp as he sucks at your cunt, tugging at your clit and kissing your slit. He stirs heat in the pit of your stomach with each stroke of his tongue. Ghost's mouth is like a furnace, one that seems desperate to avoid parting from you. You hardly get a break from his insistent tongue, the sucking kisses, and the groans of deep satisfaction.

Ghost doesn't stop for a second, and the constant attention winds itself tight in the pit of your stomach. You whine, tug at his hair to pull his mouth closer, to keep that delicious suction that makes you want to writhe. He hums around your clit as you feel pressure build quick, before you can even warn him. Your whining grows more insistent as everything goes tight then spasms against his tongue as you come. Ghost doesn't give you a break, tongue stroking your clit as you clench and shake under him.

You jerk your hips when you feel his thick finger circling your hole, and his mouth leaves you. Only long enough to click his tongue and settle a hand on your stomach. He pushes your hips down against the bed, and eases his finger into your still fluttering cunt. "Gotta open you up love, relax." He tells you.

His finger is thick, thicker than some of the guys you've slept with, and you let out a soft noise at the gentle stretch. Ghost hums his encouragement, pumping his finger in and out of your cunt. He kisses your thigh again; you tip your head ever so slightly down and he clicks his tongue again. "Eyes up," He reminds you. You tip your head back, though you ache to get a look at the mouth that so expertly took you apart. The mouth that seems to still be trying to take you apart, because as soon as your head is back he's licking your clit again.

Your too sensitive, you have to force yourself to stay still, though his hand holding you down helps. You can hear the wetness between your legs, from his mouth, from his fingers, from your drooling cunt. Ghost hardly gives you a moment to adjust to the feeling, crooking his finger to stroke against your walls while he sucks. You clench around his finger and feel his tongue lap a broad stroke over your cunt in return. He waits for you to relax again before easing a second finger into you.

The burn of the stretch, just a bit too soon, is perfect. His fingers tug at your hole, sliding slickly in and out of you. It's just enough to make you feel full without filling you. Fuck it's good. Ghost strokes your walls, his fingers easing the stretch with gentle movements. He presses up against your soft spot and you let out a breath. You can hear the smile in his voice when he mumbles,

"There she is."

It's the only warning you get before his fingers are thrusting into you with a purpose. Short, quick, and precise, hitting your sweet spot with every stroke. Your stomach jumps and you clench around his fingers. He sits back, his hand leaving your stomach to hold your legs up, keep you from gaining any leverage as your back arches and you moan. He seems to have a direct line to your pleasure center. Each stroke of his fingers tightens in the pit of your stomach and makes your hips squirm to try and get away from the unrelenting jab of his hand. He's quick and experienced, and your legs shake over his shoulders.

You suppose it should be a relief when he removes his fingers just before you come a second time, and settles your feet on the bed. "Wanna watch you squirm," Ghost's voice is rough, deeper than you've heard it before. His fingers are the same, only this time when you try to get away from them he follows you. You were already on edge but this pushes you over. You buck and squirm, forcing him to fuck his fingers into you harder and faster until you shake apart with a shout and a flood of wetness. It coats your thighs, you know it coats his hand. It makes him groan. It doesn't make him stop. "Again," He tells you, his fingers still working you up quick. You don't have time to recover, your legs only pull up against your chest, desperate to curl in on yourself as the pleasure turns to pain and then pleasure again.

You come with your head thrown back and your fingers gripping the sheets. You shudder as it rips through you without warning, and once again coats Ghost's hand. He draws his fingers from you, and you hear him suck them clean. Somehow the sound makes you shiver.

Catching your breath takes priority over trying to sneak another peak at your partner for the night. You're sticky with sweat, three orgasms in, and you haven't even been fucked yet. You're buzzing just at the edge of enough. A good dick would make your night. To your side you hear the rustle of fabric being discarded. Ghost getting undressed you assume.

"Can look if you want," Ghost's voice is ever so slightly muffled, and when you do tip your head to find him he has his mask on again. You must look confused, because he shakes his head with a chuckle, and glances down to unclasp his belt. "Wanna look you in the eye," He explains, "Hard to do that with your eyes closed."

It's hard to look him in the eye anyway when he looks like that. Your eyes scour over the swell of well maintained muscle and the soft layer of fat that covers it. There are scars too, a whole host of them. They cover every inch of him, slashed over his chest, stabbed in his side, bullet holes in his shoulder and thick biceps. If you had any doubt this man saw combat it was gone now. He must be military, maybe special forces, it explains the mask.

Ghost pushes his pants down and you... well you need to rethink some things.

In your experience men who are criminally good at giving head are making up for something. Men who know how to "open you up" even more so. You swallow looking at the cock hanging between his legs, so long and heavy that it didn't spring up when he shucked his boxers. His fingers wrap around it, giving it a few good strokes with your slick as lube, and you watch the motion hungrily. He's not compensating for anything, he's just a great lay.

"How do you want me," You ask, eyes focused on the movement of his cock as he bends to grab a box from his discarded pants. He hums, tugging a length of condoms out and ripping one off.

"I'll move ya," He responds, rolling the rubber over his dick. A little shiver rushes down your spine, you like a man who knows what he's doing.

Ghost does, in fact, move you. He grabs your hips and drags you to the edge of the bed, the movement so quick and self assured it makes you giggle. His eyes crease at the edges, he's smiling you think, and he keeps smiling as he settles a knee on the bed next to you. You're quick to wrap your legs around his hips, and he's just as quick to pull them off and settle them over his arms. His big hands knead at your thighs, the extra leverage lining you up perfectly with his cock. Despite the angle, you're not using any muscles to hold yourself up, that's kind of him. Less kind when he positions himself at your entrance and tells you,

"Need you to be a good girl and take it," You gasp as he pushes into you, splitting you open more than his fingers could ever hope to, "Think you can do that?" You nod quickly, warmth dripping like honey to pool in the pit of your stomach. He didn't stretch you enough, but you think that might be the point. The ache of his cock stretching you open lets you feel every fat inch of it, every vein that drags against your walls, eased by the slick of your orgasms. Your eyes roll a little when he stops and pulls out a little. You whine, clenching to try and keep him inside, to keep that delicious stretch. Ghost groans, swears under his breath and shakes his head.

You should have anticipated him thrusting the last few inches inside. The hard thrust slapping his hips against yours forces a moan out of you. You arch in his hold, shivery, and glance between your legs as he gives you just a moment to adjust. The thick curls around his cock brush against your overworked clit and you do your best not to squirm. Not that you have much opportunity to squirm when Ghost fucks his weight down onto you. Each deep thrust hitting something achingly good inside you that makes you moan and claw at the arms holding you.

Your brows draw together looking at Ghost, he holds your gaze, his eyes piercing, dark and hungry. He's almost daring you to look away as he pounds into you. You're pinned under him, your legs forced back as he leans over you and treats you to a fountain of praise: "squeezin' me so good," "takin' it so well," "pretty little whore," "made for my cock." Your eyes roll back, the hot punch of his cock against your cervix almost too much for you. He told you to take it, you can be good for him, let him use you after he got you off so many times. That doesn't stop your legs from shaking or your voice from screaming.

There's something covetous in his eyes, something animalistic in the way he fucks you. This round is just for him, and you can take it. You tip your head back, trying to arch your back. Ghost releases his hold on your thighs and grabs you by the back of the neck, folding you back onto his cock. "No, no, sweetheart," He rumbles, leaning to press his forehead against yours, "told you, you gotta take it. Show me how a proper slag gets fucked."

Somehow this angle makes his thrusts more precise, and you truly cannot move to try and escape. You can hardly breathe, his cock fucking all the air out of your lungs. His pace just keeps getting faster, and you can see the way sweat sticks to his brow. You dig your fingers into his biceps, his thighs, anywhere you can try to get a grip as everything starts to hurt too good. You let out a squeak as the heat compounding in your stomach drips out of you. A slow trickle of orgasm that breaks into a flood on the next stroke of his cock.

It's worth it the way he growls when you clench and flutter around his cock. Ghost's thrusts becoming sharp and uncoordinated as he groans out his own orgasm. He rocks his cock into you more gently, letting your greedy pussy milk him before he lets you go to pull out. You feel like a rag doll, the way you drop and splay on the bed to shiver.

You turn over onto your stomach in an attempt not to slide off the bed as you get your bearings. Ghost is quick to scoop you up and deposit you against the pillows, the condom tied off and tossed towards the trash. You're once again moved, positioned how he likes so Ghost can pull you against his chest. You sling a leg over him and cuddle close. He smells like sweat, musky in a way that makes you want to drag your tongue along his collar.

"Twenty minutes," He tells you roughly, "I'll talk about anything but work." You hum, occupied with dragging your fingers over his squishy pecs. He flexes a little and you tip your head to look up at him.

"What?"

"We still got a dozen condoms, no sense takin' 'em home." He raises a brow. You think you're getting better at reading him, you think he's smiling. The offer is light, but sincere.

"Long as I can walk in the morning," You smile. He tips his head, like he's thinking about it.

"We'll see."

When you wake up in the morning it's to a pounding at the door. You grumble and sit up to check the time. You're alone in bed, but the shower is running. Good, he hasn't left yet. Around round six you decided you were getting Ghost's number in the morning, maybe asking him out to breakfast, perhaps even dinner. The clock says six but your brain says it's ass o'clock and whoever is banging on the door needs to gtfo.

You drag yourself out of bed and swipe Ghost's tee from the floor. A souvenir, and a nasty habit you've picked up. You root around for a pair of panties and manage to tug them on as the shower shuts off. You're making your way for the door when Ghost pops out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. You don't have time to admire the way drops of water trace over his back, or the way his hair sticks up at odd angles. He opens the door and leans against the jam.

"Dinnae dae that," Another low voice fills the room, there's something familiar about the accent, "Ya ask for a wakeup call, ya dinnae get ta glare at me."

"You're early," Ghost grumbles.

"Aye, was just so eager to see yer face LT." You pad behind Ghost and peak around his shoulder at the man in fatigues and an army green tee. You could recognize those eyes even if you didn't still feel his smile like an arrow through the heart. Icy blue in a way that makes you think he's from a different planet. Though you know it from your time in Glasgow.

"John?"

[celestialwhoree]

can we get a mid/plus size reader feeling insecure x Soap :,) i love how you write his accent btw

UGHHH I forgot how much I love writing for Johnny he's just the cutest ever I want to squeeze his cheeks and live inside his ribs💕

Warnings: afab reader, tooth rotting fluff🎀

The mirror feels like your worst enemy today. You know, rationally, that you're being nitpicky and self critical, something that you're trying to stop, but today is just - it's not happening. Between PMSing and the giant crater of a pimple that decided to darken your day, you find yourself sniffling, glaring at your reflection like it's her fault.

"Hey, hey, hen?!" You didn't even realise Johnny had come in until you'd felt his calloused hands around your biceps, turning you to face him with his fingers tilting your head this way and that as though to discern what's wrong. "Now what's got ye all sniffly, hey? Ye gonna tell me?" He croons, brushing errant hairs that had been stuck to your face by salty tears. When you look at him, really look at him, at his unfairly blue eyes, framed by thick lashes and sheltered under brows furrowed in concern, you only serve to make yourself feel worse. He's so so beautiful it makes your gut wrench, and you're just you.

"It's nothing. Stupid." You grumble, trying to wrench away and hide your despair. Johnny, like a dog with a bone, won't have it. He's seen you're upset, and now he'll do everything in his power to make you happy again, anything to see that soft smile and a flush on your lovely soft cheeks. "Nah s'no nothin'. If it were nothin' ye wouldn't be crying now would ye? Hm?" It's practically impossible not to melt under that ever soft voice and the warmth of his palms cupping your cheeks, guiding you back out of your mind and towards him. "Just -" You grumble shyly, coaxed by a thumb brushing loving strokes across your cheekbone. "I dunno, I just feel insecure, I guess. Like I'm not pretty enough, good enough. I see all these girls online and on tv and stuff and they're so - so perfect. Why can't I be like that." "Right, ok." Johnny hums, taking a moment to process your words, looking at the wall as he tries to gather his thoughts, which are currently full of 'what the fuck' and 'how could she ever think that'.

"Ye're no perfect." He says bluntly, but the look in his eyes tells you he's far from finished speaking. "Ye're no perfect the same way I'm no perfect. The same way no one's perfect. So what if ye don't look like some shitty model or pornstar or whatever, ye hear me?" Johnny looks at you with an expression somewhere torn between reverence and frustration. "You think that?" You sniffle pathetically, wiping at your ruddy cheeks. "I think that if I wanted some perfect girl with no flaws whatsoever, I'd have to buy some fuckin' freaky sex robot or some shite. But I don't want perfect - and anyone who claims to be a man, but won't go near a woman with a pimple, or fuckin' - shite, I dunno, hairy pits or a wee bit of cellulite - is no man. You hear me?" You nod dumbly, a little surprised by the passion in his outburst, the way his blue eyes burn like the hottest part of a flame. "Real men want real women, and you, my beautiful, beautiful hen, are as real as they come, okay?"

[undercoverpena]

i will wait

johnny 'soap' mactavish x f!reader

wc: 1.3k | fluff w/feels and dedicated to @eowynstwin who i aim to make smile. summary: Knuckles against your cheek as he merges his joy with yours, whispering I love you so only you can hear. 

Things are different when he’s home. 

The sun is warmer, the light having an additional glow; the candles smell stronger, and food has more taste. You told him that once before, that he had such a profound impact on you. His cheeks had blushed, and then he’d kissed you as if he was trying to steal the air from your lungs. 

You like it when his voice is no longer a distant memory, but something dripping in your ear. You’re back to his chest, a hand up and around his neck, as you stand over the hob. 

Yer t’good to me, lass. I’ll remind you of that when I drag you into a furniture shop.

It’s hard, but it’s worth it being with Johnny. He brings laughter, smiles and makes your heart so full, you’re not sure how it ever thumped so boldly before knowing him. He also makes you grin so broad your face hurts—an ache that’s not entirely gone since the moment he slotted himself into your life. 

All of it, the two of you, began with a kind smile as you served him a cup of tea. Him with his cousins, loud and brash, in the cafe you work in. The flirting began shortly after, continuing and escalating when he stood next to you at the fence of a local football game, and it all cemented itself with a kiss—in a village where everyone knows one another. 

Anyone tell yer that you got the prettiest eyes, lass?  It’s not usually the first thing someone says.  Well, y’have. Thank you… Johnny. Thank you, Johnny. 

You did. 

Over and over again. 

But, it’s worth it. The moments in between filled with a loud, heart-filled Scottish family and the constant knowledge that when he’s able to, he’ll hold you close. His arms around your waist, face aching from laughing, cheeks throbbing from smiling. Knuckles against your cheek as he merges his joy with yours, whispering I love you so only you can hear. 

Don’t wanna leave. Wanna stay ‘ere, place my tongue between y’thighs—taste heaven all over again. You keep talking like that, MacTavish, and I won’t let you go. 

It would be a lie to say he didn’t come with loneliness. A sight you didn’t notice in full until the two of you signed your names and a pair of keys were in your palm. It showed itself when he became the man who lives in your home, who isn’t always present. Not just physically, but mentally. 

His things are mixed and merged with yours, sometimes more than others. In good times, there are boots by the doors and a duffel bag left in the way. Sometimes, there’s just your shoes, coat and tidiness. A memory of him, a ghost haunting a side of the bedroom. 

You realise quickly, you have come to hate the tidiness. You like his mess—one caused by not being home long enough to know where things go. 

Foolishly, you had thought you missed him the most when the two of you first began seeing one another. When you had to say goodbye at the airport and hold back your tears which clogged your throat. 

You were proved wrong when you moved in together, staring at unworn shirts with the tags still on, writing plans on the calendar you weren’t sure he’d be here for. Saying goodbye on your doorstep, heart aching, hoping you’d see him in a few months at the very least. 

Occasionally, you’re far more lonely when he’s home. When he’s haunted by the failings, the loss and the little mistakes that mount—even if they never did too much damage. When he’s around you, but not quite in the way you like or are used to… that’s when you long for him. 

Anyone tell yer that you got the prettiest eyes, lass?  You do. Constantly.  Because, y’have. Johnny…

Let me compliment y’, hen. It’s all I’ve wanted to do since I left.

He allows you in when the lights are off, the blankets drawn back, nothing covering either of your skin. Both in a vulnerable state, but never feeling safer. An orange glow flutters in through undrawn curtains, him on his side, leaning on his elbow as he stares at you. Trailing calloused fingers up and over your bare hip, breathe dancing along your collarbone. 

It’s hard. To switch from Soap t’ Johnny. 

He says it as though one is a mask and the other is someone he barely knows. Something you hope you kiss away, reminding him who he is, pulling him back using the thread tied between you. 

How can I help?  Jus’ be you, can always find myself back t’you. 

He likes the stars, how they twinkle. You wonder if it’s a ploy, a way to get you outside curled up with him on a rickety chair and a blanket. His hands all over you, aiming to keep you warm, but leaving nothing but goosebumps in their path. 

Missed y’loads. You don’t have to miss me now. Don’t I kno’ it. 

You show him why he doesn’t need to—taking him upstairs, to the mattress that barely knows him. You let your teeth run along his jaw, hands over his chest. Smoothing over new marks, faded bruises and a wounded soul.

It’s the way he prefers, even if he doesn’t say it. Forcing reasons from his tongue why he just wants to lie in bed, but never complaining when you slowly slide whatever clothes you’re wearing from your skin. 

He doesn’t protest when you throw your leg over his, when you bring his lips to yours—tasting the lost time and love that lives on them. 

You sink down so he fills you like only he can, groaning close to his ear, filling his mind with sounds that can root him here. His hand sliding between you, a smirk elongating, Johnny returning to you—mouth parted, ghosting over yours as he watches in awe and earnestness.

Y’so pretty when y’make a mess, lass— —Johnny— I kno’, lemme feel y’hen. 

Eventually, when the two of you have said all you can say without using words, breath returns to your lungs. Both of you meet messy sheets, and he runs his knuckles over your cheek, a softness in his eyes—a simmering brightness that’ll fully bloom after some sleep. 

You watch him, fingers tracing his chin as he lets his gaze run over you. Likely painting you, committing you to some canvas he has thrown up in his mind. 

He’s drawn you before. Almost as naked as you are now, but there had been no ring on your finger, no sheets under you that the two of you had chosen together. A messier time, when you weren’t sure if he’d always come home to you—not like you know now, eyes catching the glint of the streetlight catching the gem on your left hand. 

“What you thinking about?” 

Sliding up into his cheek, his smile all Johnny—the one which had hooked you in. The one which made your stomach flip and your chest fill, even now. 

“That Gho—Simon‘ll be here in a few days,” he whispers. 

Tracing his bottom lip with your finger, you roll your lips. “And then, I’ll steal your surname.” 

“Not theft if I’m givin’ it y’, hen.” 

Cupping his cheek, you smile as he mirrors yours. “I am so in love with you, Johnny.”

“I love yer too, hen. More tha’ I can put into words.” One of his hands sliding over your hip, eyes shifting, darkening—turning from bright blue into something akin to an ocean. “So, lemme show y’instead.” 

He’s home, you think as he kisses down your collarbone, tongue drawing circles as he leaves a trail over your breasbone. 

Fingers in his hand, wrapping, curling around an outgrown mohawk, gasping as he spells how much he loves you. 

[your-local-simp-writers]

A Morning Ritual

Word Count: 421

Warnings: None

Soap x Fem! Wife! Reader ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

The first light of dawn crept through the blinds, casting a serene glow over the quiet kitchen. You stood there, the warmth of your coffee cup seeping into your palms, lost in the tranquility of the morning. The world was still asleep, and in this rare moment of peace, you found solace.

The sound of footsteps approached, a familiar cadence that quickened your heartbeat. You didn’t need to look to know it was Soap, your husband, the man whose presence was both a comfort and an exhilaration. His arms encircled your waist, a secure fortress in the soft light, and you leaned back against his solid chest.

“Good morning, love,” Soap murmured, his voice a soothing balm. His breath tickled your neck, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cool air of the morning.

“Morning,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You could feel the stubble on his chin as he nuzzled into your hair, a gentle reminder of the man who faced danger every day yet always made it back to you.

Turning within his embrace, you looked up at him, his blue eyes reflecting the love and life you shared. His gaze held a promise, a silent vow that transcended words. You reached up, your fingers brushing against his cheek, and he leaned down to meet your lips.

The kiss was soft at first, a tender exploration that spoke of years of shared mornings just like this one. But as Soap’s hands moved to draw you closer, the kiss deepened, igniting a familiar fire between you. It was a dance as old as time, a rhythm you both knew by heart.

His lips moved against yours with a passion that belied the early hour, a kiss that was both a greeting and a farewell. It was a reminder of what waited for him at home, a reason to fight, to survive, to return.

As the kiss ended, you both lingered, foreheads pressed together, sharing breaths and the silent language of hearts intertwined. “I’ll be thinking of you,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

“And I’ll be here, waiting,” you assured him, your hand lingering on his as he reluctantly pulled away.

With one last look, Soap picked up his gear, his figure silhouetted against the lightening sky. And as the door closed behind him, you knew that no matter where he went or what he faced, he carried your love with him, a shield against the uncertainties of the world.

[yawnderu]

CW: Prostitution, hardcore sex, anal sex, threesome, creampie. MDNI.

Prettiest girl in Edinburgh, Johnny often called you when discussing his sex life with Simon, drunkenly sharing way too much information about all the things you do with him in exchange for money.

Simon was never an easily influenced man, always able to hold his ground no matter what. Johnny's rants weren't what drove him to Edinburgh, no, it was pure curiosity after seeing pictures on your socials, given to Johnny in an almost unprofessional display of trust.

I can see why Johnny's so obsessed with you. Half-lidded brown eyes are fully focused on the scene in front of him; Johnny's burly arms underneath your knees, hands holding the back of your neck and forcing you to look down at the way he ravages your ass in a full nelson.

The sight of your tight ass being stretched wide open is enough to make him hard, but he told you both he's not joining on it. It's downright disgusting, he tries to convince himself, calloused hand running up and down his almost painfully hard cock, rubbing the slick precum that seems to be leaking out of his tip like a faucet.

“Show the LT how fuckin' wet you are for 'im, bonnie.” Johnny whispers into your ear, slowing down for a second to adjust you on his cock before he keeps slamming his hips into your ass, fucking into your puckered hole harder and deeper.

You barely manage to make eye contact with Simon, half-lidded eyes barely managing to not roll to the back of your head at the lewd sight in front of you. He looks too good— too fucking good not to be yours. Your hands drift down to your leaking cunt, two fingers opening your wet cunt for him to see the juices dripping down freely, wetting Johnny's cock and balls.

He tries to be strong, he truly does, but you're straight out of a porno, pretty cunt glistening while you give him “fuck me” eyes. Simon is a strong man— but he's not that strong. Like a sailor being lured by a siren, your pretty moans call to him, standing up to his full height and walking to the lewd scene in front of him.

His bared hand goes under your chin, forcing you to look up at him as he starts to rub his hard, veiny cock on your folds, gathering some of your wetness, his other hand gripping your hip tightly as he begins to sink into you. The sensation of your tight, wet cunt wrapping around his dick sends a surge of pleasure through his body, muscles tensing up as he brings you closer.

“You okay, love?” He whispers into your ear, pulling you back against him and thrusting deeper into you with a more forceful motion once you nod your head. The thin wall separating your cunt and ass lets both men feel each other moving within you, the contrast between Johnny's brutal fucking and Simon's gentle love making being the perfect contrast to make you tighten up around their cocks, arms wrapping around Simon's neck while you bring him closer.

Simon groans deeply as your lips eagerly crash against his, both of his hands now gripping your hips tightly, the wetness and tightness of your pussy enveloping him completely as he holds you in place, thrusting into you with deliberate force.

Johnny's grip on you tightens as he sets a punishing pace, his hips slamming into you with each powerful thrust, brutally fucking your tight, warm ass. The sound of your combined moans and the wet slaps of his hips meeting your ass fills the room, fueling your lust and driving the men further into a dominant frenzy. Simon's grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging into your flesh as he fucks into you harder, deeper.

“Fuck.” Johnny groans from behind you, voice strained with need.

“Gonna fuckin' cum inside ye, hen.” His voice is laced with desperation and need, throaty moans leaving his lips as he slams into you. With one final, powerful thrust, he spills himself inside your ass, emptying his balls deep inside you.

So many rules are being broken— not using a condom, letting them cum inside, kissing... even threesomes are forbidden, yet both men are so worth it.

Simon sets a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into yours with full force. His groans mix with your whimpers and moans, creating a symphony of raw desire, feeling Johnny letting go of the hold only to wrap his arms around you, holding you in place while his cock softens inside your ass.

Simon's pace quickens, thrusts becoming more erratic as he chases his own release, bringing you in for another messy, needy kiss to muffle his own moans. He's lost in the moment, fully consumed by the primal need to claim you. As his thrusts become more frenzied, he can feel the familiar coil of pleasure building deep within him.

His hips jerk uncontrollably as he empties his heavy balls deep inside your needy cunt, being milked by you when he feels your orgasm hit you as well, whiny moans spilled into his mouth. He pants heavily, his grip on your hips loosening as he comes down from his intense release.

Both men carefully pull out of you, setting your tired body down in bed before you're being pulled to a hairy chest you're very familiar with— Johnny's. He plants soft kisses on your forehead, tired words of praise leaving his lips in the form of whispers meant only for you to hear. You feel a stronger pair of arms wrapping around you from behind, your flush pressing against Simon's firm chest as he buries his face on your hair, letting out a deep sigh of exhaustion.

He's definitely visiting Edinburgh again, with or without Johnny. Maybe even make a private Instagram account to talk to you, too.