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tropes-and-tales · 5 months

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Dyin' for a Taste

Day 11: Face Sitting (Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!)

CW: Idiots in love; pining; smut (oral, f!receiving); 18+ only.

Word Count: 4096

AN: This was requested by an anonymous person!

AN2: When I say this is not edited, please know it is NOT EDITED. Full of typos and sloppy typing. Tropes is a fat-fingered old crone.

It starts with a joke.

The 141 is on a covert ops in the mountains. It’s cold—the sort of cold that burns, that makes the bones ache. You’re posted up in a perch, your sniper’s rifle at the ready if shit goes south. The rest of the team is in the square below, waiting for the drop.

“My bollacks are gonna freeze off,” Soap complains over the comms, and you snort at the whining tone in his soft Scottish brogue.

“Shoulda dressed for the weather,” you reply. “Ghost probably has a spare balaclava.”

“And cover this handsome face?”

“Won’t be so handsome when your nose turns black from frostbite.”

You hear the tsch noise he makes over the comms, the very Soap, very Scottish noise of dismissal.

“You’ll have to sit on my face then, hen, and warm me back up,” he says.

You’re rarely stunned into silence—you and the guys are always making off-color jokes—but when you open your mouth to reply, you only gape wordlessly. The silence over the comms grows, expands, until Gaz—fucking Gaz—chimes in.

“I think she’s into the idea, bruv.”

And you can’t respond to that fast enough either, which leaves another long beat of silence over the comms, which likely seems like enough of an answer.

-----

The mission goes smoothly. The team splits up as planned to avoid drawing attention. You don’t see Soap again until a few days later when you regroup at HQ.

You think, perhaps, that he’s forgotten. Maybe that’d be better. You and Soap get along well, and sometimes he flirts with you, but he flirts with everyone. It means nothing.

And yet…

And yet, it’s Soap. You might be able to lie to others, but you can’t lie to yourself: you’ve spent many a lonely night with your thoughts drifting to him. Turning him over and over in your mind.

Soap MacTavish. Handsome, almost unbearably so. He could be a cocky asshole, be the sort of man who knows he’s hot and be insufferable about it, but he’s gregarious. Friendly. He’s a happy-go-lucky sort of man—or as much as someone in the One-Four-One can be.

-----

“Been avoiding me.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Soap corners you in the mess hall, his blue eyes peering at you without guile. He looks almost concerned.

“I haven’t,” you reply. You try to shift past him, but he puts a hand out against the doorway, bars you with his arm.

“You have.” He peers at you closer, his blue eyes somber. “What’s wrong?”

“Why would anything be wrong?”

You thought, perhaps, that he’d forgotten…but those somber eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, then smooth out as he schools his expression.

“Maybe you think my offer was wrong,” he says.

“I never said that.” You duck under his arm, but he lays his hand on your shoulder and stills you again.

“You’ve never said anything about it.” You don’t look at him, but you hear his gentle snort of laughter. “Your silence is deafening.”

You feel your face start to heat up because he’s not wrong. Too much time has passed now to address that moment in the mountains. You should have said something then, spat out some rejoinder to signal that it meant nothing to you, that it was just another dumb joke between you and Soap. But something about that dumb joke conjures up the mental image of you and Soap, and your face burns in embarrassment.

So you duck from his light grip on your shoulder and it makes him laugh again, then call out to your retreating form, “the offer still stands, hen.”

-----

A month passes, then another. You get leave for a few weeks and go someplace warm, a beach with golden sand and soft breezes where you can relax and forget the horrors of what you see every day.

Then you’re back on base, then another mission. Over and over, the same routine.

Through it all: Soap MacTavish, the team’s Golden Retriever. Always with an easy grin on his handsome face, a laugh, a joke. He teases Ghost, he does a passable impression of Captain Price. He gives Gaz a hard time about their rival rugby teams, but it’s always good-natured.

He jokes with you, but that joke—the one about sitting on his face—becomes just a joke between the two of you. You don’t know if the other men have forgotten it, but Soap only brings it up when you’re alone now.

At the barracks, in the rec room, he’s sprawled out on the couch and half-dozing, half-watching a rugby match. When you walk past, he notices, sits up. Beckons you over, tells you to have a seat…then thoughtfully strokes his face with that damned smirk and comically waggling eyebrows.

“You’re a jackass,” you call out as you leave the room, but by now, it makes you laugh…and it lightly stokes that ever-burning flame low in your belly.

-----

Another time, he sidles up to you at the range as you study your targets with their tight formation of bullet holes. He points out one shot, high in the corner of the paper, off of the concentric circles of the bullseye.

“Missed one,” he says.

You scoff. “One out of….many.”

He matches your scoff with one of his own. “Might be losing your edge.”

“I’m not.” You know he’s winding you up, but that missed shot galls you.

“Maybe you’re stressed out.”

You set the target down on the wooden railing. “Maybe you’re stressing me out, MacTavish.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. His blue eyes light up in glee, and he only gets out the first part of his retort—You know what’s good for de-stressing—before you drop to one knee and start disassembling your sniper rifle, ducking your head and hiding your burning cheeks from him.

“…nothing wrong with it,” he finishes as you shut the rifle’s case, and you realize you’ve missed part of what he’s said.

“There isn’t,” you agree. You stand up and lean a bit on the courage that sees you through each mission. You look him square in the eye and add, “but you’re just flirting.”

He gazes back at you, a soft smile on his face, only a little teasing. “Not just flirting.”

“Sure.” You roll your eyes.

He makes his Soap-branded tsch sound, then he loops his arm around your shoulders to pull you in close. He smells like…well, he smells like soap, clean with a hint of something herbal. It’s nothing he hasn’t done a hundred times—in safe houses after a mission, walking out of a bar on a night out with the team—that companionable way he pulls you against him.

“It makes me sad when you don’t believe me, hen,” he chuckles, and it’s low, right by your ear, his warm breath fanning over you.

You’re not sure what spurs your next move. You’re a natural-born sniper; you take the measure of everything around you—the curve of the earth, the speed and direction of the wind—before you squeeze your trigger. You’re the same with people, cautious and feeling out every angle of their intentions before you make a move. But you know Soap, and the question around his joke is the only uncertainty.

Something makes you act without much thought. Your rifle case in your hand, your other hand tucked in your pocket, and Soap’s arm slung around your shoulders…the moment is crystalized, will be an easy memory to recall in the years to come because this is when everything between the two of you changes.

“You know what?” you ask, and you don’t allow him to hazard a guess. Instead, you gaze at him levelly, straight into those bright blue eyes of his and add, “alright, let’s do this.”

It’s comical, how the smile drops from his face, how his mouth makes a little “oh” of surprise. His eyes scan your face, quick, like he’s trying to find the joke, trying to find proof you’re just having a laugh at his expense.

“Bonnie,” he starts to say, and his voice has a rough edge to it. His voice is missing its usual teasing edge, and he pauses to study you. You don’t know if he realizes it, but the tip of his tongue darts out, licks against his lower lip, like he’s really thinking of it now that it could be a reality.

“Bonnie, are you just…are ye fer real?” His voice is lower and his accent gets thicker, and it sets a frisson of heat shimmering through your lower belly.

You refuse to blink. Refuse to look away. “I’m for real if you are.”

“I was never joking about that.”

“Then I’m not joking either.” You swing your rifle case towards the barracks, playing at bravery but willing the fluttery feeling in your stomach to calm. “So let’s go.”

Soap—gregarious, convivial Soap—says nothing else on the walk back. He keeps his arm around your shoulders, though, and his hand settles against your bicep, rubs you briskly before gently holding you there, like he’s proving to himself that you’re real, that the moment is really happening.

-----

Your nerve wobbles a little when you get back to quarters. Soap’s nerves must have a similar wobble, because he turns to you and his usual boyish grin is gone, replaced by a grave expression.

“You dinnae have to do this,” he says, “if you don’t want to.”

Part of you wants to back out, chuck him in the arm and say it was just a joke. You could still back out. Soap is flirty and gregarious, but hooking up would irrevocably change your easy relationship with him. It could change the tenor of the team. And yet…

…don’t you both face death every day? Don’t you see the absolute worst of humanity? Don’t your bodies bear the scars of your hard, unrelenting lives—countless scars, visible and invisible both? Don’t you all operate in your own bubbles of loneliness, sleeping alone night after night but crowded out by the ghosts you all haul around?

Is it too much to ask for even a moment of connection, of not feeling alone?

You gaze back at him. Sweet Johnny MacTavish. Handsome but not vain, smart but not aloof, funny without being cruel about his teasing. Is there anyone you’d rather be with?

“I want to do this,” you tell him, and there’s no hesitation in your tone. “If you do. If you really were just joking around, then no harm, Johnny.”

His somber gaze softens at your use of his real name. “Wasn’t joking at all.” Then he opens the door to his quarters and turns to you, invites you in with a sweep of his hand, and when you walk past him, he lays his palm on your lower back to guide you.

-----

In truth, you’ve never actually sat on anyone’s face. It’s one of those funny sex acts that you joke around about but have never gotten around to, like sixty-nine (always seemed more complicated than necessary) or food-play (always seemed too messy).

Soap, it turns out, has never actually had his face sat on.

And it’s adorable, how he sheepishly runs his hand through the longer stripe of his short-shorn hair and admits as much.

“Figured it cannae be that complicated though,” he says. He huffs out a breath, and you realize how nervous he must be, and it gives you courage to take charge.

“Kiss me first. Then we can figure it out from there.”

The tame command makes his face light up and he murmurs, “yes, ma’am” in his brogue, and then he does as you say.

If Soap MacTavish is generally the team’s Golden Retriever, bouncing around with a wagging tail, he kisses with far more finesse. He cups your face gently, reverently and leans forward, brushes the lightest of kisses against your lips like he’s testing the waters. Like he’s waiting for you to pull away, and when you don’t, he kisses you again.

It’s awkward at first, but only because you’re both so tentative. It’s uncharted territory. He must be aware that you’re crossing a line in doing this, you think, and he must not care either. But the awkwardness melts away quickly because Soap is a damned good kisser, skilled in how he moves his mouth against yours, his tongue against yours. One of his hands stays on your face, cupping you gently and steering you, but the other hand touches your waist, your hip, slides around to squeeze your ass gently before returning to the dip of your waist.

He tastes like something warm and spicy, like cinnamon or nutmeg. Everything about him is warm, really: the way he cups your face but runs his thumb over your cheekbone, the way his other hand holds you steady as he kisses you. And the way he looks at you when he breaks the kiss, the almost-shy way he tugs at the hem of your shirt and asks if he can take it off.

He’s warm too—his body, his skin as you bare it with each article of clothing shed. You strip each other in tandem, and the sight of him leaves you breathless. He’s like something carved by a Renaissance sculptor, but when you smooth your palms over the dips and swells of his muscles, you find that he’s warm to the touch, wonderfully so, and a wave of lust almost takes you out at the knees by how much you want to feel his body against yours, under you or on top of you, every inch of you pressed against him.

Soap must feel the same way about you—he touches you just as gently as before, almost reverent, but his goddamned eyes practically shine when he looks at you, then groans out, “fuck, but you’re stunning, hen.”

He maneuvers you both towards the bed, and then he stretches out across it, and this is precisely why your sexual repertoire has always been lacking: when a brutally handsome man is stretched out in front of you like a damned buffet, your mind singularly focuses on one thing, and you rarely remember that there’s other, more adventuresome things you could do.

You’re already turned on. Ever since the two of you walked back from the range, you’ve been on a low simmer of lust, and the desire has ratcheted up with each kiss, with each little grumbling groan of Soap’s, with each sweep of his big warm hands along your body.

So you’re already turned on, so why sit on his face when his beautiful cock—perfectly sized for you, the ruddy tip already leaking precum—is also an option?

And Soap is no dummy. He must guess at your internal battle because he says your name softly, pulls your gaze back to his face where he smiles that brilliant Soap-smile at you.

“Alright then?” he asks. He pats his upper chest. “You can sit right here, to start.”

It hits you all at once how intimate this is. Fucking, hooking up—that’s one thing. But sitting on your teammate’s face feels like you’re taking a further step into the unknown. Oral sex, to you, is already more intimate than regular ol’ intercourse, but sitting on his face feels…even more intimate. There’s a lot of trust on both ends: he has to trust you not to hurt him, not to put too much weight or force on his face or neck. And you have to trust him too, since you’re basically smothering him you with your pussy, and many men are precious little babies about eating pussy.

“I could just…” You trail off and gesture vaguely at where his erection strains and bobs against his belly, and Soap snorts before he replies, “we could do both, hen.”

When you don’t say anything, when you don’t move, he adds, “c’mon, sweet girl. I’m dyin’ for a taste of ye.”

The accent is unfair, you decide. The accent is not fighting fair. Soap’s Scottish brogue is charming in the best of times, but his bedroom version is thicker, at a slightly lower register, and it’s entirely unfair. It easily dismantles the rest of your meager defenses, so you nod and then kneel on the bed. But when you start to awkwardly clamor on top of him, he stills you for a beat and taps his mouth, says, “give me a kiss first.”

And the kiss is unfair too because it reminds you that it’s just Soap, one of your dearest teammates, a man who often holds your life in his hands and whose life you hold in your own. His now-familiar taste of spicy warmth on your tongue, and his lips curving in a smile against yours when he whispers, “climb on up, hen Don’t keep me waitin’ anymore.”

There’s no sexy way to climb on top of him. Do you just kneel by his chest and throw a leg over him? Do you straddle him lower and scoot up? You split the difference, try to straddle him on his lower chest and scoot up, but then his one arm gets pinned. Any other man? It might be a deal-breaker being so clumsy, but Soap laughs underneath you—a genuine belly-laugh full of warmth that makes you giggle too. He wrangles his arm free, then lays both hands on your hips and guides you the rest of the way.

This is unbearable intimate too, being so exposed to his bright blue-eyed gaze. You probably have tons of issues around previous men who didn’t eat pussy, who were grossed out by it, but Soap’s eyes practically glitter black with how blown his pupils are. His face rarely hides its emotions very well (he’s a shitty poker player), and there’s no disgust in his expression at all. There’s only desire, naked and apparent.

“Tell me,” he says, and his voice is a low growl that sends that frisson of heat straight to your core. “Tell me what is working for you, yeah? Don’t go quiet on me.”

You nod, and you wish you could think of something cool or funny to say, but Soap lifts his head a little and presses a plush, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, where both are splayed in front of him, and before you can even beat yourself up for failing to think of something cool or funny, his mouth is on you in earnest.

Soap, a damned good kisser. It translates to this, his skilled tongue and lips licking at you, suckling at you, swirling against you before he breaks up the pattern with an outright kiss, then resumes his routine. He traces the tip of his tongue around the firm bud of your clit, the perfect amount of pressure before he snakes it lower, lapping at the arousal leaking from your entrance. He’s unabashed about it, groans against your feverish skin, and you love him in this moment—love that he wasn’t joking after all, love that he had led you here, where you sit perched on him while he feasts on your cunt and seems to genuinely enjoy it as he does.

Any other position, you’d lean down and kiss him, or pull him to you and kiss him. Now, as he groans against you again, you reach down and run your fingers through the longer stripe in his hair. He must like that, because he groans a third time, and his grip on your hips spasms tighter.

You remember what he asked of you, so when he purses his lips and suckles against your clit, you gasp out a startled “oh!” but then add, “fuck, Johnny. Just like t-that.”

“Good?” It comes out muffled against you, and he pauses his mouth long enough to gaze up at you with a smile.

“So good.” You shift your hand, cup his stubbled chin slick with your arousal—a gentle movement that makes his smile soften too.

“Like when you call me Johnny, hen.” Now he sounds a little shy, like he’s edging close to something beyond a random hookup with face-sitting.

“Keep using your mouth like that and I’ll call you Johnny all the time,” you tease.

“Deal.” And then he’s on you again, laving your sensitive folds with his tongue, his bit of stubble raising a warm burn against your inner thighs. His hands on your hips pull you closer, and he encourages the slow, careful rhythm when you start to actually ride his face—a languid back-and-forth, mindful of his need for oxygen, while he eats your pussy with the fervor of a starving man.

Your orgasm approaches faster than you thought; you thought you might have to fake it, since you rarely come from oral alone. But there’s something about this position. You feel powerful in a benign way, in charge, but mindful of the man underneath you. You run your fingers through his hair and Soap preens at the touch, just as he preens when you pant out praise for him, tell him how good you feel. How good he is making you feel.

He must sense it because his grip tightens on your hips, but his tongue moves faster and focuses solely on your clit—teasing with the tip of his tongue, then laving it with the flat of his tongue, then wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

“F-fuck,” you choke out. “Johnny…fuck…I’m gonna…” but you don’t finish the sentence, you keen out a garble of nonsense as you come.

The heat in your belly pools over, spills over in a brilliant wash that courses through your veins, into your trembling legs and up through your body, makes your vision shimmer and crackle with sparks. Your heartbeat, your panting breath are loud in your own ears, and you hear Soap groan but he sounds faraway. He teases your orgasm, prolongs it by licking against you until you grip his hair tighter and hold his head still while you clumsily dismount, then flop gracelessly onto the bed beside him.

You feel boneless. You feel heavy, sleepy, like you could sink into the mattress and sleep for days. You close your eyes and feel the bed shift, and Soap disappears for a moment. You hear running water—he must be cleaning his face, you think—but then the mattress dips again and he’s curling his warm body around yours, wrapping his arms around you as he pulls you to him, then settles the blanket over both of you.

“Good, yeah?”

You laugh. “Yeah, that was good. Especially for someone who’s never done it before.” A beat. “Give me a moment to catch my breath and then I can help you out.”

Soap chuckles above you, and you feel him press his lips to your forehead before settling again. “No need.”

“But I—”

“Already came.”

The gears in your head turn slow when you’re sated from sex. Coming makes you stupid. “Huh? When?”

Another chuckle, another kiss to your head. “When I was eating you, hen.”

You turn your head and try to peer up at him. He looks comfortable and sleepy too, content and sated. “Seriously?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Told ye I was dyin’ for a taste.” He shifts a little, pulls you closer to him. He tugs the blanket more securely around your shoulders. “If ye want a second round, I’ll need a few minutes.”

You appraise the situation: the warm scent of Soap, the feel of his naked body pressed to yours, the warm little cocoon he’s created here in his bed. Of course you want a second round, but you’re sleepy too, and the thought of sleeping with Soap doesn’t seem nearly as terrifying as it might have seemed before he had his mouth on your pussy.

“Or we could sleep,” you offer.

“Sleep,” he agrees. “Round two tomorrow.”

The doubts from earlier start to surface in your mind, but they seem tiny and inconsequential when you’re wrapped up in Soap’s arms. You feel sleep tugging at you—he’s already asleep, you think, breathing deep and even against you—so you chance to brush your lips against the bit of him you can reach and whisper good night to him.

But he’s not quite completely asleep yet because he kisses you back, another press of his lips against your head, and he whispers back, “g’night, hen.”

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sinkovia · 2 months

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Sexual themes, nsfw, smut, 18+.

Masterlist

Johnny MacTavish who couldn't help but overhear the man next to him commenting on how stunning you looked. Casually glancing over to where he was looking.

Johnny MacTavish who can’t take his eyes off you as your body swayed sensuously to the beat of the music in the club, your hips swaying and your limbs flowing gracefully. The way your body moved in sync with the music was nothing short of mesmerizing.

Johnny MacTavish whose heart skips a beat when your gaze shifted, and your eyes met his. Your hips swayed in time with the music, and your eyes never left his as you closed the distance between you. You extend your hand, your fingers lightly grazing his. You led him onto the dance floor, where the music enveloped both of you.

Johnny Mactavish whose arousal grows thick in his pants as you turn around so you are flush against him. Your body pressed close, and the heat between you was thick as your ass slowly grinds on his hard arousal. His hands are low on your hips. The tent in his pants pushing against the curve of your ass made the heat between your legs unbearable. Slowly you turned in his embrace, your arms locked around his neck. Your soft lips leave kisses on his neck making his cock throb unbearably.

Johnny MacTavish whose lips smashed against yours as soon as you stepped into his house. In an instant, the both of you ripped each other's clothes off. You felt his tongue push past your lips, invading your mouth.

Johnny MacTavsh who kissed down your stomach until he reached your core, shoving his tongue deep inside you. You could hear the muffled groans escaping from him as he ate you out, the vibrations making it all the more pleasurable.

He moved his tongue continuously over your clit, sucking it raw until you were trembling. His hand moved from your thighs to your dripping hole, letting two fingers slide in.

A loud whine escaped your lips, he was groaning into your clit, enjoying this as much as you were. You felt every curve of his fingers as he stroked in and out of you. Fingers curling up, pushing against your gummy g-spot. You're pushed over the edge and your breathy moans fill the room as your orgasm washes through your body.

Your legs shook as he licked the slick dripping out of you with his tongue. You grab his chin and invade his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips. Reaching down you take his thick veiny cock in your hand, feeling him twitch and throb against your palm, he starts to buck into your hand for any friction.

You settle yourself between his legs, your eyes never leaving his as you drag your tongue slowly up his shaft. His breath hitched as your soft tongue came in contact with his hard length. He watches you take all of him in your mouth, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your warm wet throat.

He grunted out, his head falling back against his pillows. You finally got a good angle and began to quicken your pace, bobbing your head up and down quicker. You twisted your hand on his shaft as you came up and down. He was a groaning mess, his hand went to the back of your head as he began to buck himself deeper into your mouth.

The feeling of his cock dragging against your soft tongue, sinking in and out of your warm, wet mouth, was just too much to bear. He pulled out of your mouth and flipped you over, positioning yourself on all fours. You lowered your chest so it was flush against the bed, your ass up, your drenched cunt on full display for him.

He rubbed the head of his cock at your entrance, slowly pushing himself in. You were taking him inch by inch moaning into the pillow. He was thick, you felt yourself stretching to fit his size.

His hand moved to your hips, he loved the view of taking you from behind. He watched himself disappear repeatedly inside of you. Johnny could feel your body squeeze around him, your slick aiding the glide of his strokes as he set a cruel pace.

You moaned as he hit your soft gummy g-spot. He noticed the way your walls clenched around him and he tried to hit it every time. You were clawing at his pillows, the tip of his hard cock hitting your cervix with every cruel thrust of his hips.

You were getting drunk off the sound of his hips slapping against your ass, the lewd wet sounds of his cock beating into your cunt filling the room. He could feel your walls fluttering as you were nearing your climax and carrying him along with it.

Quickly he pulled out and flipped you over so you were lying on your back. He never broke eye contact as he grabbed your ankles, resting them on his shoulders as he pushed himself back into you.

You cried out in pure bliss as he thrusts into you deeper than before, his hips beating into your wet aching cunt, never faltering in their pace. He rammed into you over and over again, his grunting getting more frantic the closer he was to climax.

"Johnny I'm close" you softly moan out.

He could cum off the sound of your voice, the way you said his name sent him closer to the edge. You felt his dick pulsating against your walls, this was enough to trigger your own orgasm. Tears fell from the corners of your eyes, the intense waves of maddening pleasure completely overwhelming you as you came all over his thick meaty cock.

"Fuck Y/n"

The feeling of you clenching around his dick threw him over the edge, with one last deep thrust, he climaxed. His vision blurred as he pumped his white pearly cum into your soaking cunt, rocking his hips with the last of his energy as he drained himself in you. He slumped next to you on the bed, the both of you trying to catch your breath.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" You say smiling, curling yourself next to him. Resting your head on his muscular chest.

"Hell lass, I'd be a damn fool to pass ya up on that.

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multific · 5 months

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Mine, Yours

Alpha!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x Omega!Reader

Alpha/Beta/Omega Universe

Warnings: swearing, oral, +18!!!

You felt his anger.

Your alpha was angry.

And you knew just exactly why. Graves thought it would be a fun prank to start flirting with you. While you were sitting right next to your mate!

Philip must have gone insane, you knew he liked to tease the boys but this was a new level.

But soon, he messed up very very badly.

When he said "I bet you I would be a better Alpha to you." it was over.

Everyone saw it coming when Johnny threw a punch at him. Graves didn't even have time to react as he fell backwards with his chair. Simon, who sat next to him just took another sip of his drink, unbothered.

"Say that again and I will make sure you will regret even being born!" Johnny was mad, you have never seen him so angry.

It both scared and turned you on.

Another punch was thrown at Graves because he said something you didn't hear. Your focus was now on Johnny.

You stood up, making everyone look at you.

"Let's go home." you said but Johnny didn't listen. You knew it was time for the big guns. "Alpha, please take me home." you said with your best submissive voice, and it finally worked.

It almost even made Simon stand up but he had to remind himself, you weren't his.

Johnny quickly scooped you up and ran out of the bar.

Simon also stood up, leaving Graves on the floor as he headed to the bar to ask for another Bourbon.

You heard Johnny mumbling something to himself, you understood a couple words such as, dickhead, asshole and something about a hole in his head.

But you knew better than to say a word.

You just let him carry you back home, rubbing his back to hopefully calm him a little.

Johnny had only one weakness, your Omega, you.

And although you were a strong woman, you also knew that Johnny liked the innocent type. He had a thing for protection, much like other alphas.

So, you often liked to play the part of damsel in distress.

You were convinced Johnny thought you were genuine during those moments, and you didn't want to burst his bubble. Plus, you very much enjoyed seeing him be so though and strong.

So, when you arrived home, and Johnny didn't want to let go of you, you knew that the curtains were up, it was your time to shine.

"You are mine! How dare he?!" his pupils were blown, and his eyes looked foggy, your Johnny was only a shadow of the Alpha in front of you at this moment.

"Alpha," your voice came out a lot softer than you anticipated. You felt a shiver running down his back as you looked at him and he watched you. "You protected me." he silently nodded. "Can I reward you?" he slightly tilted his head, not understanding.

But when you sank down to your knees, the fog lifted from his eyes and it became dark.

"Can I reward my Alpha for keeping me safe?"

Johnny quickly grabbed you and walked into the living room, he sat down on the couch and placed you in front of him, in between his legs.

He ran his thumb down your cheek and moved to your lips.

"Suck me, Omega." he said and you never felt more wet in your entire life.

You didn't need to be told twice, you were quick to undo his pants and get him naked.

He got rid of his shirt, while you remained fully clothed.

You had only one goal in mind and that was to please him.

It was so easy to do as well.

No matter what you did, he loved it.

He enjoyed everything you can possibly do. Even if you say you have done it wrong, he would tell you the opposite.

In his eyes, you can do no wrong.

Much like right now.

He kept on groaning and praising you as you tried your best to fit his length into your mouth.

"You don't have to fit all of it, Love. Yes...Yes just like that." he said as you worked your fingers on the part which you couldn't fit.

He smelled amazing, your alpha was truly a sight to behold. Especially when your eyes locked with his as you kept bobbing your head, your tongue flat against his length.

His eyes were filled with lust, you felt his hips jerk as you moved down once more, keeping your eye contact the entire time.

You knew he was about to come.

You want him to, you were ready for it.

You wanted to tell him that it was okay to come, if your mouth wouldn't have been full with his cock.

The only warning he gave before he exploded was that he grabbed the back of your head, fist full of your hair as he groaned loudly and pulled you forward.

You watched as he threw his head back against the couch and let go of your hair, you swallowed to remainder of his essence and allowed him to come down from his high.

You slowly stood up and he watched you with half-open eyes as you took off your dress and stepped out of your panties.

"Shower?" you asked and he simply nodded, you smiled at him as you tried to move out of his reach but he was faster.

He pulled your back against his front, his head in your neck as he growled.

"You are mine." he said in such a deep voice, you were already soaking wet.

He bit down on your shoulder a little bit as you felt his length harden against your back once more.

You were in for a long night.

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dmitriene · 17 days

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there's the thing that johnny wouldn't trade for anything else, and the thing is being next to you — wherever he is and no matter how far away, there is always a glimpse of you and your warmth in the edges of his thoughts, the vivid images that call him from the farthest corners of the planet, beckoning him back.

one step of his heavy army boots against the floor of the helo is enough for him to fidget in place for the rest of the way like a restless puppy, his azure eyes sparking with bright flashes even in the dark, foot nervously taps an indistinct rhythm on the floor, attracting the attention of his comrades.

and when they dare to ask through loud barks what makes him behave so unusually, he is not ashamed to say that he is in a hurry to return home — to his bonnie lass, to you.

you make him have a home, a place to which he hastens to return as to a temple — just as the helo land on the base, johnny scoots like a eager mutt, disappearing into the walls of the building to immediately wash off all the grime from his aching body and pick up a pre-assembled bag from his room.

the only thing he spends his time doing is cleaning himself up, he won't let himself cross the threshold of the house with fresh blood still on his hands and dirt on his body, even if he knows you don't mind, because you'll wash it and kiss it off him — johnny won't dare to stain you, nor your shared sanctuary.

and when johnny does return, he drops his bag near the entrance and quietly unties his boots up on the threshold of the house, moving further inside with a slow, quiet steps, taking in the air with a wide chest and looking around the dimly lit by the morning sun living room.

by the time he reaches the half open bedroom door, his body and mind feels fuzzy, wide palm absorbs the doorknob to push the door open fully, and johnny stills, because here you are.

with your softly illuminated body half covered by the blanket, with your lovely eyes opened groggily to greet him back with warmth, and love, wide open arms — in which johnny drowns.

fully and irrevocably, drowning in feather light and warm kisses, the most gentle touches of your hands that wrap around his body with trepidation — and he responds with the same boundless love, the same kisses and warmth, where together you form a cocoon, a safe harbor that contain just two of you.

and johnny will come to you everytime, to you, his mo chridhe.

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3.

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hellsfirekeepsyouwarm · 1 year

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"I Know a Place"

Hello my loves. After writing tons and tons of angst, my mind and heart needed a lighter happier story, so i just put this together. I just warmed up to Soap recently, and i thought i give it a go. Happy reading my Soap lovers.

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x Reader

Warnings: language, not proofread 'm sorry

Summary: Johnny finds you in the kitchen making breakfast, when the only thing he wants is you tangled up with him in bed all day.

Johnny has never seen a more beautiful thing that his eyes are witnessing right now. His eyelids still heavy from the deepest shuteye he ever had, your naked body pressed against his, complaining about your ice cold feet while pushing you closer to his skin. Mind a little foggy, the comfort of the bed screaming his name to get back under the duvet, but it through him out so quick when he met your side completely empty.

You were supposed to sleep in, having sloppy kisses, wandering his hands to places he couldn't touch for weeks, murmuring sweet nothings, hanging on your every word about life you lived without him while he was gone. It was always bittersweet. He admired how you ramble about everything you wanted to share, searching for his attention, checking if he's still as interested as half a minute ago.

Fuck he loved it. How your eyes lit up to his snarky comment on your asshole colleague, to his macho flirting and bad pickup lines. That light every damn time your eyes landed on him is what he's living and fighting for. Probably the one he will die for. That spark is imminent right at the moment you realize he's watching your every move doing the breakfast.

"Oh no, i wanted breakfast in bed." You pout, one eye on the bacon in the pan so you don't burn like the last time Johnny demanded you attention. Johnny chuckles, a bright pink blush creeping it's way to his cheeks. Gosh, you are the only one person on this planet who can do that. He's down bad for you, and he's not shy to admit it to anybody.

"As much as a bacon and eggs breakfast in bed is tempting, i wanted to be woken up with you by my side." He closes the distance between you with slow but big steps, eyes remaining on your face, looking for the familiar fluster he can cause, drinking it into his memory. He lefts no room for space, body pressed against you right away, chin resting on your shoulder, chest to your back, thighs locking your legs. You can feel every muscle in him, just the way you both like. Closer and closer.

"Smells good, darlin'" He murmurs next to your ear, leaving tingling kisses on your earlobe and neck. "When it's gon' be ready, hm? I'm hungry and we spent just about enough time out of bed."

His arms circling on your tummy and hips, pulling up his shirt that you wear, in an effort of satisfying the need of skin on skin contact all the time. He fills every missing piece, every sense that he can, even if it means you'll be eating burnt food. He won't have it, you aren't fixated on him and only him. He'll do anything to lure you away from your task at all cost. Sliding his hands to your breast, the other to your core, only grazing the sensitive part, to tease and earn that little sigh from your lips.

"MacTavish, give me a break cuz you'll eat dried cereal." He laugh into your hair, a sounds so magical your heart almost leaps out of your chest. You love his laugh like no other sounds existing.

"I had other plans for breakfast to be honest hun" He pushes you closer to his body, separating you from the oven, pulling you away delicately.

"No no no, Johnny, let me get this done. Please." He growls, easing his hold on you, but never letting go, slowly inching back to your food like two idiots attached at the hip. "Can you get me the plates love?" He groans not so pleased with leaving you for that 10 seconds he collects the plates. But he does, eyes always circling back to you.

"Coffee?" You nod towards the freshly brewed pot, signaling him to fill the two cups in front of it. He knows what you are doing, giving him random task so his hands are occupied with something else than your body. In the meantime you proceed to fill the plates with delish food, in quite a hurry to get it done before he's pressed against you again. You swear this man is insatiable if it comes to you.

Just about when you see him move towards you, you poke your finger at him. "Uh-uh! Sit down big boy!"

It's so funny how abruptly he stops in his tracks, a half smile playing on his lips. The cheeky bastard. But he does as you say so, eager to have his food, and you next to him. He brings the mugs with him, while do the same with your breakfast neatly placed in front of him, sided by toasts. You sit down next to him, close, but not close enough for him. He grins widely at you, grabbing your chair and dragging you close to his own seat. "Now that's much betta"

You just giggle, seeing him happy and healthy, devouring every bit of the meal, chugging the hot plain black coffee with it. You often wonder how he can be so gentle and firm at the same time. You see the urgency in his moves, something he cannot unlearn, but he does it delicately. He couldn't deny the soldier in him if he would have wanted to.

He hums with a full mouth, one hand with the fork other hand on the back of your neck. Keeping close as always.

"You are unbelievable, just eat." You giggle when leans over to give you the nastiest bacon kiss, trying to smudge the oil from it all over your face. "You love it." Yeah you do.

"Eat slower, otherwise you won't have space for dessert." His head perks up from his last bite, looking like a kid at Christmas morning.

"Dessert? What kind of dessert?" He asks, chewing on bacon, wiping his mouth in a kitchen rug, and his attention is on you right away.

"You have to see and wait." You aren't even finished with half of you dish, and you are sure you won't have the chance to consume it. Johnny turns his whole body towards you, leg hooked on your chair, hands all over you, honestly he couldn't be any closer than this.

"Nah, you don't get to tease me like that." He literally pulls the fork out of your mouth, half of your bite hanging on it, and the other half between your teeth.

"Johnny, kmuuun" He just laughs into your neck, tingling you with his nose running up and down the delicate skin. Pinching his face with your shoulder is just making it worse because now his lips are stuck on that freaking spot he finds so quick. The food dies on your tongue, grateful for not choking on the egg because of the attack Johnny is waging against you. You decide there is no point of forcing this breakfast thing. His wet lips are too apparent and demanding, distracting your every thought.

His gentle pecks and playful licks with a giddy laugh turns into passionate kisses alongside your jaw, hot air fanning you where his nose tracks your skin. He consumes the space around you, leaving no room for anything else, just him. His touch switching between gentle presses from an iron grip, his tiny growls and hums of agreement when you position yourself for him to access more of you. And when he praises you when your sweet moans escapes your mouth next to his ear, oh my god that's the end of you.

"That's my girl, do it for me again." He doesn't have to ask again, the press of his palms on your inner thigh is enough for you to melt in his hands.

"Enough playing around, kiss me already." You breath out, clutching onto his hair, holding into the back his neck for dear life.

"Yes m'am" You see his grin with heavy eyelids, shutting automatically by his soft lips, tongue slipping right next to your not waiting for a second. Always fast forward when it comes o the real thing. He likes to tease and play, but this, when you come to this part he never taunts you. He gives and takes equally, searching for the relief of his needs pulling you with it.

His hands slides up to your face, slowly turning the heat down, slowing down in a steady pace, to calm you or to calm him you don't know, sadly it doesn't get easy. You want more, so lean in for more, to push for more.

"As much as i want to continue this, we are so fuckin tangled on this chair i can't feel my legs." You laugh loudly, the burning in you calming a little.

"What are suggesting Sergeant?" You ask with an eyebrow raised. He stands up, so clumsy you wouldn't recognize the hardly shaped military man in him. It's almost comical to see this hunk of a man trying to pull his legs out of the chair's leg still holding into you.

"I know a place" His eyes smile with his lips, a rare sight you cherish so much. He pulls you up soon after he untangled his limbs, pressing you against his chest. "It's soft, padded with warm blankets and pillows, perfect for our type of activities." His accent pops off at the last word, a slight tremble running through you by his low tone.

"Then show me this place." You whisper into his mouth as you peck his lips right before he pick you up in his hands carrying you into that special place of your bedroom.

#johnny soap mactavish imagine #soap mactavish imagine #soap mactavish x reader #johhny soap mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish imagine

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shoot-the-oneshot · 1 year

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Mine, Ours.

Phillip graves x reader Requested by anon 19, “is that my shirt?” “You mean our shirt?” Softy home graves is what I live for and this trope has me in a choke hold so I had to do it for our bad boy navy seal.

You were having the time of your life, music on, a hair and face mask in, your full shower routine, and no more 5-minute navy showers you were forced to take on base.

Now you were home and decided tonight was your night of pampering, you had gotten back home not to long ago and immediately took ownership of the master bath, leaving Phillip to himself in the guest room and to catch up on the football he missed in the living room.

You smiled to yourself every time you heard him shout in excitement for his team or curse a referee. While outside the wire he was overly serious and commanding, you loved seeing how he relaxed at home.

Sliding on one of his old PT shirts the bright yellow NAVY draping across your chest, bouncing into the living room finally feeling clean of the sand and dust.

Phillip drew his attention away from the game when you dropped onto the couch next to him, sticking out your leg, with a playful smile on your face.

“Feel how soft my leg is!” He chuckles running a large hand over your leg, nodding along with his words. “Very smooth Y/n.” Without hesitation, he tightened his grip and pulled you closer to him by your leg. You yelped as you got dragged across the couch.

Giggling at his antics and the smug smile on his face for finally having you tucked back against his side. Your head was resting on his chest moving with his steady breaths, as his arms wrapped around you keeping your body pressed against his.

“Think you could get my face this smooth?” He asked. Mindlessly rubbing his fingers up and down your leg. “Even if I didn’t think I could, I’d still do it to get rid of that monstrosity on your face.” You deadpanned as sweetly as possible, reaching up to tug on the hair covering his jaw. You loved him and he knew you did, but he also know how much you hated his deployment beard.

“What you don’t like when I do this?” Digging his face into your neck, rubbing the coarse hair against the sensitive skin. “Phillip!” You yelp thrashing against his tight hold. He pulled back with a smile when you stopped struggling and sat back in his lap with a huff. “You really think that was smart when you want to put a razor in my hand?” Glaring down at his blue eyes he just chuckled not believing your threat.

“You won’t do anything, come on.” His hands landed on your ass harshly, keeping his grip to hold you up when he stood, carrying you to the bathroom, cringing as he set you down the thin T-shirt not protecting you against the cold counter. Phillip, searched through his drawers setting out everything you could need. Brand new razor, shaving cream, a towel, and aftershave. You snorted grabbing one of the objects and rolling it in your hand.

“Is this Dior aftershave?” Phillip who was leaning over the sink next to you laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t take it in the field, okay, I’d never hear the end of it” he mumbled the last part like you weren’t supposed to hear, making you giggle. Running his hands up the length of your thighs slowly pushing them apart to make room for his body as he stood between them. “Before I start what exactly am I getting out of this?” Phillip paused huffing out a laugh knowing exactly what you wanted.

“Oh so getting this ’monstrosity’ off my face as you called it isn’t enough?” Shaking your head looking up at him with those same wide eyes he fell in love with. “Alright, ill make you dinner for a week. now Come on baby..lather me up.” His poor attempt at a joke make you shake your head a fond smile on your face nonetheless. Gently slapping the handful of saving cream he didn't notice you had against his cheek with a splat.

“Think your funny huh?” He sighed, going unheard as you were still laughing at the shock in his blue eyes with half his face covered in the thick cream some even dropping to his chest. Nodding your head giggling into your hands. He shook his head to himself slyly grabbing the can and holding it over your head and wrapping his free arm around your waist so you couldn’t run.

“Phillip stop!” You screamed as he ruffled your hair mixing it in, his laugh booming with your softer ones, as you both calmed down the room almost humming with the affection he was suddenly looking at you with. “Can I start now commander?” You breathed out, distracted by his thumbs now rubbing circles on your hips. “Permission granted darlin’”

Gently holding one side of his jaw you worked on the other moving the razor in smooth drags, dipping it in the water to clean it off every few strokes. The peaceful silence lasted most of the duration until Phillips brows furrowed. Moving your focus from the blade to his eyes, “What’s wrong?”

He tilted his chin down towards you, “Is that my shirt?” Scoffing at his question you moved his face back where you wanted it. “You mean my shirt? What happened to what’s yours is mine?” You teased, making him chuckle trying not to move not wanting to risk getting cut, knowing even if it was his fault you’d still feel guilty.

“You’re right, I meant our shirt.” He rephrased, watching you smile happily at his correction. As you gently wipe away any reminisce of the shaving cream off his face and neck, straightening up and pressing a peck to his lips brushing against them as you spoke. “Much better.”

hey hope you guys liked it let me know! request are open

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