#Johnny mctavish

[presepohne]

nsfw. johnny as priest.

Johnny as priest at the church in your small town. He's kind, quite but friendly with everyone. You're the only nun at the church, his helper— that makes it all too wrong.

He has you bend over his bed, the skirt hiked up your waist as his fingers dig into your soft flesh. You can feel the heat radiate off his skin, his grunts against your nape where he leaves bites and kisses. It's so wrong but this feeling of his hands all over you, fingers fumbling with the buttons, hands dragging against the swell of your breasts as he pinches you nipples.

You don't know what to call him, in his bed, so absurd.

Father Johnny who drags his face against your cunt, lapping at your juices while you moan at the foreign sensation. It's overwhelming, your fingers tug at his hair, trying to push him off, but his mouth on your core makes you shiver.

He's the spawn of satan perhaps, so lustful as he flips you over and kissing your mouth, fingers curling inside you as you whine. Hips buckling into his hands, while you push— you don't really know you want to push him away or fly away in bliss.

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

HYENA JOHNNY

sfw + nsfw. rut. knotting. premature ejaculation. service top!johnny (?)

you meet johnny at a bar.

the place is old but well-kept, a place that’s obviously seen its share of rowdy nights and heavy pours but still holds its charm. dark wood, polished by time and restless hands, stretches beneath your fingertips. liquor bottles line the shelves behind the counter.

the air hums— conversation rising and falling in waves, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter, the sharp clink of glasses meeting in messy toasts. the dim lighting catches on old brass fixtures, scuffs on the floor telling stories of countless nights just like this one.

and behind the bar, johnny.

he moves like he owns the place, because, clearly, he does. he reaches for bottles without looking, flicks open the tap with a smooth twist of his wrist. the other bartenders glance his way for cues. it’s plain that johnny doesn’t just work here. he runs the show.

and it's that experience that has him spotting you immediately.

“what’ll it be, sweetheart?” the words roll off his tongue, practiced but not indifferent.

"a mocktail.”

johnny pauses, processing, then snorts. “that’s tragic. you say that like you mean it.”

"i do."

he clicks his tongue, shaking his head, the motion loose. “waste of a perfectly good night, that.”

"i’m the designated driver," you shoot back, somehow feeling like you have to defend yourself, jerking a thumb over your shoulder.

your friends are deep in it— half-dancing, half-stumbling, belting lyrics to a song that isn’t playing. one of them throws their arms around another’s neck, nearly taking them both down in the process

johnny follows your gaze, lets out a low whistle. “ah. the shepherd of the drunk.” his tail sways behind him, amused. “a noble role.”

"someone has to get them home alive."

he drums his fingers against the bar, eyes flicking between you and the mess unfolding on the dance floor. “you sure you don’t wanna let natural selection do its thing?”

you huff a laugh, shaking your head. "tempting. but i’d rather not explain to their mothers why they woke up in a hedge."

he grins. “fair enough. guess that means you get a drink that doesn’t kick back.” he rolls his shoulders before reaching for bottles. “what’s the call, then? fruity? sour?”

"surprise me."

johnny hums, tilting his head, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s sizing you up. “dangerous words, that.” but he’s already moving, rolling up his sleeves as he reaches for a shaker. “hope you like a bit of bite.”

"that a threat?"

“nah,” he says. “just a promise.”

you watch him work.

his hands move fast, sure, an efficiency that only comes with time and muscle memory. bottles tip, liquid pours in smooth arcs, ice clatters against the tin before he seals it with a sharp tap. he doesn’t fumble, doesn’t second-guess— he moves with a rhythm stitched into his bones.

and he’s a hyena. no mistaking it.

the broad grin, all sharp teeth. the spots dusting his forearms, darker markings trailing up his skin where his sleeves are shoved back. but more than that, it’s how he carries himself— as if he was built to be here, to take up space without hesitation.

he shakes the tin with quick jerks, wrists rolling, muscles shifting under skin.

“so,” he starts, barely looking up as he strains the drink into a glass, “you always this responsible, or is this a special occasion?”

"i like knowing i’ll wake up in my own bed."

he hums, dropping a garnish into the glass with a flick of his fingers. “can’t argue with that.” then he slides the drink toward you, tapping the rim lightly with one claw. “still. shame to waste a night like this on sobriety.”

you lift the glass, taking a slow sip. citrus, something tart, something fizzy at the edges, a hint of spice lingering at the back of your tongue.

"not bad," you admit.”

johnny leans in slightly, bracing his forearms against the bar, grin widening. “’course it’s not. you think i’d serve you shite?”

"i've known you for all five minutes. forgive me if i didn’t know what to expect."

he chuckles, head tilting, ears flicking forward. “stick around, sweetheart. i’ll raise those expectations in no time.”

"confident, aren’t you?"

“damn right.” his eyes flick over you. “why? that a problem?”

"just wondering if it ever gets you in trouble."

his grin turns wolfish— if a hyena could pull off wolfish. “constantly.”

you don’t take him home that night. not because you don’t want to— because you do, god, you do— but because you’ve got a job to do.

instead, you spend the next hour wrangling your friends, guiding them into overpriced rideshares, confiscating a stolen pint glass, and prying one of them away from a very ill-advised conversation with a married senior executive.

by the time you finally collapse into bed, your jacket still smells like whiskey and citrus, your ears still ringing with laughter.

you tell yourself you won’t think about the bartender with the easy grin and the voice that curled around your name like it belonged to him.

you tell yourself a lot of things.

the work gala arrives like an obligation dressed as an opportunity. the invitation promised networking, an open bar, and a celebration of months of labor.

but you don’t want to go.

you doubt anyone does, but it’s not really a choice. the project your team has spent months sweating over is finally seeing the light of day, and the higher-ups need their captive audience. they need applause, nods of approval, praise whispered over crystal flutes of overpriced champagne.

so you go.

you let yourself be swept inside, past sleek decor and halfhearted compliments, past handshakes that mean nothing and conversations that mean even less. the champagne is crisp, the hors d'oeuvres bite-sized and forgettable, and the smiles around you all feel the same.

the work gala is everything you expected.

the kind of event that looks dazzling in photos but feels hollow in person. the chandeliers glisten, the glasses are always full, and the music hums soft and unintrusive, a backdrop for corporate egos to stretch their legs. it’s all smiles that don’t reach the eyes, laughter that’s a beat too polished, and conversations that carry the distinct flavor of ambition disguised as small talk.

the dress helps, if anything. a deep color, clean lines, the kind that turns a glance into a second look. a little armor against the monotony of handshakes and careful smiles.

you last about ten minutes before you seek out the bar.

and that’s when you see him.

johnny.

standing behind the counter like he owns the place, despite the fact that he very much does not.

his sleeves are pushed up, forearms bared, and his tie is hanging loose like it barely survived a halfhearted attempt at professionalism. he looks like someone who should be on the other side of the bar, drink in hand, making people laugh too loud. but he’s here, somehow, and he’s already watching you.

he leans into the counter, the soft golden glow of the pendant lights casting sharp shadows across his grin— and it looks suspiciously like he’s been waiting for you to notice him.

and of course, you do. how could you not?

johnny isn’t just attractive.

that would be too simple. attraction is easy, common. but johnny is something else. something loud and impossible to ignore, the kind of presence that bends a room around him, that demands attention without asking for it.

you stop short, fingers tightening around the stem of your glass. “johnny?”

he grins. “last i checked.”

your eyes flick down to the neatly pressed vest, the gleaming bar, the expensive bottles lined up in perfect order.

then back to him.

“what the hell are you doing here?”

johnny reaches for a glass, inspecting it against the light before setting it down with a soft clink. “servin’ drinks, apparently.”

your brow lifts. “you own a pub.”

“that i do.”

“so why are you working here?”

“money’s good.” he shrugs, as if that’s a reason.

you give him a look. “you could’ve sent someone else.”

his smirk twitches into a grin. “could’ve.”

you narrow your eyes. “but?”

johnny leans in slightly, resting his forearms on the bar. “but then i wouldn’t have run into you, would i?”

heat pricks the back of your neck. “you expect me to believe you took this job on the off chance i’d be here?”

“nah,” he says easily, reaching for a bottle, twisting off the cap with practiced ease. “but it’s a hell of a nice surprise.”

you exhale, shaking your head. “unbelievable.”

“what’s unbelievable is that you’re still holdin’ that same drink,” he says, nodding toward the half-full glass in your hand. “startin’ to think you don’t trust me.”

“i barely trust this event,” you say dryly. “let alone the bar staff.”

johnny places a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “cut me deep, sweetheart.”

you roll your eyes, setting your drink down. “fine. impress me.”

his grin turns sharp, all teeth. “dangerous thing to ask.”

he moves with a kind of effortless confidence, each motion smooth, deliberate, like he doesn’t need to think about it. bottles spin in his hands, liquid pours clean, precise. the scent of citrus and something smoky rises as he mixes, the clink of ice against glass filling the space between you.

when he slides the drink across the bar, he taps the rim lightly with one finger. a challenge.

you take a sip.

pause.

lick the taste from your lips.

his smirk lingers, watching. waiting.

“…damn it.” you exhale. “that’s actually good.”

johnny laughs, pleased. “you plannin’ on apologizing for that remark earlier?”

your pulse jumps.

“and how exactly would i do that?”

he tilts his head, considering. “stick around. drink somethin’ strong. keep lookin’ at me like that.”

and just like that, you’re in trouble.

you don’t mean to get drunk. you came here to be seen, to endure, to let your boss soak up the credit for your work while you nod along. but then johnny makes you a drink, and when you finish it too fast, he makes you another.

responsibility starts as a whisper.

drink slower. be professional. don’t plant yourself at the bar all night.

then he tilts his head just so, watching you like you’re a puzzle he intends to solve and the whisper fades.

you order another.

somewhere around your third drink, your laughter turns ease. johnny’s grin mirrors it, fingers working effortlessly over glass and steel as he keeps the drinks flowing.

fourth drink, you tell him he has unfairly nice hands. he nearly spills a cocktail laughing.

five drinks in, you go for a napkin, miss entirely, and send a row of garnishes tumbling. staring down at the mess, you seriously debate the logistics of picking them up without falling under the bar.

johnny exhales, tossing a rag over his shoulder. "i think that means you’re cut off, sweetheart."

"you think a lot of things," you mutter, blinking up at him, heavy-lidded and unbothered.

his laughter softens, turns fond. "and i’m usually right."

you pout at him until you sway a little too much, and the world tilts just slightly before a hand reaches over the bar to steady you.

he exhales through his nose, shaking his head, muttering half-amused, half-exasperated, "jesus."

for a moment, johnny considers just throwing you over his shoulder and dealing with the consequences later. he’s a hyena, after all, and hyenas take care of their own. you’re his, in some loose, nebulous way, and it wouldn’t be difficult to make sure you got home safe.

but even in your current state, he figures you wouldn’t be thrilled about waking up in a stranger’s bed with no memory of how you got there.

so, he does the next best thing.

he steals your phone.

you don’t even notice, too busy playing with the condensation on your glass, and he sighs as he tilts the screen toward your face.

the lock screen slides open instantly.

"oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, shaking his head. "you’re makin’ this too easy."

he scrolls through your messages, thumb tapping with sharp efficiency, scanning over names he doesn’t recognize until he finds a group chat that looks promising. lots of emojis. lots of inside jokes. someone had typed in all caps at some point about a brunch reservation, so yeah— this’ll do.

he thumbs out a message: “your friend is very drunk. come get them before she pukes over my bar.” and attaches the location.

and then, because he can, because he wants to, because some part of him already knows he’ll be seeing you again, he puts his number in your contacts, too.

you wake up to a headache and a mistake.

the headache, at least, makes sense. it splits through your skull the second you shift, a dull, relentless throb pulsing behind your eyes, pressing into the backs of your sockets like a vice tightening around your brain. your mouth is dry, tongue thick with the stale aftertaste of liquor, and your body feels like dead weight, limbs tangled in sheets that are too warm, too heavy. everything is stiff— your neck, your shoulders, your stomach twisting in protest as the memories of last night flicker back in fragments. a bar. dark wood. golden light. laughter that lingered low in your chest, warm and sweet, and—

him.

your stomach flips before your brain can even process why.

you groan, rolling onto your side, pushing your face into the pillow to block out the morning. you want to sleep, to bury yourself beneath the covers and pretend none of it happened— whatever it is. but your body betrays you, instincts dragging your arm across the mattress, fumbling blindly for your phone where it must’ve slipped from your hand sometime in the night.

your fingers brush cool metal. you blink blearily at the screen.

the glow cuts through the dimness of your room, soft and insistent, illuminating the single notification waiting for you.

a new contact.

johnny ;)

your stomach twists harder.

you blink at it.

once.

twice.

the emoji taunts you, cocky even in pixels, a playful little wink that makes something hot curl at the base of your spine. the name itself is bad enough— too much of a reminder of how his mouth quirked up when he poured your drink, and the warmth of his fingers when brushed against yours as he slid it across the bar.

your pulse ticks up. you hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen, torn between the impulse to check and the ridiculous urge to just not know.

but you already know you’re going to look.

you swipe, and the screen shifts.

one unread message.

johnny: still alive, sweetheart?

your first instinct is to throw the phone across the room. your second is to type something back. something quick, something effortless, something that won’t make it obvious that your pulse just stuttered in your throat.

you fail spectacularly.

you: barely. might never recover.

his response is immediate, and it makes you wonder if he was already waiting.

johnny: tragic. if i’d known, i would’ve given you a proper sendoff

heat prickles at the back of your neck. you stare at the message for a second too long, then lock your phone and press it flat against your chest as if that might do something about the way your heart is suddenly working overtime.

and just like that, it starts. small things, at first. quick, snappy messages.

johnny: remind me to never let you near tequila again. i don’t think you’d survive round two.

you: bold of you to assume i wouldn’t win.

johnny: bold of YOU to assume you won anything last night. you begged me for water.

you: lies. slander. i demand proof.

johnny: aye, sweetheart, i’d send the security footage, but i think the sight of you poutin’ at me over a glass of water might be too much for your fragile ego.

you don’t have a response for that. you lock your phone, toss it onto your bed, and roll onto your stomach, groaning into your pillow.

but the messages keep coming.

johnny: how’s the hangover? or should i start gettin’ that funeral procession in order?

you: surprisingly not dead.

johnny: pity. i would’ve made a great eulogy.

it’s easy, too easy.

he starts asking about your day. you start telling him.

johnny: how’d the deadline go? survived it?

you: took three cups of coffee and some questionable life choices, but it’s done

johnny: questionable life choices, huh? do i even want to ask?

you: if you must know, i impulse bought a croissant the size of my head. no regrets

johnny: i admire the dedication. although i’d be more impressed if you could finish it.

you: challenge accepted

he keeps talking to you. keeps pulling you in, coaxing conversation out of you and somehow it all feels natural, effortless.

he makes fun of the salad you regret ordering for lunch.

you: i don’t know what i expected. it’s lettuce.

johnny: truly a tragic meal. if you die from boredom, i promise i’ll give a heartfelt speech at the funeral.

you: that’s the second time you’ve threatened to monologue at my funeral. should i be worried?

johnny: just bein’ prepared, sweetheart. never know when tragedy might strike.

he complains about a difficult customer but immediately follows up with “not that i'm whinin'. boss can’t be seen whinin’."

the more he texts, the worse it gets.

you catch yourself checking your phone too often, waiting for his name to light up your screen. you start carrying your charger everywhere, the battery never allowed to dip low, just in case. when he texts, you answer too fast. when he doesn’t, you fight the stupid urge to stare at your phone, to wonder if he’s busy, to think about what his hands might be doing instead.

somewhere along the way, the teasing shifts into something else. something a little slower.

johnny: long day?

you: feels like it

johnny: go easy on yourself, sweetheart. tomorrow’s just gonna show up and make a mess of things all over again.

your fingers hover over the keyboard. something about it makes you pause, makes your stomach do that stupid little thing where it twists up in knots.

you: that’s bleak

johnny: nah. just means there’s always another chance to make somethin’ good out of it.

you don’t have a response for that either.

turns out you don't need one because then he follows it up with a—

johnny: what are you doin’ friday?

your stomach flips.

you: depends. why?

this time, the response doesn’t come immediately.

you watch the typing bubble appear. disappear. reappear.

johnny: takin’ you out. that’s why.

your breath catches. your hands hesitate over the keyboard, mind racing, running in circles. you type something and delete it. type again. delete. finally, you settle on—

you: at your pub?

his reply is fast.

johnny: christ, no. my staff would never let me leave alive.

you: fair point. so where, then?

johnny: you’ll see ;)

you are, without a doubt, in trouble.

johnny is ready. more than ready. too ready, if you ask his staff.

he’s been buzzing since you said yes, practically vibrating through the walls of his pub, too restless to stand still. his staff have been suffering through it for days— watching him plan the date down to the minute, pick out the restaurant, polish his shoes, practice his stories in the backroom mirror with an alarming level of dedication.

“you’re a grown man,” gaz mutters at one point, rubbing his temples as johnny rehearses a joke for the fifth time. “not a schoolboy with his first crush.”

he’s taken people out before, sure, but this— this is different. his fingers twitch when he thinks about it. his pulse kicks like it’s trying to outrun him. he shoves it all down, tells himself to act normal, be normal, but his body betrays him at every turn.

and then, just as he reaches your door, just as he lifts his fist to knock—

his rut slams into him like a sledgehammer.

hyena ruts are brutal.

unlike wolves or big cats, they don’t creep in slow, don’t build over days like a fire waiting for kindling. no, hyenas go from zero to hundred in the space of a breath— one second fine, the next wrecked by an all-consuming need, by instincts that don’t care for reason or timing.

johnny staggers, barely catching himself before he hits the wall, his shoulder slamming into brick with a dull, shuddering thud. his claws scrape at his own arms, blunt nails dragging hard enough to leave welts beneath his fur, but it doesn’t help, nothing fucking helps. his body isn’t listening. his breath stutters, fast and uneven, catching in his throat like he’s choking on something thick and hot. sweat beads at his temples, slicks the back of his neck, soaks into his shirt despite the night air.

his stomach knots, muscles pulling tight, something twisting low in his gut like a wire wound too far. his mouth hangs open, his tongue thick, saliva pooling behind his teeth like his body is preparing for a bite, for a kill. his canines throb, the dull ache settling deep in his jaw, instincts curling sharp beneath his ribs, thick and hungry and dangerous.

and fuck. fuck, he’s so hard he can’t breathe.

his cock strains against his trousers, the fabric pulled taut over the thick, aching line of it, every throb so deep it rattles in his bones. he shifts, trying to ease it, trying to will it down, but the movement just grinds the swollen head against the seam of his fly, drags coarse fabric over his leaking tip, makes him hiss between clenched teeth. his balls are tight, drawn up so high it’s like they’re trying to retreat into his body, his whole system locked down, caught in something primal and unforgiving.

he clenches his fists, claws digging into his palms, every muscle in his body coiled and trembling with the effort of staying still, of not grinding down against something, of not reaching between his legs and squeezing his own cock in his fist just to take the edge off.

and then he fucking whimpers.

the sound wrenches out of him, cracking at the end. his breath stutters, catches in his throat, his body too hot, too tight.

johnny's head tips back, knocking against the brick, his hips twitching forward in a broken little jerk, chasing nothing, his cock pulsing angrily, trapped and swollen, sensitivity that borders on pain. he squeezes his eyes shut, teeth grinding, sweat rolling down his spine, but it doesn’t help. nothing helps.

and then— the door creaks open.

he flinches, his whole body jolting, his breath shoving out of him in a ragged, shaking gasp.

you’re there.

crouched beside him, close enough that he can catch your scent, something grounding and unbearable all at once. your hand hovers near his arm like you’re about to touch him.

no.

“no-” it breaks from his lips before he can stop it. “no- back inside-”

his fingers barely catch your sleeve before slipping off, his limbs weak, useless. “call-” he tries again, panting through clenched teeth. “call for help- call for- fuck-”

but you don’t move. you don’t go back inside. you don’t slam the door shut. you don’t listen.

you reach for him. and he folds.

the second your fingers brush his skin, johnny's whole body caves, shaking apart under the weight of whatever the fuck is happening to him. his forehead knocks against your shoulder, a shuddering noise ripping from his throat as he clings to you, his fingers fisting into your shirt like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

“oh, fuck-” his cock aches. throbs. pulses against the stiff, unforgiving line of his zipper.

he grinds against nothing, every twitch of his hips sending another spike of sensation shooting up his spine. his balls are heavy, swollen, so full it’s like they might burst, like they might spill just from the way his trousers dig into them, the way his body is wound too tight, too fucking close to something he can’t control.

he needs. he needs.

fuck, but he shouldn’t.

“i-” he tries to pull back, tries to put space between you, but his fingers won’t listen. instead, they curl tighter, dragging you in, his body betraying him in real time, his cock pressing flush to your thigh, the heat of it scalding even through layers of fabric.

a noise breaks from him, sounding dangerously close to a sob.

he can’t. he can’t.

“fuck-” he buries his face against your neck. “m’sorry- m’sorry, just-just a second-”

he’s trembling, breath stuttering, little whimpers breaking past his lips no matter how hard he tries to choke them down.

you say something and he barely registers it through the thick haze clouding his head but your warmth weight, and the press of your body against his—

it helps. just a little.

and you— well, you know exactly what’s happening.

you don’t waste time pretending this is something johnny can just ride out alone. you grip his arms, drag him inside, shove the door shut with your heel and twist the locks tight. then the deadbolt. then the security chain.

your fingers are practiced, muscle memory guiding you through the steps of securing the space.

just in case. just in case someone else nearby is in rut or heat, just in case some poor bastard catches wind of johnny’s scent and decides to come sniffing around.

(he smells good. too good. sharp and heady, the scent of him curling in the air, thickening with every ragged breath he lets out. you, even you, feel your own instincts stirring, muscles tensing in awareness, your body recognizing his rut and urging you to stay close. to soothe. to let him take what he needs.)

johnny is shaking against you, his whole frame shuddering with the effort of keeping himself together. his breath is hot against your skin, slipping out between the low, broken whimpers he can’t seem to bite back

“fuck-fuck, m’sorry,” he stammers, voice catching. “didn’t- didn’t mean-”

his claws twitch against your arms, not quite gripping, afraid to hold on too tight.

his tail flicks behind him, anxious, ears pressed flat against his skull. his pupils are blown wide, swallowing up the blue of his eyes, his whole expression caught between shame and need.

“wanted this-” his voice cracks, something dangerously close to a whine. “wanted this to go well. wanted- wanted t’please you.”

johnny shudders, forehead knocking against your shoulder as another tremor rolls through him. “wanted you to- to see me. see me as a good mate. confident.”

he breathes in, sharp, and his whole body locks up for a moment, every muscle going taut— then a full-body shiver wracks through him, cock pulsing hard enough that you feel it, even through his trousers, even through your own clothes.

your throat goes dry.

you reach up, smoothing your fingers through his fur, brushing a hand along his back, trying to offer something— some kind of grounding touch, reassurance.

“johnny,” you murmur, voice steady, firm. “it’s not your fault.”

his breath hitches.

“i really don’t mind,” you say again, softer now, pressing the words into the shell of his ear.

a noise catches in his throat, something small, choked and helpless, and he drags his face away from your shoulder, tilting up to look at you properly.

his pupils are still wide, expression still hazy, but he searches your face with almost terrifying seriousness.

his tail flicks again when he seems to find nothing or what he was looking for.

“…can i make it up to you?”

your brows lift.

his ears twitch, jaw flexing, uncertainty plain with how his teeth catch on his lower lip, his eyes flicking down to your mouth and then lower, dragging slow over the curve of your body.

you shift, tilting your head. “how?”

johnny's tail twitches again then stills. he swallows hard, nostrils flaring, then lifts his gaze back to yours, something new burning in the depths of his expression.

“…can i lick your pussy?” he’s puppy-eyed and pleading, expression screaming with ‘please let me- please let me take care of you- please, i need this.’

his breath ghosts warm over your lips, fingers flexing where they’re still curled weakly around your arms.

he’s trembling, cock leaking. and you—

you nod.

his ears twitch, breath shuddering out in a sharp little gasp, grip on your thighs tightening. fingers hook into your waistband not a moment later, and he yanks, dragging your pants down, underwear with them, his movements are frantic, almost clumsy in his eagerness. he groans, wrecked and relieved, the second you're bare in front of him, pupils blown, tail wagging, whole body thrumming with ‘please, please, please.’

and then—

oh.

his tongue is warm.

hot and wet and wide, the rough texture of it dragging over your slit in a slow, open-mouthed lick, firm and eager like he's trying to taste every inch of you.

your breath stutters, hands flying to his head, fingers curling into his thick fur as he groans against you, the sound vibrating up through his tongue, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your spine.

and he doesn't stop.

doesn't hesitate. doesn't tease.

no, johnny dives in, pressing his face right up against your cunt, burying his nose in the soft flesh of your inner thigh, mouth sealing over you like he's starving.

his tongue flicks, curls, scoops into you, lapping up your slick with these obscene little slurping sounds, breath coming fast and desperate through his nose.

"fuck," you gasp, hips jerking, but he just growls, arms wrapping around your thighs, locking you in place.

his tongue drags up, then circles your clit, flicking once, twice before sucking it into his mouth, lips sealing around it with wet, sloppy pressure.

a sharp, helpless sound breaks from your throat, fingers spasming in his fur, tugging hard, but he just whines, pushing closer, pressing his face deeper between your legs, like he wants to drown in you.

his tail thumps against the floor, hips shifting, rutting, desperate little movements like he needs the friction, like eating you out is wrecking him just as much as it’s wrecking you.

johnny’s tongue works you open, the rough drag of it lighting up every nerve in your body. he’s sloppy with it, messy and eager as a puppy, sucking and lapping and groaning like he can’t get enough— like he won’t get enough, not until you’re shaking, not until you’re breaking apart in his hands.

his nose presses in, nuzzling against your clit as he angles his tongue deeper, the slick heat of his mouth sealing around you, sucking, devouring every drop of slick that spills from your pussy. his grip tightens, claws pricking your skin, grounding you against his face as he buries himself in your cunt, breath ragged.

his ears twitch at every moan, every gasp, tail wagging, thudding against the floor in frantic, jerky movements. his hips roll, little ruts against nothing, cock straining in his pants.

and fuck, the way you’re squeezing around his tongue, the way you’re whining, the way your fingers are tugging at his fur, yanking him closer, using him for your pleasure—

it’s perfect.

his tongue flicks against your clit, so fast he feels like his jaw is gonna cramp and your whole body locks up, muscles tensing, thighs clamping around his head as your pleasure slams through you.

"johnny-!"

you break, back arching, fingers spasming in his hair as your orgasm rips through you, cunt clenching.

and johnny loses it.

his hips snap forward, grinding down against the floor, cock pulsing in his pants, the thick length throbbing in time with your orgasm, so turned on with how you’re gushing into his mouth.

"fuck-” johnny’s body shaking, arms tightening around your thighs as his own climax crashes into him, his whole frame jerking with it.

his tail spasms, ears flicking wildly, and he ruts with mindless abandon, his tongue still lapping at you as he comes, soaking his trousers, thick spurts spilling out in his underwear, making a mess of himself, of the floor beneath him.

johnny’s breath stutters, his tongue slower now, softer. he whimpers against you, his hips giving these tiny, involuntary twitches, pleasure still rattling through his system, buzzing under his skin.

he’s a mess. ruined. wrecked.

but he’s still got his mouth on you. he’s still hard.

even after all that, after coming in his pants like a desperate thing, he’s still thick and straining against the damp fabric, the outline of his cock pressing against his zipper, a dark stain spreading where his release had soaked through.

but he’s smiling up at you, lazy, hazy-eyed satisfaction, ears flicking, tail giving a slow, contented thump against the floor. he looks pleased with himself, looks like he just had the best meal of his life, tongue flicking out to lick the last traces of you from his lips.

you swallow, your gaze flicking down, heat curling in your stomach.

"johnny-" your voice comes out soft. "do you- do you wanna fuck me?"

his ears perk up. his breath hitches.

"fuck," he gasps, pupils blown, hips giving a helpless little jerk, grinding into nothing. "fuck, yes- yes, please-”

your voice comes out soft, barely above a whisper, but he hears it like a gunshot.

"fuck me..."

johnny whines. he’s so happy, so relieved, so thrilled that his hands are already moving before his brain catches up— grabbing at your clothes, tearing them off your body, dragging fabric down your arms, over your hips, tossing them aside like they offend him.

you barely have a second to breathe before he’s fumbling with his own clothes, his pants sticking to his skin, soaked through with his release, and he growls under his breath, impatient, frantic, tearing at the fabric.

you hear the sharp rip before you see him, and by then, it’s too late.

his hands are on your hips again, tugging you back against him, the heat of him pressing up behind you. bare now, nothing between you, and—

oh.

oh.

there is a lot of him.

you don't see it, but you feel it, the weight of him pressing against you, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance, leaking precum against your folds. your brain catches up in a single, dawning moment of realization.

"u-um- johnny, wait-"

he doesn’t wait. he pushes in.

your mouth drops open around a soundless scream, arms giving out beneath you, sending you down onto your hands as your body stretches around him.

"hnnngh- fuck-”

johnny groans, hands locking around your hips, fingers digging in, holding you still as he sinks in deeper, his fat length forcing you open, your walls struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him.

his cock is thick, veined, hot as a brand against your insides, his knot still deflated but already pressing against your entrance, teasing the stretch that’s still to come.

"s’good- fuck- so warm-" he babbles, hips twitching. rolling. driving him deeper. deeper. deeper.

you can feel every ridge, every pulse, the wet sounds of your slick mixing with his precum, making everything so messy, so hot, so unbearably good.

your fingers curl against the floor, nails scraping for purchase, breath coming in ragged gasps. you can barely speak, but you manage a single, broken sound—

"johnny-"

he whimpers, hips jerking forward, sinking the last of himself inside.

he’s so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

he snaps his hips forward, slamming into you with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs.

again.

again.

again.

it’s feral. frantic. mindless. his claws dig into your hips, keeping you locked in place as he fucks into you with the wild, unrelenting pace of an animal.

"fuck- fuck- fuck-"

he’s babbling now, every noise ripped straight from his chest. he’s gone, lost to instinct, breath ragged, panting against your back.

and you— you’re drooling.

your mouth falls open, a string of spit slipping past your lips, eyes hazy, unfocused, body pliant beneath him. it’s like you’re the one in heat, like his need has infected you, sinking into your skin, making you just as desperate, just as mindless.

his knot isn’t even swollen yet, and still— still— it feels like too much, like your body is barely keeping up, like you’re caught in the eye of a storm and all you can do is take it.

and he’s loving it.

“s-so good-" he whimpers, his voice shaking, thick with pleasure, his ears twitching. "s’takin’ me so well- fuck- made f’me, yeah? made t’be bred-"

his teeth graze the back of your neck, not quite biting, but close, breath hot against your skin.

"tell me- tell me y’need it-"

his hips snap forward, hard, cock grinding against the deepest part of you.

"tell me, bonnie-“

you somehow managed a choked moan of his name which seems to please him enough. “j-johnny!”

"hah- hah- hah-" his panting is ragged, tongue lolling out between sharp teeth, drool slipping past his lips, dripping onto your back. his claws dig into your hips, dragging you back onto his cock with every thrust.

you're reduced to a mess of slick and sweat and open-mouthed moans. your vision swims, breath stuttering, drool slipping past your own lips. your cunt grips him tight, sucking him in, slick coating his cock, dripping down his balls, wetting the base of his knot as it starts to swell.

"pretty..." johnny fucking giggles. it’s breathy, boyish, downright giddy as he snakes a hand down between your legs, fingertips dragging through the sticky mess between your thighs, rubbing over your swollen, aching clit.

"pretty clit… so soft... s’cute like this, all swollen f’me..."

he snickers to himself, his other hand coming up to your lower belly, pressing down, feeling the bulge his cock makes inside you. his hips snap forward hard, pressing down at the same time, making you feel every inch of him.

"fuck-" he whimpers, laughter breaking into a moan, tail flicking wildly behind him. "y'feel that? s’me, bonnie- deep inside- fuck, s’good-”

your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your body locking up, cunt milking him as you shake. your mind goes hazy, all-consuming pleasure buzzing through your nerves, and you barely register the way his rhythm falters—

until he gasps, breath catching, his whole body trembling, hips stuttering against you.

but he doesn’t push his knot in.

his cock throbs, leaking, twitching inside you, but his knot— still swollen, thick and pulsing at your entrance— doesn’t breach. he was too caught up, too lost in you, and now.

well, now it’s too late.

"fuck- fuck, bonnie, ‘m sorry-" his voice is frantic, hands shaking where they grip your hips. "i was s’posed t’ knot you, i- fuck, i know it hurts-”

and it does.

the ache of being left open, empty where you should be full, the throb of your walls still pulsing around nothing.

johnny knows.

he knows it hurts to push his knot in if you’re not distracted by your orgasm. he also knows the second the high fades it’s going to leave you aching, needy, sensitive in a way that burns.

"i got you, bonnie-" he murmurs, voice soft, affectionate even as he drives into you again, already chasing another orgasm from you. "gonna make it up t’you, promise-"

he grabs your hips, yanking you back onto his cock, fucking you harder, faster, desperate to fix it, desperate to make sure you don’t feel the pain.

his fingers find your clit again, rubbing quick, his touch clumsy, eager. “fuck- ‘m sorry, s’gonna feel so good, swear it-"

and he’s right.

your body can’t fight him, can’t deny him, the overstimulation pushing you right back up that peak, another orgasm slamming into you not even a minute later.

your walls clamp down around him, milking him, and he chokes on a moan, his whole body tensing. "fuck, fuck, that’s it- thass it, bonnie-"

his knot swells, stretching you wide, pushing in finally, locking him deep inside you—

and then he comes.

he fills you, cock pulsing, spurts of cum pouring into you, stuffing you full. his hips twitches, grinding against you, voice breaking on your name.

johnny's arms wrap around you, hugging you tight, chest pressed to your back. "s-sorry," he breathes, still panting, nuzzling against your shoulder. "s’never gonna happen again, promise-”

oh but it does. it happens multiple times, in fact.

you don’t know how long it’s been. you lost count after his fifth load. time has lost all meaning, swallowed up by the relentless rhythm of johnny’s rut.

he’s insatiable. a desperate, panting mess, rutting into you over and over, knotting you again and again, rolling his hips even when he’s still locked inside you, grinding his over-sensitive cock against your walls like he can’t stop.

his hands won’t let go of you, always grabbing, always holding— your hips, your waist, your thighs, your wrists. pulling you back onto him, keeping you flush against his sweat-slicked body.

johnny's all heat, burning up against you, whining your name in between frantic, slurred murmurs of "so good, so good, my bonnie, mine-"

but eventually— finally— the first wave of his rut starts to fade.

he slows. his thrusts lose their urgency, grip loosening, breath evening out, the feverish need in his eyes softening into something dazed, exhausted.

you take your chance.

"johnny-" you murmur, shifting slightly beneath him. "you need to drink some water, love."

he doesn't seem to really hear you, nuzzling into your neck. "mmm… later…"

"no, now," you insist, stroking a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "you’ve- we've been going for hours- we need to hydrate, okay?"

he grumbles, but when you finally manage to untangle yourself from his grasp and sit up, he whines, reaching for you again, ears flattening against his head.

"no- bonnie- come back-"

"drink first," you say, grabbing the water bottle from your nightstand and holding it out to him after you've had your own fill. "then I’ll cuddle you."

he pouts but takes the bottle, chugging down greedy gulps, tail flicking sluggishly behind him.

you press a granola bar into his hand next, watching as he blinks at it, then at you, before finally taking a bite.

he chews slowly, brows furrowing like he’s thinking about something, the fog in his brain is clearing just enough for rational thought.

and that’s when you pick up his phone from the mess of clothes, phoning his emergency number.

a guy nicknamed 👻.

you hesitate, fingers hovering over the call button.

johnny tilts his head at you, ears twitching. "whatcha doin’, bonnie?"

"calling your emergency contact," you say, glancing at him. "someone needs to know you’re in rut."

johnny groans, flopping back against the pillows, rubbing a hand down his face. "oh, fuck me-"

"i did," you deadpan. "for hours."

he snorts, but his face is already going pink. "fuckin’ hell… he’s never gonna let me live this down…"

you press the call button. the phone barely rings twice before a gruff, sleep-roughened voice answers. "this better be important, mactavish.”

"uh- hi," you say, gripping the phone tighter. "this isn’t johnny, but i feel like i needed to call his emergency contact so..”

there’s a pause. a sharp inhale. then— "…what happened."

you glance over at johnny, who’s sprawled out on the bed, still naked, still flushed, body twitching with the last remnants of his latest orgasm. his tail flicks, ears pinned back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.

"he’s in rut," you explain. "we- uh- handled it. but he’s still got waves coming, and i don’t think i can keep up with him forever."

"fuck," the guy mutters. there’s some shuffling on his end, the sound of movement, a door creaking open. "how long’s he been at it?"

you hesitate, looking at the clock. "uh… at least five to six hours?"

"jesus fucking christ." more rustling. "i’ll drop some suppressants off. you got any blockers up?"

"yeah, doors are locked, everything’s secure," you say. "no one else has caught onto his scent. hopefully."

"good. last thing we need is someone else getting ideas."

you nod, happy you're both on the same page.

"i’ll be there in twenty," he continues. "keep him calm, get some fluids in him, and don’t let him knot you again unless you wanna be stuck for another hour."

you open your mouth to answer, but before you can, johnny groans, rolling onto his side, tail swishing, his voice petulant.

"is that ghost?"

"is that his name? i mean, i guess so-"

"tell him he’s a fuckin’ cockblock," johnny whines, pouting up at you. "cannae believe this- rut suppressants? really? yer ruining all my fun, mate."

"oh, fuck off," ghost deadpans. "you’ll thank me when you’re not dead from dehydration and a broken dick."

johnny grumbles, burying his face into your thigh, huffing dramatically. "don’t wanna suppressants. wanna keep fuckin’ my bonnie-”

ghost sighs, long and heavy. "jesus christ. twenty minutes."

the line goes dead.

[v1x3n]

[seeliemansi]

"Oh, the smaller guy who is always with Simon?"

You mistakenly said once and since then johnny always makes sure to tower over you whenever you are around, reminding you that he is not so little as you claimed, little bonnie.

[lunarkitten97]

Reader that makes tiny clay trinkets for each of the 141

Price gets a tiny raccoon. "I dunno it just reminded me of you" definitely not the grey hair and feral nature. He keeps it on his desk proudly

Gaz gets a goat which he says is because he's the greatest of all time and keeps it by his bed. He boops it every morning.

Soap gets a unicorn, the national animal of Scotland. He loves it, calls it 'majestic as fuck' and keeps it in his locker. He holds it before missions for good luck.

Ghost gets a ghost, of course, but instead of the scary demeanor the tiny clay ghost has a tiny smile and blushing cheeks. He keeps it on him at all times, in his pocket so he can hold it when he needs a little pick me up.

[emmster]

Thinking about how Simon checks for a pulse and then he doesn’t feel Johnny’s pulse

[band--psycho]

141 x Reader - Them Paying For Your Nails

Thank you for the request @barbersjoy for this request, I really liked doing this type of a request, so please feel free to send anymore like this in! 💛

I hope you all enjoy this! 💛

Please be kind, reblogs are always welcome and greatly appreciated! Thank you for all the continued support💛

Requests are open so if you have any ideas/requests, you're more than welcome to send them over (thank you to everyone who's requested a story so far, I'm working my way through them!)

I do not give permission for any of my works to be copied or translated onto this site or other platforms!

COD Modern Warfare Masterlist / Join My Taglist

These are only my opinions on what the guys would be like, so please no hate!!

Kyle Garrick

He would 100% have an input on your nails, he’d be happy to scroll through Pinterest with you for hours if need be. Searching for the perfect design that you loved. 

He wouldn’t care how much they cost either. 

“What about this design?” Kyle suggested, leaning over to you slightly so he could show you the nail design he had on his phone.

There was no denying that you absolutely loved them; they were exactly what you’d been looking for…but you also knew that getting a nail set like that wouldn’t exactly be cheap. 

“You don’t like them?” He asked, noticing how your smile faltered the longer you looked at the picture. 

“I love them, but they’ll be so expensive Kyle,” you answered softly, continuing to scroll through your own phone for inspiration. 

“I’ll pay for them,” Kyle said with a smile on his face.

You opened your mouth in an attempt to protest his offer, not because you weren’t grateful but because you felt bad letting him spend that much money on your nails.

But before you could even get a word out, his finger was on your lips, silencing you, “No arguments.”

You knew better than to try and argue with him after that, so the next day you came out of the salon; with not only a brand new set of stunning nails, but also a very proud looking Kyle. 

~~~~~~~~

Johnny McTavish

Johnny would happily help you pick a colour for the base of your nail set when you undoubtedly became indecisive of what to choose from; and he’d leave the rest for you to decide unless you were stuck on what to choose from. 

It reminded him of when his sisters used to ask for his opinion on such things. 

When it comes to paying for them, he would have no problem with agreeing to it. 

He loved spoiling you, with whatever you wanted, so if you wanted your nails done he’d happily pay for them. 

But I don’t think Johnny would realise how expensive it would be, his sisters never really told him that, think the poor guy could pass out from the shock when he finds out. 

“They look beautiful, Bon,” Johnny beamed, mirroring the smile that was on your face. 

God how he loved it when you smiled. 

“Let’s see if you still think they’re beautiful when you find out how much they cost,” you said softly, you’d already warned him that they weren’t going to be cheap, yet the Scotsman still insisted on paying for them.

A moment you were certain he was regretting as the nail artist told him the price, the colour draining a little from his face. 

“Steamin’ Jesus,” he muttered, his eyes wide as he looked at the price on the screen, then at you, before looking back at the screen. 

“Ye gonna have to persuade Price to give me a raise,” he continued with a soft chuckle, the colour now returning to his face as reached inside his jacket pocket for his wallet.

As shocked as he was by the price, it was worth every single penny, because the smile that was on your lips was priceless to him. 

~~~~~~~~

Simon Riley 

Simon, I don’t think would really be bothered by the colour or design you had on your nails as long as it made you happy. 

Much like the other two, he would love spoiling you but unlike Johnny, he knew how expensive the types of nail sets you liked could be. 

Would he still pay for it? Of course.

I also imagine him watching what the nail artist was doing, meticulously so. 

He would observe every detail, perhaps taking notes on how to do what the nail artist was doing. 

“What are you doing?” You questioned, unsure of why Simon was sitting on the chair next to you, with his pocket notebook in hand. 

“Taking notes,” he answered simply, as though what he was doing was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Why?” You questioned again, making a small frustrated sign slip passed Simon’s lips at your interruption.

“So I can do them for you next time,” was all he said, turning his attention back to quickly writing notes in his notebook.

You couldn’t help a smile from growing on your lips, nor could you stop the heat from rising to your cheeks at his words. 

~~~~~~~~

John Price 

John would probably not be super phased about what colour or design you got on your nails, although he did prefer more simplistic styles, as long as it made you happy, then he was happy. 

But he would probably have a limit on how much he’d pay for them unless you really loved them. 

“Hmmm, I don’t know sweetheart,” John began, raising his hand to his bearded chin, pondering the amount of the money this was going to cost him. 

To be clear, the money was not the sole reason for his reservations on your design. The main reason was because John knew you. Knew how often you changed your mind on nail designs. You could love it one minute, get them done and then absolutely hate them a few days later. 

He just wanted you to be sure that this was the design that you wanted. 

He looked over at you, sighing at the sight in front of them. 

He knew what you were doing, the pouty bottom lip and puppy dog eyes, something that was like kryptonite to John. 

“Sure these are what you want?” He asked, lifting his hand to your cheek. 

“I’m sure,” you nodded with a smile. 

“Okay,” was all John said, reaching inside his jacket before placing his wallet in your hand. 

He knew that you were still probably going to change your mind, but regardless of this, he couldn’t say no to you. 

Tagging:

@xacatalepsyx @mermaniaa @fangirlfandomss @book-dragon03 @dulcecreatura @sunrise-willarive @amniotic115 @imdeadontheinside786 @asterionex @pinkyyoshi @yaradigital @euriiverse @eternallyvenus @mrstelford @littlejoyfulthings @s-void @rivwritesiguess

[mikuluvu]

HER LAST CALL

Summary: You and the team were in a mission, almost a whole swarm of enemies we're chasing you and the team. But when you stepped on pressure-triggered landmine with no way to disarm it, you made a unthinkable choice to be left behind so they can escape.

CW: Character death, Soap ooc??, Themes of grief and loss.

Tf141 x fem!reader

A/n: 3/10 COD fic posted! This one is a angst, i rlly love this fic mwa mwa. It was 4 out 4 pages in my google docs LMAOO. This was kinda a little bit of Soap x reader?

The jungle was filled with chaos, gunfire tore through the trees, and shouts of the enemies closed in. Task Force 141 and you moved through the bushes, their breathing ragged but their focus was steady. The extraction helicopter was only three klicks away, the sound of its blade barely heard over the gunshots.

“Move, move! They’re on our six!” Ghost’s voice barked through the comms.

Soap glanced back, looking the silhouettes running towards them. “Christ, they’re swarmin’ like bloody ants! We need to pick up the pace!”

Price pushed forward at the front, his rifle raised as he led the team. “Eyes up! Stick together, and keep fuckin’ moving!”

You ran in the middle of the team, your lung burning. The mission had gone sideways hous ago, and now it was a race for survival. 

The enemies was close, too close. But then, as you pushed through a particularly thick path of brush, it happened.

Click.

Your boot froze mid-step. For a moment, you didn’t register what it was. But then the cold, horrifying reality hit you like a train. Your breath caught in your throat as you looked down. There, placed beneath your foot, was the edge of a land mine.

“Shit,” you whispered. Your body went rigid, “No, no, no…”

Soap, who has been keeping close behind you, halt to a stop as he noticed your sudden halt. “Y/n! Fuckin’ move it! We’re dead if-” His words dies as he saw the look on your face. His eyes followed yours to the ground, and his expression instantly turned grim.

“Fuck,” he muttered, crouching down beside you. “Pressure-triggered?”

You nodded, you voice shaky but calm. “I-if I lift my foot, it’s game over.”

“Bloody brilliant,” Soap hissed, dragging a hand down his face. “Alright, don’t panic. We can figure this out. There’s got to be a way-”

“Soap.” you cut him off through his rambling. “You know there’s no way out of this.”

The rest of the team realized both of you were gone, making them double back, forming a tight circle around you. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Ghost said,

“She stepped on a mine,” Soap said quickly, his jaw clenched. “One of those pressure-sensitive one. If she moves, it’ll blow.”

“God damn it,” Price muttered, dropping to one knee to see the situation. Gaz stood nearby, firing gunshots into the jungle to keep the enemies at bay,

“We’ve got to disarm it,” Soap said, his voice growing more frantic. “Or… or swap out somethin’ for the pressure.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Gaz cut in, “They’re right behind us!” he yelled, as he keeps on shooting.

Price’s hand hovered over the mine, but hesitated, “It’s too risky,” he admitted. “Even if we had time, there’s no guarantee we could disarm it without triggering it.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to speak through the lump in your throat. “Then… you have to leave me.”

Those words hung heavy in the air, like a gunshot. Everyone froze, their eyes snapping to you, because you suggested something unthinkable.

“Not happenin’,” Ghost said instantly.“Listen to me,” you said, your voice trembling. “They’re closing in. If you stay here, we’re all dead. I can buy you time to get to the helicopter.”

“No,” Soap snapped. “We don’t leave anyone behind, and we’re not starting now.”

“Soap…” You reached out, gripping his arm. “You have to, There’s no way to save me without costing everyone else their lives.”

Ghost took a step closer, “We’ve been through worse. We’ll find a way-”

“You fucking can’t!” you shouted, tears stinging your eyes. “There’s no way outt of this, and you know it!”

The team fell silent, the weight of your words sinking in. Price stood up slowly, “She's right,” he said quietly. “We’re out of time.”

Soap stood up and whipped around, glaring at him. “You’re just gonna leave her? Just like that?” 

“Do you think I want to do this?” Price snapped, his voice cracking. “Do you think any of us do? But if we stay, she dies and we die. We’ve got to make the hard call.”

Soap turned back to you, his eyes pleasing. “There’s gotta be another way,” he whispered. “Please.”

Your heart broke at the pain in his voice, but you steeled yourself. “There isn’t. Soap, you have to go.”

Gaz grabbed Soap’s shoulder, pulling him back. “She’s giving us a chance to get out of here. Don’t waste it.”

Ghost lingered, his dark eyes burning into yours. “You don’t deserve this,” he said quietly.

You smiled weakly, your tears finally spilling over. “Just promise me you’ll make it out,” you said. “All of you.”

“We will, love” Price said, his hand gripping your shoulder and looking at you with his now soft eyes.

Ghost hesitated a moment longer, then turned away, his hands gripping his gun tightly. Soap looked back at you one last time, “I’m sorry,” he choked out.

“Don’t be,” you said, your voice breaking. “Just go.”

And then they were gone. The sound of gunfire grew louder as they closed in. Your gripped your gun tightly, your heart pounding as you prepare yourself.

“This is where I make it count,” you whispered to yourself. 

The first wave burst through the trees, and you opened fire, cutting them down one by one. You fought with everything you had, holding your ground as long as possible. The sound of the helicopter’s rotors grew faintly louder in the distance, a reminder that they were almost safe.

You closed your eyes, and then the mine detonated, englufing the jungle in a blinding flash of light. 

.

.

.

.

The team was silent, their boots heavy as they walked through the compound. 

Laswell was already waiting for them, she noticed the missing member immediately.

“Where… is she?’ she asked, 

Price stopped in front of her, his hat pulled low over his face. He didn’t answer immediately. When he finally spoke, “She didn’t make it.”

Laswell’s breath hitched, “What happened?”

“She stopped on a pressure mine,” Gaz said softly, “There was no time to defuse it. She… she stayed behind so we could make it out.”

Soap, who has been silent until now, suddenly snapped. “It shouldn’t have happened!” he shouted. “She didn’t have to fuckin’ die! We could’ve done something! Anythin’, but we just fucking left her there-”

“Soap,” Price said, his voice low but firm.

“No!” Soap turned to Price, “you were the one who agreed to leave her”

He didn’t react, “She made the call, Johnny. She made it for us.”

“And we listened,” Soup muttered bitterly, sinking onto a nearby chair. “We bloody fuckin’ listened.”

A/n: Wooohooo! sorry for this... (Im rlly not) I hoped you all liked this <3 Feel free to request Tf141 x reader! or any of the characters!

Reblogs w/comments are appreciated! You can support me through buying me a coffee!

[reinekoya]

I'm too impatient to wait for a Saturday to post incase my comic updates like I normally do so-

141 hanging charm designs <3<3

Zoom ins below the cut for some reason

Gimme your opinions on them please

I love them

@goatgoesmbe @thatoneautisticshark @cutiecusp @daydreamerwoah

[bxllydxnnabxtch]

A Minute Too Late

Simon (Ghost) Riley x Reader

❀​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​❀

Summary: After getting caught up in an ambush, you desperately try to make it to your post. But when one mistake quickly goes awry, how will it pan out for the rest of your team?

Read pt. 1 - HERE

Warnings: Swearing, blood, near death experience, violence, traumatic situations, crying.

You were fucking exhausted.

Blood splattered across your mask when you ripped your combat knife out of the casualties’ neck, the knife creating a grating noise as it grazed the man’s spine. You grimaced, wiping your mask with the back of your gloved hand as you shoved your knife back into your chest rig. You took a moment to catch your breath, eyeing the three bodies of the men you took down earlier, ensuring none of them moved.

You winced as you got up, the blow you took to your side causing you immense pain as you braced yourself on the wall, pressing your hand into your side. Adrenaline rushed through you, willing you to move forward. You need to get back to your post, broken ribs or not.

“Drag, how copy?” Ghosts voice sounded in your ear, and you groaned at how much of a bad time this was. Broken ribs, 32 hours without sleep, down a gun, and absolutely fucking exhausted. Regardless, you collected yourself and responded. “All good LT, just a little scuffle. 100 meters out.” You mentally slapped yourself for how unsteady your voice sounded, but if Ghost noticed, he didn’t pay it any mind. You breathed a sigh of relief when a rushed “Copy that” echoed through the comms, continuing on your route as you made your way out of the house.

It took a while to get to your post, longer than you would’ve liked. A flurry of voices mixed through your earpiece, but they all blurred together on your rush to your post, breath heavy as you tried as best you could to hobble your way over.

You burst through the door of the house you were supposed to be stationed in, the blood pounding in your head from the run there. You doubled over, emptying the contents of your stomach onto the dusty wood of the old house and you groaned, blinking back the tears that had watered in your eyes and spitting the taste out of your mouth. Through your agony riddled haze, you heard a commotion upstairs, and it instantly set you on guard as you rushed up the steps, ignoring the sharp pain shooting through you with each step you took.

Your knife was in your hand by the time you got to the door, heart pumping as you burst in. Your heart dropped to your stomach at the sight, your blood running cold as you realized you were too late.

Blood was everywhere, and your heart froze as you realized he’s going to fucking die. And it was all your fault. The man relentlessly beat his fists into Soap’s face, the man barely conscious as he tried to weakly wrestle the man off of him to no avail. Your body sprang into action before you could fully process what was happening, throwing yourself onto the man and rolling him across the floor before sinking your knife into his neck. Pain bloomed through your side at the action, but survival instinct mixed with adrenaline willed you to keep going as the man clawed at you.

You felt the kick before you saw the culprit, the blow landing right into your injured side, and a cry of agony left your lips, clutching your side as you backed away from the second man. Fear gripped you when you realized you had let go of your last knife still buried in the enemies carotid, but you had no time to dwell on your impending death when the man gripped your throat, forcing you to the floor.

You wheezed as the wind was knocked out of you, your arms flying to his hands around your throat as they constricted, desperately trying to loosen his grip. You kicked your legs, limbs flailing as the man sat atop you, tightening his grip on your windpipe as your head began to feel fuzzy, brain starting to cloud due to lack of oxygen. You pushed at him, trying to roll him off of you to no avail, he was too heavy, and in your already weakened state it dawned on you that you were going to die. KIA. Tears slipped down your cheeks as you thought about your memorial, hushed tales about what a hero you were, how you brought light to so many peoples lives before sending you six feet under as the trumpets blared.

You let out one last choked cry as your vision went spotty, your head lolling back as you slowly lost your grip on the man’s hands.

BANG.

The body fell to the floor with a thud, and you let out a desperate gasp, the fresh oxygen filling your lungs feeling like you really had died and went to heaven. Soon followed by a fit of coughs as you choked on the air due to your injured windpipe. You looked up to see Soap’s gun clatter to the floor, his hand falling limp along with it. He fucking shot him. Soap, in his beaten and bloodied state, inches from death, had fished for his gun, the weapon just out of reach as he desperately swiped at it, the precious seconds ticking by as he watched you slowly fade, your form losing fight the longer he took. Relief coursed through him when he finally had it in his bloodied hand, shooting the man without hesitation. But as the adrenaline started to wear off, he started to feel the affects of the beating he took, his head felt heavy, and a wave of tiredness hit him.

You crawled your way over to him, ripping off your mask and groaning at the now excruciating pain sending shocks through your system.  Regardless, you dragged yourself across the floor and to his side. “Stay awake Johnny, don’t you fucking die on me, goddammit!” You screamed, shaking him as you frantically tried to keep him awake. Desperately clawing at any hope that help would get here before he bled out.

His blood stained your hands as you gripped him, screaming for an evac over the radio. In your panicked frenzy, you didn’t notice the man standing in the doorway as he watched you call out for Soap in a heaving mess.

Ghost muttered a curse when he saw the state the both of you were in, immediately coming to Soap’s aid. “Help me get him up.” He said, lifting Soaps arm up and over his shoulder, the man in question letting out a strangled groan of protest. You nodded, taking his other arm as you lifted him up, taking the man’s weight.

You practically dragged him down the steps of the house, breathing heavily through the thick exhaustion settling into your bones. You looked over at Ghost, watching how his eyes narrowed in focus, he looked so calm- serene almost. You failed to see how he was so composed, he acted like this was just another mission while carrying his teammate that was barely breathing.

You stumbled the slightest bit in the doorway, your injuries taking a toll on you. You braced yourself in the doorway, muttering out a curse as you pushed yourself to keep walking. You could hear the thudding of the helicopter blades as they cut through the air, and you breathed a sigh of relief, barely being able to keep your own head up.

You readjusted Soap’s arm over your shoulder, willing yourself to hang on a few more seconds as you watched the helo slowly lower to the ground. Ghosts’ eyes wandered to you, regarding the way you grit your teeth and how your body swayed slightly under Soap’s weight. He wanted to ask what happened, why you looked like you were about to pass out and why he was carrying his teammate that was on the brink of death. But he knew that this wasn’t the time or place, especially with two soldiers severely injured and five dead.

When the helo landed, you barely had enough strength to carry Soap onto it, every fibre of your body aching for you to stop moving or at least slow the fuck down. Once you got him settled, and the medics started looking over him, you gave into your body’s demands, watching Soap. Stuck in a trance, you watched the medics hook him up temporarily, oxygen, IV, bandages, but as you looked at him, the image started to blur, faces of the medics turning to unrecognizable blobs in your vision.

As the helicopter finally lifted, a wave of dizziness overcame you, and you stumbled, slamming a hand to the side of the aircraft to try and stabilize yourself. Ghost called your name, his voice echoing around your brain, bouncing around your skull like a ping pong ball, and you felt sick, nausea hitting you in agonizing punches. You tried to right yourself, pushing off of the wall to sit up straight, put on a brave face, Soap needed the medics, not you.

But as you did so, the world fell off its axis, and so did you, stumbling backwards, vision failing you as you collapsed, your head smacking off the steel ground of the aircraft and knocking you out cold.

The last thing you felt was Ghost cradling your head, and the residing guilt that it was all your fault.

[presepohne]

peaches and wine.

nsfw. Fuckboy!John McTavish x F!Reader [ALTERNATE UNIVERSE]

summary: johnny fucks the sweet innocent bird, just a trailer or intro to the bigger oneshot i'm writing.

warnings: johnny is a filthy man and we love that, the reader is inexperienced asf, virgin, just the reader getting half way naked, mostly for shits and giggles.

note: as i was taking forever for the johnny smut so i posted a small snippet from it.

FULL FIC !

Johnny has seen many men and women in his life, fucked 'em good. Pretty blondes, sassy women, men who could bend him at different angles, women who could step on him, men who would beg for him, women who are sweet and kind, men who are absolutely amazing at their dick game, women who cheated on their husbands, experienced and inexperienced alike.

And gods, he loves women and men both.

But women mostly.

But it bewilders him to see you creep up to him at a party. He knows you, yeah he does. He has seen you lurk at the last benches of the classes, a pen in your mouth or sometimes fiddling with it. You're a good student, great even— top scores always and he admires you for your dedication.

So it comes to him as a shock as you ask him to fuck you, straight up, no bulshit.

Clearly, you are drunk, cheeks flushed pretty as you pouted and fiddled with the hem of your shirt. The shorts looking so fucking good on you and making you ass look so fucking bite-able.

He shakes his head, clearly you're out of your mind. A sweetheart, who has never focused on anything else but her academics asking him to fuck you, without any hesitation.

"Aye lass you sure—"

He just wants to make sure, doesn't wanna take advantage, afterall he's a gentleman fuckboy. He'll ask if you're comfy, he'll make sure consent is consent, hell he'll stop half way naked if you ask him to stop.

But that gets a nervous reaction out of you, lips trembling and lashes damp with tears as you start to stutter, a fumbling mess with words as you try to look away, the soft bloom of red on your cheeks now absolutely flushing you.

That makes him groan, in want. He's trying to think of ten different ways to clam his chubbing up dick down.

Think about her doing maths– that's hot, fuck. Think about Simon– fuck he's hot too, think about Gaz— aye nah mate—

His brows are furrowed as he tries to negotiate with you— "Ay– lass nah me didn't wanne make ye cry–"

But it's already out of the box and you're getting all teary and sobbing so he complies.

He takes you to his apartment, doesn't shove his tongue down your throat— but does squeeze your waist as he leads you to his door— it's a nice place, smells like cheese more than anything. You grimace, but smile at him.

He looks at you, "Should I get ye some water lass?"

"No thank you"

Your head is now drowning in guilt— of using Johnny to lose your virginity. Some sort of pitch black feeling clawing up into the pit you call your stomach— salt already dampening your cheek because—

You are reminded of Simon's words.

Now you know you look all sweet and innocent, kind of a person who would never indulge into such activities, it makes you head spin how easily people fuck each other and give away their body.

It makes you absolutely sick.

But it also makes you feel alienated from your friend circle when they talk about sex, or one night stands. You awkwardly standing and looking here and there to appear nonchalant about the whole sex talk of your group.

It began to get worse everyday when your friends started to coo and coddle you with the tag of the innocent friend. To the point where they wouldn't really take you out— that's bad, that's mean.

Maybe logical too if you tried to squint a little— because honestly you really wouldn't enjoy.

But humiliation plays a bigger role and here you are at Johnny's apartment, fiddling with the buttons of your shirt as you try to undress yourself in a seductive manner failing horribly when you can't unbutton your shirt. Johnny has vanished somewhere in the hallway— you know Simon stays here too.

Simon, that bastard of a man. God's you want to punch him square in his face and maybe break his already crooked nose.

Tears that were on the bay now falling down your cheeks again as you wipe them furiously, recalling his words of dismissing you. Nah, don't do innocent girls like ya sweet'art. And turn around without soaring a second glance.

Johnny is back from god knows where with two popsicles in his hands, honestly he thought of trying to talk you out of it— share something sweet and book you a taxi back to your apartment.

You are half way undressed, bra on the floor, shirt crumpled somewhere along the doorway, your hands on your shorts— clearly unbuttoning it to pull 'em down.

A few minutes might have gone, Johnny gulps, the popsicles melting down his hands as he straightens up. "Ye– ye serious lass?" He's looking like a puppy, too shocked or something– closer to thanking God.

He does, in his head he is reciting prayers in the name of almighty suddenly.

Your skin is so tender, soft to look at and Johnny wonders how it would feel under his hands. Your breasts round and so fucking pretty, nipples perked up because of the cold air of the AC, your shy gaze.

All the fucking sheer will he used to clam his cock down thrown out of the window— (he shoved his dick under the cold tap water, blue balls) and the only thought that consumed him was how many angles would he be able to bend you in and fuck you raw.

You're a shy but squirmy thing now, arms wrapping around your chest instinctively as you look away, a hot blush of red over your skin as you bite your lips nervously, but then again you're more embarrassed and hurt at Simon's rejection than Johnny seeing you naked.

The surge of adrenaline as you look at him again and speak clearly, "John McTavish fuck me" has his blood searing down south.

He whistles, throws the popsicles into the dustbin.

"Aye— as you command mam—"

Oh he's gonna fuck you to oblivion.

[scoobywrites690]

Soap pouncing on you in the shower.

The end kinda falls off i think because i suddenly lost all ability to write an ending 🤦‍♀ cw: Shower sex, creampie

Tryna have a nice long shower under the stream of hot water either ends in one of two ways. Either you get a nice shower, you get to lather yourself in your favourite body wash, and gently massage conditioner into your hair working out any tangles until it’s silky smooth, to then wrap yourself in a warm fluffy towel when you get out. 

Or you get Johnny’s version of a shower. Which consists of waiting till he hears the water start running before stripping off everything on his body, to then sneak his way into the bathroom. The room is already filled with steam as he enters, your clothes discarded in a pile on the floor as he tiptoes his way deeper into the room. 

He’s not sure why he still tries to be sneaky as he knows you’re well aware of his games, but it adds to the thrill I guess. Reaching out to pull back the shower curtain a smidge before hopping into the shower with you. His hands instantly on your body pushing you up against the cold wall.

Your tits pressed up against the wet tile as Johnny presses himself against you, his cock already hard as he rubs himself up against your ass. The stream of hot water coming down on both of you as Johnny’s hands glide across the wet surface of your skin as he feels you up. 

Sliding over the swell of your ass, your skin as smooth as butter under his calloused hands. Gliding over the skin of your stomach before reaching the peaks of your tits, the sensitive skin pebbled in goosebumps as it’s pushed up against the cold tile. Your nipples hard as rocks as they rub against the tile, perky and desperate for Johnny’s attention. 

Your ass pushing back onto his hard cock, rubbing up against it has Johnny groaning in your ear, rough and raw almost like a growl. His hands come down to grip onto your hips, pulling your ass out from the wall making your back arch in the middle. Before he’s grabbing the base of his cock and lining it up with your entrance. 

His tip pushes past your entrance, stretching you out ready for the rest of his cock. As Johnny wasn’t big in length but what he lacks in that he makes up in girth. And the dull ache between your legs afterwards proves it. 

Fisting a handful of your hair Johnny pulls your head back allowing him to whisper dirty words into your ear as he pushes inside of you. Your face contorting into pictures of pleasure and pain as you wince at the sharp sting that always follows when Johnny finally bottoms out inside of you.

His cock splitting you in half as he begins to roll his hips. Skin slapping against skin as he deepens his thrusts. His grip tightening in your hair as he fucks into you. The shower is still pouring water onto the both of you, filling the room with a thick amount of steam. 

But that’s Johnny’s last thought right now, feeling you soft, tight walls squeezing his dick is more important to him. His free hand slipping in between your thighs to find you clit. Rubbing slow circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves. You brows knitting together as you bounce your ass back to meet Johnny’s thrusts, desperate to feel more of his cock rubbing against your walls. 

Pulling out of you Johnny’s quick to spin you around, pushing you back against the wall before hoisting you up into his arms. Your legs wrapping around his waist before he’s sliding back inside of you. With the perfect view of your face and tits now, Johnny’s thrust begin to grow sloppy as he litters your chest with hickeys, marking you up for the world to see. 

It’s not long before Johnny’s spilling inside of you and you’re squeezing down on him. Both of you taking your time to revel in your orgasms before letting each other go. With both of you then taking the time to wash each other off before stepping out, with Johnny getting out first so he can wrap you up in a nice fluffy towel. Taking care to dry you off before helping you into a fresh pair of pj’s.

~Tag List

@chronicallyonline699 @angel4fics @iraaiitz @kieranduffysgirl @thegaywitchofwhimsy @ilovesoapandnotthebar @h0lydrag0ns @duckduckgoose90000 @rose37373 @azuraxmw-men @tessakate @g1v3meabreak

Lemme know if you'd like to be added<3

[v1x3n]

[seeliemansi]

Soap who is absolutely smitten but you keep on rejecting him, because as you said "he is too flirty to be loyal." He was such a dog and follows you around to convince you with all of his good points but all it did was annoy you more and absolutely reject all of his advances. everyday was the same until he was forcibly drafted to the military. the relief you felt after he left was heavenly. it was as if a huge burden was lifted off your shoulders. so for the past five years of him gone, you enjoyed your life. forever grateful for the opportunity of having him nowhere near you. until, he came back....but as a corpse. his family mourned him. scratch that, everyone in town mourned him. he was such a charming lass, everyone adores him. maybe that's why you felt bad— a little. when feeling nothing but relief that you won't dread his harassment again after he decided to retire from the military. you thought that would be it, until his old fashioned religious folks started blaming you. accused you of cursing him to death when all he did was nothing but adore you. you thought that was crazy, thought the people would disagree, but no, they pinned all the fault at you. you were judged, blamed, and treated horribly by everyone. you were pushed around and isolated. it was inhumane and the more you try to defend yourself, the angrier they become.

maybe that was why when you heard a knock at your door on midnight, you didn't bother if it was dangerous to open your door to a stranger. you were tired, exhausted of living— it didn't matter.

even in the dark, his familiar blue eyes shone brightly as he blinks and flashes you with his infamous grin. it didn't even matter what he said, or if he said something when he saw your face. his easy going smile sent you in a spiral and you didn't hesitate to jump at him, and hug him tight. he almost stumble in surprised but he only chuckled at your enthusiasm and squeezed you back.

it must have been the isolation that made you forget of what happened to him. that made you not notice the dirt, and grime all over his body. the smell of rot strongly permitting the air. you were just so happy that he wasn't dead, and people were wrong about you.

it will be a shock later on who, or what exactly, you invited in your home.

[lunarkitten97]

GN!Reader that loves spicy food but can't handle too much x Ghoap

So you sit on the couch, smashed between Simon and Johnny, a family sized bag of spicy chips in your lap.

You're fine at first, savoring the delicious burn. But then it begins to get too much. You're panting with your tongue out, your cheeks turning red. You continue eating them anyway. You haven't noticed the men on either side of you have completely abandoned watching the movie and are watching you instead.

"Christ, love. You can put the chips away if it's too much." Simon reached to grab the bag only for you to yank it out of his reach.

"Don't you dare, Simon." You sniffled, swallowing thickly.

"Yeah, don't you dare, Simon." Johnny chimed in. He fed you another chip and smirked, watching your reaction.

"They're so good, I can't stop." You smiled at Johnny.

His mind was quickly falling further into the gutter. You just look so damn good like that. Cheeks flushed, breathing heavily, tongue lolling out of your mouth, the pained but happy look in your eyes.

"You have all ya want, love. I like watching." Johnny grinned devilishy and it clicked why he was staring at you so intently.

"Johnny! You dirty bastard!" You smacked his chest playfully. Simon grabbed your chin, turning you to face him.

"He's not wrong, dove. You look like a damn porn star all pink and panting like that. And damn is it a lovely sight"

Needless to say the movie was abandoned as were your chips.

(You demanded they be closed properly so they wouldn't get stale before anything happened)

[emmster]

Chapter 2 pt 1!

(Also I am sorry in advance)