#cod soap x f!reader

[undercoverpena]

it descends (ii)

johnny ‘soap’ mactavish x f!reader 

summary: all of his touches have grown to be purposeful and thought out—as though he’s continually thinking of all the ways he can burn his prints into you.

word count: 6.7k warnings: spice + smut. enemies(ish) to lovers.

part two of it happens | soap masterlist

4.

At some point, it became less of a want—more of a need. 

Your hands grasp his waist as you pull him through your base door. Yearning for him, finding his lips as eager to be against yours, as yours were for him. Everything else melts away with ease: stress, clothes, control. 

No longer a battle of who can come out on top, who’ll be the one to take and give, while the other receives and gains. 

Your mind is in a daze when he’s against you. His fingers angle your chin up, wrist resting against your neck as he leaves little, to no, space between the two of you.    

All of his touches have grown to be purposeful and thought out—as though he’s continually thinking of all the ways he can burn his prints into you.

Sometimes, he takes you as you are. Likely afraid of moving you, guiding you elsewhere out of fear of it all shattering.

But, sometimes, he takes you on your side, hand on your upper thigh as he thrusts every inch of him inside your cunt. Sometimes, it’s not as slow or as teasing—all bent over, his chest against your back, silky words meeting the back of your shoulder as he stretches you. 

It’s all out of habit now. 

No secret look or exchange of whispered desires. He finds you if you’re not already with him, you find him, fingers brushing his forearm until you tug him into the shadows. 

All this does is prove how thin the line has become. It thrumming in the back of both of your minds: narrow, and quieter, but mainly thin. The same one you promised yourselves you wouldn’t cross, a rule, so to speak.

“We stop this when it becomes something other than stress relief?” “Sure, lass.”

Yet, here he is, and here you are.

His weight on top of you, your thighs spread. Soap’s palm pressed down against the bed beside your head, dragging his cock in and out of you, breathy moans painting the air.

It’s not just fucking, it’s amorous. All of it is further evidenced by your honeyed touches on his waist, nails digging only slightly into his muscles and skin.  

It’s both everything and nothing you deserve. Johnny is good, kind… 

Your head tilts up as he hits that spot—as he presses his mouth against your jaw, the tip of his tongue sliding over your salty skin. It’s instinctive, your hands coming up to clutch the back of his head—feel the length growing, the hawk slowly becoming less and less discernible. 

“Y’everything, y’are.”

He says things like that a lot now. More so in the last week. Since he’d returned with bruises and cuts, bags under his eyes that took days to disappear. It should be a warning, a flash of lightning that catches both of your attention. 

But it doesn’t. Instead, you melt into it, try not to tense when he whispers your name—not your call sign, not lass. Because it’s also always your name now. The noise adds another lick up your spine, the sound making your toes curl and adoration swell in your chest. Because he says it with so much ease it makes your heart swell. You don’t care when he tinges the air with each syllable of it—as long as it's him, and only him. 

It’s further proving how personal this is—how intimate. 

More than you’d expected from someone you began hate-fucking on a safe house floor. That same someone whose eyes had felt foreign to you then, but now you know each speckle of them—know each star that twinkles in the blue galaxies. The swirling array of azure and pleasure which knows each one of your curves. 

“Eyes on me, lass.” 

And you obey, quickly at that. You let him see into your soul—all the darkened spaces you hide from the others. If he sees them, he says nothing, just holds you a little tighter, fucks you a little more purposefully. Dousing all of them in shades of blue and brightness, before cementing them with his smile. 

The same smile you know you’d kill for. 

The one which makes something flutter in your stomach and hurts your brain from trying to understand and unpick. It forms a lump in your throat, the same one which keeps appearing and disappearing for the last few weeks. One he must feel as he shifts his hips—changes the angle, brushing the head of his cock against a spot that makes you gasp. All aimed to make you forget and unfocus—

“Johnny.”

“I kno’, I kno. I got you, Hen.” 

Sliding your hands down his neck, you know this. Your palms pressing against his muscles—letting him take and fuck, fuck and take. Your fingers feel each contortion, each movement as he thrusts into you, your gasps and breaths mingling with his. 

It’s not hard not to commit each scar, each line and muscle you feel. Piecing together a person and the stories you’ve been occasionally allowed to hear. 

“Missed y’, lass…” he moans.

Your mind melting, freezing—further worsened by his hand on your lower neck, index and thumb pressing against your flesh. Your mind is filled with just him, the same words brewing at the back of your tongue.

“I’ve missed you too, Johnny.”

And, while it’s the truth, you’re glad when he kisses you. When he smothers your words, flattens them. Your mind emptying with a twist of his tongue, only allowing a few occasional thoughts to stream through. Except, they’re the worst ones. The ones which you try to bury and the emotions which are worsened with each thrust. The shadows of it all, dubiously blending into a cocktail—its main ingredients are passion and desperation. 

You almost think you can see it in his eyes too, even in the moments when you’re coated in dirt and blood, that isn’t your own. A look which asks if you’re alright—because he can’t trust his mouth too. One which you reply without a word, all curt nod and a smile. 

It’s dangerous, how easy it would be to slide into having real feelings for him—so much so it almost takes your breath. It makes you want to hide, to stop this. To not let things further unravel and bleed wrongly into places they shouldn’t be. 

But, you can’t say no to him. Don’t want to, in fact. 

Even if you can feel it prickling at you, the real danger: all love, emotions and companionship. Your metaphorical walls doing nothing to keep him out—he's already through them, let in by your heart betraying your brain. 

It is corroborated by the way your throat still hurts from screaming his name into your radio. Still able to feel the sand that whipped around your face if you think hard enough about it—the strain your eyes felt, trying to keep an eye on him down the scope to protect him. Helplessly watching him hand himself to danger like he's a human gift. 

Soap made your heart ache when he hadn’t met your eyes later—Johnny broke it in two when he’d snaked his fingers across the seat, but wouldn’t say a word. 

You’re not this person. You can’t be this person. 

None of this is helped by the fact your cunt calls for him, practically whispers and beckons for him across rooms. That you wanted to hold his hand, and never let him fucking go. How without him being pressed against you, a single look can make you squirm. The marks, the ones which he leaves, mixing with the memories always prickle up and down your body just hearing his name. 

You half-wonder if he leaves them to claim you or to make you remember. Each time you wash your skin, dress or move, you feel him. Able to remember how fucking deep he last was inside you, how he finds that spot between your shoulder and neck—the fact he knows which way to move his thumb to have you clamp down, screaming his name. 

Just as he’s doing now. 

Touching, thumb circling and circling—

And then pleasure. 

Nothing but pleasure, white and him. Always fucking him. 

5. 

In a place where your bodies were still cloaked in sweat and salt, where breaths were still heavy—a place between panting and normal—you didn’t ask him to leave.

His thigh against yours, slightly resting—but not quite. 

Your body is still thrumming with pleasure, considering how many unstable steps it would take to the bathroom—too tired to care that he’d carry you if you asked. 

A part of you, the one you try to ignore, is happy he’s here. 

Images of him sleeping beside you tugging at the corners of your mouth, thawing the ice you scooped around your heart. The Soap-shaped-hole in your walls, how it isn’t even a focus for you to rebuild—leaving the bricks and dust in a heap in your soul. 

He’s stayed before. When your bodies are damp from showers, muscles tired from fucking, brains emptied of the day and the dread that consumes you both. You’d meant to tell him to leave, to go—but his warmth had been far too inviting, nice, and almost normal. 

Now, he stays. Born from the feelings you won’t acknowledge or accept, but stand prominently in the corner like a shadow. They hang over you when the two of you are sent on opposing causes—eyes catching when you both get to see one another. A mutual understanding, appreciation and gratitude that you’d both survived. 

“Glad y’back, lass.”

You just smirk, the voice in the back of your hand ruining it—his kindness, his smile. He’s just thankful he still has someone to fuck. You don’t reply, don’t speak because of the sarcasm drenching your tongue, poisoned by your mind.

“I mean it, y’know.” Don’t. Please. “I am a good fuck, if I do say so myself.”

You see his face drop, but you move away before you can take it back. 

Hiding, busying yourself until he finds you hours later—lips on your neck, hands in your hair. Words washing over you that you don’t keep, let them in and let them leave, pulling him close by his belt hoops. It ends with him staying that first night, your fingers brushing against his—the closest the two of you have allowed yourself outside of fucking. 

And then the morning came, and he was gone. The blades of the chopper still swirling, mingling with your worries, concern and—

Something which knots at the back of your throat. 

It not ridding even as the days drag on, flowing harshly from one to the next until he lands back—eyes cutting into him, spotting each new cut and bruise, listening as he tells a lot of stories. He always has so many. 

Not that you mind. You just listen, his voice has grown to be a calming treat. No longer grating, but pleasant—coveted. Like most things to do with him, it crept over you slowly. It changed more delicately than the seasons. 

All of this coming to you, crashing into you like a wave as your head rests against the pillow, staring at him, watching him rest on the back of his arm before you move. You know if you stay like this, you’ll curl into him—and that’s too far, too much. 

“What’cha thinkin’?”

You smirk, sliding up onto shaky knees as you move down the crumpled sheets, hand planting on his naked thigh, watching him watch you. 

“Gonna make you feel good, Johnny.”

“You already do, la—fuck.”

His words are cut off by your tongue licking a stripe up his cock. Tasting you, tasting him—tasting the two of you.

It was normal to feel something for the man you’d been fucking—that’s what you told yourself as you took him in your mouth. Feeling him harden against your tongue as the thought circled over and over. 

It was normal to miss him, to crave him—to feel practically desperate for him. It had to be. You refused to think of it as anything but that.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass,” he whispers, bringing you back, hand in your hair—spit hanging off your bottom lip as you look at him. 

Fuck, if his eyes weren’t the most beautiful shade of blue when he was beside you. 

A colour that isn’t quite cerulean, or azure. Something oceanic, that made you want to dive in, let it coat all the sides of you, live there—be there, swimming and diving in it. You were blessed with the sight of them more frequently now than ever before. Them always just being blue before, now they’re a shade you can only name Johnny. 

It’s why you let him stuff your throat with his cock. “Fuck my throat, Johnny.”

His eyes widen, turning the entire room blue as he shuffles and you move, his cock almost making you choke as tears brim in your eyes. 

You just need to not think. 

So your hands clutch the back of his thighs, rooting him here—with you. Silencing your mind as you hollow your cheeks, clenching your thighs together as he groans and hisses. Expletives coat the air, mixing with hisses and your name, until he coats your throat in his spend, swirling your tongue over his sensitive tip to lap every bit he’ll give you. 

You don’t remember moving, but you do recall the way he brushed your tears from your cheeks. The way he ran a damp cloth over you, knowing the two of you had showered earlier. But, it was the kiss against your forehead which carried you to sleep and the feel of his fingers running up and down your arm that let the night take you. Resting for the first time in days—doing so until you didn’t. 

Woken both rudely and pleasantly by his fingers curling inside of you, your cunt making lewd noises at his insistence—

Oh, wow. 

His tongue glides over your bundle of nerves, making you almost buck. It’s too much and yet, not quite enough. A perfect tease, just like him. His eyes glance up at you, meeting yours for a second before he’s lapping, sucking, tasting all of you. Yanking and collecting all of your pleasure until you’re almost rendered fucking useless.

Because you will be if he continues. 

If he drags another one out of you. 

Your muscles still hurt, the few hours of sleep, not enough respite for how good it was last night—this morning, who even fucking knows. 

“Jus’ making you feel good, Hen.”

Your chest explodes, his hands grasping yours as he dips back down, tongue plunging inside of you as your fingers blend in between his. The two of you are either making up for lost time or running from realisations. 

The back of your neck is still sore from how he held it, pounding into you as the shower water rained down on the two of you—efforts of cleaning one another lost, forgotten—

“So fuckin’ pretty…” 

You almost don’t hear them. The words. So lost in memories and the sound of your ears buzzing as waves of pressure and pleasure build, build, build—

“Wish you wouldn’t say that,” you whimper, wishing it came out spitting and full of fire. 

Your eyes clench shut, hand releasing his, grasping at the sheets instead as he curls two fingers inside of you, finding the spot which turns you into liquid. Cool breath dancing over your cunt, almost blowing it out as a sigh. 

An exasperated one. 

“Why? It’s true?”

You don’t mean to lift, meet his eyes. Don’t mean to let him in. Let those fucking eyes creep in past your lashes and see inside of you—see how complex and chaotic it all is. How messy and full of doubts, insecurities and the lasting words once said by your mother all live there.

Because he’s between your fucking thighs. 

His tongue, lips and chin glisten with your sex. 

“Hey,” Johnny says, lifting his head higher, keeping his fingers in place, but still, “Yer the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen, lass… fuckin’ gorgeous y’are.” 

Your face heats, cheeks burning. 

The buzzing back as he slowly begins to move his fingers, feel him shifting, moving ever so slightly closer towards you. 

And something shatters, willingly—having needed to if it was going to allow something else to grow there. To allow this, whatever this was becoming, to break through and bloom. 

But you shut it.

Slammed the symbolic door through your eyes. Barricading him back out, halting it all…

“Just lemme fuck you, Johnny,” you whine, grasping his wrist, and removing his fingers from inside of you. 

His protest is quickly muted by your lips, you pulling, grasping until you’re easing him inside of you and you can rock your hips against his.

This. 

You like this. Him on his back, hands on your hips—you in control. You also like how he stares up at you, almost hearing him say those words all over again, but you blink. Twisting your hips, vanishing them away, filling the space between you both with his name:

Johnny. Johnny. Johnny.

Feeling him let you. Hand clamping onto your waist, but it’s different from last night. The way he’s looking at you is too. 

It all forever changed.

Fucking hell. 

Fuck.

Fuck.

“Come for m’, hen. I got you.”

And you know that. You hate that you do.

Hate that you feel safe with him. Your eyes clench shut due to the fact. Tears brimming for a different reason—because he’s not just in your cunt and between your thighs, but in your fucking heart. The bastard, the handsome fucking bastard. 

6.

He’s aware of the line. Aware that he’s put his boot over it, but he doesn’t care for the mess that’ll spread because of it.

All he wants is you.

He decided on it a while ago, accepted it a month ago, and has been thinking of nothing else for weeks. Soap doesn’t care how much you let him in, as long as you do. He’ll take the snippets, the small moments where your eyes shimmer and glisten—where the only darkness in them is from lust and need, and not faux hatred. 

Even if you still throw up a wall when his hand releases your skin; when he turns for a second to dress and returns to find you cold, blank and empty all over again. He’ll take it all. 

The line vibrates somewhere in the distance, blinking and winking that he should have known better. But, he could say that about so much that he does. 

Like how he’s at your front door. Chipped paint and slanted numbers, the peephole covered by his thumb as he knocks. Because if you know it’s him, you won’t answer. He knows that much about you. 

When you answer it, your eyes staring up at him, his hand slowly lowering from knocking—he sees a lot flutter across your face. Anguish, concern; embarrassment and relief. He’s not sure which one to cling to, even less so when you lean out, checking around him—either for others or for neighbours. He can’t be sure. 

“You’re here…” 

He smirks. “I am.” 

Because, how could he ignore your call? The one full of soft tears you pretended wasn’t flowing, the same one that said you wished he were here. Something he thinks you’d quickly take back now he is here.

Those four words kept him going when his eyes were heavy on the long drive; the ones which boosted him as he stared up at the many stairs to your flat. 

Each pellet of water drips from his hand and his sleeves land in a puddle where a welcome mat should be. Falling against trodden takeaway menus you’ve not picked up—it is the only sound and the only thing anyone would be able to hear, outside of two pulses hammering. 

They’ve been off base for three days, and it’s been two days since your drunken call to him. One since you’d sent him a text asking him to ignore everything you had said. As if he ever could. 

It had been the only real thing the two of you had exchanged other than your bodies. An insight into you, a peek into what goes on in that head of yours outside of looking fucking beautiful and sarcasm. 

“I hate being home. It reminds me that I’m alone, that I’m scarred and fucking broken.” “Yer not alone, lass.”  “Ha! Why cause I’ve got you?”  “Yea. You always got me. Even if you don’t wanna admit that, let yerself think y’have no one when it’s the first best from the truth.” 

You look hollow. Like the break from the demand of both of your jobs has carved something out of you—a light, a passion. 

One he decides, there and then, he’s going to try and fill, replace. A pull inside of him to smother your woes with himself, to make your mind stop rolling a broken thought. You do that—stab yourself with shards of lies. He watches you do it, commits to his mind—later bringing his thoughts to life with black graphite, sketching the curve from your frown before erasing it and replacing it with a smile. 

If only it was as easy to do in person as it was on paper. 

A minute since he’d proven he hadn’t done that. 

“Y’inviting me in?” 

He watches you consider it. Run through all the possible outcomes, but your body sidesteps all the same. He smells the notes of recent cooking mixing with a lemon scent. A scent he finds is all you when you’re here, something light, airy. One he knows he’ll happily let cling to his skin, clothes and mind. 

Because it’ll happen. It always does. 

The two of you were bloody magnets, always finding one another, seeking each other out and digging into the other, desperate to cling on. 

“You slept, lass?” 

He knew the answer before you shook your head, the evidence in the bags under your eyes. The ones which are darker, more swollen than he’s seen before. And he’s seen you after being awake for three days straight; he’s seen you covered in dirt, sweat and insolence, but this is something else. 

He touches you gently, half-expecting you to crack down the centre. Your edges peel from your centre, and fall to nothing right in front of his eyes. He’s happy you don’t move. If anything, you remain perfectly in place in your small hallway, staring at him, waiting for him to move more deliberately.

Which is why the dance is so familiar now. The way his hand moves to spread across your cheek, the way you curl into it, allowing him to kiss you, to taste you. Mint and coffee mix with the tip of his tongue as he deepens it, pushing you back until you meet a wall. His other hand hooks your thigh. 

He doesn’t take your clothes from your skin as quickly as normal. He takes his time. Unwrapping you, time on his side. The light of the day shimmers through your blinds, painting your skin in yellow and warmth. It’s not until he reaches your underwear does he remove them tentatively, kissing each bit of skin he can as it unveils itself to him. 

You're quicker and more rushed. Either desperate to feel him or to feel something. His jumper, belt, and trousers were all left in discarded piles from the hallway until your bedroom—until all that remained was your underwear. 

His focus is on your hands. How they slide through the long-length hair, pulling and angling his mouth against yours with newfound desperation that makes him moan. 

He could almost convince himself that he could have this. 

You. 

The two of you. Together. 

He likes how you let him spread you open, that you kiss him like you never want him to stop. And it feels different. This. 

Each time the last few it has felt more intimate, more passionate. The longing all underpinned by something he couldn’t quite see, but can feel has its own pulse. Something uncontrollable and alive. 

Your eyes focus on him, unwavering and it almost takes his breath from his lungs, because you’re beautiful. So perfect. 

He’s always thought it, even when you were snarky, even when you were being difficult for the sake of being difficult. That look in your eyes that would make a lesser man cower, but made him stare more boldly, because lass, that won’t work on me, even if it very much did. 

He’d been unwilling to really see it, take notice of it. Not afraid, but reluctant. Now, it’s all he saw. Your beauty. The one all the others had allowed themselves to notice freely, without concerns of blurring lines and difficult emotions. 

He lets himself taste you. Runs his tongue across your cunt before finally plunging it in, fingers digging bruises into your inner thighs as you try to clamp them around his ears. And fuck, if this wasn’t heaven right here. 

You squirm when he flattens his tongue; you whimper his name when he circles your clit. Each sound captured by his ears, his hips rocking gently against your mattress—throbbing, pulsing all for you. Because fuck you do something to him—something he burns into your cunt with his mouth, telling you in the only way you’re prepared to hear him right now. 

“M’gonna come, Johnny.”

He’s doing this to you. 

Those flush cheeks, lips slightly parted, shoulders propping you up against full pillows as your jaw tightens. He’s doing this to you—he’s making you feel good. 

It’s like music to his ears and a sight he had never known he craved. His pursuit continues until he feels you tense and he tastes your high. It stains his tongue, lapping it up until you’re trying to pull away—I’m too sensitive too much, it’s too—ah, much, Johnny. 

It’s less desperate and more prolonged when he finally slides up, hooking your leg over his waist, and he fills you. His hand holds your cheek, something he both loves and knows you need. Slowly, carefully placing his forehead almost against yours—

Almost. 

Your lips ghost over his, there is barely any space between the two of you. All he can think is: I never want to leave. Not here. Not you. 

But the words don’t leave his tongue. They instead get balled up, rolled to the back of his throat before he swallows them. Focusing, changing tact, shifting to capture each moan you let out, each whimper you let escape. And when it hits, when he pushes you to the brink, you free fall for the longest time and he just watches in awe. 

Because fuck, you’re a vision. 

Both with a gun in your hand, more so coated in blood and a blade in your palm—but this is up there too.

It's different in your bed, your body tensing, heels digging into him as your nails cut into his waist as his name is ripped from your throat both willingly and reluctantly rolled into one. It’s more intense, more freeing—your pleasure going and going, and going. 

It’s why his own shatters at the sight and sound of you, filling you, coating your walls in him as he grunts out your name freely, and loudly. White hot pleasure drenches every tense muscle and removes every worried thought over what he’d find when he arrived at yours. Leaving just this and you—utter perfection that he adores.  

He kisses you as he slows his hips, all hungry and thankful. Both for letting him in figuratively and literally. Your breaths mingle with his, chest rising and falling as he pulls you close to him, holding you until you push him away—which he knows you will.  

Each second that passes, he thinks will be the last. His lips break from yours, the rain hammering against the window as the sun tries to poke through the clouds. It paints your room in a yellow hue, one which makes your eyes more bright and more beautiful than normal.

“We have to stop.” 

You don’t let go, don’t move from his embrace. 

Your legs remained tangled with his, the same as his clothes were still in a mess somewhere in your home—the one you wanted him in. He pulls for a sheet, bringing it up, letting you fall from his arms, noticing the brief gap you form from him. 

“Y’keep saying that.”

“And you don’t listen.” 

He expects you to snap, but you don't. Not really. 

And all it does is baffle him. You had confused him—had been difficult to understand from the beginning to now. You’re layers of skin, muscle and bone, and under it all, something he’s not sure he wants to be without. 

Truthfully, it terrified him. 

How his mind had become full of you. How he liked hearing your pulse as much as he liked hearing you say his name. 

“Do you wan’ me t’, lass? Want me t’listen as yer tell me not to find you, when I know yer need me?”

“I don’t need you.”

“Yer don’t, do you?”

Glaring for a second, you swallow, yanking your eyes from his. 

“There’s no one else, lass. Not f’me. Is there for you?” 

The answer, it floats in your eyes. He can see it. How it’s slid from your brain to your tongue, eyes afraid to blink. Knowing he knows. Seeing it, processing it—fucking hating it. 

His fingers find your chin, pulling your eyes to him, and for a second—the briefest one—he forgets how to breathe as your face softens and unfurls. 

“No,” you whisper. “No one else.” 

His fingers stroke your chin, accepting it—letting it linger between the two of you. And then, his lips find yours, body slowly covering yours. 

You welcome it. Thankfully. 

He feels your arms slide up around his neck, pulling him closer and closer, parting your thighs for him again. But it’s different—it’s changed. 

7.

It hurts.

Both the bruises on your forehead and the hole in your arm. 

You try to slam the door behind you, hearing it not connecting with the frame but a person—one who has been charging after you. A person annoyed with you for self-discharging, for being angry in the first place. 

You round on him, quickly—almost offsetting him with how quickly you 180. 

”Fuck me, Johnny—“

“Lass, you are injured. Y' shouldn't... you shouldn't even b' discharged.”

You give him a poignant look. One that screams that you aren’t fragile, that you’re not made of glass. Even if your bone throbs, held together with sheer will and pins. 

Something he knows.

Something he has felt, seen and pushed to the breaking point to prove. Yet… 

He’s not a painkiller, but you wish he was—knew he could be. Knew he could rid even the worst thoughts from your mind, so why could he not do it with pain? 

“Please.” Make me forget. Like we always do. Please, please, please…

The lines on his forehead lessen, his sigh escaping his nose slowly. “Don’t look at me like tha’. Yer had a bullet in your arm, y’need rest.”

“Babe…”

“Babe, aye?”

You swallow it. 

His questioning tone and look of surprise and the sting that accompanies it. 

In your defence, it had slipped out—slithered past your tongue, having woven its way out of the chest marked do not open. 

Turning from him, you bite back a hiss as you try to remove your t-shirt, your muscles screaming as you do. Each tendon begging you to stop, to sit, to rest, to not fucking move. But you need it off. Unable to breathe, to think of anything but—your teeth sinking down into your cheek until you taste copper as you yank, tug and pull—

“Steamin’ Jesus, c’mere,” he says, his hands coming to help you remove it.

He turns you. A disapproving look etched into his face, sliding it over your injured arm with more care than you’d have put him down for.

Then it vanishes. Gone. Stolen. 

His face is all kinds of different, his eyes not lowering to your chest and bra, but rather remaining on your eyes. And it feels… wrong. Even if it doesn’t. Even if everything has flipped and changed already, you still think—hope—he’ll want to go back to mindless fucking you. 

It would be easier. Less complicated and messy. No feelings to unpack and unknot from inside of you. No confusing questions needing answers that you’d have to fish out from inside the parts of you that you hide from.  

You want to move closer, kiss him, make it different—shift the moment into something you’re used to. Make it feel more like the usual. Because this doesn’t feel right…even if it is.  

The two of you are closer than just getting naked and fucking. 

It isn’t just grappling hands and pleasure, this feels like something else. Born from it? Yes. Derived from the times you’ve both shared. It standing in the corner, staring you both down—

He moves around you, stepping closer to your drawers, and you hear one draw open and close before he’s back in front of you. His hand holding a t-shirt, one of your favourites—the same one you’d been wearing when he turned up at your door those weeks ago.

It almost makes you cry. Almost. 

You are somehow able to stem it back, hold it back with sheer will and fucking determination. Especially when Soap doesn’t speak, just eases it over your head. The baggy material floats down over you as he helps ease you into it, cautious with your arm and the bandages wrapped around it. 

“You need t’ rest.” 

It leaves his lips almost quietly, as though afraid any louder and it would break the air. The air crackles; it thrums and shudders out of tension and apprehension—because this is the turning off of the tide. Especially as you almost say: I just need you. I want you. 

A choice needing to be made. You’d thought it when he skidded to you, kicking dirt up around you as he grasped your wound—face whitening. His words of comfort fell with ease, not caring for the eyes—the people, the team or the fucking mission.   

The line then had just blinked and shone; now it flashes incessantly. 

Your arm is throbbing, aching. A reminder of how easy it is to lose—for something to slip and spell disaster. The team, all of you, rely on each other to have a level head. To be there. 

“C’mon, let’s get y’into bed—“

You almost melt into it. His touch. It would be easy too, to let him care—to let the person you care about, care about you. To let his arm wrap around you, mind running away, imagining the way it will feel to lie against him, curl into him clothed. Maybe even let his hand rest against your cheek, stroking it; maybe even have your clothed legs tangle in his, nothing sinful, just innocence. 

But… you can’t. 

Your feet stopping, halting. Eyes glance up at him, pleading that he’ll snap out of it too. Remember why this started. How the entire thing is born of a need to feel alive, to root one another; the next time a stress release, nothing more, nothing less. 

This isn’t that. Not anymore. It’s something that could be real. And real means something costly, something which could break and hurt—far worse than a bullet, knife or bomb. 

“I don’t… I don’t wanna do this anymore, Johnny.” 

He’s smiling. 

It clicks that he thinks you mean something else. That you don’t want to get into bed… 

He nudges your good arm. “Why? Yer saving yourself for someone else now?” 

You say nothing. But, your face must say it all. 

Watching his slowly sink, the balloon inside of you bursting—it deflating in your chest. The look on his face makes your heart plummet, and sink so fast it’ll flatten at your feet. 

The despondent look cracks the outer edges of you, snapping the places he’s healed. And this is just a taste of what it would look like to hurt him, to disappoint him.

“I just… I just don’t think I like you like that.” 

Lies. Lies. Lies. 

You twist it, the metaphorical knife. It's all there in your hand and now lodged into his chest as you hold his gaze. Needing the words to imprint, to fucking stick. 

It’s the only way to fix this, to stop it all before it splinters and you’re both left with nothing. 

His smile is the last to fall. It clearly having held onto you taking it back, but now it is so telling. 

It fades as the seconds sneak into minutes. 

It falls slowly at first. Then it falls fast, taking the shimmer from his eyes—tainting the hue of blue you’ve come to know better than your own eye colour. Realisation stealing, snatching it all away, as his eyes say the words he’s too afraid to say: Did I mean nothing else to you? 

You're thankful he doesn’t ask them. Not sure at what volume you’d tell him that he means everything, and that’s why you can’t do this. 

Why this has to stop…

“That so?” 

You swallow, trying to keep your voice still. “Y-yes.” 

He nods, stepping back. Trying to disguise his hurt as well as you’re hiding what a lie all of this is. The gap feels wider than a step or two. It feels like the floor has cracked and ripped you apart, and your good hand pinches your thigh, grasping to the pain, letting it centre you. 

And then you smile because it’s easier too. Fewer muscles are needed to make it happen. You slowly step back, watching him watch you. 

“I should rest, so…” you announce. 

His jaw tightens, and then he nods. 

Not a Johnny nod, not even a Soap one. A soldier-nod. A clinical, devoid-of-emotion nod that makes your whole chest explode into shatters. 

You silence the cries to stop him, the voice in your head telling you to reach out to him. Not moving from your position, not fucking able to, until he slams the door behind him. The room rattling as it rips through you, the loss—all punctuated by the sound. 

It cuts worse than anything you’ve ever known—it hurts more than being awake when they removed the bullet. All of it is made worse by the way the room shakes from his exit, the echo and earthquake left by his departure. The photo frame on your bedside table wobbling, and wobbling—

and wobbling. 

“S-shit,” you whimper, tears falling free and fast. 

Your good arm coming up to cup your waist, your other hanging limply, without purpose. You know you should move, but you can’t. Standing, frozen in the spot where everything broke in two. 

A part of you, the sane part—the one which let him in and welcomed him—wants to run for him. To tug him close and tell him you lied. That you fucking lied, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. 

Your legs are aching and shaking. All tired and without energy, not even a reason to hold you up anymore. Wanting to sink, to let your knees crash into the concrete floor and bare-thread rug, let it all unfurl and spill from you.

Bang. 

You jump, eyes blinking, focusing. Desperately ridding the tears back so you can see, finding him.

Soap… Johnny, standing in your doorway, glaring until he isn’t. And then he’s moving towards you, door slamming again, a whole different expression knitted into his features. 

“Yer aff yer heid if yer don’t think I know…”

You lift your chin, unsure why you do it defiantly, angrily. “Know what?” 

You say it as if there aren't tears on your cheeks, as though him being in front of you hasn’t stopped the shards from your heart from hitting the ground and cutting you. 

“Tha’ yer like me, lass.” 

His hand grasps your waist, pulling you close—the bare knuckles off his other hand wiping your cheeks. 

“I kno’ it, ‘cause I like you too.” 

“Then you’re an idiot.”

“Aye, probably am,” he says, cupping your cheek. “Don’t care like. If that’s alright wir’ you.” 

You stare at him. 

Letting yourself be bathed in Johnny-blue, noticing the hair band—your hair band—still on his wrist. 

And then he kisses you. 

Differently. Explosively. Life-changingly. 

Your mind is thinking only one thing as you kiss him back: It’s alright with me, Johnny. 

an: just know, the seventh scene ended when he slammed the door on the first draft, so you're welcome that i added a part of the next chapter here.

part three of it happens ->

#soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish #soap 🧼 #soap mactavish #soap squad #soap mactavish x f!reader #soap mactavish x female reader #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish #cod x reader #cod soap x f!reader #cod soap x reader #cod soap #mwii x reader

[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 . · ˚

#— reve's reverie 🌹 #— reve's asks 🌹 #eyes locked hands locked series #soap #soap x reader #soap x f!reader #soap x you #cod soap #soap mactavish #soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x f!reader #soap mactavish x you #johnny soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish x you #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x f!reader #johnny mactavish x you #johnny mactavish #john mactavish #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish x you #cod #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #cod mwiii #cod mw3

[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?

#call of duty #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #cod mwii #johnny soap mctavish x you #johnny soap mactavish smut #cod smut #call of duty smut #ghoap x reader #drabble #johnny mactavish x f reader

[cordeliawhohung]

this filth is brought to you by this post here

cw: dub-con, choking, slight power play, shameless smut

Johnny was always more akin to a dog than a man. That fact never changed. Not even when you had him splayed out on his back so you could bounce yourself along his cock.

Heavy breaths mingled in the space between your lips and his as you worked on splitting yourself open on him. His eyes were drawn to the way your cunt effortlessly drew him in and spat him back out, puffy lips eating him whole like it was the only thing you were good for. A grin had been stuck to his lips for so long you were almost certain his face didn't know how to make any other expression by that point, and he allowed praise after praise to flow from between his pearly whites.

"Look at you, bonnie," he cooed. His fingers wrapped around your wrists as your hands rested against his chest in order to support your movements. "Love takin' my cock, don't you?"

Ignoring him, you continued in your endeavor as you attempted to chase your high with knees aching and thighs burning from the exertion. He couldn't tear his eyes from you as his hands began to wander along your body, caressing every inch of your skin that he could reach. The tips of his fingers dug into the sides of your hips as he reached up, pawing at your breasts, grabbing onto any bits of you that he could. Really, you didn't mind the rough and calloused palms of his hands along your skin. If anything, the pressure felt nice - until it didn't.

"Ow," you hissed.

Johnny's fingers had gotten a little too eager by the time he reached the sensitive skin of your nipples, and he pinched the hardened buds a bit too hard for your liking. Instinctively, your hands shot up to push him away from you, and though you didn't cease in your movements, cunt still swallowing him greedily, you shot him a glare.

"That hurt," you warned.

"I'm sorry," he said, though his tone didn't seem all too apologetic. "Just can't get enough of you. Not when you're bein' so good to me."

Though you had slapped him away, that didn't deter him at all from continuing to explore your body. He started off gentle at first, as if testing the waters after you chastising him, but gentle fondling turned into more pinching, which then turned into scratching, and when you opened your mouth in a painful squeak, you knew you had finally had enough.

In a fit of annoyance, you slammed your hips against Johnny's once more before holding still, and you reached your hand out for him. And you swore you aimed for his jaw. All you wanted to do was grab his chin and force him to look at you, to listen to you, to stop scratching and pawing at you and ruining the mood. But something slipped. Or maybe your aim wasn't as good as you thought it was. Either way, your hand wrapped around his throat instead.

Your first instinct was to take your hand off of him and apologize. You'd never done that before, or even talked about choking or any sort of breath play with him, and you were terrified of crossing a boundary, despite him annoyingly crossing yours. But then you took note of his eyes. How his pupils dilated so much you could hardly make out their beautiful blue hue. His cock twitched inside of you as if begging for more, and you would have been lying if you said you didn't like the way his Adam's apple bobbed underneath your palm.

"Down boy," you warned with a smirk.

Finally behaving, Johnny didn't even bother with a verbal response, and instead nodded his head with his lips slightly parted, utterly fucked out. Once his hands came to rest peacefully against your hips, you began your movements once more, and somehow everything felt better. It was like you could feel every pulse of his cock as you worked at him, and your walls fluttered furiously as you quickly approached your orgasm.

Maybe it was the power you felt flooding through you that made you so much more sensitive. The look of awe in Johnny's eyes, his pulse hammering against your fingertips, his heavy and labored breathing from the lack of blood...

When you next slammed your hips against his, you kept still as your body jolted with searing pleasure. Even though you weren't the one with a hand wrapped around your throat, you panted as if you couldn't get enough air, and your hand slid away from Johnny as you leaned back and let the hormones wash over you. A heavy layer of sweat coated your body thickly, and you chuckled as you wiped some of the moisture off of your chest.

"Didn't realize you were into such naughty things, MacTavish," you teased with a chuckle.

The sentence hardly left your lips before your words were cut off with a squeak. Your vision was sent spinning for a split moment before all the air was pushed out of your chest from the impact of your body falling against your bed. Somehow, Johnny had managed to turn the tables in the blink of an eye, and you found yourself on your back staring up at him instead of the other way around.

A grin obscured your vision as he stared down at you, arms on either side of your head as if he kept you caged. He stayed like that only for a moment before he leaned back in order to get a better look at you, and though his pupils were still blown wide, something else glinted in the depths of his gaze.

One hand reached down to grab himself where he lined his cock up with your soaking entrance, and the other hand snaked up your body. At first he started along your stomach, and then he moved to the dip between your breasts, and then he returned the favor by giving a firm squeeze around your throat. Your breath hitched, but just like Johnny had reacted previously, you were unable to speak. All you could do was lay there and look up at him with wide eyes as he sunk into your needy hole, stretching you out for all you were worth.

"You've no fuckin' idea, bonnie."

#soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #soap smut #john mactavish smut #cod smut #f!reader

[yawnderu]

Can't stop thinking about Simon crying while making love.

It's all too tender, too soft and loving, the sheer adoration in your teary eyes forcing him to swallow down the knot building up within his throat as his thrusts grow deeper, his calloused hands displaying an uncharacteristic amount of gentleness as they roam all over your body.

His warm face finds shelter on the crook of your neck, hot, deep exhales hitting your sensitive skin as tears slip out of his closed eyes for the first time in over a decade, his pale nose growing rosy against you as he sniffs, not wanting to dirty you with his runny nose— not wanting you to see him as pathetic, not wanting to explain that it's the first time his body belongs to him, the first time he's willingly sleeping with someone.

Your soft hands are a sheer contrast to the roughness he's used to, caressing the bumps from his scars with nothing but pure reverence, coming up to the back of his head, pressing his face closer to your neck, thankful for the choked sob that leaves your lips at the trust he's displaying, as it muffles his own.

#simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #call of duty #ghost cod #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #mw2 ghost #ghost #ghost x f!reader #simon x reader #ghost simon riley #cod mw2 #ghost x y/n #ghost x you #cod mwii #mw2 fluff #mw2 fanfic #cod #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 x reader #mw2 #mw2 x reader #mw2 x you #ghost x reader #ghost x female reader #soap mw2 #modern warfare 3

[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?"

#cod x reader #x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #simon riley cod #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost mwii #ghost x f!reader #x f!reader #f!reader #Sin Summer #john soap mactavish #cod smut

[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

#super soap sunday #soap squad™️ #gym rat soap #hes definitely my dom soap #hes such a menace #i love him #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #john mactavish #soap mactavish x f!reader #soap mactavish x you #johnny mactavish x f!reader #johnny mactavish x you #soap smut #cod soap smut #cod fanfic #call of duty #cod

[undercoverpena]

it happened (iii)

johnny ‘soap’ mactavish x f!reader 

summary: for weeks, one single thought has been creeping up on him—sneaking its way out into the daylight, prickling his skin and threading through his mind: he doesn’t know how to live without you. word count: 5.7k warnings: injured reader, but happy ending, promise. spice + smut. lovers to relationship.

part three of it happens | soap masterlist

8. 

He wishes the day ended differently. 

For weeks, one single thought has been creeping up on him—sneaking its way out into the daylight, prickling his skin and threading through his mind:

He doesn’t know how to live without you.

For a while, he envisions it’s been tucked away, festering in the back of his brain. Growing over time, slowly.

Likely somewhere between kissing you and stuffing your throat with his cock. Becoming more apparent in the small window when things turned from a quick fuck to something more gentle, something he wanted to prolong. 

There's a high chance it was when you stopped calling him Soap and called him Johnny. Not just when the two of you were alone, but out with others—shoulder close to his. 

But, truthfully, he’s been finding the thought more incessant when he’s lying next to you, sweat still clinging to his skin. The words sliding around his head, bouncing from one side to the other. Not wanting to move, to jolt it away, because your fingers are drawing a pattern on his stomach—something he’s come to like. Something he craves—just your touch. How it’s direct, purposeful, and wrapped in a personal touch. 

“I like you being around, even if I don’t show it." “I know you only keep m’around ‘cause ov’ my cock.” “I’d still keep you around even if your cock got chopped off by Ghost, Johnny. You’re a nice pillow.” “Cheers, hen.”

Now his cards are on the table—his feelings. All unwrapped in front of you, having thrown them at you like an angry present. The bow coming straight off, the paper disintegrating before the two of you. 

If he was thinking straight, he’d have delivered them better. Presented them in a kinder format. Instead, his heart had been in his throat, hammering and thumping as he wiped the tears from your cheek. The ones you’d refuse to say were spilled because of him. 

He didn’t blame you. He wasn’t sure if he’d have been willing either—but the adrenaline forced his hand. Made him run headfirst and care about it after. 

Just like he did on assignments, operations—missions. The same ones you glare at him for, not outwardly telling him what’s wrong, but it's clear from your face you're not impressed. 

You worry. And it’s why he worries. Because you rarely show any emotions when it comes to him, you are so hard to crack, so hard to see through. But, over time, you’ve allowed him in—and what he once recognised were unimpressed glances, he suddenly sees are secret distress. 

The two of you put the job first, the task. But as it approaches a year of that cabin and what transpired, the worry of losing you appears like a jack in the box. It shoots up, bouncing in front of him when you’re talking to him—when you’re letting him in. 

You could lose her. You’ll lose her. You’ll lose. 

It’s why sometimes he holds you a little closer, lets you groan against him as he keeps you pinned to him—sheets tangling around both of your legs. He savours it. Let the moment steep until the corners of your mouth rise less sarcastically, your breaths slowing, before you brush knuckles against his cheek. 

You want him to hold you, he can tell. You just won’t ask. Afraid, maybe. 

And so sometimes, he doesn’t give in to his wishes and instead respects yours. 

But, he should have taken his time today.

He would have done it, had he known how the day would end. He’d have taken his time. He wouldn’t have made it quick, rushed the time alone. He’d have spent longer touching you, making you keen against his hand and he wouldn’t have bottomed out in one quick thrust. 

His mouth would have spent time leaving marks on your skin, instead of setting a brutal pace that had the name Johnny kissing the air in bursts. Mostly, he’d have spent less time bruising his fingers into your hip bone—sinking his teeth into your shoulder—and more time staring into your eyes. 

“So fuckin’ pretty.” 

“You s–say that so often, it’s going to st–fuck–stop meaning something.” 

His hand had brushed over your collarbone, sliding up against your neck as your lips parted. “No, it won’t.”

He watched you smirk. Just lightly—just enough. Lips twitching around your impending pleasure that’s ready to wash over you. He liked you like this. Liked consuming you—claiming you. He also liked watching you squirm, writhing under him, the room dyed in the squelching noises coming from him fucking your cunt. 

The memories of the morning kept him entertained as they were dispatched. You sat far away, head turned, talking to Price. His eyes occasionally glanced your way, wondering if he should say something, anything. A ‘good luck’, a ‘look after yourself’. 

Now, he wishes he did. 

The whole thing went to shit the moment their boots hit the ground. Your radio messages fragmented, cracking—Ghost’s voice stern, trying to ascertain what it was you were saying. In and out. In and out. Those were the words Price had said. 

And you’d gone in, like planned. Alone while the others caused a distraction—you’re good. Quick. Talented. But, you’re also on the opposite side to where he was stationed—and you had failed to come out. 

In and out. In and out.

“LT—“

“Find her.” 

He nods, trying not to focus on the tone. The edge to Ghost’s voice and how it tinged with concern. He’d become softer, less Fort Knox and more regular prison walls since Graves—especially with you. Your dry sarcasm and focused energy likely made it easy for him. 

You made it easy for all of them to let you in. 

It’s all he thinks as he entered the building, sweeping the corridor, turning and turning, corner after corner. 

Then he sees you. 

Sees you break for reasons completely opposite to how he’d made you break this morning. 

He didn’t move to check the other body in the room. He knew they were dead, disposed of. No threat. He knew because of the way you were huddled into a corner, knowing you’d have done the job before you tended to yourself. 

You do that a lot. For as heroic as you say he is, you’re not that different. 

His hand clenches as the air is tinged with the horrid sounds of your breaths—all ragged, desperate—punching each one out into space. 

For a second, he just stares. Watching. Boots gelled to the floor unable to shift himself as he watched scarlet coat your fingers. His own worries building, anxiously swirling, rendering him fucking useless. He can’t lose you. Not now he has you. 

“J-Johnny.” 

He blinks, and then he moves. Your fractured voice yanked him from his frozen state, his heart attempting to break. 

He tries not to let it. 

It does all the same.

You broke right at the seams. 

Falling into the corner, panic setting in—bathing you, dousing you. Your breath is jagged, uneven—your thoughts jumbled, and your training all out the window.

You picture him, initially: Johnny. 

How crestfallen he’d look, how full of sorrow—likely even able to hear his heart descend to his feet. For that reason, you hope he’d leave you behind. Go on—not ruin the images of you he has by seeing you like this. 

Because if you look how you feel, you’re not a pretty sight, and this morning you'd been…

This morning was nice. Maybe too nice. Your hips rolled with his; your hand almost reached for his, wished to grasp it close, press it against your skin. 

Now, you wish you had. 

Wished you’d stolen a moment, had something to call back to as you tried to not bleed out across the dirt and dusty floor. 

All because of a knife.

One you’d not anticipated, one you hadn’t expected. 

Fool. You’re a fucking idiot. You can hear Ghost spit that you are; hear Price ask if you’d lost your mind. You guess you did—allowing yourself a moment to think of this morning. Of how full you’d felt; how empty you felt before. Now, you feel even less. 

Your hands shake, tremble. They clutch the slits of your skin together as your eyes flick up—hoping, praying, seeking. And then, there he is. The light from the world outside the room all haloed around his figure, making him look like an angel. You guess he is. 

He saved you, without knowing you needed to be saved. He was a rock, something to cling to when the sea battered you against the sand. He was… hope, in the dark and something entirely too good for you and—

It had been the very thing which infuriated you, to begin with. He was good—too good. They all did good things, but he did them without thought. They came naturally, being a hero—doing right for the cause. That and the fact he couldn’t meet your eye, couldn’t spit a response at you.

Now, all he did was talk, and you lapped up each word. 

“J-Johnny…”

His eyes fell, face dropping—shattering amongst the bullet casings and blood. 

Thick, horrid, throat-choking sobs dilute the rest of your words. Suffocating them as he slides to you on his knees, hands unsure where to go. The panic evident as you clutched it—held the weeping wound as best as you could. 

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. 

“Let me see, lemme see… steamin’ Jesu—Yer gonna be alright—We just need a medic—look at me.” 

You flicked them up, meeting blue—all-Johnny-fucking-blue—his hand, rough and all coated in your blood as he grasps your cheek. 

Flashes of memories. Ones where he’s lying next to you or hovering above you, ones where he’s caging you against the wall and when he’s pressed you down against the washer. All of them rush you, overwhelm you…

And you want more of them. 

Your lips curl, opening—all cracked and sore—as you try to get yourself to say that. To say you want more of him, more of them—

“I need t’move y’, ‘kay? I gotta move y’, hen. Then can fix y’. Keep y’with me.” 

His other hand slides under your legs, preparing, staring into your soul as he tries to soothe it. He does. He always does. 

Has done since that first night, splinters in your thighs as you grasp onto him. The quieter moments, where the two of you simply lay breathing, no other sounds, allowing it to ferment and develop. 

You don’t tell him that enough. That he matters to you. 

There’s a lot that you don’t tell him, truthfully.

Secretly keeping it buried inside, afraid to lose—afraid to have something and then not. You’d done it once, loved and lost. It hurt. It broke you. The shards of yourself barely back in place before you ended up here, with a new family—new people to care about. To fall for. 

But, for him, you fell all the same.

You’d do it again, too. Over and over. You’d jump, leap and fly. 

“Y’not leaving me, lass. Y’hear me.”

You smile lazily—and it hurts to try. Head sliding into the space near his neck, your hand desperately clutching at your own stomach. 

“Arm round m’neck, hen.” You pause, afraid to taint the back of his head and helmet with blood till he stares—waiting, both patient and impatiently till you do, your eyes watching as blue and black swirl in his eyes. “Good girl, such a good girl. This’ll hurt, I’m sorry…” 

Don’t let me go. Don’t let go. Don’t go.

It should hurt. It prickles, and nicks. But it doesn’t make you burn as it should. Instead, you’re so fucking cold. 

“—I’m so sorry, so sorry—”

So damn cold it hurts. 

Bone-chillingly, so. 

“—Hold on, lass. Y’hear me.”

You nuzzle, smelling him—salt, sulphur and sweat. Hoping to capture as much of it as you can, just in case… your eyes unable to stay open, hand unable to remain on his neck, on your stomach—

Especially as you jolt, bounce—

Black.

You’re under his skin. 

Like exploded ink swirling with his blood. He sees that now. How you’ve spread and seeped into him—stained all of the parts of him. How you’ve bled beautifully across his heart, forever ruined. You don’t heal him, but you make it easier to smile, to breathe. 

And it’s enough. More than he really thought he’d have in this line of work.

Which is why he needs you to wake up. Needs your eyes to coat his skin. Desperate to hear your voice, your laugh. 

Soap brushes his hand against your cheek. It’s natural, normal almost—thankful your skin feels warm, and soft, even with the nicks and growing bruises. 

“Yer scared me, hen.” 

He says it to no one. 

You’re not awake, not in a coma either. You’re somewhere in between, not lost, but not found. There’s no way you can hear him, but he speaks to you all the same. 

It’s why he lets his fingers do a slow stroke of your cheek, unable to hide how calming he’s finding it as his shoulders sink into their usual place and his jaw loosens its iron grip on itself.  

“Dunna think I can live without yer. As… terrifyin’ as that is to admit.”

He drops his hand from your cheek to clutch your hand. Contemplating whether to climb in beside you, now there’s no medic hovering—no one else here, busying themselves. 

“Glad y’not awake, y’d be fumin’ with me for getting all emotional.” 

He moves, and stands. Cautiously easing himself down beside you, trying not to move you, trying to crush you. His hand slides up to your jaw and cheek, clutching your skin as he listens to the soft patter of your heart—happy he hears it, proving you’re alive. 

At one stage—one horrid stage—he hadn’t been sure you would be. So pale, so lifeless, the wound on your stomach continuing to leak scarlet over the evac floor as he dug his elbows down into his knees. 

They perform miracles, the medics. 

He knows that. Puts all his faith in them. Knows there were plenty of times he’d been in their hands…

But he couldn’t lose you. 

His grip on your jaw almost tightens, except he doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want to leave any more marks on you the world hadn’t tried to paint. 

His own lashes were heavy, a calmness spreading from being close to you—just like he’d been yesterday morning. Yesterday when things were different, your body beside him, under him, against him—

“Hi…” you croak, eyes still closed.

Pausing, he doesn’t dare move, afraid he’s hallucinating it all—you, your voice. 

“…D-Don’t stop. Feels nice.” 

And he sighs in relief. His heart leaps, both up and down, bouncing in joy as he fights, pulling you close. His lips twitch, teeth pinching the inside of his cheek. 

“Hey, lass.” 

“You miss?” 

He nods, even if your eyes are closed. “I missed, hen. Fuckin’ Jesus I missed.” 

9. 

He’s begun making a habit of kissing your scar. 

Even if your body is adorned with little stories, here and there. Some silver, some pink and some he knows and some he's never asked about. It's the larger one which demands his attention.

Before your newly acquired one, he loved kissing your shoulder. It made your chest heavy, almost bloat. He'd been all concerned with it, as if somehow he was to blame—but, now that's quickly forgotten. It’s no longer deemed as kiss-worthy as the one which runs along your stomach. 

Not that you care. 

You like running your fingers through his hair when he’s kissing along your hip bone. Your cunt fluttering around nothing, desperately craving his fingers, tongue or cock. 

But, you wait—patiently. Having truly been able to master what that even means when you had been banned from overexerting yourself. Taking the simple things for granted like his chest being between your thighs and you being able to run your nails along his scalp.

You'd been allowed to kiss him, to have him close. Johnny had allowed that. Given into that, even if at first he'd been reluctant. Not wanting to hurt you, not knowing, because you were too afraid to tell him, that by not it would hurt far worse than a knife.

Plus, there's nothing quite like Johnny kissing you like you’re the only air he ever needs. It makes your toes curl, your thighs desperate to wrap and cage him close, not wanting him to be away from you.

But, it's easier to just hold him close than tell him he’s all you need, too. 

Now, though, you can bask in the moment when he descends down your collarbone, kissing the skin under your breasts before sliding down to your naval, kissing the healed scar and its tingly nerves. Usually, you watch his eyes flick up at you, bathing you in blue that makes it feel like you’re swimming. Your breath hitching, knowing that look—how it’s accompanied by a slow, taunting descent as the tip of his tongue makes a path down to your cunt. 

“Don’t tease,” you whisper, pleadingly. 

But he will. 

He gets some sick satisfaction from making you wait, from torturing you. You don’t blame him. You enjoy doing it back. Slow torturous kisses up his shaft followed by slow swirls of your tongue over his dripping head. 

“Like takin’ my time wit’ yer, lass.”

He savours you now. Likely has done for some time.

You're unsure when it changed. When it went from chest pressed down on a washing machine, fucking into you like he’s running out of time to this. Now, it’s locked doors and holding you close, pressing your spine against the inside laundry door, slowly filling you as he holds you up, close, with nowhere to go. 

As if you want to be anywhere but with him. 

You blame the injury. He doesn’t treat you like you’re fragile, but he doesn’t fuck you like your robust. Not since you bled over him, since he paled in front of your eyes and you stole all his cockiness. 

Now, it’s like he needs to remind himself you’re alive—and he does so by making you mewl, moan and whimper. Both of your previous coping mechanisms for stress and hate have now developed into something else entirely. You know you’ve sunk to your knees for him, taking all of him down your throat—tears springing to your lashes—just to remind him he had someone. To root him, fill him with a reason to come back to you, to find you, to let you in. 

If it wasn’t for Price, you wouldn't have known it was reciprocated, that same yearning, same need to keep hold of him. 

Price told you that you broke him—snapped Johnny in two. 

“Like a kicked puppy, that one. Half-surprised he didn’t piss a ring around y’bed. Wouldn’t even get himself looked at. Practically wore the floor out, turnin’ on the spot.”  “No he wasn’t.” He assures you he was. “Heal up, alright? Need you back with us.” 

That had been over a month ago. 

Now he’s lying between your legs, very much whole. Treating you—rewarding you for not giving up during sparring. Even if you’d wanted to. Even if all your muscles burned in anger at him, especially when his body was close—a grey t-shirt clinging to his muscles from sweat, looking every bit carved and god-like even in clothing. 

You hated it. How fit he was. 

How weak you were. 

He saw it, must have done—you did a piss poor job at hiding it. And so he blackmailed you—tempted you with the only thing he knew he could give you, and him alone. 

“Think of it like this, Hen. Y’get me on my back. I’ll make y’ bein’ on yours worth it later.” “I’ve got fingers, MacTavish.” “Aye, you do. But, your tongue can’t get tha’ hard to reach spot now can’it?”  His hand on your waist, on the good side—staring into your eyes. And fuck, you wanted to kiss him. Wanted to run your tongue passed his teeth.  “And, I kno’ y’love my mouth, lass.” 

He keeps his word. 

Beginning his promise in the shower, water and body wash sliding down your skin as he pins you to the tiles. No touching, just there—all within reach. Letting your eyes follow the suds as they slide down his deep-V.

Then you were on your back, wet towel on his floor, cool air brushing over your still damp skin. 

“Seems counterproductive, showering me, to get me filthy again.” 

“Maybe,” he grins, kissing your neck, the tip of his tongue drawing circles. “But, I’ll never complain about gettin’ and keepin’ yer naked, hen. You’re fuckin’ beautiful.” 

He pulls you from the memory, the one which happened mere minutes ago, as he slides the flat of his tongue against your core. It makes you almost jolt—hiss, moan. His hand pins your good side to the bed. 

“Keep still, lass. Don’t want y’to exert yourself.”

“You cocky pri—“

He buries your words by prodding your cunt with his fingers, tongue swirling your bundle of nerves as you grasp the sheets for leverage.  

You swear he smirks. Can feel it against you as he circles his tongue over you, lapping, teasing, and tasting. Likely fuelled by your desperate whines, the ones he pulls from you over and over again.

He hums, and vibrates his mouth against you as he curls his fingers inside of you—hands clenching around his hair, doing your best to keep your back on the bed. 

He has you at his mercy. Dangling you over the edge, almost allowing you to tip over, coat his tongue and palm in your pleasure.

But, Johnny is an expert. He knows you, what has you whimpering and moaning—and how to keep you hanging. He’s studied what pressure to apply, how to twist his tongue against your clit, until you’re a quivering mess, barely clinging to reality as he pushes you close to ascending.

Your hips buck, but his grip on your hip is stronger.

“Yer taste heavenly.”

You’ll never grow used to his compliments.

The ones which fall from his mouth with ease. The ones which make you blush from your cheeks to your toes—something he must notice, even if he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“Want y’ forever.” 

Your heart rises, doubles and flutters. “I’m all yours, Johnny.” 

You only know he’s heard you from how he pauses, before he continues his assault—and this time he doesn’t dangle you. He lets you fall, right over the fucking edge.

It hits you so fast it takes your breath away, unsure how you had enough to spit his name out—never mind it falling from your lips over and over again.

Johnny pecks the air, merging with whines to make a sound that was sinful, so rich—you’re sure the room would ring off it for hours. Your eyes flicker, glancing down, seeing him lift up, grin adorning his face.

“Yer tired, hen?”

You snort, trying to hide how your legs are trembling. “No.”

“Good girl.”

His eyes a thunderstorm out over a sea—and a fucking sight to behold.

10.

You used to fuck him because you didn’t like him. 

Now, you fuck him because you love him and you’re not sure what to do with it. 

The feelings knotting, amassing into a chunk in your chest. Your lips say as much when they crash against his, pulling him closer by his belt loops. 

“Need to feel you, Johnny.”

You don’t beg. But you do ask, now. Less action, and more words. Your fingers peeled his t-shirt first, allowing your hands to run over his skin, feel each muscle, the thrum of his pulse. The rest fall from both of you, littering the floor as you cling to him, as you palm his want in your hand and he coats his fingers in your desperation. 

There’s a heaviness to each movement. It wraps its fingers around each touch, each noise. It pollutes it, what this could be—something nice, normal. 

Instead, it reminds you of what you could lose. That you could board and watch the base vanish into the distance, not sure if you’d see it again. See him again. 

You’d tried to not let feelings bloom. You’d tried to keep it as pleasure, as stress relief—but you’d liked waking up beside him—loved that he was the person beside you when you’d opened your eyes after surgery. 

While the clinical stench hit you first, then the pain, it was he who quickly followed. Even now, even as you’ve tried to rewrite that moment, you know in your heart you’d wished he had been the first thing you’d felt. Only him. No pain, no smell, not even a noise: just Johnny. 

He must know. He has a second sense for things—for bubbling thoughts and moments being twisted. Or, he has a sense for you, at least. You think it because he’s on his knees on the cold floor, hooking your thighs onto his forearms as he devours you—and fuck does he do it well.

He takes you to the edge, lets you dangle, almost lets it swallow you before he pulls his lips back, blowing cool air along your soaked cunt. 

“Gotta make y’come back f’more.” 

Johnny says it like he doesn’t know. 

Like the idea that you’re in love with him isn’t possible, unfathomable, rather than something which is very much reality. 

Because you are in love with him. It’s a fact. Something concrete. Just the same as you are full of him, once he pushes you back on the bed and buries his cock to the hilt in you. 

It’s filthy—obscene—all the noises you let loose. The ones willing to escape, purposefully peeled from the words that cling to your tongue: I love you. I love you so much. 

His cock hits that spot which makes your legs feel weightless, and you kiss him again, hungrily, needily. His hand fists your hair, each thrust perfectly hitting that spot that made a tear fall from your lash at how good it was—how good he was.

“Fuck, Johnny—fuck.”

It’s the only words you let escape—all you can do. So fearful of those three words touching the air, escaping. 

I love you. 

Your teeth clamp down on your bottom lip as he presses his forehead to yours. His hips meeting yours, another wave of pleasure building and building, all set to crash down and cover you. 

You took it all the same. You’d take everything he’d give you. Your hands grasping him closer, clutching onto him as your throat burns—you’re so full of him, in every sense of the word. You can’t imagine it never being him, not just here, between your thighs but everywhere else he is. 

In your bed. 

In your head.

In your heart. 

His hand knots in yours, fingers on either side of yours as he clamps himself, palm to palm—secretly clamping you. 

And it’s too much. 

It’s so real, so beautiful. You want to deserve it, deserve him—

“Fuck.”

He angles himself, dragging his cock through your walls harder, faster. 

“I kno’, lass. Yer fuckin’ somethin’ else y’are, hen. Heavenly. Fuckin’ goddess-like.” 

Then he plunges you in blue, and stares past your eyes and into your soul. Likely seeing the words, the ones he should have, should be given willingly and not held back by nervous hands. 

“Let go, hen. Let go f’me.” 

And you do. You'd do everything for him.

So, it snaps, the knot in your stomach. The one you'd been clinging to. Your body becomes both tight and loose all at once as you let go, and come around his cock. His name rips from your throat as pleasure, all white-light and flaming-touch, tears through you and consumes you. 

It’s like lightning and fireworks, and everything else when your resolve cracks—his hips still pistoning, chasing his own as your aftershocks continue, as you flutter back down to him.

But, it’s his hand in yours, the one still clamps you here with him that you focus on when you hear him moan your name. 

Your hand remains with his even as he slides himself out of you, his frame falling limply next to you—right onto his side of the bed. The place you always leave free, whether it’s your own bed or his. The place your head is already turned, waiting expectantly for him. So used to all of this now, this routine. 

“When do y’have to go?” 

Your mouth twitches, a longing in your eyes and the heaviness from earlier, settling onto your bones. “I’ll miss you.”

“Aye?”

Smirking, you roll your eyes. Trying to keep hold of the moment for as long as you can. To keep a mental picture of him like this, happy, not fearing and nervous. 

“You’ve prepared me well.”

“Aye. Well. Y’let me.”

You kiss him. 

Not like you’d usually do, but one which says more than you think you can articulate. The movement of your lips is able to write the words your heart is desperate to sing. You keep hold of his hand, quite liking his palm against yours. You enjoy how your thumb can stroke the healed and silver scar on his hand, all from something boring like DIY and not combat. 

You don’t want to stop, hating it when you do. 

Each item of your clothing returns back into place, fixing your hair, and haphazardly wiping anything from your face—pleasure-filled tears or sweat. 

When you leave him, you’re thankful he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t ask you to wait; doesn’t ask for another second. He knows, like you do, that operations wait for no one and those in the dark don’t wait for the sun to set. 

You do hear him call your name, more professional than he had moments ago. 

You turn, walking backwards staring at his head and how it peers around the doorway. “Y’come back in one piece.”

“For you?” you smirk, “I’ll consider it.”

11. 

Now, it's different. 

It began on a dusty floor, and it grew amongst the sand and sheets. 

Your head turns, staring up at him as he adjusts the strap on his vest. His brows pinched, strands of hair threatening to fall across his forehead—his hair so much longer across the entire space of his head. The same hair you ragged and ran your fingers through.

It’s nice to be beside him again. To be allowed to run with them as a squad—your smaller, less combative operations appeasing Price that you’re ready. 

You’re an important part of the team, y’hear me? We ain’t rushin’ it. 

Now, you were glad.

No ghostly pains, just ones from Simon’s stare at your commentary. No pangs or jolts, only when you hear Johnny recommend something dangerous, always involving himself. Even if you know he’ll come back. Even if he’s promised you he will. Your heart lurches each time you think of something nicking his skin, something embedding into his bones—something taking his eyes, smile and soul from you. 

“Yer good?” 

Smiling, you nod, “Aye.”

“Bugger aff wid ye’.”

You smirk, rolling your lips, sliding one hand between your top and vest, staring off at the others checking their gear as you hear him sigh. 

“Try n’ follow orders, lass,” he says in a low voice, “Don’t fancy gettin’ stuck in a dusty safehour wit’ yer. Can’t keep y’warm. Got a girlfriend, y’know.”

Sweeping your tongue across your bottom lip, you fight a grin. “That so? She must be a saint.”

“Aye, she’s somethin’ special, I’ll tell you.” 

“Has to be, to put up with you.”

He keeps his laugh low, but it lights you all the same. Kisses every inch of you, warming you from head to toe. Your skin is desperate to press against him, your muscles and bones calling for him. 

His fingers stretch, flex—ghosting between the gap which feels like miles. You can feel his head turning to look at you, likely watching you as you stare out at the sand—the two of you all kitted up, weighed down and raring to go.

And then he does it, lightly brushing his fingers against yours. It’s the most brazen he’s been—most the two of you have ever been. Even since the two of you became something real, something more than just a rumour and a lie. 

And it’s electrifying and grounding, making your lips twitch, eyes smiling the rest. 

You know he can tell, even from the side. He knows you too well by now, the same way you know him. The two of you have become so well versed in one another—knowing exactly what each muscle change in each face means.

“Didn’t have you down as unprofessional, MacTavish,” you whisper. Just loud enough for him to hear.

Your fingers hooking around his, holding his hand. Tightly. Meaningfully. 

“For you, I’m a lotta things, lass.”

“That so?” 

He smirks, tilting his head, as you raise your chin to look at him. “Good job I’m happy to be a lot of things for you too, then. Isn’t it?”

“Tha’ y’saying yer love me, lass?” 

You smile, staring ahead as you sigh. “No. You’ll know it when I say it. But, I do know you love me, MacTavish.”

“Aye. I do.” 

His fingers release yours, a breeze ghosting over the space they were. Your head is unable to turn, unable to stop your eyes from staring into his. 

“I’m not saying it now, got to give you something to come back to me for.” 

You watch it slowly, how it eclipses his entire face. It sparks his eyes, blasting you in a blue that should change the entire environment and not just you. Then, it lifts his cheeks, the corners of his lips, and then he grins—grins so wide he’s sure he could make you forget how to breathe. 

“Fair,” he says, raising his wrist, fingers moving along his wrist as you frown.

It takes a second—far too long for how intuitive you are. Your eyes catch sight of it, half-impressed he hasn’t lost it as he slides it from under his watch—that hairband. The one he stole. 

“But, yer should kno’. I’ll always come back t’you, hen, ‘cause I gotta give y’this back.” 

You nod, and your other hand—the one desperate to hold his—clutches the other strap of your vest, pressing your thighs together. The earlier moment now isn’t feeling enough, even if the bruises on your hip brushing against your trousers say otherwise. 

Turning your head, you look across at the others, them looking almost set, as you sigh. 

“I love,” you say in a whisper.

Not sure if the breeze stole it, whipped them and carried them away into some corner of the world. They were only two words, after all.

But, he presses his hand on the lower part of your spine—firm, and fingers spread. The two of you walking, hating that with each step you were close to feeling his hand fall from you until the next moment alone.

“I love, too.”

He says it with a dipped head, a soft look in his eye as he slides his hand along your back, around your hip before it’s gone—just left with blue, Johnny blue, the best fucking shade of all. 

it's completeeee. i know she was only three chapters, but i don't think I've been able to juggle my life to be this consistent with anything in a long time. so, i'm buzzing.

soap sunday will continue with a new mini-series. diff reader, etc. but thank you for making my sundays have purpose, and all being so kind about me, this and my work. i loves you.

#john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #cod soap x reader #cod mw2 #johnny mactavish x f!reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish #cod x reader smut #cod x reader #cod soap x f!reader #cod soap #soap squad

[oceantornadoo]

welcome home (johnny mactavish x f!reader x the lucky third simon riley)

slightly dub con (only kissing tho)

—

“hi bonnie.”

johnny crushed you in a bear hug, wrapped up in the feeling of your body against his. he’d been gone for three long, torturous weeks, full of spotty phone calls and one or two dirty texts.

his hands groped you up and down, cheek nuzzling your neck with new stubble. you closed your eyes at the feeling of your man finally home in your arms. when you opened them, you were staring into the bottomless pits that were simon riley’s eyes, all hulking silence behind johnny.

“simon i-“ johnny shut you up with a sloppy kiss, grabbing your jaw with his right hand as he groped your ass with his left. you closed your eyes and moaned on instinct, forgetting about your ghostly audience right in front of you. you could feel johnny’s erection poking through his cargo pants, three weeks of frustration at the loss of your wet cunt clenching around his cock. “missed ya, lassie.” he murmured in your ear, hand traveling from your jaw to your tits, squeezing hard at your pointed nipples. “don’t be rude, johnny, your friend is watching.” he gave you a low chuckle as your hands ran through his mohawk. “‘es enjoyin’ the show. tha’ righ’ l.t.?”

johnny turned and smirked knowingly at his lieutenant. “go’on.” he nudged you. “‘e gets a welcome home too.” you’d been friends with simon for years ever since you and johnny had started dating, but for some reason the energy felt different today. you approached simon with doe eyes, suddenly nervous around a man who’d seen you throw up after too many shots. “hi, si.” you reached up on your tippy toes, giving him your customary cheek kiss. he grabbed your jaw with the same ferocity as johnny, turning you to look at his eyes. “no kiss?” you nervously turned back to johnny, who looked up from unlacing his boots. “‘es practically me, lass, jus’ more lonely. go’on now.”

you lifted simon’s mask with shaking hands. you’d seen his face hundreds of times, but it always made your breath catch when you saw his rugged scars. he heard it too, lips stretching over bone into a smirk. he brought you in for a kiss, a real one, opening your lips by sheer force. you moaned as his lips slotted with yours, the unfamiliar texture turning you on. his hands traveled to your ass and hiked you up against him, your legs scrambling for purchase around his thick torso. he was bigger than johnny, more tree trunk than man. he reached with one hand in between you two to adjust you against him, his paw cupping your pussy and ass as he pulled you against him. it was completely inappropriate, so many lines being crossed as his hand stayed there, thumb pressing against your clothed clit, applying pressure. your core clenched around nothing, the unfamiliar feeling of wanting a man who wasn’t johnny rolling around in your head. then, quick as lightning, he put you down, separating your lips with ease. “thanks, dove.” he grunted as he passed around you, giving your ass a small smack as he toed off his boots and made his way to your kitchen.

you turned around bewildered, hand covering your lips as if you couldn’t believe what had just happened. johnny was watching from the hallway, that smug look ever present on his face. you caught his eye and the bastard winked, not helping the confusion and guilt roiling around in your gut. you were in for a very long welcome home party.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod 141 #ghost call of duty #tornadothoughts #simon riley smut #john soap mactavish #soap x you #soap x reader #ghoap x reader #johnny mactavish #johnny soap mactavish x reader #cod 141 x reader #simon riley x female reader #johnny mactavish x f!reader

[shotmrmiller]

this is for you, @ttsbaby01

here's the piece that inspired this

1.5k words because who knew i needed to write something like this today. i kinda edited it, just a quick skim, though.

simon x f!reader,

tw: explicit smut, p in v, the usual, MDNI

Simon teaches Johnny some new tricks

The moment Simon saw you wince when Johnny pushed himself inside of you, that was all he needed to see. Incredible. For someone that brilliant, Johnny is obtuse when it comes to sex.

Maybe he's blinded by lust, who knows, but Simon almost grimaces at the pace he starts off with, and when he sees you flatten your feet on the bed to meet Johnny's thrusts, Johnny simply pins you down with his weight, forcing you still.

Poor you. All you wanted was to come, and Johnny couldn't even tell, too focused on pistoning his hips into you to meet his own end.

How greedy.

And when Johnny does come, Simon chuckles when he sees your face. It’s mildly disappointed but unsurprised— like you’re used to it.

He watches Johnny kiss you before he pulls out and immediately gets up to shower. That's his cue— the sorry excuse of a show is over. Simon's about to shut his laptop when he sees your hand slowly travel down to your aching pussy and circle your neglected clit with your fingers. Oh?

When he hears your pleasured moan again, he sits up on his chair, pupils expanding as he takes you in. Now this is what he wants to see.

Every delicious whimper and mewl that slithers out of your throat makes his cock twitch in his trousers. He can't help himself. Simon takes himself out and starts to pump according to the rhythm you've set.

Oh, you take it slow, sensual, for a bit, and then pick up the pace. Your moans start to get a little louder as you circle faster and press much smaller fingers into your abused cunt. He knows that his one finger could stuff you better than two of yours.

He knows that he could pull those sweet sounds out of you with his tongue flicking your clit, his stubble scraping your inner thighs raw, his fingers curling inside to find the rough patch of skin on your slick walls.

His eyes are shut as he squeezes himself, precum dribbling onto his knuckles, and when he hears you climax— airy, high-pitched moans that's a bloody symphony to his ears— he also comes. Simon spills all over his hand and stomach, seed sticking to his happy trail, and he couldn't give a fuck less. You're the best thing he's heard in a very long time, and he's debating replacing the classical music he usually listens to at work with your voice.

Simon languidly opens his eyes to look at you on his screen, and the fucked-out, blissful look on your face is something that'll be engrained in his head forever.

He watches Johnny step out of the bathroom with a towel around his trim waist and lowers himself onto the bed to kiss you.

Simon shakes his head, and with his clean hand shuts the laptop. It seems he's gotta teach Johnny how to treat his girl right.

--

"How was it, LT?" Johnny gloats.

Sighing, Simon pulls him into his office and takes out his personal laptop. "You tell me, Sergeant."

Johnny looks gutted when the video gets to Simon's favorite part.

"Yer jokin'." He sounds miserable, and Simon would feel bad if Johnny hadn't been a braggart about how he fucked you in the beginning.

"'Fraid not' Johnny. I gotta admit, I didn't take ya to be tha' selfish."

Johnny opens his mouth to defend himself when Simon silences him with a swipe of his gloved hand. "I can help ya, though. Let me teach ya how t'please her so tha' this embarrassment doesn't happen again, yeah?"

Johnny's eyes, colour a mix of sea and sky, shine brightly as he looks up at Simon. "Are ye serious?"

"Wouldn't offer if I wasn't."

Simon clenches his jaw painfully tight when Johnny agrees.

Only once Simon stands alone in his office does he let his emotions show. The sound of his fist hitting the desk fills the room, first with one resounding thump, then with another, leaving his knuckles throbbing. He's going to bloody ruin you.

Maybe Johnny will be willing to share you after all of this is said and done.

--

Johnny came to him later that day, letting him know that you had also agreed, but no mask at home. You won't sleep with someone whose face you can't see.

Simon almost took his mask off in exhilaration on the spot.

--

Simon has your legs propped on the edge of the bed as he lapped at your sopping cunt.

"Johnny, ya gotta focus here," he pointed his tongue and circled it around your swollen clit, making your back arch, and Johnny has to tighten his hold on you. He sat behind you, your back to his chest, his arms around you as he looked over your sweaty shoulder to watch Simon eat like a man starved.

"And gently curl your fingers inside, you're looking for..." he paused, the tendons in the middle of his wrist fluttering as he prodded until you were squealing, dripping slick down his hand. "That. You're looking for her sweet spot," he instructed.

Simon keeps rubbing your walls, and every movement has the obscene squelching of your drenched cunt getting noisier. "She's about t'come, I can feel her startin' to squeeze my fingers. Look at her, Johnny. That's the face ya wanna see," and then he turns his attention to you. "Come f'me, pet, let me hear ya."

He encircles your clit with his lips and sucks, and you shatter in Johnny's arms— head thrown back onto his shoulder, trembling violently, loudly dry sobbing at the toe-curling ecstasy that's searing through your veins, stealing the very oxygen in your lungs. Simon doesn't stop thrusting his fingers, prolonging your pleasure, taking every bit of it for himself. It's the only time he'll be selfish.

Your head is clouded with arousal, numb from pleasure, and you can vaguely feel yourself being laid flat on the bed, limp legs hooked over shoulders, feet resting on a strong back— muscles rippling with each movement.

There's a buzzing sound in your ears, and you can see Johnny's lips moving, talking to you, and then he's stepping away. You lazily turn your head to the side, and watch Johnny kneel by the side of the bed, gaze intense as he looks towards where Simon is. Then there's something hot, heavy, and thick pressing into your entrance, splitting you open, sensitive walls stinging at the stretch, and it goes deep, and even deeper still— it seems never-ending until there's a pinch in your lower stomach.

"Atta girl, love." Simon grips your jaw with one hand, and commands, "Eyes on Johnny, sweetheart. Let him see ya and let me hear ya."

And starts to pump his hips. The depths that he's in are devastating, it feels like he's rearranging your insides, which is strange because Johnny's got a monster in his pants as well, but this.

This is different.

You're so sensitive from your prior orgasm that it feels so much more intense, and you can't even try to hold back the keens that are being wrenched from you. Your vision is blurry with tears from overstimulation, but you keep your gaze on Johnny, and he looks painfully aroused. His cheeks are bright pink, his mouth slightly open as he pants, eyes molten as he looks at your cunt swallowing up someone else's cock.

God, he's so pretty.

You're brought out of your musings when Simon places a pillow underneath you, lifting your hips and changing the angle.

The way Simon fills you to the brim with his cock, pushing you to, if not past, your limit is just plain disrespectful.

And then he grabs your legs by the ankles, your thighs touching your chest, folding you in half like a napkin to start thrusting shallowly— the tip of his head gently jabbing into your g-spot.

Your head goes blank, vision white, and your mouth opens into a silent scream, or maybe not so silent, who knows who cares.

Simon thrusts 4 times before that coil in your stomach snaps like a pencil. Your cunt clamps down on him like a vice, unwilling to let him move, but he only grunts and starts to slam his hips into your soft arse— spine rattling from the strength of him. He unrelentingly fucks you through your climax, hips never losing their rhythm.

He's bottoming out now, and you swear you can feel him in your throat, and he starts to pound into your used cunt. When you hiss from how tender you feel, Johnny cups your cheek and leans in to give you a soul-stealing kiss. It's sloppy, you can hear the slick sounds your mouths make, and when you moan into him, Simon's thrusts turn sloppy, choppy. Then he pulls out with a loud snarl to spurt thick, viscous cum directly over your puffy slit, coating your mons with it too— only to push himself back inside, head dripping with his seed, and slowly thrusts until he's overstimulated.

Simon gently lowers your legs back onto the bed, and you groan at the ache when you feel your blood rushing back to them.

"Fuck me," you mumble tiredly, and Johnny chuckles in response.

"Simon already did tha', bonnie." Johnny presses a kiss to your sweaty forehead and looks at Simon.

"I now ken what ye mean, LT. This was a different beast altogether."

You huff out a laugh because beast indeed.

Jesus.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #simon ghost riley x f reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw2 #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x you #simon just helping his bff out #what a good guy #cod mwii

[cordeliawhohung]

i'm sorry, but soap has the biggest breeding kink out of the 141 and i don't think anything will change my mind.

this man needs a clan of little MacTavish babies, and he'd go through insane lengths to make that happen. it's all he can think about as he fucks you into the mattress, his pace brutal and unrelenting. each thrust steals your breath away, and all you can do is gasp and moan underneath him as he works his thick cock into your tight cunt.

his mind reels at the thought of your stomach swollen with his kid, and as he continues to work himself up he can't help but place a hand on your belly. he feels the vibrations of his thrusts echo throughout your body, and the sensation has him cursing underneath his breath.

"shit... gonna let me come in this pretty pussy, aye? want me to fill you up and make you a mum? gonna have my kid, yeah?" he spews with a frazzled mind.

the moment you mindlessly nod your head is the moment that sends him over the edge. he buries his cock inside of you until the tip kisses your cervix and his balls tighten as he empties himself inside of you with a grunt. he stays there for as long as he can handle as you pulse around him, milking him dry. when he eventually pulls out, he can't help but look at the mess he made of you. he grins at the sight of your achy and swollen cunt, but tsks when he sees his cum slowly dripping out of you.

"no, no," he coos. you jolt as his fingers gather up the milky white liquid, and another gasp leaves you as he shoves his cum-coated fingers back inside of you where it belongs. "can't waste a single drop. not if you're gonna give me a kid. isn't that right, pretty girl?"

#soap x reader smut #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish smut #f!reader #cod smut

[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.

#simon ghost riley #cod mwii #cod mw2 #simon riley #call of duty #simon ghost x reader #ghost cod #simon riley x reader #ghost smut #ghost x you #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #ghost x y/n #ghost x female reader #ghost x f!reader #ghost x fem!reader #soap x fem reader #soap x reader #soap x you #soap x y/n #john soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish #soap mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish #cod #soap mactavish #john mactavish x you #soap mactavish x you #mw2 ghost

[ghouljams]

hey bestie listen. I’ve just learned about glove decorum in the regency era. wearing gloves was insanely important and rich women had like a gazillion of them. but anyway apparently letting a man take your glove off was akin to rawdogging it in public and I was like “oh König would. nasty bitch” my question is who else in the regency au would do that

FUCKING ALL OF THEM BESTIE

König tugs your glove off as you walk through his gardens, your royally assigned chaperone looks the other way as he raises your hand to his lips to kiss your bare knuckles. You freeze when his tongue darts out to trace between your fingers, warm and wet, and darkly promising when his teeth scrape your skin. He pulls your glove off at your very public proposal as well, just so he can "see the way the ring looks against your skin." His thick fingers are tight around your wrist to keep your from nervously pulling away, and he dares anyone to say anything when he turns your hand over to kiss the soft skin of your wrist.

Price tugs your glove off under the table at a dinner party. His fingers tracing over yours, enjoying the soft skin. You can only be glad that the table cloth covers the way he rubs his thumb against the back of your hand. It would be proper for you to pull your hand away and pull your glove back on, but proper doesn't make your stomach flutter the way Price's fingers do. He traces a gentle "L-O-V-E" against your palm and you have to stop from giggling. Neither of you look at each other, merely continue your separate conversations with the understanding that you're both terribly, improperly, in love.

Soap has no problem tugging your glove off at a party after someone bumps into you and your drink spills over your glove. You're engaged, what does he care if people think it's rude? You smack him just hard enough to maintain your dignity, and he grabs your bare hand to hold it against his cheek, excitement twinkling in his eyes. You've never been more sure of your impending demise than when you see him smile against your palm.

Ghost pulls your glove off in the sitting room of your family home. He quietly studies your hand, tracing his fingers over the hills and valleys of your knuckles, around the blunt edge of your nails, around the sides of each finger. It's like he can't stop from touching you, from observing every inch of you down to the smallest scrap of skin. He turns your hand over to trace the lines of your palm, his nail gently following the whorls of your finger prints as he stares at your skin. You take his hand to measure your own against it, and he curls his fingers over yours, slips them between yours to hold your hand. His eyes shine with affection. He covers your bare hand with his, two big hands concealing your lack of a glove, when your maid brings in tea.

Gaz "notices a tear" in your glove and offers you his while you walk through the park. You offer him your hand to show you where the supposed tear is, and he very kindly pinches the seam and pulls it apart. You curl your fingers against his hand when he tugs your glove off, his eyes linger on your ring finger and you both enjoy the warmth of the other's skin. He's much slower helping you fit his gloves onto your bare hand. "You may as well walk around with a matching pair," He tells you, pulling your other glove off to replace with his own. His fingers dip under the far too loose band to stroke your bare wrist as you finish your walk.

#cod x reader #x reader #x oc #cod x oc #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish x reader #john #soap x reader #john price x reader #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #f!reader #regency au #König #König x reader

[brewed-pangolin]

MDNI 18+ (totally unedited. I'm going down with the gym rat soap ship)

Imagine being woken up in the middle of the night by Gym Rat Soap burying himself between your thighs.

His mouth fully encapsulating over your mound, sliding his tongue between the velvety flesh of your folds to urge you awake and pinpoint that sensitive bundle of nerves just around your entrance.

"Johnny," you mumbled. Voice hoarse, muffled in drowsy wakefulness while your body vigorously reacted to the pleasure of his languid expertise.

"Sorry, bonnie. Jus' needed a little snack."

You felt him smile against your throbbing womanhood. Words dampened by the cusp of your heat and lessened through the delicate Egyptian cotton that loosely draped over him.

A silent protest quickly ran over the supple flesh over your lips. Only to be immediately plucked away. Replaced with strangled gasp as he lowered his mouth further and plunged his broad tongue into the fluttering hole of your cunt.

"Ooohhh, my God!"

Arching your back off the bed, your bellowing mewls wafting up into the crown molding of the bedroom as your body writhed beneath him. His hands holding you steadily against the mattress as he leisurely thrusted his tongue into your soaking canal.

Your eyes were just beginning to adjust to the darkness that hung heavy around the room. Only the soft light of the moon illuminated the brighter shades within the dense blackness. Casting elongated shadows along the bedsheets as the distinct crest of Soap's mohawk peeked between the covered valley of between your thighs.

A sudden adjustment to the angle of his tongue had you clenching your thighs tightly around his head. A throaty growl then reverberated into the deep crevices of your folds in unfettered retaliation, bucking your hips against him as you suddenly took notice of a most peculiar synthetic sensation between your thighs.

Immediately, your hand flew to pull the sheet away. And you were met with the familiar blue eyes of your Johnny set behind a very prominent and very darkened red brow.

"Johnny. What the fuck is on your face?"

And as if he were abruptly pulled out of a deep trance, he reluctantly withdrew his tongue from your core and met your gaze with an impish and slick covered grin.

"What'ya think, bonnie? Ya like it?"

"Are you-, is that a mask?"

"Aye. Ghost gave it t'me."

Your expression then shifted to utter bewilderment. Lips curling into a perplexed smile as you took in the details of the demon like covering in the blanketing darkness.

"And did he give you strict instructions to wear it only while eating me out at 2:30 in the morning?"

"No. Well, no' exactly."

Narrowing your eyes at him, your lips curled into a half cocked smirk as you extended your hand to get a feel of the hellish veil atop his forehead.

"Well, gotta hand it to him, Johnny. I kinda like it."

"Aye? 'Nough fer me t'keep it on?"

"Yeah. You're like my little pussy demon."

He retorted with another growl. Your fingers fisting into his hair to guide him back down to your core as his blue eyes glistened in the dim light, accentuated by the red trim pronounced brow.

"I'll make sure to pass the word, bonnie." He crooned lowly into the silken walls of your heat.

"You better. But for now, I want you to get back to work."

"Yes, ma'am."

Even beneath the mask, you could see the smile etched into his cheeks. Keeping the sheets pulled back to take in the sight of your Scottish demon feasting like a fiend on your soaking soul.

#soap squad™️ #gym rat soap #told ya this mask does things to me #warzone soap #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #john mactavish #soap mactavish smut #johnny mactavish smut #soap mactavish x f!reader #soap mactavish x you #johnny mactavish x f!reader #johnny mactavish x you #cod fanfic #cod smut #call of duty #cod

[undercoverpena]

it begins (i)

johnny 'soap' mactavish x f!reader summary: except, you're not entirely sure it is hate, and more an insistent need to prove to yourselves you’re alive. two people searching for a reason amongst what they saw, experienced and lived through. word count: 5k warnings: spice + smut. enemies(ish) to lovers. an: many thanks to @guyfieriii for listening, plotting and reading snippets of this and convincing me it’s good.

part one of it happens | soap masterlist

1.

It begins on a dusty floor. 

His teeth grazed over your collarbone, your fingers running down his spine. The two of you grasping for something—a pulse, a piece of evidence that this is real and not some twisted nightmare. 

Iron still taints the air, hanging between the two of you, swirling with fustiness and rotting wood. There’s still sand between crevices, grating against skin, no matter how much lukewarm water has coated both your skins. Sand always stayed—a bitter reminder of the hell you'd been through outside these walls. 

Soap sinks his teeth into your neck, making you groan, and hiss—rearing your head back, meeting his eyes even in the low light. Not surprised to find the same, cold stare. 

Because he hates you. At least dislikes you. You’re sure of it. Adamant, even. 

Before today, the two of you had shot comments at each other's suggestions—all wrapped full of brimstone and curses. You'd been ordered to spar with him, release the pressure—eyes digging into the other as the two of you landed and blocked shots. You weren't sure how the two of you got off on the wrong footing, but the two of you did. 

Now, you can’t help but look at him with a softer edge—because he’s here at least. 

Alive. Breathing. 

Your voice is still fragile from screaming his name when the bullets began firing, when the car had gone up in flames. Relief flooding through you the same as the pain did, when his body slammed into you, knocking you to the floor. 

Miss me, lass?  No. 

But you did. 

You had. 

The idea of him bleeding in the dust and sand, the twisted images of him losing the light from his eyes, the voice from his throat—even if it was full of sarcasm. Because you disliked him too, hated how self-sacrificing he was, how upbeat he was to charge into danger without thought. But you still wanted him alive—wanted to have him close, pushing you, making your skin prickle in annoyance and contempt. 

That’s why you’re kissing him: relief. 

You know it with each grasp of his hand, your teeth biting down on his lip, tasting copper and bitter. The taste accompanies how rough, and frantic this all is. The floorboards protests at each movement becoming the soundtrack to your hate-fucking.

Except, you're not entirely sure it is hate, and more an insistent need to prove to yourselves you’re alive. Two people searching for a reason amongst what they saw, experienced and lived through. 

All of it rolling around your head until your hips lift and the head of his cock teases your entrance until you’re stretching around him. And he’s big—bigger, and thicker than you thought. 

He fills you, stuffs you, making you feel so full you’re sure you’re forever changed. That rawness spreads as he stretches you until he bottoms out, making you whine and moan—almost cry out. But he swallows each one of them like it will quench his thirst, his overgrown ‘hawk pulled in all directions from how it’s dried post-shower. 

And fuck, does the sight lick heat up your spine. 

It mixes with the electricity in the air and knots something inside of you. Something feral and suddenly awake that makes you slowly begin to meet each thrust, makes you plunge your tongue into his mouth and groan against the back of his throat. 

Because you want it to hurt, want there to be bruises that paint over the ones from the ambush. Change the narrative, the memories—give yourself something positive from the fuck up of the day. 

Your nails claw at him, his own hands pawing at you, bruising, gripping you as if you would fall through his fingers at any moment. But you won’t—couldn’t. 

Not with how you need this… him. 

You should feel ashamed at how needy you are, how much you want him to break you in two. You want to ache and be sore—a reminder that you lived the bloodbath, that the two of you had made it through a near sandstorm and bullets. 

"Harder, Soap. Fuck me harder." 

But then, you’d had no shame about sharing the shower with him. Stripping, peeling unwilling layers from your skin. Not even when he comments on it—

“Fuckin’ hell, lass. Gimme a warning’ or summat.”

On any other day, your cheeks would have burned in shame. 

Today they didn’t. So empty of emotions and regret. You guess because it was clinical. A necessity. Reason flowing through your mind, because safe houses have limited resources, and neither of you knew when you’d be peeled from the heat by evac. 

Your back was to his, hands scrubbing at skin, muscle and bone. All desperate to rid yourselves of the day. Not a single thought ran through your mind to look, to take a peek—see if he was as built as he felt during training. His body had always felt like a wall of muscle when he sparred with you. When he’d put you on your back and stare into you like you were merely in his way. 

You had done well till then, toeing the line of professionalism well—and then you heard him hiss. 

And not a little one at that. 

One that stemmed from somewhere in the back of his throat. One that had been almost muffled by sheer grit and determination. Released wrapped in an array of Scottish that you couldn’t begin to understand. 

Then you looked, because he was hurt—and because he didn’t answer when you called his fucking name. Your sergeant, the one who charges into danger like he’s indestructible. Who teases you when you’re in the field but ignores you on base. 

And now you were fucking him. 

The air is stained with sex and sweat, it’s peppered with grunts and groans—all of it giving the creaking floorboards and stone walls something to talk about. The blanket under you bunching, clinging to your lower spine as your fingers crawl up his neck into his hairline, grasping him closer, heel embedding against him. 

And it’s messy, all of it. All teeth clashing, nails digging, his poorly applied bandage crinkling as his hips snap to meet his. You let his name roll from your tongue. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. It plunges from your lips, mixing with the sounds of your cunt squelching around him. 

Because he’s so impossibly deep inside of you, hitting that spot, over and over as you lose your goddamn mind. 

You have to have to fuck your teammate. The same one who barely held your gaze when the two of you were strategizing—

And now he can’t keep his eyes off of you. 

“Fuckin’ hell, lass. You’re so pretty. So fuckin’ pretty.

C’mon, hen. That’s it give it t’me.”

So you do. You stop fighting, back arching slightly, splinters grabbing to fix themselves into your shoulders—but you don’t care. 

You come instead. All mind further blanking, only feeling him, all of him. It ricochets through your muscles, sparking and electrifying—your body tensing, feeling him continue to thrust you through it, unwilling to slow even for a second. 

A part of your brain, the only part working, focuses on the way his hips keep connecting with yours, the way his hand is on your throat; how his eyes, those ridiculous azure-coloured eyes are digging into you—the ones which are trying to swallow you whole.

And succeeding. 

Dragging you under, making it hard to breathe with how intense they are. 

Then, his lids close, and you can breathe. His own pleasure ripping through him, embedding himself into you—coating your walls in his anger, his dismay and…

Something else you’re not able to translate from the way he groans your name, your real name. 

Then the air is filled with something else: breathing. 

Your eyes remain closed, needing to do so for preservation. Needing to not get sucked in, to dive into his eyes and have no hope of rising to the surface. 

Because you don’t do this. 

You don’t fuck your teammates. 

Any of them. Even the ones you like—even the ones who have a Scottish twang and beautiful eyes. But then, you also haven’t been close to death five times in the span of half a day. 

When you catch your breaths, you expect a glare—you expect him to move immediately. Realise what the two of you have done. Your eyes watching his, counting his blinks, one, two, three…

And then he kisses you—same passion, but with a little less anger. 

2.

It doesn’t happen again for a while. 

Soap wears a smile, and you throw up walls. 

A pattern he should have predicted, seen coming from a mile off. At first, you had been unable to meet his eye—a refreshing change to the lava-filled one he’d been receiving till then. 

What happened in the safe house is buried under regret and disdain. More from you, than him. 

He’d been fine with it, far preferring whatever verbal sparring the two of you had going on previously. The one which toed the line between school ground flirting and bickering. 

But, then you’d winced during sparring. Ghost having twisted your arm too far, a hiss and a pained look flushing across your features, and something changed—shifted, sprouted. 

The pretending had worked until it fucking didn’t.

His hand hooking around your good elbow, pulling you into a dark corner—the scent of jasmine and oranges hitting his nose, a scent he’d come to know as yours. One that you coat your skin in on days when your eyes are more sunken, your spirit a little more dampened. 

Y’don’t have to avoid me. M’not gonna tell anyone what happened. 

If you were surprised, you didn’t show it. Wrenching your elbow free, jaw rolling as you swallowed. 

You want a medal for being a gent, MacTavish?

There have been moments before when your eyes were full of lava, brushing over him, threatening to burn and turn him to rock. But that look had been something else. All multi-layered, gone before he could translate it—begin peeling the meanings back until he saw what you were hiding. 

In the days after, you held his eye line—found your body brushing past his, arm knocking against him, shockwaves darting through him as he tried to ignore it. 

Ignore you. 

But he’s weak. The line is so thin between want and hate that it gets smudged as easily as charcoal—his rigid determination almost crumbles as easily too.

Liquor is the catalyst. The spark that lights the charge. 

The reason he finds your nails scratching at his neck, his arm wrapping around your waist—desperate to have you close. Soap pulling your body flush to his—needing to feel your fucking lips again. The two of you stumble through the door. 

Your door. 

It’s nothing. He just needs you. 

It’s why he’s kissing you, all desperate and chaotic as it spreads through him. Tomorrow he can blame the tequila, scotch and vodka. 

Tonight, he can’t ignore it—you. 

Not the way you burn through him, knock the breath from his lungs and have his mind empty other than those sweet noises you made all for him. His name has never sounded so good. 

Never before letting someone other than Ghost call him Johnny. Now, he wants you to call him only that. Wants it accompanied by your hands on his biceps, clutching him, hanging off of him—looking as breathtaking as you always do. 

Just like you had done when they’d all been drinking. Him not able to take his eyes off of you, the desert changing things, unlocking it—yanking the lid from the chest he’d stuffed how he’d felt. 

Worsened when he grabbed your wrist, handing you a shot, a similar one in his free hand. 

You don’t need to get me drunk, MacTavish. I’d fuck you again sober. 

Your words had locked up his spine, rushed through his bones—not halting until you pushed him down onto your bed. The one which cries out in protest, that he hears gets worse when you're straddling him, knees on either side of him.  

Soap considers why he changed your last shot to water. He wouldn’t have before. 

Jus’ say the word, lass. 

And he had meant it. 

Then. Now. Since the moment you’d joined the fucking team. Your smirk imprinted in his brain, there on the back of his lids when he closed his eyes. You were there when he wrapped his hand around his cock, palm splayed across the tiles, the shower drowning out the way he hissed your name—hating that he does, finding he can’t stop it. 

You’re like poison—but one he wants to infect him. 

You have twisted yourself under his skin, and it’s why he’s quick with his hands, needing a second time with you—another taste. Each item in his hand he balls up, practically ripping it from your flesh before throwing it far from the two of you. 

Yer’ so pretty, y’know that? 

He watches you let it kiss your skin for half a second before you baton it away. Hand on your cheek, feeling how warm it goes, how it burns under his praise, before you tell him to Shut up, MacTavish, lips pressed against it, smothering any more of his words. 

And he lets you because it’s easier. 

This is sex. Hate fucking—even if he doesn’t hate you. He feels something, but it’s complex, too big for him to begin to unravel here, under you. 

The two of you are no more friends than you were before you found comfort in between each other's legs in that safe house. You don’t make him a cuppa when it’s early, you don’t want him to go easy on you when he’s training you. 

You’re the same. So he’s the same. 

But now, you’re looking at him like you are starving, so hungry—as though by not doing this with him again, it would ruin you. 

And fuck, if it wasn’t doing the same to him. 

If it hasn’t been eating him alive. Pecking at his skin, memories interspersing with dreams, lulling him in that space between awake and sleep that makes it hard to know what’s real and what isn’t. 

But this is real. 

His palm on your thigh is an indicator of it as you take him in your hand, your fingers wrapping around him, holding him tightly. 

Last time had been so rushed, so desperate to feel something, you hadn’t had the chance to wrap your hand firmly around him, feel him twitch in your palm. 

It’s wrong on some level, what the two of you are doing. He shouldn’t fuck his teammate—not want to fuck you until you’re cock-drunk and malleable. 

And then you press your lips against the reddened head, swirling your tongue over him before you take him into your warm mouth. It’s bliss, fucking everything. Your mouth is so hot, tongue flat against the underside now and again. Teasing and taunting—making his knuckles white as he clenches bedsheets and your hair.

His moans paint the air one after the other. Changing it, shifting the apprehension and tension into wants and wishes. 

Then he’s pulling you up, eyes seeing the tears in your eyes from taking him as far in as you could. It makes his throat dry, and his chest tighten. For a second, just admiring you hovering on your knees above him, lips all pink and swollen. 

He doesn’t think of how intimate it is when he swipes his thumb against the spit on your chin. But, he knows it is the reason you kiss him again, and again. Softer, gentler—no biting or nipping. 

Because he, like you, doesn't like that you make him feel something other than need. Desperate to kiss you so he’s distracted, and his mind stops telling him this is a bad idea. 

One which gets worse, and worse, and worse—

Because then you’re lining yourself over him, soft whimpers falling as he slides two fingers through your folds—feeling your heat, how slick you are, how much you want him. And he’s learnt to keep the other hand on your jaw, thumb stroking, keeping your mouth against his, swallowing whatever you’ll give him, whether it’s a murmur or his name. 

His name tastes like heaven from you. It’s different—and he can’t assess whether it’s good or bad. The two of you are slightly more familiar, but there’s no adrenaline—no direct cause for the way you’ve snapped together. 

Because the alcohol had made him braver, but it hadn’t caused this. The two of you had. 

Tequila hadn’t made you yank his hand from between your thighs or lift it till the tip of your tongue reaches out to taste yourself on his fingers. Just the same as scotch hadn’t made him wrap his hand around the shaft, helping you line yourself up as you slowly sink down on him—your cunt swallowing him, inch by inch. 

He hears your hiss escape from your tongue as your cunt welcomes him like an old fucking friend. Greedily sucking him in as your eyes clench and he quickly tells you to breathe. 

“Y’got this. I got y’, breathe with me—“

Soap isn’t prepared when your eyes flip open, landing on him, spitting at him that you know what to do. 

Of course, you’d still glare when you’re full of his cock. It almost makes him smirk, thankful you’re the same spitfire he likes being partnered with. So, he just grabs your chin. His calloused touch brushes against softness as you make fire bloom across his skin as your chin lowers, and he can look up at you like you’re fucking artwork. 

Because you are. 

“Yer something else, lass.”

He remembers saying that when you’d killed three men with a rusty knife. This contrasts that. But he means it all the same. Soap said it now because you were a different kind of mess—a flushed, sweat-shimmering mess all for him. One which sunk their nails into his shoulders, leaving half-moon evidence of whatever the fuck this is for him tomorrow. 

Is he your stress relief? A pain killer? 

He’s not entirely sure, and he also doesn't have the energy, time or want to explore it. 

He just wants to fuck you. You and only you. His body charged, fully alive and vibrating with restlessness and torment because he’d thought of nothing but you. One taste not stifling anything, just opening floodgates for something he can’t contain. 

Not that he’ll admit it. 

You and your sweet cunt that is letting him split you open, not waiting to adjust even if it burns and aches, because of course you don’t. You never back down, never willing to not excel—to show what you’re made of. He sees it—he sees you. Even if you think he doesn’t. 

Even if the thought makes your eyes sting. 

You catch him off guard, slowly rolling against him, his thick fingers grasping you in place—getting you to slow you down. 

Go easy, lass. 

But you can’t. 

You say it with your eyes, dig it into him until he realises he has to lessen his hold and go along for the fucking ride. 

“Steamin’ Jesus—“

You’re quick to swallow your name, your tongue against his—swirling the taste of one another around and around. 

And he needs to hear it. Your moans are like the chorus to a song. His thumb finds your clit again. Him showing you how his clever, calloused thumb remembers—knowing exactly how to draw circles that’ll make your eyelashes flutter. 

He groans as your walls tighten around him, clamping down, making each upwards thrust feel so good as he breathed heavier—hard thrusts meeting yours. 

You’re close. So close. 

And he knows it better this time. 

There’s a glint in your eyes, a darkness that mingles with lust that makes his own release curl and tightens inside him. But he needs yours first, wants to collect it, see it—fucking hear it. 

Your head goes backwards, head facing the ceiling as he fucks up into you, thumb meeting his movements as best as he can. You’re always something, but now you’re everything. 

Stunning. Radiant. Beautiful. 

All of you burning up with pleasure, one he’s made you feel and he watches even with how good it feels as it ripples through you. It rips through you until it’s a wave that crashes down and his fingers are over your mouth to muffle your cry as you clench and pulse, nails digging into his chest. But, he still hears it: his name. 

It’s more sinful, more fucking delectable. 

The vice-like grip you have on him makes him quickly follow as he waits for the drop—

But, this time it doesn’t explode through him. It builds and builds until it reaches a crescendo. And he’s filling you, releasing coating your walls, feeling your body falling, freely, slowly against him as his hips become lazier. 

He lets himself have a moment. 

Running his hand up and down your spine, feeling your heart hammer through your chest to his. Let your breath dance along his neck, feeling how heavy your body is becoming as tiredness spreads through your bones. 

Soap doesn’t blame you, it’s why he shifts you from on top of him. Hearing minimal protests as he slides from under you. 

It’s practical, merely aiding and finishing the task in the way he cleans you up. Finds a towel in your bathroom, dampening it before running it between your thighs. He throws the sheet over you, protecting your modesty, even if your eyes are full of confusion and sleep. 

He doesn’t stay, putting his clothes on, hiding the evidence of your marks and welts, hovering at the doorway before leaving. 

He has to. You don’t want him to stay. 

Not even a little bit. He knows that. 

He knows what this was. 

3.

It has become a habit. 

Both of you have tried to fight it, only to quickly realise the pull you’ve both created—the addiction both have for one other. 

You don’t talk about it, and he doesn’t ask anything. 

Your hand on his forearm, tugging him—asking silently letting him know you need him as you both hunt for a room, a corner, or a quiet bit of wall to ruin and mark.

Sometimes it is he who looks for you—who seeks you out. 

When it’s Soap, he doesn’t kiss you, just simply closes the door and locks it with finality. He’s on you, pressing his chest to your back as you find leverage, meeting him as he grips your thigh. Not bothering to strip you fully, but just enough to make himself feel good—while pretending he doesn’t want to make you feel just as good. 

When it’s Johnny, he crashes his lips against yours, pulls you flush, and makes you face him. Runs his hands up and down all your available skin as if memorising you, committing you to memory to make a sculpture.

You aren’t sure which you prefer. Which one you crave more—which one makes electricity run through your muscles, and have you rubbing your thighs together. 

Tonight, it’s Soap who finds you—who fucks you. Your eyes meet him at the laundry room door, and his glare makes you feel like he hates you all over again. Just like at the beginning, when he barely said hello and didn’t meet your eyes. All before the time when the safe house blurred the lines, both of you hate fucking on the wooden floor. 

You’re soaked just from the way his eyes burn into you, from the way he crosses the room to you—never mind from the way he strips you. Your long-sleeve tee pulled up, your shorts yanked down around your knees, underwear following suit. His eyes are no longer bright blue but something murky and needy. And fuck, you don’t hate it. Not even a little bit. 

He kisses you with venom and frustration, before he 

spins you, back to his chest—his nails scraping up your thigh as his other hand bends you at the hip. And you do so, willingly. 

Welcoming it—the shift. 

Sometimes it’s like this. Like your strangers, not teammates. As though the two of you don’t know a thing about one another—not what caused the scars, not the exact shade of each other's blood. 

It’s nice, almost detached. 

This a reminder of what the two of you could be, if you both stopped this before it continued. But, that’s too late now. It had been weeks, all of them bleeding into months. Neither you nor him are able to unknot what mess the two of you have caused. The thread tangled around the two of you, connecting, keeping you tied together. 

He drags his tongue down your shoulder, hand slapping against your arse—fingers grasping it, squeezing as he bites down on your clothed shoulder. 

“Fuck, Johnny…”

“Love the way y’say my name, lass.”

Your top is the only thing still covering your arms, hiding it—the bandage. You suspect it’s why he needs this. Still wrestling with the guilt of what sits under your left sleeve. The gash from a bullet grazing you—not entering, just sliding past, kissing it. The turmoil and anguish on his face, the harsh way he’d spat out for a medic. It had churned inside of you, unsure what any of it meant when he’d pulled you close to him, needing to see for himself the damage. 

I’m fine, Soap. I’m fine. 

He’d flinched at his own call sign. 

Not realising till now how much you call him

MacTavish out here, and Johnny when there are no eyes. That same concern flourishes darkly as you realise how close the line is, and how easily it would be to step over it with him. 

You blink as you watch the pile of washing being thrown over the washing machine. Camo and basic shades fall in a cluster as he swipes them from being in front of you. You smirk, just letting it spread across your features as he kicks your legs apart. 

You don’t even tense when your chest is pressed against the cold metal of the washing machine, the drum spinning, whirring—drowning out the hiss you make as he slides his cock inside of you. You welcome all of it. 

The stretch. The cold. The vibration against your body. 

“So good f’me,” he whispers against your spine, running his beard against your skin. 

Your nipples are hard as they’re pressed against the metal, and it’s both pleasurable and painful all at once. 

The coil in your stomach tightens and tightens with each stroke of his cock. The ache and itch being scratched each time his hips connect with you, each thrust filling you. 

“Need you, Johnny. Harder, please—“

“I know, I know, lass.”

And he does. 

You can tell. His usual self-control is gone, replaced with a need so desperate that he pounds into you as if it’s a goodbye—wondering if he sees how close the line is too. Your toes curl as he thrusts deeper, the machine hiding the slap of his skin against yours, your mews and moans. 

Wanting to kiss him. A want that’s so foreign than normal—usually kissing him to bury moans or to keep him silent. But this, it’s different. A change. You want to kiss him because you miss the way his lips feel. Like the way his mouth parts when you tug on his hair. 

But he wouldn’t let you—not today. 

Today he needs you face down, hands in front of you. The harshness of each thrust is evidence of it, mixing with the way he spits affectionate words down your ear as he leaves fingerprint kisses on your hip bone. 

“Yer a fuckin’ vision, lass.”

The resonance of his voice thrumming through you. Repeating. Swirling. Because he should know.

After all, you’d seen his drawings. Seen the shading he can do, the details he can bring to life on a page. You wondered if he’d drawn you. If he’d chosen an image from his mind where he had you like this, facing away, able to tell himself you’re someone else—someone he doesn’t hate. 

“You're something else, Johnny.” 

Each time he scrapes the edges of his beard against your back, you hope it scratches you—hopes you are left with something other than soreness between your thighs. 

Each thrust and stroke of his thick cock against your walls makes your hands clutch, grasp, and scratch for leverage. Hoping it’s not a goodbye, almost praying. 

The scent of sulphur, tropical fruits and your body wash all mix in your nostrils as the washing machine continues to whir. He presses your cheek down against it, the cold of it making you hiss, his hand flat against your cheek as he tells you: “Y’need to be quiet, don’t wanna get caught.”

And you know you clench around him at the thought. Pleasure creeping close to your edges, gasping, choking out a wheeze of his name at the idea.

“Yer a fuckin’ dirty girl, you.”

He doesn’t let you get embarrassed. He rewards you. Treats you for it. His fingers find your clit, teasing, circling it with the same precision he has come to master, as he continues to pound into you. 

Your back arches more as his hips jerk, feeling so full. And it’s bliss. It’s electric and fire all at once. All of your senses both heightened and dulled, your orgasm creeping, crawling over you, slowly stealing your limbs as you tremble and go weak—

His name rips from your throat as he fucks you through it. The way his hips piston, chasing his own release, hand lessening on your hair, turning softer, moving to stroke your hair as groans.

Not your call sign. Not lass or hen. Your name.

The one he knows, but never used. Never.

You suspect it’s why he holds you, and why you let him. Hips still pressing you firmly against the machine, cheek still down on the metal. The cold rooting you, reminding you it was him who did this—he who turned your legs to jelly, requiring him to keep you in place.

When he pulls away, you feel empty. More than you have done before. You dress, quietly, a different kind of tension bubbling in the air as the machine beeps impatiently.

You watch his hands, the ones that were formerly on your hips before, moving to smooth out his hair before he buckles his belt. 

“This the last time...” 

You’d let it meet the air—allowing it to form in his head either as a statement or a question. Saying it more matter of fact. Limited emotion and eye contact. 

It’s a cross between distance, walls and a barrier. 

One neither of you believes will last, it is made from paper rather than brick. It keeps none of it at bay, the two of you doing this dance so often, you can predict the others move. 

So you avoid him, his eyes and that fucking smile he does. The one you can’t be sure doesn’t mean.

“Awa’ an bile yer heid.” 

“Don’t know what that means, MacTavish.” 

He pauses at the door, shooting you a glare before it’s swallowed by a wink and a smile. “Ye’ you do.”

And you do. 

Biting back a smile. Thankful. Grateful. 

Feeling his spend between your thighs as you return your underwear and shorts where they were as you hear his footsteps vanish—realising he kept your hair band. 

part two of it happens ->

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