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The pained hunger of a man who never allowed himself a good thing.

drabble, sexual content, only mentions of, not edited or betaed

It was deep within him, the craving, the urges. The sweat stuck to him as he untangled himself from his cotton sheets, kicking them to the end of the bed where they slid off leaving him bare. 

Pressing and rubbing his palms into his eyes, he willed away the ache between his legs. It had been a couple of years now and still memories plagued him. 

Quiet mornings, peaceful nights alone, even when focused on a sniper scope they come. Overtaking him with feelings that he can’t physically grasp anymore. 

In the beginning, he ignored them, telling himself that the aching want was just because he had so recently held you in his arms. That his body remembered what it was like to feel pleasure. 

As time went on he fought his mind against his body, knowing that he could beat the urges, that even if he was just a man he could control them. Even if he had to dig down into his resistance training, willing away the heat and want, hands curled above his head, far from where his body begged.

Even still he ached, hips rolling into the air seeking the pressure and release that he would never allow.

Because who was he to use your memory for pleasure and goodness that he didn’t deserve?

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"poly!141" okay so where's Gaz?

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Ghost doesn't cutesy talk cats, he talks to them like other adult men and it's hilarious.

They're at a safehouse, and Ghost is listening to the radio, Price hears him talking to someone, and he's confused because both of his sergeants are conked out asleep.

So, he walks around the corner and finds Ghost sitting on a step with the radio playing and a stray kitten biting his laces while he talks to her. "I don't believe shoelaces constitute part of a balanced diet."

John just sits down on the step next to him and ignores how his knees click. "What's her name?"

"She's yet to disclose name or rank, but given that she's clearly smarter than those two through there, I'd say she's a lieutenant." He responds so dryly that John can't help but snort.

"Ah, I see. Making her way through the ranks at her young age, impressive." He leans forward to pet the kitten, flattening down the tuft of fur sticking up on her head.

"She's a hard worker, look at those paws. Grubby, she's been busy."

The kitten offers them a mewl in response, and he nods accordingly.

"She's stern, reminds me of Laswell."

That makes Ghost laugh.

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his eyes were coke zero brown

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TASK FORCE 141

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In your eyes I saw a longing, while I longed to lift you up

John 'Soap' MacTavish x Reader

Again, crossposting this from AO3.

Summary: Johnny survives what should have been a deadly injury. During his recovery, you bond with his family while he refuses to accept his weakened state, only wishing for you to let him wither. However, as you help him through it all, Johnny is reminded why he fought to stay.

18+

CW: smut, tiny angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, deals with medical topics, recovery from injury, mention of depression and struggles related to recovery, cuddles. LOTS OF CUDDLES.

Masterlist 🦊 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Not Johnny.

One hundred and eighty-four days.

One hundred and eighty-four days since Johnny got a bullet in his head. Six months since you saw him flatten against concrete. No lights if not those of the torch tucked in your tac vest.

One hundred and eighty-four days since your own heart stopped beating. More than four thousand hours since the moment you snarled – bellowed. Voice raucous and loud echoing in the tunnel. Raw fire burning your tongue all the way to your fingertips; those that curled around the trigger of your gun.

Makarov on the floor with a hole in his forehead. Mouth-gaped, exhaling his last breaths, mouthing like a fish out of water. Cross-eyed. His lids fluttered, shaking. Pathetic.

Not Johnny.

One hundred and eighty-four days since you pulled the trigger again. And again. And again. And again. To his chest. To his face. To his legs, groin, shoulder.

Since Price hastily got up from where he’d been thrown and grabbed you from behind. Burly arms around your waist lifting you off the ground. Your gun still shooting, bullets now hitting the cinderblock of the walls. The trigger clicked empty, but you still pressed it – autopilot.

The roar that echoed scratched your throat, made you choke. You spluttered and coughed. Tears and spit, foaming at the mouth. A rabid dog. 

Not Johnny.

More gunshots echoed, but they didn’t come from your weapon. Price dropped you, your knees knocked against the floor. Helpless, you folded. You draped your body over Johnny’s. Forehead to his chest, arms limp next to his face – fingers grabbing at his cheeks, enough to indent the skin. Blindly skimming through his features, feeling the slick blood carve its path through the tiny folds in your fingerprints.

Senses dull. Not Johnny.

Cotton in your ears. Each explosion from the guns was nothing more than a muffled thud. Bullets flew past you. Bullets hit you. You felt the familiar blinding pain of mangled flesh in your left arm. It caused your body to flop further – a ragdoll. It burned, yet it was nothing compared to the agony currently disemboweling you.

You were gutted. Much like a knife piercing flesh. Cutting its way through layers of skin, muscle, and fat. Intestines pouring out, blood and water and bile mixing on the floor – cocktail of death. Not yours. Johnny's.

Not Johnny.

He heard. His chest rose under the weight of your head, and life was breathed into you again.

───────────

It was absolutely mind-boggling to you how he’d survived. You saw it; you saw Makarov pull the trigger. You saw the bullet pierce his skull. You saw him crumple on the cement in that underground tunnel. You felt the blood on your hands. You felt how slick it made his skin.

But apparently, it wasn't enough to snatch the life out of him. 

And as you spent the following days sleeping uncomfortably, curled on one of the chairs in the waiting room of the army hospital, doctors came and went to talk to Price. 

Or to Johnny’s ma.  

She’d flown all the way from Glasgow to Hereford in the blink of an eye, bringing with her a goddamn squadronof MacTavishes. Four sisters with his blue eyes, and his dark hair. All of varying ages. Even a little one, half of yours. Her long hair was in a plait that swung behind her back. You watched it – transfixed. Too catatonic and dazed to care that you might have looked like a right weirdo – staring at a kid like that.

But she was the one who looked like him the most. Maybe it was in the tilt of her chin. In the shape of her eyes. In the slight fold of the tips of her ears – God, you weren’t looking like one, you were a proper weirdo. 

Her braid swung like a pendulum, marking the time you spent apart from him.

A guarded prognosis meant that no one aside from close relatives could enter the room. Family only - and the leader of Johnny’s unit. So, you spent your days of medical leave with your ass on those plastic chairs that were made for short sitting sessions, looking at a platoon of women going in with flowers and chocolates and leaving with tears and bloodied gauzes.

Your arm was wrapped in a bandage of its own, the muscle torn at the bicep. The pain was dull, much like the goddamn sight of you. Or the smell, which you reckoned mustn’t have been the most pleasant whiff to catch with one’s nostrils.

Price took pity on you because he knew. He acted like he didn’t for the sake of his team, but he knew. And he conveyed his awareness with lingering, judgmental glances he gave you and Johnny when the Scot let his hand travel a little too low on your back.

You watched them all from afar, perking your ears to catch any news the doctors told Johnny’s family or your Captain. Clawing at the walls for some information. You’d give your right kidney to know something more aside from the sparse words Price told you out of sympathy.

And then, out of nowhere, after tortuously long days spent with stomach and heart utterly empty, a nurse came to you.

She tapped your shoulder and you flinched. Bloodshot eyes swiveled to land on her face. She looked down at you apprehensively, knowing she’d have to tread lightly. A cornered animal, you were. Pitiful thing.

She called your name, and you blinked.

“The lady there said you’ve been here a while,” she spoke oddly soft and yet respectful. Must’ve spotted the pips on the epaulets of your uniform jacket, the one currently draped over you like a blanket.

Your eyes were unfocused and blinky. Lashes fluttering to swipe away the fatigue – a broom against dust. Looking around made your neck tingle, muscles corded, but you did. Your pupils locked with bright blue ones at the other end of the hallway.

Johnny’s ma waved.

Your brain rewired itself from its slumber and you sat upright. Your shoulders popped as you pulled them back at attention. Legs uncurled from where they were tucked underneath your weight, finally stretching out. Palms to your knees. Your jacket fell to the floor, you didn’t mind it.

“She wants to know if she can talk to you,” the nurse prompted.

You nodded eagerly, probably looking a little too desperate. Your leg bounced in anticipation and anxiety, tiny needles piercing the muscle as it awakened.

Gingerly, his mum walked to you. She sat right in the chair at your side. It took nothing but a look for her to understand: the crust in your lashes from the tears you’ve shed, the bandage around your arm gone from white to yellow with a splotch of brown in the middle. Dried blood and pus. The wound festering beneath it.

She hugged you. She didn’t care if you hadn’t washed in days. If your injury was probably infected, or at least smelled as such. You curled your fingers into fists against her back, and you cried.

She did, too.

𓇬

You understood that Johnny took his fire straight from his ma because she was currently bullying the doctor who had been preventing your entrance into her son’s room.

You stood almost embarrassed next to her, feeling like her child yourself.

She had forced you to wash, after all. Took you to one of the washrooms and helped you out of your clothes. Stroked your skin with a sponge when she noticed the weakness of your movements. Washed away the suds with the showerhead. Dried your hair and braided it.

You’d have felt pathetic if she weren’t there, constantly telling you it was alright. You'd have felt guilty that you became an additional burden to her if she weren't continuously whispering that “whoever loves my Johnny like you do, ‘s mine to care for.”

You took a few steps back the more she argued with the doctor, trying to flee from that predicament. Maybe you’d be lucky enough to peer through the cracked door and spot Johnny’s face now that both surgeon and nurse were busy trying to tame (fruitlessly, they’d learn) Mrs. MacTavish.

However, your back hit something. You lifted your arms, elbows out to create more space around you.

You looked behind and clocked a girl, and her braid. She was slightly shorter than you, about fifteen. The resemblance with her brother was so striking it caused your breath to hitch.

She looked at you with caution. Assessed you like antiques at an auction. Whether you were worthy of her brother’s affection, or not. And you found yourself thinking you’ve never wanted someone’s approval more than you did at that moment.

It was a game of stares that she was clearly winning.

Comical, really. How your skin had bled because of bullets tearing it apart. Knives had ripped crimson gashes on your flesh. Bombs had gone off in your vicinity. You’ve killed. You’ve seen death and brought it, too – a harbinger.

Yet now you stood stock still in front of a teenager. Eyes locked with the depth of the azure sea hers bore. Frozen in place with your elbows still out and your hands hovering between you two.

It was silent for what felt like hours when in truth only mere, tense minutes had passed. The only sound that of Johnny’s ma giving an earful to the doctor and a very tired nurse.

Your lips parted on their own accord then, and your voice came out wet and strained. “You’re so much like him.”

That girl had tried to crack open your skull with the sheer force of her eyes and somehow managed. Then snuck her fingers in the hollow of your stomach and curled them around the handles of your ribs only to rip them open and take a gander at the battered thing that was your heart.

What she said next made your chest clench to the point of pain. Your heart stomped against the hard bone of your rib cage. Her voice was heavily accented yet softer than her brother's. The meaning behind her words was different from the ones you uttered. They went deeper than mere physical appearance.

The thought that she might have seen something in you that even remotely reminded her of him made your heart ache - feeling undeserving of it.

“You are, too.”

───────────

One hundred and eighty-four days since the incident, you could’ve gotten a goddamn medical degree. You took a long compassionate leave to stay by his side, hastily apologizing to doctors and PTs alike for his behavior because during that time, when they’d show up at your doorstep, he’d bark like a dog for them to leave.

For one-hundred and eighty-four days, the moment he fell asleep, you’d bury your head in medical manuals and books. You had his physical therapist explain to you step by step all the exercises he’d have to do for his limbs, so he’d regain strength and mobility.

The massages. The oils. The meds. How to put an IV in. How to change the bandages of his bedsores. You helped him shower. You helped him dress. You did his beard or his hair, and while he pushed for it to be a bland buzzcut or just let it grow, you always let the airstrip at the center stay – gelling it up sometimes, for good fun.

When you’d place a kiss against his buzzed side, next to the healing scar, he’d find himself giving in more and more. His back would soften against your chest, fingers curling at your forearms wrapped around his front.

By the one hundred and eighty-fourth day since the incident, Johnny still barked like a dog at whoever dared to walk in his flat that wasn’t you or a member of his family. But at least now the rest of the lads had their privileges.

At least now he let you sleep on your side of the bed – sometimes daring to curl his arm around your waist so you’d scoot over to his.

At least now he kissed you again and brushed his fingers along your cheek, or through your hair.

His strength came back at a languid pace, but his hands didn’t tremble anymore when he held a fork, so now he could eat by himself. He could lift small weights, but still couldn’t sit up on his own. That was the next achievement you both were aiming at.

His personality now shone through the fractures of the shell he'd locked himself into. The cheeky grin slowly came back like molten gold mending the fissures. That glint in his eyes - a reminder that he was alive.

You already knew it, but he didn’t – and now, he was on his way to finally realize it.

On the morning of that day, Johnny was lying in bed as you’d just finished helping him wear a pair of grey sweatpants. Your back was to him while you folded clean laundry.

He watched like a hawk each movement you made, no matter how mundane and trivial. Shame and resentment still had a tight grip on his heart, withered his soul, but the sight of you – simply there – was enough to make those feelings hush.

“Can’t believe you bloody stayed.”

You stilled in your motions, and only resumed a moment later, setting down the laundry back in the basket. Then, in your sweats and one of his t-shirts, you moved towards the bed. Sat at the edge. Lingered there for a moment as you took him in.

He was thinner. However, against all medical logic, his muscles were still there. Definitely less bulging, definitely much less defined, but there. Apparently, it takes a lot more to wear down John fucking MacTavish. However, you’d have to give credit where credit is due, and your relentless insistence in forcing him to do all the exercises as the PT instructed you, even when Johnny all but cursed at you, might have helped his muscles keep their tone.

You lay down in bed next to him, propped on your elbow with your cheek in your palm. You placed your free hand over his chest, his strong heartbeat at your fingertips.

"'cause you're too hot to drop, eh?" You quipped.

He tried to keep up with your joking mood, his lips curving into that trademark smirk he used to don so effortlessly. Differently from before, when life seemed to flow smoothly, it was short-lived. And while his heart felt like it was being torn apart, he lifted his arm and slung it around your waist, bringing you close.

You snuggled in his side for good measure. One leg of yours was draped over his two, palm still flat on his chest, and now your head lay there as well. While he’d almost returned to his usual self, these moments in which he allowed you to touch him were always sparse and rare. You’d take your fix whenever you could.

His chest still felt tight at the sight of you huddling against him. “Why do ye love me?”

His voice rumbled in his ribcage, echoing in your ear pressed against his pectorals. It perfectly scratched an itch in the back of your brain, almost giving you gooseflesh.

"Because you're pure dead brilliant.” You replied quietly, drawing shapes over the fabric of his tee, "You make me laugh, you make me happy."

Absently, you smiled – memories of your relationship even before it bloomed into love came running in front of your eyes. He could only see the top of your head, but he felt the way your cheek lifted against the cotton, somewhat scrunching the fabric.

"Can't imagine a life without you, honestly.” You lifted your head from his chest and placed a chaste kiss over it. Your shoulders shrugged, the answer being simple. "You're my Johnny."

As much as your words served as a balm to his wounds, he felt as if you were describing someone else. Attributes he was undeserving of – ones that described the man he might have been once but didn’t feel like anymore.

His hand lightly gripped your hip. All he could do was tilt his head down and plant a kiss on your forehead, letting his lips linger a tad longer. Savoring your skin and the salt of it.

“’m the luckiest man alive,” he mumbled. The press of his mouth against your flesh slurred his words, but you caught them anyway.

Luckiest for real, you mused but didn't voice it. He didn't need a daily reminder of the sheer miracle his survival had been.

Instead, you only relished the touch of the chapped skin of his lips. Your eyes fluttered closed to block out anything else that didn’t involve that tiny, warm feeling.

"My lucky charm,” was all you could muster up to say.

He huffed. The air escaping his nose was warm as it hit the crown of your head. You could tell by the way he tensed that he was hesitant, still mindful when it came to having you close. Insecure, ashamed. But you'd linger there unless he pushed you away – hoping, deep down, he never would again.

In very Johnny’s fashion, he masked his insecurity with a lighthearted joke. “C’mon, inflate my ego a bit more.”

And you did, despite knowing it was all a façade to hide the inner turmoil he’d been brewing constantly ever since. Despite knowing he silently craved your words of reassurance, because maybe, if you repeated them enough, he’d eventually believe them, too.

A chuckle bubbled up your throat. Johnny felt its gentle rumble in his bones, and it stole a smile from him.

“You’re absolutely hilarious – you crack me up,” you continued like he asked, “Sharper wit than mine – which I thoroughly appreciate.”

You leaned your head back, reluctantly pulling your forehead away from his lips, only to be awarded with the blue of his eyes.

“You’re kind and compassionate," you sighed, "You care ‘bout others even when you shouldn’t. That’s noble.”

But then your mouth pursed, because its corners struggled to keep a smile, "You're also absurdly hot, love.”

He scoffed, giving you a look – shallow. But he couldn't deny the way the last comment made his chest puff a little.

It was unbearably hard not to burst out laughing. Difficult to keep the warmth inside, in the face of the familiarity of it all. You cleared your throat, mustering up the most serious expression you could pull at that moment.

“You’re the strongest man I know.”

And just like that, his smile was gone. The dancing flame he lit in your heart, smothered by ice. Johnny, who’d always been the gasoline to your fire, now felt like freezing water.

He shook his head, trying to hide the unease. “My strength is long gone, love.”

And even if your blood was struggling to boil against the ice he instilled, you decide you wouldn’t have that. Not in a thousand years.

Your eyes welled up with tears, as much as you tried to fight it. He sounded so tormented - you craved to take it away from him. Your fingers curled at his jaw, gently. Tilting his head, you forced his eyes to lock with yours – making sure to keep him there, focused on you.

"You, my love," you repeated, voice wavering but filled with resolve, "are the strongest man I've ever met."

Yet your words only fueled the self-hatred. He failed to see the determination in your eyes because the wounds in his brain, both emotional and whatnot, only made him perceive pity.

“I hate this,” he growled. While your fire had been smothered, his only grew. His eyes held defiance and fight, unfortunately against all the wrong things. “I hate this so damn much. I – I struggle to live, darling. I can’t even fucking stand. I’m like a useless sack of sh-”

"None of tha'." You interrupted him. This time, you sounded angry.

Hell, you understood. You were a special forces operator, too. You were in his same team. You fucking got it. The pain, the worthlessness after having been fully independent and, at least on his part, generously strong for most of his adult life.

But you weren't having it.

Your fingers held his face in place, curled at his cheeks. Not too tight, always gentle and mindful of his head injury, but firm enough to indent in the plush of his skin.

"You are Sergeant John – fucking Soap - MacTavish." You stated firmly, and while your eyes were glossy, your voice didn't hesitate this time. "You are a sniper and demolitions specialist. The best out there."

Your pupils sailed the storm in his eyes with unparalleled skill. "You've survived a gunshot to the head. You fought to live, and I swear 'ere and now, John, I'll make fucking sure you will."

Johnny found himself fighting a war he couldn’t win. And while he wasn’t used to it, he realized he didn't mind losing. He had been biting each hand that tried to feed him, to nurse him back to health.

Even yours.

He failed to see, however, that you came back each time – mangled fingers, bite marks and all.

He hated being the reason you cried, even if it was for the sheer amount of feelings that had been brewing all at once, threatening to spill over.

Without warning, he put his hands against the mattress and sat up. And because it wasn’t enough for him apparently, he grabbed awestruck-you by the hips, pulling you on top of him –  with no little effort – to straddle his lap. That was the achievement of the week, he thought, and with an exhausted sigh, he flopped with his back against the headboard.

He used to be able to absolutely manhandle you and place you wherever he wanted, once. Now, his chest heaved as a result of barely lifting you an inch. The concept was still hard to grasp for him, but he realized how proud he felt when his eyes landed on yours, when your gasp reached his eardrums.

And he understood, then. He might have thought that he was a useless sack of shit, but you weren’t, and steaming Jesus, he’d do it. For you, he’d take the fucking praise of having lifted a spoon without dropping the stupid golf ball you placed on it. He’d take the kisses you’d pepper his face with each time he’d bend his knee to his chest without your hands helping him fold it.

He’d take that look you were donning right there on his lap, your eyes going from heated to watery. Brows pinched. Mouth-gaped.

He’d take it like a fucking champ, and he’d be proud of it.

"Johnny,” you breathed, steadying yourself with your palms on his shoulder.

The bastard smirked; lips parted as he caught his breath.

He brought his hands up to cup your cheek. His thumb rubbed at your jawline and his fingers threaded through your hair. “How are ye so bloody beautiful, eh?”

You almost melted right then and there.

You huffed. Breathless and shaky. You leaned your cheek against his palm – perfect fit. One could hear the clicking sound it would’ve made as it fell into place.

“Gonna have to cross tha' from our achievements list." You slurred, your words as wobbly as your lips.

He hated your bloody achievements list, but he’d take that one, too.

His voice was raspy. Scratched you in all the right places. “We should put a reward for each one you tick off, mh?”

You blushed.

You did, and you weren't even ashamed of it. How many people could say that their significant other made them flush even after years together? You bet very fucking few.

Because Johnny made your heart stutter like the first time although it had been years you two shared the same bed. Johnny made your chest swell, your cheeks pink, and your panties wet even after he'd seen you naked and bent however he pleased – and he could do that with a very visible craniotomy scar on the side of his head.

You gave him a knowing look, though.

"Just a kiss," you replied, sounding a little too patronizing. Almost as if you were scolding him. "The doc said no sex, Johnny."

Indeed, now he almost looked like a child who just had his favorite new toy snatched away. A feigned pout, his bottom lip jutting out slightly. “Not even a tiny bit?”

He looked utterly gorgeous, even when he acted like this – normally, it would’ve driven you up a wall.

The blue of his irises was now a mere halo around widened, dark pupils. He took a greedy handful of the meaty part of your hip. His other hand journeyed from your jawline to your bum, and he wasn’t parsimonious there either, as he curled his fingers around the plush skin.

"What even is a tiny bit of sex, Johnny?” You huffed. Before he could reply, because you saw that cheek in his eyes, “And for the love of Christ – Don't say just the tip.”

He grinned, caught red-handed.

You fixed him with a blank stare.

And then, you spouted all the knowledge you had acquired during these months while he slept away. You went full medical encyclopedia on him. "Sex increases blood pressure, which might cause weakened blood vessels in your brain to burst, potentially leading to a hemorrhagic stroke. You could -”

Johnny barked a laugh. You ended your lecture by pursing your mouth in a tight line; rolled your lips between your teeth to hide how much the sound of his genuine chuckle had affected your heart.

He absolutely demolished you with a sentence only.

“But I sat up today, sweetheart.”

Your shoulders deflated. Utterly powerless.

He pinched the air between thumb and forefinger in the space between your faces, “Just a glimpse, yeah?”

You scoffed and briefly looked down at the spot where he’d placed you in. All by himself, no help from you whatsoever. You were so fucking proud it made you arrhythmic.

You settled on a glimpse.

Gingerly, you grasped the hem of your (his) tee and pulled it off your head. You tossed it in a vague direction behind you, eyes focused on his. Deft fingers went to unhook your own bra, and you let it fall.

Sitting up on your knees, which gave him a very nice close-up of your breasts (the lad went cross-eyed at the sight), you hooked your fingers at the waistband of your sweatpants. With one motion, you took down both pants and underwear, which pooled at your knees.

You leaned back, sitting on your rear, and pulled them both off your ankles. Much like your sorry t-shirt, they landed somewhere on the bedroom floor.

Planting your feet on each side of his thighs, you kept your knees spread and leaned back on your palms, as if to say There, enjoy.

"Better?"

Johnny’s eyes darkened instantly at the sight before him. You looked wet already for reasons unknown to him. Poor man couldn't grasp the idea that no matter how he looked, he'd always make your heart race and your cunt glisten.

Johnny slowly rubbed the back of his fingers against his lips.

“Better,” you heard him rasp.

You nodded imperceptibly, eyes never leaving his. You raised a hand and drew a map of your body with your finger, tracing a path he’d hopefully follow again, one day.

It started from your mouth, fingertip tugging at your lower lip until it bounced back into place. Then down your chin, down the curve of your throat, traveling in the valley of your breasts.

"You behave, Johnny," you breathed, letting your own hand grab a handful of your breast and squeeze. The fat bulged between the grooves of your fingers.

"Follow PT.” You pulled at your nipple, "Take your meds, do as the doctors say."

Your palm snaked down your belly until it reached your core. You spread your lips for him with your fingers, "And I'll be your first meal after recovery."

Johnny’s eyes followed your hand, hypnotized. He swore his mouth watered and he thought this wasn’t much of a reward as it was torture.

His heart throbbed against his ribs, and his eyes clocked yours once more.

“I’ll behave,” he promised, his voice thick with an unspoken need – and he would.

Johnny decided that he’d take this, too. Fucking hell he would.

Your lips quirked to the side, trying to hide the small smile of delight. The only thing you wanted was for him to get better. Small steps: he had already managed to sit up in bed by himself, so maybe the next step would be to stand up on his own, one day.

Then walk. Then run. Then train at the gym, or take you out for dinner. Fuck you senseless into the mattress. Get on his knees to make a meal out of you. Or get on one knee, holding out a ring.

And by God, if what he needed was a reward – he'd get it. Honestly, if it would help him improve, you'd give it to him every bloody day. You’d bend, break, turn, and fucking dance if he asked. As long as he stayed here, alive.

You were unabashedly wet, so there was barely any friction as you plunged middle and forefinger inside your core. You hissed at the sensation – pleasure and pain. You let out a shuddering breath, eyes closing just briefly.

You should've been embarrassed about the sound your own cunt made when you slid them out, but the way Johnny's eyes widened made you anything but. His hand dropped from his mouth onto his thigh, limp.

Utterly disarmed himself.

Sticky and wet with arousal, you placed your fingers on his lips, gently pushing them inside to rest on his tongue.

"Good man, Johnny," you breathed, your own heart thrumming, "So fucking proud of you.”

Johnny’s chest warmed and his eyes flickered between your own, his tongue automatically coming forward to taste you on your fingers. His cheek hollowed as he sucked, which did absolutely nothing to the already dripping state of you.

You scissored your fingers against his tongue, “Take it.”

His eyes fluttered closed. Sweet and salty, ambrosia on his tastebuds. The tang of you, forever impressed in his mind – a man parched of what he used to drink almost daily and had been denied for months. He thought it had been criminal of you to take it away from him for so long.

And while this totally wasn’t the most appropriate moment to think about it, he realized that you never denied him anything that wasn’t for his own good.

He did it to himself.

Which made him angry. Which prompted his hand to flit up and wrap around your wrist to keep your fingers there, snug in the cavity of his mouth – wishing he could never part from them.

The humming sound of pleasure vibrated through your hand, and you shivered in response. He grunted in a low, husky murmur – words barely muffled by your fingers, “I want my reward, pet.”

Your own eyes were hooded and heavy. He looked perfect, despite that thick scar on the side of his head. Actually, the fact that he was still here, in this plane of existence, with his brain injury - somehow alive, by sheer miracle - made him even more perfect.

You took your fingers out of his mouth. Johnny begrudgingly released them with a pop. He looked flushed and ravenous. It would’ve scared you, the voracity in his eyes, if you weren’t already accustomed to it – known it like your own, same hunger that’d been festering in your lower stomach for months.

You helped him lay back down again, making sure his head would fall softly against the pillow, back flat on the mattress. You stretched out like a cat, settling yourself on your knees between his legs.

Resting your palms against his thighs, feeling the taut muscle underneath, your fingers gently scraped over the fabric of his sweatpants. The obvious tent he sported imperceptibly twitched in reflex.

You grazed the bulge with your nails. Johnny shuddered.

Only then, you curled your fingers at the waistband of his sweats and slowly pulled down, exposing him. His cock bounced back against his abdomen once it unhooked from the elastic of his boxers.

It was your mouth’s turn to water. You’d seen him naked several times in the past one hundred and eighty-four days, but the purposes were very much different. Of course, it wasn’t only him that had to refrain from intimacy. While you could, well, DIY your way to bliss, it clearly wasn’t enough, because your body was reacting dramatically at the mere sight.

Your hand almost darted at the base. Johnny’s hips gave a tiny jerk, and you could hear the lack of sounds coming from him. He was holding his breath, almost in anticipation of what he knew would happen.

Thankfully he’d always been vocal, and when you gave the first stroke, Johnny absolutely melted. Quite literally, you saw him deflate against the pillows as if he were made of wax and your hand was fire. His lips parted in a whine you hadn’t heard in ages. Or maybe never. At all.

You decided you wanted to hear that again. Fucking pronto.

You started slowly, stroking up and down the way you knew he liked. Dragging the skin over the tip, using the honestly baffling amount of precum as lube.

You couldn’t take your eyes off of him. Johnny always looked gorgeous, and during sex, he looked like a god.Made to worship and praise. Now, his eyes were half closed. The narrow space visible was white – he had rolled back his eyes. Lips parted by heavy pants. Brows tight, as if he was concentrating.

Because he was.

“Slow down,” he drawled, seemingly unable to have his mouth follow along with his thoughts. “Fuck, plea-“, he whined, again. That sound you were looking for. Goddamn music that could feel like silk to the touch.

Your thighs squeezed together for some needed friction, and you did as he asked. He exhaled shakily, fully closing his eyes to get a grip. Johnny’s jaw clenched. He gritted his teeth, releasing a sharp breath from his nose.

Slowly, you bent at the waist, shifting a little on your knees. Your face was right next to his length as you held it up by the base, stroking languidly.

Johnny felt your breath hit his shaft and his eyes snapped open. You saw how his chest stuttered, eyelid twitching at the sight. How the indent of your spine drew a curve that tipped at your ass, tilted up. The lashes framing your doe eyes fluttering right next to his cock. Your lips pink, as if they might have caught teeth. The sheen of his precum around your fingers.

Johnny could’ve come right then and there.

To prevent it, he slid his eyes shut again. It was useless, because he felt that plush mouth he loved oh, so dearly, leave a trail of slow kisses from his base up to his angry-red tip. Johnny hissed a string of curses, wringing his eyes closed until his lids wrinkled.

You lingered a little more on his tip with your lips barely grazing it, tasting the salt of him and reveling in the desperation he was showing. Not a bad thing – this wasn’t that kind of torment you hated to see. Indeed, you liked it.

Very much so.

“Johnny,” you whispered, “Look at me, baby.”

Johnny could only oblige; however, he did beg whatever deity up there to give him enough resolve not to cum on your hand. His eyes drifted open and the sight of you, once again, threatened to have him end the moment way too soon.

He gulped. A fruitless endeavor, because his mouth was dry and his throat stuck. He parted his lips to mumble something. Something incoherent and jumbled because his brain was haywire.

Whatever he had to say, however, came out as a choked sound. Your lips parted further and wrapped around his head. Your heavy-lidded gaze locked with his much too wide eyes, and Johnny crumbled once and for all.

“Christ,” was the first sensed word he growled. His head fell back against the pillow, but that made you still.

He moaned again. Not that sound you liked, but more like a lament – why did you stop. Your mouth left his shaft with a sonorous pop. His head lifted and he glowered – how dare you.

“Eyes on me, Johnny.”

His breath hitched, and he thought you couldn’t have looked more beautiful. His eyes softened at the order, and he gave a simple nod, trying not to look as desperate as he felt and failing spectacularly.

You grinned, and he corrected himself: you could look more beautiful.

Whatever devoted thought was about to cross his mind was stopped in its tracks when you ran your tongue along the underside of his cock. Tortuously slow.

You used your hand at the base to slap the head against the flat of your tongue while your other palm rested on his thigh, feeling how he tensed beneath you. Only then, your lips returned around his cock. The muscles in his neck bulged and the tendons tightened, resisting the urge to just flop back once again.

His hips gave yet another tiny jerk, and he bit his bottom lip. "Careful, pet," he warned you, his voice strained against the rock lodged in the back of his throat.

He reached down and grasped at your hair but did not pull, simply just holding on to give you a sense of where his hands were. He wished he could sit up and ram his cock down the back of your throat. He knew you’d take it – fuck, he knew. 

But he’d used enough strength to gain the current reward, which was also the other reason why his muscles felt too syrupy to hold him up.

The tight grip on your hair almost made your eyes roll back at the promise of what it could’ve meant. The memories of how good he’d guide your head down his length made your cunt flutter around nothing.

You dived down until his tip reached the back of your throat. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as you struggled to breathe from your nose.

“God, sweetheart,” he moaned. Didn’t growl, or groan. John fucking MacTavish moaned, and you were unsure whether you liked this more than the gruff sounds you were used to.

You rose up again and then rammed down. Up, and down. Again, and again. And Johnny thought he could’ve cried. His chest heaved and his lungs burned – struggling to keep up with his rapid intake of air. His thighs tensed.

“Just like tha’.” He stuttered, voice cracking at the edges, “Yes, love. Yes.”

It took a lot of him not to collapse right back against the pillow and just enjoy the feeling and the obscene sounds you were making. And while his eyes stayed focused on you because you had commanded so, he also didn’t want to deprive them of the sight that you were.

You knew his tells: breathy voice, taut quadriceps, those tiny jerks of his hips to meet your mouth. Your hand curled at the base to help you out in your endeavor, stroking lightly and twisting as your mouth still worked. Your eyes locked on him, lidded and watery. Tears down your flushed cheeks.

A fucking sight alright, Johnny thought.

With the last spurs of strength left in his body, he selfishly pushed your head down, burying your nose in his curls. He groaned a desperate “Oh, fuck”, lifted his hips to meet you halfway. With a shudder, you felt him empty himself down your throat.

The grip he had on your hair tightened to the point of delicious pain, stinging your scalp. Johnny's legs went stiff under your touch. His cock twitched, buried deep down your throat, as spit and cum bubbled at the corners of your stuffed mouth.

You didn’t fight how your eyes rolled back this time. Struggling to breathe through your nose as you obediently swallowed.

Johnny allowed himself to collapse back against the pillow. Unfocused and dazed. The way his orgasm hit, like a needle puncturing his brain, made him think that maybe you were right and he’d gone and done it – the hemorrhagic stroke, or whatever it was you said.

When you finally pulled back, Johnny looked down at you with hooded eyes. His chest was still rising and falling at an alarming pace. And just when he thought it was over, that the bliss had regrettably ended, you locked eyes with him. His mouth went dry again.

He slowly let the grip on your hair go to allow you some freedom to move. He reached out to touch the side of your face. His thumb skimmed your lower lip, smearing the spit and what was left of him on your cheek.

“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly – more than just a compliment.

You blushed. As if your cheeks could get any redder.

After tucking him back into his pants and sweats, Johnny beckoned your face closer to his. You followed his guidance, only to have him curl his fingers at the nape of your neck to tilt your head, and let his lips meet yours.

He didn’t kiss your hungrily. He savored you, allowing your lips to slot, and your tongues to mold. He tasted himself on you, and you tasted yourself on him.

Johnny tucked you under his arm, guiding you to rest your head on his chest like before.

You looked up at him, a cheeky smile on your lips. Tapped your fingers over his heaving chest.

“Slow breaths,” you instructed, “Keep the blood pressure low, baby.”

He huffed, “Fuck off, darling.”

You laughed and nuzzled against him. Johnny could only chuckle with you – could only think you were a vision. And when your face lifted to prop your chin on his chest so your eyes could meet, when your smile beamed in his direction, he was sure you were one.

"Now will you," you tapped his nose with your finger, "Cooperate a little more?”

Johnny snorted.

His lips curled into a tiny smirk. His cheeks were flushed as well, a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. His eyes were droopy and a little dreamy when he took you in. You looked so beautiful his heart could’ve stopped, and if that were to be the last thing he saw, he would've died a happy man.

You were proud of him, and for the first time, he was proud of himself, too.

He fell silent and only basked in your glow, reveling in the sunlight you brought. The arm that held you by your waist traveled upwards, and he curled it around your head. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, tangling with some of your hair as well.

And Johnny thought he’d take it. He’d take it any day.

“Get that achievements list,” he whispered, “Wanna cross that shite myself.”

[phosphoracat]

Some more insecure Simon Riley talk, because he's precious.

18+

Word count: 1.4k

CW: nothing, just smut. Simon finds you in lingerie and has a stroke. I love him your honor.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon, who is not sure what to do with himself the first time you welcome him home in nothing but lingerie.

He’s so unbelievably tired, dropping his clothes on the floor of the bedroom without even lifting his head. Mumbling apologies to you—how he’ll clean tomorrow, how he just wants to go to bed and sleep fourteen hours straight, right now. Bonus points if you hold him through the night, too.

Yet you’re not replying, but he’s seen your silhouette in the darkness; he knows you’re awake because you whispered a soft “Welcome back” when he walked in the room. His heart pounds in his chest, his palms get clammy—he thinks he’s overstepping lines by not giving you the attention he thinks you deserve.

So, as he unzips his pants, he lifts his eyes to look at you, and fuck—

You’re lying on your side, propped on your elbow, chin tucked in your palm. Perfect tits covered in sheer fabric, burgundy and black, your nipples peeking through. The soft line of your waist is bare—he follows it with his eyes until they land on your hips. Ornated lace curves around your hipbone and thins into see-through, dark fabric over your mound. Two strips of silk clasp your knickers to a pair of thin stockings that cinch the fat of your thighs, and the sight makes his mouth water.

“Welcome back,” you say once again, this time with soft amusement.

He looks like a proper idiot. Hand still on his crotch, practically feeling how his cock comes to a stand at the mere sight of you.

He gulps. Feels a little lightheaded. “F’ me?”

You smile, chuckling softly but not derisively. Simon follows your hand as you guide it over your belly, up to the valley of your breast, as if you’re there, showing the goods he can pick and taste.

“For you.”

Simon is stunned into silence again.

Fuck is he supposed to do, uh? He’d be content just looking at you lying there and looking like you came out of a magazine, instead of touching you and potentially ruining what you did just for—for him?

He must not have noticed how his whole body (aside from his cock) has gone into standby—entered sniper mode. He's quiet, breaths reduced and silent, eyes attentive and narrowed.

It's a handful of seconds that leave you uncomfortable, as your plastic pose softens, your smile faltering at the corners.

“You don’t like it?” You ask, trying to sound steady, but he picks up the nervousness in your tone right away.

He won’t let you have it, obviously. He snaps out of it and takes you in for what you are: a fucking present, on his bed, wrapped in strings and bows and lace like gift wrap.

“Shoulda guessed it was too much, maybe. Should’ve gone for somethin’ soft—"

Simon is on you in seconds. Grabs your face in his hands and smashes his lips to yours something fierce, nothing like you’ve ever experienced before. No hesitation. Simple, tangible desire. Scorching lust. Want. Need—fuck, he’s never kissed you like this.

Your eyes lose their surprise, and they slowly surrender to him—hands wandering down to help him out of his pants and briefs. And then you wrap your arms around his neck, grazing his scalp with your nails until he shivers.

Simon thought there was nothing comparable to the softness of your skin against the harder patches of scars freckling his abdomen. But he’s proved wrong when he feels the rough texture of your lace scratch his chest and his hips—it has him leaking embarrassingly quick.

He’s all lips and tongue as he races down your chest, sloppy kisses leaving a burning trail between your tits, down your belly, settling on your cunt covered by thin mesh.

Simon looks up at you, holding your thighs between thick fingers, smushing them against his cheeks. His eyes are hooded, dark, different. He tilts his head and bites into the plump flesh within reach—not enough to hurt, but sure enough to taste. Mercifully passes his tongue over the teeth marks before biting into it again, until the sting has you arching your back off the bed.

And he never breaks eye contact, which leaves you dumbfounded and flustered to the bone—because where is this confidence coming from? You’re wide-eyed and biting your own teeth in anticipation—this is all new and all the more exciting.

His kisses travel from the lines of your stretch marks up to your sex, where he doesn’t even bother moving the gusset of your knickers, and he just dives in.

Tongue flat against your cunt, drenching the sheer fabric with his spit and your moisture. Your moans are so soft compared to the sloppy mess he’s making of you down there, his insecurity blessed by a sort of beginner’s luck. Or maybe he’s just that hungry, and that is enough for your cunt flutter around nothing anyway.

You’re speechless when he finally lifts himself up, slotting his hips between your kiss-bitten thighs. His cock lands heavy on your pelvis, painting your lower belly with speckles of sheer precum. Head swollen and red right above your belly button.

You look at him wide-eyed, on your back, stock-still—anticipating his next move with your heart rate spiking.

He takes you completely by surprise (once again? In one night? Who is this man?), when he moves your knickers to the side, and instead of plunging in, he slides his cock between your folds and snaps the lace back above it. And then he starts rutting in shameless abandon, holding you steady by your thighs, letting the sheer fabric of your panties cover his tip and half of his shaft, as he runs himself back and forth over the surface of your pussy.

“M’gonna ruin it, sorry.” He croaks, as one of his hands comes to clumsily grab your tits through the lace. “So fuckin’ pretty—fuck—bloody hell, you—”

You coax him to go on with breathless moans because he’s never looked more breathtaking than he does now. Tiny drops of sweat drip from his forehead onto your belly, cheeks flushed and long lashes fanning his cheekbones. His lips yield a grunt each time the lace scratches his shaft. Your breath hitches each time the head of his cock catches your clit.

“Gonna buy ya a new one, yeah?” He grunts, looking down at the wet patch his cock is making through the lace. “Gonna buy ya fuckin’ ten.”

He’s never been this vocal, and you don’t dare to mouth a whisper in case he catches himself in the act. Not even when you cum, a short and stinging orgasm that makes your clit burn at the friction, do you dare to moan. You tilt your head back and shut your eyes, neck corded in the strain to keep it in, flushing with warmth in unbearable silence.

You think you hear his voice crack through the cotton in your ears when you come back down from your high. “Fuck—God, fuck. Wha’ a gift, eh? F’ me. All f’me.”

He pulls back a few moments later, taking his cock out of your panties and into a thick hand. A few pumps, and he cums on your lace, painting your belly and your cunt in glistening white.

He’s panting as his hand languidly comes to a halt. Chest flushed and with a thin layer of sweat over it.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, clearly dizzy—as if he needs to apologize for this. “I ruined it. I—just—gonna go grab somethin’ to—to clean y'up, wait 'ere—Jesus Christ.”

He slowly comes to stand, knees popping and legs shaking as he stumbles to the bathroom.

You look down at the spurts of cum covering your stomach and staining the lace of your panties, and then you flop your head back onto the mattress, wide eyes locked to the ceiling.

A chuckle of disbelief escapes you, still in shock from the sudden switch in behavior. And you think, when he comes back with a towel to clean the mess he’s made on your skin, that you might have to take another trip to the shop this weekend—buy yourself a new little piece.

But later, then, he falls asleep with his head on your chest, fingers lazily toying with the lace of your bra (because he’s asked you to keep it on, you know—“Like how 't feels”), and so you move up your shopping a little—already on your phone, running your thumb to skim through pinks and blues, laces and silks.

You might just order a new one right now.

It’s at that moment that he shifts in his sleep, slipping his hand under the band of your lacy bra and curling his fingers around your breast.

You change your mind.

You might just order ten.

[phosphoracat]

sending simon a “care package” while he’s on deployment, but in lieu of non-perishable food and toiletries, you send him erotic photos and his favourite pair of your lace knickers.

he thanks you the following afternoon with a string of blurry videos of him jerking off in his bunk, muffled moans escaping clamped lips and a massive, veiny hand pumping his flushed cock.

when he comes, his meaty thighs tremble, as does the camera. you don’t see much, save for the splatter of white against his skin as he groans and sighs — a bestial thing ripped from his throat — and your knickers wrapped around him.

and when he returns from deployment, with pallor skin and sunken eyes, he leaves no room for you to question what could be wrong — because the second he enters your home, he’s forcing you against the wall and fucking your starved cunt for as long as he can manage, making up for all those precious months lost :(

masterlist <3 . . . newest feral!simon

[phosphoracat]

It’s been a while :) this will be a long post and I’m sorry.

Most of you know that I left Tumblr in early October due to being doxed and receiving an anonymous ask with my last name that is not accessible from this account.

I wanted to give some background about a situation that happened here in May 2024 that has led up to this. Although I created this account in 2021/22 I wasn’t active. I did not become active until I got into COD, and before that, I had only been on fandom Twitter.

After all that has happened below came a simple message on October 7th. “Hi Mrs._____.” With all that has happened I feel that you can put two and two together on who is threatening me in this illegal and terrifying way. My information is not public on this account. I do not and have not shared even my first name much less my last.

I was not familiar with Tumblr fandom “protocol” and used creators' gifs and edits to supplement my own ideas and comments. I was not claiming their work as my own but added additional comments or explanations to the posts I was making. As it has been for many users Tumblr became an outlet and my safe space for fandom-related things.

Several months into my newly active COD phase I was reached out to about the usage of creators' gifs. I was unaware and attempted to apologize and to ask for advice on how GIFs worked and how I should move forward in the future. At the time I was unaware that making gifs and posting them on Tumblr also made them searchable in the gif post search.

After realizing my mistakes with using creators content without credit I corrected myself, apologized, and blocked the creators to prevent myself from accidentally interacting with them and possibly causing problems in the future.

Because of this, their friend created the post below, and those involved have been sending anonymous asks to me and those who have interacted with me about once a month.

June 10th I made the post below because I started to get anon asks

June 11th I extended it

July 30th I extended it again

I have gotten several anonymous asks since than, the most recent being in August, saying that I hadn’t apologized and that I will be “outed” again as a GIF stealer. In the beginning you can see I responded but after the next couple, still repeatedly accusing me, I chose to delete them.

I have been quiet about this in the past months because I have moved on and have wished to put this behind me, but this has gone too far. With the support of some wonderful friends I have decided to speak up because this is not fucking okay to do to someone.

I am not blacking out the names of those who have threatened to harass me because I am refusing to shrink into fear. Six..SIX months ago when this happened I realized my mistakes and I have changed and apologized. I have moved on, I ask that those who are harassing me do the same.

courtana. collinnmckinley. deadbranch. and those who are anonymous

[phosphoracat]

The Love You Want

cw: none for now || mistrust, johnny being a flirt, ghost lowkey setting this up knowing the consequences, birthday trope

She hates when he leaves.

Ghost had been deployed for months before being allowed to return, and a mere two days later, he was called back to service. All Ghost had told her was “a while” when she'd asked how long he'd be gone this time; every time Ghost was deployed, they argued. She couldn't help herself- he was always gone for so long and it always hurt her, not because he was leaving due to his job, but because she'd be alone once more.

Previously, she'd told Ghost it was fine that he was deployed, that he'd be gone for extended periods of time, but over time it really started to bother her. Thus, leading to the current situation.

A knock sounded on the door of their apartment, and peeping through the hole, she saw a man standing there with flowers, chocolates, and a ridiculous mohawk. She debated on leaving him there and sneaking away from the door quietly, but her phone vibrated in her pocket, and a quick check proved it was Ghost.

‘Happy birthday, love’

She reluctantly unlocked the deadbolts and the extra locks on the door before slowly opening it, peering at the other man, on guard. “Can I help you?” she asked softly, fingers curling around the pepper spray hanging behind the door for situations such as these.

“Aye, lass,” came his deep, gravelly voice, as if he growled the words. “Ghost sent me. Said ya get lonely, and wanted to give ya a present for yer birthday.”

She narrowed her eyes a little, obviously not trusting this man. “I don't know who Ghost is,” she replied with practiced precision, well-trained by Ghost within the first few months of their relationship to lie when someone mentioned him or asked for him.

The man just huffed a laugh, nervous, shifting on his feet. “O'course ya do. Big scary bastard in the special forces. Simon Riley. Spooky fucker that wears a mask.”

Just then, before she could proceed to lie further, her phone started vibrating like crazy. Keeping an eye on the man at the door, she checked her phone- Ghost, naturally.

‘Let him in, dove’

‘It's just Johnny’

‘I sent him’

‘Baby, let him in, it's alright’

She heaved a sigh before pocketing her phone and shutting the door to fully unlock it, the chain removed from its slot, and reopening the door to ‘Johnny’. “Come in,” she sighed, placing her full trust in Ghost and turning her back to the Scottish man to start making herself and him a cup of coffee.

She can hear Johnny moving behind her, hyper-vigilant to his every move, tracking the sounds of his footsteps and even the way he breathed. Ghost had instilled this kind of panic, this kind of mistrust in her early on into their relationship, reinforcing it over the past few years. Hell, he praised her for it.

She listened as Johnny set the flowers on the kitchen counter behind her, as he set the chocolates beside it… and another item that she had no idea he even had. She only turned when coffee was in both mugs, making hers the way she liked it, offering it to Johnny black.

“So, bonnie… Ghost has a gift for you.”

“My name isn't Bonnie,” she grumbled, misunderstanding Johnny as she was a silly little American girl. She'd never even met someone from Scotland before.

Johnny only snickered and grinned, stepping aside to reveal the beautiful lilies on the counter, the petals a mix of a soft yellow, and yellow mixed with pink. Her absolute, literal favorite flowers. Either Johnny was a serial killer who was super lucky, or Ghost really did send him. She naturally gravitated closer to the flowers, hesitant, cautious, eyeing Johnny from the corner of her eye as her fingers brushed the stems, the soft petals.

She murmured a soft thanks to him as she turned to fetch a vase from one of the cabinets, rinsing out the dust, adding lukewarm water to the vase and mixing in the plant food that came with the pretty- beautiful- flowers. She didn't get flowers often, as they died quickly and Ghost was more of a material man, but she still absolutely adored getting flowers.

Turning with the vase in hand, she gingerly settled the flowers into it and set it in the middle of the dining table, looking extremely pleased.

“You've got more, lass,” Johnny gently reminded her, and she turned to be met with an honest-to-God box of her favorite chocolates, and a wrapped mystery gift. She furrowed her eyebrows a little, assessing the wrapped gift, running through whatever it could be. It was as long as her arm, and about as thick as it, too. It was quite big… big enough to be a bomb. Well, maybe not that extreme; Ghost did say he sent Johnny, so surely he must trust this man enough to not destroy her and their apartment.

Cautiously, like a stray dog being met with fresh food from a stranger, she began to open the gift. She was careful with the wrapping, as if it'd blow up if she went any quicker or less careless, and after a moment, the gift was revealed.

A really, really nice monitor, that came in the box with a pretty pink keyboard and mouse, and a… oh my God, a mini PC! Her lips parted in sheer surprise, letting her guard down slightly in glee and shock. Johnny simply grinned, as Ghost had told him why he was getting this specific thing for her.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, excitement at the levels of a kid on Christmas, but it was June. “Thank you, Johnny, thank you, holy fuck!” She grinned right back at him, her carefully constructed walls starting to crumble. She fished out her phone to text Ghost, thanking him profusely, to which he responded with a heart.

‘i'm giving you the sloppiest toppy when you come home for this’

All Ghost responded to that with was a thumbs up, which made her huff a laugh at how ancient he must be.

Johnny helped her set up the mini PC as well as the monitor, even installing Steam for her before awkwardly standing there as she immediately busies herself with downloading and buying games to play.

“Well, lass, I’ll leave you to it,” Johnny says after a minute, offering her a smile. “But before I go… here. Happy birthday, bonnie.”

She turns, confused, as Johnny sets a tiny wrapped box in her palm, carefully unwrapping it to find a beautiful bracelet. It had butterfly charms on it in pastel, Easter colors, which so happened to be her favorite. “How did you…?” she asked softly, in awe of the beautiful jewelry.

“Have a little birdie in my corner,” he teased, but it was true; she figures Ghost told him everything she likes to properly get her gifts, or to help ease her anxiety and fear of a stranger.

She doesn't think- which would get her killed if Johnny was a worse man than he is- before she gently wraps her arms around his waist in a brief, soft hug. Her perfume filled Johnny's nose, sticking to his shirt, and he'd immediately fall in love if this wasn't his best friend's girlfriend.

“Thank you, Johnny,” she murmured, immediately working on putting on the bracelet and failing. Johnny stepped in, deft fingers expertly clipping the bracelet onto her wrist, before pulling away.

“Aye, looks right bonnie on you,” he murmured, still in her space. Their faces were somewhat close, his eyes drifting from hers to her lips, then back to her eyes immediately as if he'd spook her. He did.

She took a little step back, flustered, frustrated with herself. So Ghost was gone for a month and she immediately gets hot and bothered around another man? She hates herself.

“I oughta be goin’, lass,” Johnny expertly suggested, picking up on her feelings and that he'd probably overstayed his purpose of being here. “It was nice to meet ya. I'm sure I'll be seein’ ya.” With a two-fingered salute, Johnny let himself out of the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

She scrambled to turn all of the deadbolts and locks on the door, safe once more… but not from her thoughts.

All she could think about was how guilty and angry she was, that she seriously considered kissing Johnny right then. How lonely was she that it was even an option in her head? Ghost would surely kill her. God, Ghost. Does this count as cheating, even if she didn't do anything? She was spiralling. God, she hates herself.

banners by @saradika-graphics 🫶🏻

[phosphoracat]

Gaz and Ghost

are the worst combination to fuck. No, not because they don't fuck good. But because they are too good. They bounce off each other, encouraging each other to push your limits.

Content Warning- Breath play, blowjobs, anal fingering, dub-con, after care, PiV sex, creampie, face shots.

Ghost has you folded in half with Gaz's cock down your throat. Your head is dizzy and pleasure racks your body with every thrust of Ghosts huge cock. They've pulled multiple orgasms from your body leaving you a wet, pliant mess on the bed.

Everything is overstimulating. Gaz cards his fingers through your hair as he thrusts his cock into your mouth, watching drool drip down your chin. Ghosts happy trail brushes against your clit makes your thighs tense and hips jerk under his weight.

Gaz says something but you can't hear it over the white noise in your head and the sounds of skin on skin but you feel when Ghosts thumb teases the tight rim of muscle below his cock. Your eyes widen and dart between the two men whose brown eyes are focused completely on your reactions.

Ghost scoops up the slick leaking out from where he has you plugged and spreads it across your hole. Your breathing picks up and Gaz pushes his cock further down your throat causing you gag and sputter on it.

You look up at Gaz who looks at you with a mixture of cruelty and adoration as Ghost pushes his thumb inside. Just as Ghost does that Gaz pinches your nose closed and pushes his cock as far as it'll go down your throat.

You thrash and try to kick out of Ghost's grip as he pushes a second finger into your ass and begins to thrust again. Your vision begins to form black spots as you struggle to breathe around Gaz's cock and any sense of air gets punched out with Ghosts thrusts as his cock abuses your cervix.

"Come on doll," Gaz murmurs as he trails a hand down your abdomen and begins to rub at your clit. "Cum and I'll let you breathe."

You're still thrashing as the pleasure mounts up and everything gets darker and darker. Just as you think you'll pass out before you can cum Ghost curls his fingers in your ass and your back arches up off the bed as the dam breaks unexpectedly.

You feel yourself clamp down on his cock and Gaz finally lets you breathe. He fists his cock and his cum splashes warm across your face and Ghosts hips stutter to a stop as he fills you up. You gasp and feel tears rolling down your cheeks as the black fades from your vision.

"Good girl," Gaz praises as he wipes some cum from your cheek with his thumb and pushes it between Ghosts lips.

"You did so well fer us," Ghost whispers as he lets your legs go. "I'll get the towel okay?" You nod as you begin to hiccup. Gaz presses his lips to your forehead as he continues to whisper how good you did and how they'll pamper you for the next two days at least

A/N: @ghouljams the brainworms got me at last.

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Dry humping with sick!Soap? Poor guy is feeling under the weather and just wants to feel good dang it! And who are we to say no when he’s being so pitiful and giving the puppy dog eyes??

(jokes on us though when we end up sick anyway two days later 😑)

(Not quite what you asked, but maybe next part we'll get there)

Roommate Soap part 3 (18+)

He’s like that when you get off work.

It’s rare that he makes it home before you, so you’re a little surprised to find him stretched out on the couch, tucked in with a box of tissues and the TV remote.

You’ve actually never seen him sick before. With whatever-it-is he does as a job, they always make him work through illness, as if he’s some invaluable specimen to the company that no one can spare. But today apparently, the stars have aligned and his snotty ass gets to recover at home. On your only couch.

“How is it?” you ask, once you’ve hung up your coat and grabbed a snack from the kitchen. You’ll probably get it in a couple of days anyway, so it would be nice to know what’s coming for you.

“I’ll live.”

He does look miserable. That throw blanket is a little too short for him, so his socks are peeking out the bottom while he keeps it scrunched up under his chin.

“Can I sit?” You come to a stop in front of the couch and nudge at his knee with yours.

“Take the chair,” he grumbles, eyes never leaving the screen.

“But then I can’t see the TV.”

That royal pain in your ass doesn’t even answer, just lifts his eyes momentarily to your annoyed face, and then studiously ignores you.

Normally you’d find something to do in your room and leave him be, but… you’ve missed him. He’s been gone so much lately, and the apartment has felt dark and soulless for weeks.

As if compelled by a gravitational force, you make a quick decision and plant your ass down on the one empty space, the little bit of cushion in front of his hips.

“Christ,” he mutters, draping your arm over the top of his head so he can see past it.

You absently ruffle his hair, and then linger longer than you should, running your fingers through that stupid Mohawk. His skin does feel extra hot, poor guy. He’s like a heated blanket against your backside right now.

A bout of coughing from below has you running your hand across his shoulder instead, in what you hope translates into a sympathetic motion. Sympathy, that’s all this is. You weren’t trying to touch him, it just happened naturally, through no fault of your own.

“‘S more comfortable down here,” he mumbles, tugging your waist towards him.

“There’s no room.”

Lie. There’s definitely room, with these deep cushions. You’ve spooned on here with people plenty of times before.

“I’ll make room.”

So you end up snuggled into this wall of hot muscle, trying to ignore the heavy arm draped over your waist and the way your ass is shoved up against his crotch.

This is decidedly not roommate behavior, but it’s allowed because he’s sick, and you don’t feel like fetching the blanket off his bed to keep him warm. Who knows, maybe he’s delirious, and won’t even remember snuggling with you.

Cuddling? Snuggling? Is it the same thing? It does feel more like cuddling, with the way his fingers keep playing with the back of your hand, running softly up and down your forearm. It’s turned into active touching at some point, and you’re pretty sure it’s not your fault.

Okay, so maybe your socks end up entwining a little with his socks. Maybe you’re not really paying any attention to what’s on TV, because is… God, he’s holding you at this point, and it’s doing unforgivable things to your belly. There’s the most bizarre flutter that keeps going through it, all warm and interested.

Interested in him. Your very off-limits roommate who you may or may not think about a lot when he’s gone. That guy. That guy is giving you butterflies for no good reason.

“Missed you,” he mutters, so quiet you barely hear it.

“Yeah,” you breathe, while his fingertips trace the spaces between your knuckles, sending a flutter to a completely different part of your body.

Delirious. Feverish. Allowed.

“Do you want anything?” you ask, trying to be helpful.

Except he goes tense behind you, as if he didn’t understand the simple question.

“Tea?” you prompt. “Soup?”

“Mm. No thanks.”

Did he think you meant something else? Something… god, you can’t even bring yourself form the mental words.

Sexual attraction, that’s all this is. Your body likes his body, and that’s hardly a good enough reason to throw away a perfectly good roommate situation.

You need to move. Get up, put some distance between yourself and this insane urge to rub your whole body up against him. You just need to have a shred of self control for once, and say goodnight, for both of your sakes.

“I think I’m going—“

“Can I kiss—“

You both talked at exactly the same time, so you snap your jaw shut in horror, for a second convincing yourself that it was you who let that slip.

No, no that was him. His rough voice was the one that crossed over that one, vital boundary, at the same time that you were attempting to run away from it.

Silently you peel yourself off of him until you’re sitting upright, and then rotate your head to get a look at his face.

Wide, feverish eyes blink up at you in horror, as if he’s just as shocked at what just happened. It was him, right? You didn’t say that, he did.

“Johnny…”

“For— forget it. Didn’t mean that.”

He screws his eyes shut and wraps his hand around his head as if it aches. “That was— uh— not how I meant…”

“Yeah, that would be…” you laugh nervously, trying to get a grip. “Anyway, I think I’m going to go to bed, or…” You glance at your phone, and find it woefully early for anything of the sort. “…maybe change, or something.”

“Alright.” His voice has a heavy layer of relief that you’ve decided to avoid the topic altogether.

It’s a stupid topic, and shouldn’t be talked about, ever. And definitely not thought about, or pictured in detail.

You somehow manage to drag yourself away from him, and then find yourself in your room, as if you flew there without realizing. Your mind seems to crawl to him, over and over, lingering on the details of his face.

That’s what you’re thinking about, as you get out of your work clothes and into some soft sleeping pants and a tank top. You’re thinking about kissing him.

It should repulse you, considering he’s sick and also your roommate. It shouldn’t be extra thrilling to imagine his hot lips against yours, finally discovering exactly how compatible your bodies are with each other. You shouldn’t want to take care of him sexually, but you do. That’s always been the problem.

Fuck him, by the way. Fuck Johnny MacTavish for being so un-roommate-able.

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holy fuck

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Send this to all your favourite moots and pass the pumpkin round! KEEP THE PUMPKIN TRAIN GOING 🎃🖤🎃🖤🎃 babes 🫶🏼

i'll kiss you

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i think a tear just rolled down my thigh-

Un-evil

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

This is filthy. Short and downright filthy.

Crossposted on AO3.

18+ (Can't stress this enough)

Word count: 2k

CW: smut. that's it. that's the plot. it's just PWP. it's got a little fluff at the end, but it's smut.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Pain should be something evil, shouldn’t it? Yet you’re mostly positive that Simon’s hands aren’t evil – at least, not when they land on you.

But it's hard to prove your words right when he has his fingers curled into a tight fist around a handful of your hair. It's difficult, if anyone were to see, to convince them that he isn't trying to split you in half, by the way he has you curve your back in an impossible angle.

However, you’d gladly give a Ted talk about how un-evil he is being.

Naturally, the image might not seem the most innocent, so you’d have to work tirelessly to sound convincing. On all fours on the mattress of his own bedroom, with your feet dangling off the edge of the bed. Curled toes and stiff calves. Head so thrown back that your eyes are locked to the ceiling – or, well, they would be.

If they hadn’t been rolling back for the past – what? Night? What time is it, exactly?

In truth, the only thing you’re seeing is the back of your eyelids. Luckily the ceiling ain’t all that to look at.

Your throat is so tight and coiled that your breaths come out ragged and – bloody fucking hell – almost pained. And again, there is a bit of pain. A pinch of it. 

It would be a lot, with your hair being pulled and your back forced into an arch, but the pleasure is just so overwhelming you feel nothing else. The sting of your scalp and the ache of your spine only enhance what’s happening at the other end of you. 

How good he’s fucking you.

It’s deranged, honestly. 

Someone must be thinking a bleeding homicide is occurring in the Ghost’s quarters. You'd love to have some containment, acting a little more prude even if he's pounding his cock right into you something fierce. Maybe mewl and moan and be all breathy and shy. 

But your neck is so thrown back that the groans coming out of you are mostly punched out by the man himself each time he thrusts in and simultaneously pulls back at your hair to slam you against himself.

On the other hand, his grunts are muffled by the fabric of his stupid balaclava. 

Before the whole ordeal started, you told him you wouldn’t fuck him if he wore that thing.

“Not even sure you wash it, L.T.” You’d said, smirking and sounding so proud of having something to mock him for – because he's always so bloody perfect on the field, isn't he.

But he’d shut your mouth spare minutes later, when he’d throw you on your back on his bed, making you feel like you weighed a pound and few spare coins. Lifted his mask up to his nose. Snatched your khakis and knickers off all at once.

And ate you out with such fervor and insistence you were almost positive you’d stopped breathing for a while during the whole meal.

Then, he’d taken off the mask, wiped his mouth with it after you’d soaked it with your orgasm, and put it back on.

“Washed it now.”

Smug cunt.

But now pride and ego and whatnot feel like fickle things, much like your aching back, burning throat, and the impending cramps in your calves.

Now, as your mind squabbles in a puddle of itself, almost disassociating, Simon must notice it. And oh, he doesn’t like that in the slightest. Where are you going, with your pretty little head, when all your blood should be pumping down to where he needs you warm and wet.

“Come back ‘ere,” he grunts, bending forward and pulling your head further back at the same time. He hooks one arm around your front so that he can keep you up when he notices you're all loose and flaccid.

Palm flat to your chest, he presses you flush against his own.

His eyes are hooded and heavy as they lock with yours. Your face is so flushed and sweaty you must look on the brink of collapse, and he can’t deny it has him a little worried.

“Good?” He asks gruffly, and although concerned, his onslaught on your pussy is relentless.

You smile, all teeth. Your lips have drool smeared all over. Your eyes are glossy and heavy. He's been pounding into you for the past hour, you came into his mouth once and on his cock at least twice. The sounds he's punching out of your lips are raunchy and downright pornographic.

It makes something weird and warm swim in his chest.

Fucking hell.

“Words, love.” It’s a demand, but it’s not said unkindly. He’s more than alright with the idea of fucking you stupid, but not so much with the thought of fucking you into a blackout.

And when you don’t respond and get lost in your body again, eyes rolling back once more, he harshly tugs at your hair. “Sergeant.”

Tears are prickling the corners of your eyes when you open them. However, the contrast is striking, with the wheezing moan that concomitantly leaves your lips. 

You fucking like it, don’t you? Dirty slag.

A discovery, you are. Truly.

He loves it. 

“Solid,” you stutter. Your voice is raspy and wet. "Sir."

He loves that too. 

And admittedly finds it almost humorous, how he can make you unravel like that. You came to his door that night, all commanding as if you had any right over him, saying the two of you should stop dancing around each other and get it over with. That you’re adults and that if he was going to use the regulations excuse you were going to blow a gasket because everything you lot do on the field is against the so-called rules, hence a shagwould be the least of you two’s problems.

He hadn’t even had time to rebut. You were so right it hurt his pride. So, he fucked all that arrogance out of you.

And God, did it feel good. You felt good.

You were right, after all. He won't tell you, though. Doesn't need to chub up your ego any further, it's already fighting for space with his own.

He hums at your response. Leaves the hold around your torso and you flop forward like a wet rag, face first in the sheets.

Simon grabs your hair to lift you up, delighted to hear your ecstatic laugh as your head is yanked back once again. 

He growls, “Good fuckin' girl."

And he rams into you again, using the grip on your hair as leverage. Your groans are guttural and fierce, so loud that even he is a little worried someone might eavesdrop on some of them. 

Of course, this is no time for worries and concerns, all sublimated by the scorching heat between your legs. Warmest fucking place he’s ever been in. 

‘S a lot to say, he thinks, since he’s been through hell and back already.

However, he does feel a little merciful. Sure, you’re heavenly in this position, completely at his service, but it’s been a while and you must be aching. You're going to wake up, later, with the worst back pain of your life and a few cracking joints. 

Right, not that he cares. But you’re already a pain to deal with when you’re all healthy and cracking jokes and smiling like you give two shits about him, he can’t imagine how whiny you must be when you’re knackered and it's because of him.

He bends forward, then, chest to your back, and curls his free arm around your belly. Fingers sneakily reach down and trace your pussy. Palm cupping your mons while his ring and middle finger outline your lips. For just a second, he settles at the base of his cock, feeling how the shaft plunges so easily right inside of you. The stretch of your hole sucking him in. How wet you are – Christ.

Like this, he has his mouth next to your ear, but he’s not pounding into you with the same fierceness he’s used until now. And your voice has dulled, probably because he’s relented the grip in your hair, letting your head loll forward.

He looks at you through the haze of sex, trying to push through the mist of bliss you’ve shrouded him in. And your face is different. Your eyes are wide, staring blankly ahead, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. 

He panics for a moment, but it quickly melts away when he pushes in a little deeper and you keel over with a groan. He must be hitting something new, something different. 

Something good.

Which is why he hits it again. And again. And you keen and moan, fisting the sheets and punching the mattress. 

“Bloody fuckin’ hell, look at ya.” He rumbles with a chuckle you can feel rippling in his chest against your back.

In the meantime, because he is so un-evil, the hand he had on your pussy finally finds purchase on your clit. He can feel how raw it must be. How stiff and puffy it is under the rough pads of his fingers.

Your breath hitches the moment he starts rubbing it. Doesn’t bother to be gentle with it, because he’s found out you like it when he barks and bites. 

He’s proven right because the tears that were prickling your eyes before are now flowing freely down your cheeks. Your lips tug at the corners and you wheeze, one hand of yours grasping at the forearm of the same hand giving you bliss. Cheek to the mattress.

You dig your nails into his flesh – scar-thickened skin covered in black ink. 

You’re squirming under his weight, with your arse up and back in a pretty arch, as he works you inside and out with hands and cock all the same.

The groan you let out now truly sounds as if you're in pain. Your free hand lifts to grip the fabric of his balaclava on top of his head, as if you were trying to find purchase on his hair but found cotton instead.

“Oi,” he grunts, sounding uncharacteristically worried, but doesn’t stop until you say so.

And thank Christ he doesn’t, because mere seconds later your cunt clenches so tight around him it threatens to chop his dick off. You go ramrod stiff under him. Throat tight and allowing only the passage of mewls that pitch upward. 

Three fingers swipe side to side over your clit. He pounds into you once, twice – again, again, again, until he’s pushed out of you.

“Jesus –“ 

You’re splashing on his cock, a thick stream spraying directly on his sheets. Muffled sounds of water hitting fabric. You’re so fucking silent he bets you’ve stopped breathing as you came, because not even a second later you’re catching your breath with a guttural groan that goes straight to his dick.

He’s dumbfounded and burning, but thankfully has still enough brainpower to realize he has to fuck you through it – and so he does just that. Puts it back in and lays fully above you, flattening your front to the bed. Your thighs are quivering, and your pussy is still clenching rhythmically around him. He thrusts in more and feels tinier splashes gushing out of you each time he pulls out.

Fuck, you’re so wet he barely feels any friction. 

A whine escapes you at the intrusion, but you obediently lay your cheek on the mattress, exhausted, and catch your breath, looking over your shoulder up to him. 

You’re flushed and so pretty. Looking like an angel and not like the devil that you are, who’s just squirted over his bedsheets.

You deserve a little reward for the show you put on for him because he's surely not going to forget how your cunt fluttered around nothing when it gushed on his bed. It's going to stay imprinted in his forebrain and he's going to relive it whenever his hand won't feel like enough.

He snatches the balaclava off his head and tosses it on the floor. He sees your eyes soften at the sight of the disfigured man underneath, but he won’t have any of that – this is just sex. Just fucking sex.

Before he can have his head wander to unwanted (kinder) places, he roughly grabs your jaw and keeps fucking you raw. His lips slam onto yours in a kiss that sizzles with lust and resentment – because you can’t bring feelings into this, and he will forever hate you if you dare.

“Fuckin’ pretty,” he grunts in your face, as he ruts into you, now propped on his forearms. “Think you can do tha’ again?”

You huff. Probably not.

“Depends how – fuck – good y’ are.” As if he didn’t just wring you dry. 

He chuckles darkly, and bites down your shoulder, making you hiss. “Smartarse. Don’t you dare, now.”

“Dare what, L.T.” 

Oh, you little devil. 

“Stop with the lieutenant shite.” He chides.

You snake a hand in his palm and intertwine your fingers with his. He clenches his fist to tighten the hold because he's a weak, weak man.

“What should I call you, then?” You ask through heaving breaths, “Ain’t calling you Ghost, surely.”

He leans down and kisses your cheek.

You know my name, bird.

“Fuckin’ brat.” He grunts, and surrenders. “Simon will do.”

He feels your cheek lift under the pressure of your smile, right against his lips.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Simon will do.”

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Husband Ghost who is obsessed with his wife. He refuses to tell her no, whatever his wife wants, she gets. Anything she even mentions wanting ends up in their shared home. She mentions a beautiful cookware set, she finds it in the cabinets later that week. She complains that her nails are grown out, later her nail tech calls and says that Ghost has paid for a years worth of nail appointments (with tip). Anything to make his wife smile

When Ghost is home his wife doesn't have to lift a finger. He loves the idea of a "traditional marriage" but he's actually a traditional man. He comes home and and does any repairs you need on the house. He's going to buy groceries, doing car maintenance, landscaping the lawn, doing the laundry. Anything his little wifey needs.

Any hobbies she has are always encouraged and paid for by Ghost. Constantly sending packages full of cooking supplies, yarn, stationary, and paints to the house while he's gone. He always wears the things she makes for him. They are bundled in blankets she knitted while eating brownies she baked. All while you are going through the scrapbook you had made while he was on deployment.

He refuses to argue with his wife. A firm believer in "happy wife, happy life". Anything his wifey doesn't like or want to do doesn't happen. She doesn't like his tie, he's changing. She doesn't feel like going out, he's helping her out of her dress and making them hot cocoa. Nothing she can do can upset him. He's so in love with her that anything she does is perfect to him.